Vissile 10:

Ted Dare arrived only moments later. Grappling with the doctor, TD shouted "Orry, no!" A couple of the security officers appeared, running toward them. "Come on, Jam!" Dare told him, "the police. Do you want to be arrested? Come on!" At last, Orry let go and shoved Shayden away, glaring at him wickedly. "Thank you for your assistance, officers," Daville Shayden said smoothly. "No need for any further intervention. It was just a slight disagreement upon scientific hypotheses which got out of hand. All gentlemen, here, with cooler heads now prevailing, I'm pleased to report." Dare nodded to the security guards, and they allowed Shayden to depart, straightening his sleek dinner jacket and ostentatiously dusting his sleeves. Orry angrily confronted Moxy, "what do you mean standing around all chummy, chatting with him like that?" Moxy shrugged "I just wanted to hear what he had to say. I didn't see any harm, in so public a place, just listening to him." "Public? Here? We've been searching for you the better part of an hour," Orry retorted. "How did you manage to get this far away?" The kid's voice rasped thicker than before, now barely audible, "Just looking at the paintings, and lost track of time," Moxy mumbled, avoiding the doctor's angry glare by staring at the floor. Orry thought it much more likely that Moxy had been communing with the dearly departed themselves than admiring their portraits. Having previously, repeatedly experienced the kid's affinity for ghostly companions, the doctor felt certain that this was the true reason for Moxy's hesitant explanation. However, the doctor's own skepticism with respect to the existence of the spiritual realm did not allow him to believe in the ghosts he had recently seen and heard. Much less accuse Moxy of keeping similar company. So that, all in all, there was nothing more that Orry could say on the subject. Or do, except to continue staring angrily at the kid, and fume because Moxy seemed to have placed himself in harm's way intentionally. Dare intervened, "what did Shayden want? What was he telling you?" Moxy looked embarrassed, "mostly disparaging you and the Doc. He said some rude things about you both which I shouldn't like to repeat. Then he said you didn't appreciate me, either of you. And that I should come with him." "Where? What for?" Orry demanded. "Dunno. You interrupted before he got a chance to say," Moxy replied. Dare and Orry exchanged glances. "We'll talk about this more, later," Dare stated, "for now, let's just get back to the others." Meanwhile, the security guards had been giving Orry intensely questioning looks. "Sir? How did you get here ahead of us? Without passing us in the corridor?" one asked. Orry thought guiltily about prior admonishments concerning closed doors. His face reddened as he pondered a reply. But the guards seemed more puzzled than accusatory, so he opted for the blunt response, "through that side door, over there," he gestured. "Side door?" the second guard's face looked surprised, "what side door?" Previously, Orry had thundered down the hallway toward Shayden and Moxy in a fury of protective aggression. Now he retraced his steps thoughtfully, examining the details of the corridor. Gradually, he made his way to one end, then turned back again, all the way to the other side. This time, he examined the paintings as he passed them, searching for landmarks. He paused to examine one. It was the red-haired, laughing lady again. But here she was side by side with the burly, full-bearded man. And in this portrait, he was genteely attired in a cutaway coat instead of denim overalls. The governor and his missus? A soft, chuckling noise greeted Orry's ears. He wheeled suddenly, demanding of the others "did you hear that?" But his question was drowned out by a huge thunder clap followed by prolonged rumbling. The guard commented "quite a storm. Hope the power doesn't go out again." Orry could not find the door that he'd used to enter this hall. And reluctantly, he declared it to the group, "either it's hidden somehow, or I've gotten turned around without realizing it. The door was at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. I got to them through a small cloak room on the floor below. You know, with a hat tree and umbrella stand in it." The guards stared wide-eyed at Orry, then shook their heads at each other. The doctor lost his temper. "Well, either there's a back staircase you two don't know about. Or I climbed a full story of the building by transcending the nether ether! Take your choice," Orry grumbled. He grabbed the kid's shoulder and started walking, "let's get out of here." As the others followed, Dare spoke up. "By the way, Moxy, you made the Saraste finals." "Oh, good," Moxy croaked, "was Khaz pleased?" "Well, probably," Orry replied. "I think she was a little too distracted to enjoy the news. She'd just had an encounter with her erstwhile employer. Terrents, she called him. He's suing her in court. He claims she stole the idea for the scarf-thing from him. Suing her for the rights to the whole process. His lawyers say that the software, polymers, everything is his intellectual property. "Fine," Moxy grinned cheerfully. "What do you mean, 'fine' ?" Dare demanded in astonishment. His first reaction had been angry indignation on Moxy's behalf. "Well, if it's the other guy's process, maybe he can explain to me why it works. So far, I haven't been able to figure it out, and its plaguing me something fierce!" Moxy laughed. "You are a natural phenomenon of inexplicable propensities," Dare told him, laughing also. "Okay," Moxy shrugged. Dare dropped back to share the details of Daville Shayden's international criminal reputation with the security officers. When they arrived back at the office, the Governor was sitting chatting amongst the ladies. The reporter was still with them, listening like she belonged to the group. "Ah ha! Missing scientist returns to Governor's office unharmed. Declares rumors of alien abduction a gross exaggeration," she headlined as Moxy walked in with his police escort. Khaz bounced up and grabbed both of the kid's hands, "there you are! You had us worried. Did you hear the news? We made the finals!" "Congratulations," Moxy answered in his hoarse whisper. "Laryngitis, eh?" the Governor commented, "occupational hazard. Toastmaster's Terror. Gladhander's Gack. Here," he reached into his pocket, and brought out a handful of cellophane wrapped lozenges. "Horehound drops. Sure cure for Thick Throat. Have a few. Oh, and congratulations. Nice job on the Saraste competition." He handed Moxy a few, and then shook hands. "Thank you, sir," Moxy pocketed the lozenges and opened one to try. "Now, we had better hit the road," Dare suggested. "Driving in this weather will be slow." The Governor shook hands with each of them. When TD said goodbye, the Governor commented, "we still need to talk about that Telemarke venture you know." "First thing next week," Dare promised him. The limousine was drawn up at the front entrance. They all had umbrellas loaned to them, and got to walk past the gold brick, much to Mrs. Grandham's delight. "That's where the expression 'gold bricking' comes from, you know," the guard on duty told them, "no value for your buck." After they had settled into the limousine's comfortable seats and were underway, Ted Dare spoke up. "I'd like to make a suggestion. Ten minutes drive from here is the Old Granite Top Hotel. Dare Clinics Foundation maintains a suite of rooms there. We could spend a comfortable night and head back home tomorrow morning." The response to comfortable beds in ten minutes was spontaneous and uniformly positive. The limousine climbed the road to the historic hotel south of the capital. As they looked back under the flashing skies, they could see that whole blocks of the city were sitting in darkness. The ridge on which the hotel stood was a black shadow etched against swirling storm clouds that glowed electric green, then silver, and then vanished into the midnight sky. "I packed an overnight bag for you," Khaz told Bethany. "TD asked us all to give our luggage to the driver a couple of days ago. I packed yours when I did mine." "Sounds like a conspiracy to me," Bethany replied. "Well, since you had your dress already, it seemed likely you were going, but TD didn't want to be presumptuous. So I thought I'd better step into the breach," Khaz told her. "If you were here, you'd want your toothbrush and jammies, and if you weren't, it didn't much matter, did it?" Bethany started to argue, but after thinking it over a minute, she smiled at Khaz. "I guess, when all is said and done, that I'd rather have my toothbrush than my perfect prerogative." "I thought you might say that," Khaz agreed. When they pulled up into the crescent drive of the Old Granite Top Hotel, it was readily apparent that the power outage was in full force here. The doormen held large camp flashlights. Storm lamps and arrays of candlesticks lit the front desk, and logs were burning in all of the fireplaces. "No rest for the weary," Dare told them. "Glad this place was built in the good old days. Only five stories to the very top." He indicated the huge polished granite staircase that opened formally onto the receiving area. The ladies gathered their skirts in their hands as they prepared to ascend by candlelight. They made a very theatrical looking group in their evening attire, sweeping grandly up the steps glowing with the lightning glare through the floor-to-ceiling casement windows. The bell boy commented to them "we have our own generator. It'll kick-in after just a few minutes. You could wait for the elevators." But they opted for the stairs, from each floor in turn taking a look down at the view of the famous lobby in flickering flamelight and shadows, or stopping to see the wild, storm swept vistas framed in the various grand windows. Sure enough, as they reached the top floor, the generator kicked-in and the electrical lights crackled to brilliance. The top floor constituted more than a suite of rooms. It boasted a dozen bedrooms, a central meeting area with a grand fireplace, offices and sitting rooms, an old fashioned barroom complete with spitoons, and an elegant dining room. Their luggage came up by the elevator, moments after the electricity was restored, accompanied by an array of porters. The bags were sorted as to owners, and the company dispersed to their several bedrooms. After a few settling-in moments, Dare and Orry knocked on the kid's door. Orry had shed his tie and jacket. Dare's attire was still complete. Moxy was in jeans and a T-shirt already. "We've got to talk," Orry told him, settling into a comfortable armchair. Dare turned the desk chair to face the room, and sat in it. Moxy drew his bare feet up onto the bed. "Okay," he rasped. "Well, we'll talk. You just listen," Dare told him. The kid nodded. Orry began "we, or maybe I should say, I intercepted a couple of pieces of your mail. From Daville Shayden. Try not to get too pissed-off at me. The first one came when you were on sick-leave. And the other, while you were out of town. I've no better excuse for meddling in your mail than knowing the SOB who sent them. I mean, knowing him, I might have worried that the stuff would explode or shoot poison darts or some such. Anyway, after seeing what they said, I couldn't give them to you without being the assailant myself, which was hard for me to do. But if you don't see them, you wont know who you're dealing with, which is not good. This probably isn't making a lot of sense until you see what I'm talking about." At this, Dare handed Moxy a file folder with the birthday and father's day cards in it. Orry tried to gauge the kid's emotions by his expression as he stared at the writing. It was there, all at once. That venomous reptilian expression on Moxy's face. Orry could remember having seen it before, long ago when he had first met the kid. He could remember the strange impact it had had upon him. One of fear, awe, disgust, and amazement that Moxy's face could be so distorted by anger and hatred that it was almost unrecognizable. The doctor could remember the impact of seeing this before. But up until now, he could not remember the look itself. He had almost talked himself out of believing this aspect of the kid existed. But the reminder was there now on Moxy's face. Orry's only reassurance was that the look was directed against Daville Shayden this time. The doctor glanced at TD. Dare's reaction was interesting. It was clear that Orry's friend was shocked. Here was young, bashful, friendly Moxy, looking like all the furies of hell bent upon vengeance. It was the first time in a long acquaintance Orry could remember finding Dare speechless. The pause lengthened without anyone willing to intervene. "If looks could kill," Orry thought of the truth in that old phrase as applied to Moxy Youngblood. At last, Dare shifted his weight in the desk chair, then stood and cleared his throat. "I wouldn't blame you if you resented all of this as undue officiousness on my part. I hope you will attribute my interference to a concern for the safety of everyone of our acquaintance who comes into contact with Shayden." The prolonged acid look of the kid, burning into the cards he held with bitter acerbity prompted the doctor to action, if only for the kid's sake. The cruelty of tormenting Moxy about his dead parents was more than Orry could stand. He pulled the cards from the kid's grasp, returned them to the file folder and handed it to Dare. At this, Moxy looked up at Orry as if meeting him for the first time following a prolonged journey. Dare continued "I've been collecting information about Shayden. I'd like to add these to the file, with your permission. I think if all of us know everything there is available about him... well, forewarned is fore armed. That sort of thing. It would be safer that way." Abstractedly, Moxy nodded his head. "Did you bring Victor Grey's postcards?" TD asked him. "Got 'em right here," the kid whispered, rummaging the knapsack at the foot of his bed. He pulled the stack of postcards, packed and wrapped with a rubber band, out of the side pocket and held them up. Dare said "I was going to ask you to explain to the rest of us what you've discovered, but that might turn into a game of charades, the way you sound." "Got a computer up here?" Moxy asked. "Yes," TD looked puzzled, "should we meet in the office, then?" Moxy nodded agreement, and bringing the postcards with him, padded barefoot down the thickly carpeted hall. Everyone of their party collected in the office, opting for the Exciting Solution to the Peculiar Postcard Puzzle rather than going to bed and getting some sleep. The ladies had changed into casual attire. Maldone had removed his tie and jacket, like Orry, and was wearing an old gray sweater pulled over his formal shirt. The office must have been a sitting room originally, since it had none of the dark paneling or heavy furniture typical of offices the vintage of the hotel. Instead, it featured light-colored wallpaper printed with peacock feather patterns, curio cabinets, and several full-length windows and mirrors. The storm outside was still pounding away, but was at that moment running less to lightning and thunder and more to rain and wind. The multifaceted windowpanes rattled in their frames, like teeth chattering with a chill shiver. The computer and associated communication and printing hardware were spread across an old mahogany library table in one corner of the room. A round half dozen brass floor lamps, their columns supported by Hannibal's elephants in various exciting poses, offered extra light in the working part of the room. When Moxy came in, he dropped cross-legged onto the floor, and spread the postcards in front of him. Dare started the computer. He then turned to the assembled company. "Each of you has had some contact with the information I've been assembling on Daville Shayden. But I think, until today, nobody has had a chance to see all of it. I want to remedy that, and I now have both Bethany's and Moxy's permission to proceed with the distribution of information." He unlocked and opened a standing file under the table and issued a large brown envelope to each member of the group. As they opened the envelopes and looked curiously through the contents, Dare proceeded. "Our first contact with Shayden was when he approached Bethany Berke as a legal representative of Victor Grey's estate. At the time, I thought it unlikely that his status as an attorney in that capacity was genuine, and you'll find various documents here that adequately negate the claim. To summarize my findings with respect to Daville Shayden's professional status, he appears to be highly educated, both as a pharmaceutical chemist and as a lawyer. However, he currently holds no licensure or credentials that would allow him to practice in either capacity in Europe or the United States. Now, with respect to his criminal traits, he is suspected of counterfeiting, drug traffic, participation in the overseas slave trade, and is probably culpable in the death or disappearance of various people over a number of decades. Most of his victims have been very young and talented. And most of them have disappeared without a trace," Dare added, eyeing Moxy to see his reaction. Orry could have told TD ahead of time what was quite apparent now, the kid's perfect unconcern for his personal safety. After a moment, Dare continued "I find it particularly disturbing that Shayden has no alias. And no history of having been brought to trial. I imagine Chief Maldonne shares my unease on that score." Maldonne nodded, "in my experience, no alias, no trials, says he's clever and he's arrogant. Proud of his criminal reputation. Flaunting it. The longer he goes without a fall, the worse he gets. He thinks he's invincible. Tests the authorities by taking his nastiness to the edge. Definitely dangerous. Look at him. Telling us he's an attorney. So easily tested. Demanding an invitation to the Berke estate. And, by the way, how did he get into the Governor's this evening?" Dare answered "his name was on the list of invited guests. But nobody seems to know how it got there or who put it there. The same thing with his passport. He travels as a U.S. citizen. But nobody can account for how or why, to date. Now, turning to some practical matters, I have here a formal offer from the Dare clinics foundation to Ms. Bethany Berke to purchase Victor Grey's first edition chemistry book collection." Bethany gave a start of surprise, and then an exclamation of pleasure, as she took the document Dare offered her. TD commented "we know that Shayden has taken a peculiar interest in that book collection, because he believes it houses valuable proprietary information for a scientific formula belonging to the Berke Corporation. It will be the safest thing to get that set of books off the Berke estate and stowed someplace secure. Another target that interests Shayden is the formula itself. The key to its location is supposed to exist somewhere in a series of postcards mailed by Victor Grey to Bethany's father just before the deaths of both those gentlemen. Now, if the scientific information can be found and handed over to the Berke Corporation, that will leave Shayden without a target, and should put this group in a safer position. Bethany Berke gave those postcards to Moxy here, who seems to have solved Victor Grey's mystery puzzle. If I understand correctly, the solution requires access to a computer?" Moxy nodded, and waved his hand over the postcards, spread across the polished hardwood floor. His words were a barely audible whisper, "very clever. At least ten different puzzle possibilities in these fifty two postcards. Playing card deck. Color schemes. Theme schemes. Puns. Arithmetic problems. Clever. Lots of camouflage. All of them dead end. Except for one. TD and Bethany and Daville Shayden. All of you were on the right start. But each time you come to a clue, double take. Two step. First edition, second edition. Rhymed couplets. Like that." Bethany knelt down beside Moxy, eagerly scanning the cards, "we were on the right track?" She picked up the three postcards again, "Munich, Helsinki, and Vienna," she explained to the others, "we noticed that the dates on these three were written different, more like notations of Scripture, book and verse of the bible. See, NOV:14 99? And with the churches and the apostles and references in his text to religion, we thought Victor Grey meant to look in Daddy's bible for the missing scientific formula. But when Teddy and I looked, there was nothing hidden in it. We thought Daville Shayden had gotten to it first, and stolen the papers." "The formula never was hidden there," Moxy told her. Bethany asked "but we were on the right track, you said. With the dates on those three postcards?" Moxy nodded, whispering "right clue, wrong book. Double take. First guess, second guess." Meanwhile, Dare was staring at the computer screen in front of him with interest, "do you mean we opened the wrong bible?" the policeman asked. Moxy shook his head, "wrong title." "Not the bible? You mean, there's another book that uses a similar notation?" Dare asked him in surprise. The kid nodded his head vigorously. Now they all sat silently, staring at the NOV:14 99 format, and wondering where else they had ever seen it. Then, suddenly, Bethany Berke gasped, "oh my goodness! Well, I never! Why didn't it occur to me sooner? Daddy had a whole shelf full of them. He and Victor Grey, both, used to make a game of it, when I was a little girl. They would say something like 'who steals my purse steals trash...' and then they would challenge, 'Bethany, a quarter says you can't name the author.' And if I knew, I would shout ' Shakespeare!' but if I didn't know, I would run and look it up. And then Daddy or Victor Grey would give me the quarter. The Dictionary of Familiar Quotations. All you do is look under 'purse' in the index, until you find the line 'who steals my purse' and the index says SHAK:375 10. And that tells you, your quotation is from Shakespeare, on page 375 of the dictionary, the tenth quotation on that page. Dictionaries, encyclopedias of quotations. Victor Grey wanted us to look there for the formula. I'm right, aren't I?" she asked Moxy excitedly. The kid grinned at her and nodded. Dare told them "I'm ready to hazard another guess. I'm guessing that if we go and shake all of Mr. Berke's encyclopedias of common quotations, nothing will drop out of any of them. Am I with you now?" TD smiled down at Moxy sitting amongst the cards on the floor. Moxy nodded agreement. "Wherever the text is stored, it's in Berke's computer library," Dare stated with conviction. Then he fixed Moxy with a piercing look, "now, if only we had Berke's security codes, we could access his programs, and see if we're right, this very night, couldn't we?" Moxy suddenly looked guilty, as if he'd been caught raiding the cookie jar. "Uh, with Bethany's permission," he whispered thickly. TD told Bethany "Moxy means he can break in without the codes, if you don't mind." "Really? It's got a very expensive security program," Bethany said doubtfully. "Expensive or cheap," Moxy shrugged, "Achille's heel: spiral the logic loops." Dare laughed, "what Moxy is saying is, any security program depending on correct responses from someone has got to have the correct responses all lined up, ready to compare to what you tell it. To see if you got them right or wrong. Even if it reads your eye vasculature or your thumbprint. It has to compare it to something in a database to see if its identical or not. All you have to do is convince the program that its list of correct responses came from you during the challenge instead of its own database during the comparison. You never even have to see the correct response, or know what it is, do you Moxy?" Moxy nodded agreement as he took over the computer and clattered at the keys rapidly. Dare commented archly "it's fortunate for us that Moxy has no interest in a life of crime." The former policeman stared at the kid as if in doubt over his own assertion. Orry had found the kid chatting comfortably with the criminal, Daville Shayden. The doctor had angrily confronted Moxy with this, and the kid had calmly shrugged his shoulders. Dare's doubts about Moxy's intentions and past acquaintance with Shayden rose again to the surface. Orry could see that this was bothering Dare. "Clever little devil, isn't he?" Maldonne whispered to Orry, making the doctor wince at the wording. "I saw him at the gates of hell," Moxy had said earlier about Daville Shayden. Metaphorical or factual statement? The doctor wondered. "I'm in," Moxy announced. Orry jumped. But Moxy didn't mean the gates of hell. At least not this time, Orry reassured himself. "So soon?" Bethany asked in amazement. "Figured it out ahead of time," Moxy confessed, "but I never looked inside," he told her sincerely. Bethany replied in soothing tones, "it's okay. After all, I did ask you for your help." Ted Dare took over his seat at the computer again, "so I call up Mr. Berke's Dictionary of Familiar Quotations. And now what? We can't very well turn it upside down and shake it to see if anything falls out." "Clue two. Back to the postcards," Moxy replied, plopping back down onto the floor. Dare stood over him thoughtfully, hand in chin. Sitting next to Moxy, Bethany asked "is it the same three cards again, Moxy?" The kid nodded, "hint, squint," he told them. The others gathered around, studying the cards again. All the company scrunched their faces, squinting at the infamous three postcards.

[Munich] "My dear Berke, Awoke in a purple funk this a.m! Some mix-up about the hotel bill. Found these ancient and holy gentlemen very soothing to the mind. Heidelberg, tomorrow. More, anon! Grey."


[Helsinki] "My dear Berke, I have acquired exactly one word of the Finnish vocabulary. Ruislepe. Rye bread. They make flat, circular loaves, with a hole in the middle, looking for all the world like a bagel run over by a steam roller. With butter, utterly delicious. Or should I say udderly? Best butter in the world. I think it's the cold northern climate. I have a hypothesis that the hot sun in southern latitudes bleaches the aromatic hydrocarbons out of the cattle forage. But the locals say no, just superior cows! Out of room. Grey."


[Vienna] My dear Berke, I am feeling very antique and ill today. Oh, for the good old days of the straight razor. The hand slips while shaving, phtt, and all your worldly cares are gone. Who invented the safety razor, anyway? I'm not sure he did mankind a favor! Looking for a better day tomorrow. Grey."

"The underlining?" Orry asked. "And the exclamation points," Dare added, "he doesn't use them in his other postcards." Bethany commented "purple, anon, cows, and who." "Purple cows?" Maldonne suggested. Mrs. Grandham spoke up, "of course! 'I've never seen a purple cow...' It was a very popular little rhyme when I was a child." Maldonne added "Ah ha! 'who invented the safety razor?' Gillette, wasn't it?" "Look in Mr. Berke's dictionary under 'purple'," Moxy suggested. Dare scanned the index as it ran across the screen image. "Purple cloth, purple haze, purple testament, purple cow! There it is, page 200, reference one. Got it. Gelett Burgess, 1866 to 1951. 'Gelett'... that must have been the safety razor reference in the postcard from Vienna, don't you think?" Moxy nodded. Dare read rhythmically "I never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one. But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one!" "Try hitting 'enter' twice," Moxy suggested. "Would you look at that?" Dare exclaimed excitedly in spite of himself. "There's a letter. Right smack in the middle of the Dictionary of Quotations. It begins, 'My dear Berke.' " Suddenly somber, Ted Dare looked at his fiancee, "Bethany, maybe you would prefer to read it to yourself?" She sat still. TD saw the glistening of tears in her eyes. However, she replied in a steady enough voice, "Would you mind terribly? Just reading it out loud? All of you, I don't mind if you listen." "Yes, of course," he answered and turned back to the screen. He read in his calm, deep, reassuring voice, "My dear Berke, I hope you have enjoyed the postcards, and found my little puzzle entertaining. It certainly pleased me to devise it. I have a small problem. A scoundrel named Daville Shayden. A memento of my travels, you might call him. Something akin to picking up a case of Montezuma's Revenge in my wanderings. He is a nasty customer. Sadistic. Murderous, completely unscrupulous. I am certain to be dead shortly, and then he will head your way. Once again, my apologies. If you can manage to have him arrested, do so. Otherwise, just shoot him, please. I would have done it myself, except that as my demise draws near, I've turned into a bit of a coward. Is retribution really awaiting me? I wonder. What about all those people whose faces we never saw, the ones we dropped bombs on during the war? Will they be demanding a pound of flesh from me? If so, they will be hard pressed to find it. I've lost so much weight, when I turn upon the mattress, my bones rattle. What shall my epitaph be? Cemetery plots, 50 cents an hour, rent to bone? I will be a bone-tiful harvest when they plant me. Shayden shows me his vial. His vile vial. There is no denial. He is a puppet on strings. He thinks he is in charge. Seeks to control me. But I run his hand with my mind. When I am all through, and ready to go, I shall press him. And he will administer his vial vile. Cyanide, isn't it? Now to business. First, my friend, my apologies. I should never have quarreled with you. Modern science is so feudalistic. The heads of laboratories sit in parasitic splendor, sucking the lifeblood out of their juniors, and tossing the corpses aside. Using their work, claiming it, then destroying the creators to cover their tracks. You didn't invent the system. And I cannot imagine what either you or I could do to change it. But young Tom Sparks was somewhat of a protege to me. I knew full well, when the dispute developed over ownership of his little fire ant molecule discovery, that it was a fight he was born to lose. I never suspected he would consider the matter so seriously as to take his own life. And I blame myself, now, for not perceiving he was suicidal, until it was too late to intervene. At the time, I blamed you. That was willful self deception. You were not at fault. What months of good jokes, and fine glasses of wine after dinner, and golden morning sunrises following stormy nights we have wasted in angry silence. I regret them more than I can say. Second, about my little book collection. Those dusty volumes have been such friends to me. I hope you will find them a kind home, where someone who loves the sciences as I have will look upon them, and think of the old graybeards, dead and gone, who labored so mightily to make them. Someone who will not laugh too hard at their quaint concepts of the universe. But consider them the brave soldiers against darkness and ignorance that they were in their own good time. May that task be a pleasure, not a burden to you. Third, about my death. I accuse Daville Shayden of poisoning me. Murder. His motives were cruelty and greed. He thinks he can get control of the fire ant formula and sell it. I doubt that my letter would be useful in a court of law. I assume it will not. But I must tell you. He has confessed to me. Boasted even. Of other murders. Kidnappings. Tortures. Daville Shayden is an aberration of nature who should be quietly and efficiently expunged. I hope you can manage it. For now, I feel the nearness of another realm. You may scoff. Call it wishful thinking. Or delirium. But as I draw near to death, I feel the ability to roam the universe, unfettered by corporeal weight, is within my capacity. I do not want my conscience to be anchored. So I leave Shayden to you, the living, to deal with him. He will try to get the information I have left to you. But I doubt he will find this. He is smart enough. But he lacks one essential element. He has no sense of humor. No. He will never read this letter, unless you show it to him. I am confident of that. Goodbye. Give my love to Bethany. I die thinking only that you were a true and kind friend to me. Am I victorious in death? Perhaps. Certainly, I die true to myself. Because I am grayer now than I have ever been in my life. As we were before, yours eternally, Victor Grey." The company in the room sat quietly. Bethany Berke wiped her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief Mrs. Grandham offered her. It took a moment to get past the impression of hearing Victor Grey's death bed statement, including an accusation of murder against Daville Shayden, from beyond the grave. As they all sat contemplating this, the same thought came over them simultaneously. "But what about the missing formula?" Maldonne asked. "It's not here," Dare stated. "Maybe Grey never had it," Orry suggested. Dare objected, "then in his final letter, he would have denied the allegation of stealing it." "Instead, he says nothing at all about it, denial or confession," Maldonne pointed out. "Perhaps he simply forgot," Khaz said practically, "after all, he was very ill at the time." "But he speaks of it, and the young scientist, Tom Sparks," Mrs. Grandham remarked. "And of the quarrel between him and Berke," Maldonne added. "It must have been on his mind. And Shayden, hovering around, waiting for the spoils from the kill would have been a constant reminder to him," Dare agreed. In synchrony, they all looked at Moxy Youngblood. He sat, staring through the windows into the violent stormy night, a null expression on his face. As if he might be communing with the ghost of Victor Grey, Orry thought. "Moxy, where is the formula?" the doctor asked. The company waited expectantly. "Any more inspirations? Can you finish the puzzle?" Dare prodded the kid. Katya Borgan thought it was all unfair. This evening's entertainment seemed to hold more work for Moxy than even his job at the clinic did. First, all of that fuss and explaining about the scarf until he was thoroughly hoarse. And then all the agitation over Moxy's disappearance. She hadn't heard a proper explanation about that, but knew Moxy had been found with Daville Shayden, someone Ted Dare said was a dangerous criminal. And now, after all of that, instead of letting him get some well-deserved rest, here they all were, demanding that Moxy's genius produce yet again. She resented it on Moxy's behalf. But still she sat silently, staring at him like the others. Ted Dare was debating his own cynicism, which kept suggesting that Moxy had taken them only so far into this convoluted puzzle without handing over the prize. And that the kid could have joined, or re-joined, or have always been affiliated with Daville Shayden, all along, and have no intention of handing the formula over to Bethany Berke. This time, Ted Dare physically prodded him, "Moxy? Where's the formula?" he demanded. The prolonged silence had Orry worried. It looked to the doctor like that transit of intellect, that loss of soul, he thought he had seen before in the kid. Was Moxy visiting some other realm, earlier that evening at the governor's mansion, seemingly so full of restless dead souls? And now, was he someplace very familiar, where he went to be with his dead parents, perhaps? Where he could consult Victor Grey about his Peculiar Postcard Puzzle personally? None of this ghoulish marunkity punk, flying off to some ghost convention. Hell was strictly off-limits, the doctor told himself sternly. Disbelieving his own silly suppositions, he turned his sterness outward, and applied it to Moxy. "Come on, kid. Finish the puzzle. So we can hit the hay. Get on with it," he prompted. Moxy shook his head, as if dissenting in a debate that only he could hear. "What?" he asked Orry, in a whisper so soft as to be almost inaudible. Orry gestured, "the computer, the dictionary of quotations. Where is the million dollar formula? Tom Sparks' work. Fireants-be-gone? The one that Victor Grey hid?" He shook Moxy by the shoulder. "Look at the postcards again. Is there another clue? Tell us ordinary, dull-witted folks, what's the next piece to the puzzle?" "I thought it would be there," Moxy said, concentrating again on the postcards, looking perplexed. "Two step. Double take. First edition, second verse," he muttered to himself. And then he lit up like midnight Aurora Borealis. "Oh gosh, sure! A pun, what else?" he grinned up at Orry. "Anon. Abbreviation for anonymous in the dictionary of quotations. Also, Shakespearean English for 'coming presently, at another time.' Go back to the purple cow," Moxy instructed, straining his voice to be heard. Dare replied, "okay, got it. Now what?" "Read the second verse," the kid instructed. "Is there one? I never heard tell of it," Mrs. Grandham said. "Me either," Maldonne agreed. "There is though, right here," Dare read from the screen: "Ah, yes! I wrote the 'Purple Cow'. I'm sorry, now, I wrote it! But I can tell you anyhow, I'll kill you if you quote it!" Moxy commented "it's a quotation, about a quotation, in the Dictionary of Quotations!" "Very convoluted," Ted Dare said. Bethany added "and very typical, too. I'll bet it was Victor Grey's favorite passage in the whole book." "But there's nothing more. No addendum. No scientific formula," Dare told them. Moxy nodded, as if expecting this news. "What word jumps out at you?" he coaxed in his thick whisper. "To me? ' Kill,' " Dare replied emphatically. "Yes. Exactly. Go back to the index under Shakespeare," the kid prompted. "You think all of this was camouflage for Shayden's confusion? Or games, out of boredom?" Maldonne asked. "Both, probably," Dare replied, clicking the keys of the computer. "Berke would have understood Grey's thinking a lot better than the rest of us. Excepting Moxy, of course," TD said. Who maybe talks to the dead, Orry added the silent mental note. Ted Dare spoke up, "here, now. ' Kill' cross-reference the Bard of Avon: kill care, kill a king, kill thee with cherishing, kill all the lawyers, kill us for sport, killed with your hard opinions..." Moxy responded "that's it." "Henry the Fourth," Dare informed them, calling up the reference onto the screen, "where for anything I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already he be killed with your hard opinions..." Bethany murmured, "I see. To be lying alone. Dying without his friends. When he had taken his scientific integrity so seriously, all of his life devoted to it. To be accused of stealing the information, just to sell it. Killed with our hard opinions..." she sighed, sadly shaking her head. "It's here," Dare announced, triumphantly, "pages and pages of lab notes. Sequences, everything. Right there in Berke's computer. It was there all this time. Right under our noses." Bethany spontaneously flung her arms around Moxy, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for your help," she told him fervently. "Now we can get past all of this," she waved her hand at the computer, "and move on to something better, maybe." Moxy blushed and nodded at her. He didn't try to speak any more, as the rest of the group congratulated him. "Bedtime," Orry announced decisively. "Come on, kid," he pulled Moxy to his feet and out into the hallway. "Let's see what old Doc Orry has in the traveling apothecary box that's good for phantom pharyngitis, shall we?" Katya Borgan followed close after them, "ibuprofen and guaifenesin," she suggested. "Sounds like a plan," Orry agreed as they disappeared into a room with Moxy sandwiched between them. The next morning gleamed bright upon them, moist and scrubbed, damp but shining. Early, they took their way north upon the highway, back to their mountains, cruising comfortably upon the road under brilliant blue skies and high white clouds. Moxy fell asleep again, with his head on Khaz's shoulder. She woke him when they halted at a truck stop for a hearty breakfast. Bethany bought the capital city's edition of the morning paper from the cashier. The Saraste finalist announcement made the front page, with a photo of Khaz modeling her scarf. It made her blush furiously when Bethany pointed it out to her. A side column mentioned the storm, and the power outage in the governor's mansion. Another column, written by the fashion editor who had joined them last night, dealt with the pending lawsuit, and Terrents' claim of intellectual theft. The reporter's sympathies seemed to be aligned somewhat against the man. It was subtle. But the text dwelt on Khaz's credentials and previous triumphs. And the commercial quality of Terrents' line. And his enormous wealth and opulent lifestyle. The newspaper had printed his annual "Worst Dressed" list for many years. Maybe the man had made some enemies amongst the staff and writers. The column politely ignored Terrents' innuendos concerning Khaz's relationship with Moxy. All of which seemed to be small comfort. Khaz groaned, "they certainly pounced on this lawsuit business fast enough. I suppose Terrents will arrange court dates to be as much a nuisance as he can, so I can't possibly make my plane reservations ahead of time and get a reasonable air fare to Helsinki. This is going to cost me a lot more than lawyers' fees. I wonder if the suggestion of a scandal will be enough to put off the Saraste committee. Would they award a prize to something when there's a great big fuss about theft hanging over it?" Bethany commented "it makes you wonder what Terrents is really wanting. Maybe this is all dog-in-the-manger. If I can't have the award, I'll make sure you don't get it, that sort of thing. Or maybe he wants all of that free publicity in the news. And he doesn't care whether its friendly or not." "Quite possible," Ted Dare agreed, neatly folding the financial section of the newspaper. Then he sat thoughtfully, wiping the newsprint off his fingers with a fresh pocket handkerchief. After a moment, he said "I have several suggestions for you to consider." "Free advice? How can I refuse?" Khaz laughed. "These are just possibilities. You don't need to decide right away," Dare told her, bringing his memo pad out of his jacket pocket, and referring to the list he had constructed. "First point: free publicity. If it works for Terrents, it should work double for you. It's the perfect time to resurrect ' Khaz-Merely'." "My old line?" Khaz sputtered in astonishment. "I was almost buried alive trying to get out of that mess. Why on the good gracious green earth would I want to get back into it?" "Because this time it won't be a mess. No big business aspects. No executive pressure. No underlings doing scut work. Nothing between you and the drawing board. Except paper," Dare replied. "In my dreams," Khaz shook her head dubiously, "with my past financial history, and my current legal troubles, who'd sink their venture capital into a set up like that? Unless they were trying to lose the designer shirts right off their backs on purpose," she grimaced. "Which brings me to point two," TD consulted his list before continuing. "Join the staff of the Dare Clinics Foundation. Salaried. We have a great health insurance, benefits, and retirement package," he offered her the smile usually favored in magazine photographs of him. Then he continued "the 'Khaz-Merely' line to become part of our not-for-profit organization. All proceeds to benefit our scholarship program, well-baby clinics, community outreach, and etc. What do you think? First impressions on the proposal?" She replied "it sounds wonderful, and totally insane. Not necessarily in that order. Why would Dare Clinics want a fashion designer on their staff? The ragbag is way out of their zone, it seems to me." "Ah ha.Point the third: why? Sub categories, what's in it for us? And what's in it for you?" TD scanned his list, ticking off items. "Part A. the Dare clinics foundation promotes integral collaboration of arts and sciences. Take this Saraste project of yours, for example." Dare nodded his head toward Moxy, who was now dozing curled up on the car seat, with a particularly angelic expression on his face. "Moxy tells me he would never have thought about the polymers in your scarf if you hadn't come to him with your design idea." "Moxy's modest," Khaz shook her head. "Agreed," Dare replied. "But even so. It's doubtful he would be thinking about fabrics if you hadn't made the suggestion. So Moxy works his magic at the computer and in the laboratory. Then I get the legal group at the foundation on the case. And they start their minds whirring on the subject of copyrights and patents. So they go back to Moxy and challenge him to imagine applications for the process. He comes up with some wild ones, just to get the lawyers off his back. Orry, there, listens to Moxy complaining over lunch. And the doctor helps him out with a creative notion or two from a surgical perspective. Ideas have a way of spreading like that. And that's good for medical and scientific progress. If you occupy an office at the main clinics building. Someone might want your input for a poster design on recruiting parents to get their kids vaccinated. Or help with the cloth in the back brace they are improving. Or a different hypoallergenic bandage fabric that falls off exactly 17 days after its applied to a wound. Who knows? If you're not there to hear the question, it may not get asked at all." "The way you put it, makes it sound terribly important," Khaz replied. "Absolutely. And its my job to make sure the work environment is conducive to all that ' what-if-ing'. Now for part B, what's in it for you?" TD continued. "That part is obvious," Khaz laughed, "my line back up and running. An office. Steady income. Health benefits." Dare nodded, "yes. But what about this? You get challenged to a duel. High noon, in court. Terrents' temerity. We provide Ms. Khaziamiere the finest lawyers on the face of the planet. At no cost to yourself. You sit back. And watch the fun. You need a ticket to Helsinki at a moment's notice. We make the travel arrangements for you at our expense. Or you go in our private jet. Problem solved." Dare opened his briefcase, "I've had a little draft contract drawn up. Of course, open to negotiation. Have your favorite legal eagle fine tooth comb it for you. No hurry." Khaz' eyes opened wide, "gracious. How long have you been planning to sweep me off my pin cushions?" she wondered. "Since our meeting in the mill at Safton. I went straight back that night and got the whiteshirts started on that contract. And it's a good thing, too. If we're duking it out in court with Terrents, the earlier the documented date of our proprietary interest in you, the better." "I'm glad I didn't know about it then. It would have made me nervous," she told him, reading the document carefully. Khaz looked up at Bethany, who was silently bubbling with excitement. "Your guy sure knows how to show a girl a good time," she commented. "I know!" Bethany nodded, "I hope it works out. It sounds like a great opportunity," she smiled. "Oh, it probably will. In fact," Khaz looked at the second page of the contract with considerable interest, "I don't see how I can possibly say no." The next few weeks at the clinic were comparatively uneventful. Ted Dare got Grey's first edition library packaged, transported from the Berke estate, and securely housed under lock and key, awaiting appraisal and cataloging. Dr. Sparks' notes on the fire ant killer molecule were handed over to the scientists at the Berke Corporation. There was considerable fanfare including announcements in many of the newspapers about the recovery of the missing notes. Khaz' scarf was insured, packaged, and sent off to Helsinki to participate in the Saraste finals. Dare called off his collection of hired bodyguards, in order to emphasize to anybody who might be watching that there was now nothing of inordinate value left to guard. Bethany was relieved to have her privacy restored. Khaz did sign the contract with the Dare Clinics Foundation. She was looking forward to her trip to Helsinki. And trying to ignore the legal hassle with Terrents. The clinics' legal staff had already launched a counter suit against him that occasionally required input from her. The lawyers seemed to be relishing the campaign, as well they might, being gorgeously salaried to defend their patron company with brilliance, regardless of the size of the fight. It was a pity they couldn't just leave her out of it entirely, she reflected. She saw no more of Moxy than she had before she started working for the Dare Clinics. And that was just as well, she decided. She didn't need distractions from her work on 'Khaz-Merely'. She intended that her reincarnated line would make a glorious comeback and knock her patron foundation's artistic socks off. She had already decided that her relationship with Moxy was pleasant, but headed nowhere serious. She knew he liked her. But then, he liked just about everybody. Khaz didn't think she was a particularly important part of Moxy's life. And she had no intention of breaking her heart over that. She had already decided she was too old for him, and that made her feel apologetic, which she didn't like. So, while she didn't mean to break off the relationship, she wasn't going to pursue it too hotly either. Now Khaz was amused at Bethany Berke. Her friend obviously had a crush on Moxy. Although maybe Bethany herself didn't realize this. Khaz had watched Ted Dare the last time Bethany hugged Moxy goodbye in his presence. That was the day after the governor's ball. TD straightened his already starched backbone and nonchalantly looked elsewhere as his fiancee kissed Moxy's cheek. Dare had made an obvious effort to look nonpossesive and unthreatened. Which was the best way imaginable to look the opposite of that, Khaz reflected. She thought there was no awareness on Bethany's part of generating any friction. It was a spontaneous gesture inspired by admiration and gratitude for Moxy's help solving the mystery of the postcard puzzle. But Khaz was also aware that Bethany saw Moxy more often than Ted Dare knew. The fact that all of this was only amusing and aroused no jealousy in Khaz confirmed her opinion that she was not in love with Moxy. Or maybe she did love Moxy, but realized she'd have to share him with the rest of humanity. Something like that, she decided. Dr. Benjamin Orry was extremely busy with hospital business and his patients. In between, he thought mostly about Katya Borgan. He had asked her out once on a date, danced with her, and kissed her. Now he wondered, was it too soon to propose marriage? How many days, dates, weeks, kisses were you supposed to wait before popping the question? Were there rules on the subject? If so, who wrote them? And didn't they have anything better to do with their time than to meddle in Benjamin Orry's life? The soldier was in charge of all his motivations, and trying to take command of his actions as well. And the soldier said to attack the fortress, overwhelm it, and carry away the prize. All very well, Dr. Orry retorted, but then suppose she says "no"? This stimulating reverie was interrupted by Orry's executive assistant who walked in to his office to pick up a stack of overtime approvals. Orry now realized he had been staring at them for a while without having reviewed or signed them. Hastily, he leafed through them, scrawling his signature as he went, and hoping he wasn't approving anything outrageous. Mathilda, his assistant, smiled patiently. She was an organizational genius who ran the Department of Surgery, took care of all matters for the Chief of Staff's office, and did editorial work on a couple of medical journals in her spare time. She was also a very maternal sort of lady, with several children now full grown adults and out of her house on their own. This gap left her free to lavish her parental talents on the clinic volunteers, medical students, housestaff, and occasionally the faculty as needed. Now she commented, "I told Moxy Youngblood to submit an overtime sheet. He works after hours a lot. I told him, if people specifically ask him to work during off-hours, then he needs to document it and get paid for it. Which he never does unless I stand over him and insist," she tapped her perfectly manicured fingernail against the sheet immediately under Orry's pen. The doctor paused. No point in continuing until Mathilda finished this exposition. From prior experience, Orry knew there was more to come. He took a deep cleansing breath and slowly exhaled. "Oh?" he responded. "I went to get the form from the file cabinet for him. And he fell asleep in that chair right there," she pointed towards the outer receiving area near her desk. "In less than 30 seconds. Bolt upright. Sound asleep." Orry nodded to indicate his attention and waited for the next paragraph of Mathilda's speech. "Later on, the housestaff were talking about him. I overheard Dr. Brown telling the others about Moxy playing his guitar and singing. At a bar in town last night. Past midnight. With a band. Or a group. Whatever you want to call them," Mathilda's gesture was one of dismissive distaste. "Dr. Brown said the group is called 'Bastard Sons'. Only the leader is named 'Baz'. So that it comes out 'Baz Stirred Sunz'," she spelled the phrase out for Orry. "Dr. Brown says that they 'kick major mercuric ass,' and I quote. I think that is meant to be some sort of compliment," she added archly. Mathilda paused. Orry cleared his throat in case he was supposed to comment here. But Mathilda revved up again, "have you seen Moxy?" "Not for several days. He's been picking up his work sheets before I get out of the O.R.," Orry declared. In fact, he reflected, it was more like weeks since he had seen the kid. Moxy's work got done well and on time. No reason for Orry to chase after him. "He's as pale as a winding sheet. And when he picked up the pen to sign the form today, his hand shook," Mathilda stated with severity. Orry started to say "considering the circumstances, it was probably just a hangover." But after reflection, he decided against it and left this assertion unuttered. Mathilda continued, "Moxy Youngblood is a nice boy. You don't have to talk to him a minute to know that he's been properly raised. It's a terrible shame to let him go to wrack and ruin for lack of appropriate supervision. He's over at Mr. Dare's office, working on his computer right now. You have a free half hour. You should go see for yourself," she said firmly. Orry knew very well that he didn't have a free half hour, or a free half minute, unless Mathilda had rearranged his schedule to make one for just this purpose. "I mean, suppose Moxy were to fall asleep over there, and Mr. Dare were to come in and catch him at it?" Mathilda urged this dire scenario. Orry imagined that TD would simply chuckle and leave the kid dozing until he woke up, but the doctor didn't share this reflection with his assistant. All in all, he found it easier to finish signing the paperwork, and then walk over to Ted Dare's office, than to do otherwise and face Mathilda's continued wrath. He rose to depart on this assignment, and Mathilda hit him with a parting shot, "Geraldine in Support says that her niece in Personnel saw him in there last week. Moxy was asking her how much notice someone was supposed to give before they quit their job." Orry paused, mid-stride. This was a bit of a rude shock. Moxy was thinking about leaving. The doctor contemplated the implications as he walked along the clinic corridors. The kid was constitutionally entitled to pursue happiness however he chose. But Orry's first impulse was indignation. Moxy was a brilliant scientist. It would be a criminal waste of his gifts to quit the clinic and devote himself to rock and roll. Then again, maybe the clinic work wasn't all that challenging for the kid. In his memory, Orry reviewed Moxy's last several assignments. Useful but probably not very exciting for anyone with a creative mind. In fact, probably downright dull, Orry cringed at this conclusion. Orry's second impulse was somewhat difficult to isolate and identify. Resentment that Moxy would leave his friends here out of boredom? Jealousy that the kid had what it took to be a rock star? Annoyance that the kid might consider them all at the clinic a bunch of tedious oldsters, and actually prefer the prospect of glittering fame, fortune, and beautiful young women throwing themselves into his embrace? Yes. Well, sort of. Orry told himself that it was unreasonable to go for weeks without seeing Moxy, and then to expect the kid to care a damn what Orry thought about abandoning them all. And then he wondered whether it was really sex, drugs, and rock and roll at all that had rendered Moxy pale and trembling this morning. Or whether, instead, Moxy was once again in the throes of his research project. His research project that had been turned down for funding by Ted Dare's review committee. So, was the kid now in stealthy pursuit of the Stealthy Juggler? And if so, who was funding the project? The kid himself? Probably,as far as Moxy's limited financial resources would go, that is. Dare's fiancee, Bethany Berke? The heiress was always a posibility as a sympathetic source of cash. Daville Shayden? This thought gave Orry an alarming shiver. The last time he had seen Shayden, he had certainly been proposing something to the kid that Moxy found interesting. And the project itself. Praestigiator furtivus. Gene juggling. If the kid was back to his interrupted inquiry on transplantation antigens, was he using himself as a guinea pig again? As Orry walked, he pondered the harsher aspects of the scientist's calling. Orry remembered being told that using themselves as subjects was fairly common amongst researchers. A biophysicist acquaintance had informed Orry that there was a scientific honor society that had nothing but dead members in it. To get elected to the society, you had to have died in the name of science, testing a new plague vaccine on yourself, or staying to get the absolutely latest readings on a volcano as it erupted. It seemed like that sort of thing was actually encouraged amongst the scientific brethren. Ground into the students starting on their first undergraduate research projects. For the glory of knowledge and the benefit of mankind. Of course, in medical school, the professors had emphasized that the doctors stuck around to take care of the patients, even under dangerous circumstances. War, for instance, or outbreaks of contagion. But the death of the medical practitioner was considered an unfortunate side effect of duty, not the height of professional attainment. Well, Benjamin Orry, M.D., had no intention of watching Moxy Youngblood, soon to be Ph.D. (his dissertation defense was scheduled for next month) bleed himself dry in the name of understanding the Stealthy Juggler, sort of. Or totally for that matter. He wondered if the Dead Scientific Heroes Society allowed its deceased members to vote. And if so, by what medium were the results communicated to the living? As he entered the reception area of Dare's office, he found TD sitting at Mrs. Grandham's desk. The old lady was nowhere in sight. Dare, referring humorously to his current post, said "Dr. Orry. How may I be of assistance?" Orry dropped into a handsome antique armchair, which held up well under the strain, considering its advanced age. "Seen Moxy?" the doctor asked. Dare gestured over his shoulder, "inside. Performing software sleight of hand on the computer." TD's expression adjusted suddenly to a sterner look, "speaking of which, he looks terrible. What have we been doing to him?" Orry noticed that Dare was very good at saying "we" while implying "you" in an accusatory tone. Orry retorted briskly "Us? Nothing. What's he been doing to himself? That's the question." Dare asked "do you mean burning the proverbial candle at both ends? Wine, women, and song? Ah, youth, and that sort of thing?" Orry nodded "yes, more or less." He did not want to get Moxy in trouble with the boss with regard to his freelance research efforts. Or his after hours haunts. "Are you sure it's not that we're working him too hard?" Dare challenged Orry. Ah ha. TD had already heard the rumor that Moxy was quitting his job at the clinic. And of course, blaming the Chief of Staff, from whom the kid's work assignments came. Orry was not ready to accept that blame, and opened his mouth to retort. But before he could, Ted Dare had already modified the challenge by adding "after all, he is trying to hold down a full-time job with us, while working on his schoolwork full-time. Plus his other research efforts. With his dissertation defense coming up, it wouldn't be surprising if he found it all rather overwhelming." Well, if TD was prepared to see things in this light, Orry saw no reason to address the topic of midnight rock and roll. Or self inflicted anemia. He nodded and grunted noncommittally. "Why don't we cut back on his hours, at least until after his defense?" Dare concluded affably. "Sounds reasonable to me," Orry agreed, shrugging. "Good," TD smiled, pleased at how easily the conversation had gone, but wondering what he was missing. There was something on Orry's face that said there was something on his mind left unsaid. The outer door opened, and Mrs. Grandham entered. Chief of Police Maldonne held the door for her, and then followed her in. "How was lunch?" Dare smiled at them. "Delightful," Mrs. Grandham twinkled at Maldonne, who winked at her. "I'll make coffee," she went to the percolator that Moxy had repaired for her. "Did you finish with the short list of job candidates for the head of auxiliary services position?" she asked Ted Dare in courteous tones. He replied "yes. There are only two problems with it. The list isn't very short. And none of the job candidates is right for the job." "No, sir," she agreed with her employer, smiling evenly at him. Dare's private office door opened, allowing a bright beam of sunlight from the picture window to escape outward through the doorway, shining a halo around Moxy Youngblood's form. He grinned widely at Orry who stood to receive the proffered enthusiastic handshake. "Hey, Doc! How are you? Haven't seen you in a while," Moxy said. The friendliness on the kid's face, juxtaposed with this undeniable statement, gave the doctor a guilty twinge. Moxy turned to TD, "S'all set, and I printed out a cheat sheet of prompts for you. Left them on your desk." "Any delta problems with the software?" Dare asked him. "Nope," Moxy shrugged. Then he added, "you know that auxiliary services job? The one you were talking to Mrs. Grandham about?" "I didn't think you were listening," Dare commented. "I wasn't," Moxy agreed, apparently thinking that statement required no further explanation, "you should give that job to Bethany." Orry choked, then gave a loud, embarrassed cough to cover up the strangling noises he was trying hard not to make. With considerable reserve in his voice, Dare told Moxy, "Ms. Berke doesn't need a job." "Maybe not, but she's looking for one anyway," Moxy corrected him, "she must be. She looks in the employment section of the newspaper first. Before she reads anything else. Always," the kid said decisively. Mentally, Orry shook his head, waiting for further disastrous developments in the conversation. Maldonne seemed to be holding his breath. Only Mrs. Grandham looked nonchalant. Moxy persisted, "really. She'd be perfect for that job. She knows all about money. And giving big parties. And how to talk to different people the right way. Stuff like that. And..." "Moxy!" Dare interrupted pointedly. The kid stopped talking and cocked his head in puzzlement. After a moment, Ted Dare said with more composure, "thank you for your suggestion. I'll consider mentioning the position to Ms. Berke." "Great!" Moxy grinned, nodding his head emphatically. In the silence that followed, he finally let the matter drop. "What will you be working on next?" Orry asked the kid, mostly to change the subject of everyone's silent contemplation. "Pathology's programable ultracentrifuge," Moxy shrugged with an utter lack of interest expressed on his face. "I'm heading that direction, I'll walk with you," the doctor stated, placing a guiding hand firmly on the kid's shoulder. After they left, Ted Dare went into his private office and shut the door. He had two things bothering him. In his conscious mind, he only acknowledged one of them: was Bethany Berke really looking for a job? And if so, why? Submerged in his subconscious were numerous larger concerns: why did Moxy know more about Bethany's personal affairs than her own fiance? Bethany was younger than TD. Maybe she'd finally decided he was too old for her. Maybe Moxy was an object of more than her friendly interest. She was older than Khaz. And Khaz was older than Moxy. How much were Bethany and Moxy seeing of each other? And how innocent was the association? His subconscious was, in fact, seething. But Ted Dare did not acknowledge to himself these items of mentation. Orry retraced his steps along the Clinic corridors, this time with Moxy Youngblood at his side. No point in beating about the bush. He plunged right into the bramble. "You need to watch what you say to Ted Dare. He's twice your age. And he's your boss. He's used to being in charge. And he's used to being spoken to with deference. And he's Bethany Berke's fiance. Telling him what to do about his business and his girlfriend... well, it might be taken for showing a lack of respect," Orry summarized briskly. "Oh," Moxy said. "And as long as we're on the subject, you also want to watch how much time you spend with Bethany, and how you talk about that to other people. Folks might get the wrong idea about the two of you being together," Orry informed him. "Oh?" Moxy said. So much for sex. Now for drugs and rock and roll. "I hear rave reviews are in order. Something or other about kicking ass with Baz and his Stirred Sunz," Orry continued. "Uh," Moxy said. The kid's hair and clothes reeked of stale tobacco smoke. And other smoke. The kind not sanctioned by the constabulary. "What time did you make it home last night?" Orry asked. "Stayed in town at a friend's," Moxy said. And strong perfume. That kind of a friend. "Last night you must have gone barrelling out of here burning rubber, after leaving work so late, to get to your gig on time. Did you get any dinner?" the doctor asked. "Fast food," Moxy said. "Burgers with the band? You ate what? A large order of french fries?" Moxy was a vegetarian, Orry knew. "Singing at a bar. Drinks on the house. How many did you have? Any idea?" the doctor asked. "Hard to say," Moxy said. Because every time he turned around, the glass was refilled. Bottomless whiskey. Bottomfull waitress. "You started work first thing this morning. Right on schedule. Did you get any sleep? Have any breakfast?" the doctor wondered. "I had some cereal," Moxy said. But no sleep. "How long did it stay down? Before it came back up again?" Orry asked. "Gosh, talk about the third degree," the kid finally protested. "Moxy, there's burning the candle at both ends. And then, there's setting the barn afire while you're sitting in the hay loft," Orry lectured him. They were traversing a long glass-enclosed walkway. Moxy's look became steadfastly fixed on a point beyond the horizon, somewhere equidistant between Altair and Alpha Centauri. "The difference being, the one may singe your fingers, but with the other, your balls become barbequed brisquet," Orry moralized. "Uh huh," Moxy agreed without changing the direction of his stare. Then the kid commented, "too many windows in this place. I get ansie this time of year. When the weather starts to change. Like I really need to get to somewhere else, but I wont know where it is until I get there. And I should have left for it yesterday, but didn't. And if I don't leave for there right away, something awful is gonna catch up to me. And if I don't hurry up, something really great wont be there anymore when I arrive, wherever it is, whatever it is. You know?" he turned now to the doctor. "No. I mean, not exactly. Or, not from personal experience, I should say. In the past, often enough I've wanted to travel someplace else. But usually, I could tell you the name of the place. And what I wanted to see or do when I got there," Orry clarified. "Yeah. That's different," Moxy agreed, looking wistfully out through the glass again. "Kinda drives me nuts," he added. "I can imagine," Orry agreed sympathetically. A moment later, the walkway view ended abruptly. Moxy turned to Orry with a grin and said "now what were you saying about rave reviews?" And the two of them plunged into an animated discussion of what exactly constituted "kicking mercuric ass" in the rarefied atmosphere of modern musical performance. Orry had started out verbally wagging his finger in the kid's face. But already he had gotten past the lecture, and now had settled into the well-worn, side by side Doc and Moxy tread. A very familiar place to occupy. If anyone were to ask Orry why he had gone weeks without seeing Moxy, he would have replied that he'd been busy, and Moxy had been busy, and their paths had simply failed to cross. It did not occur to him that he had been avoiding the kid. And if this had been suggested to him, he would have denied it. Because he hadn't a clue why he would want to avoid the kid. Orry's family culture was largely blue-collar. There were certain male associations in it that were recognized and accepted. Parent, uncle, teacher, drinking friend, grade school enemy, next door neighbor, barber, lodge member, second cousin once removed. Easily classifiable relationships. Orry could be Moxy's doctor, his boss, his overseas military buddy, maybe even an avuncular surrogate older brother for a kid with no family left undeceased. But nothing more, and nothing beyond those restrictions. Instead, Orry's association with Moxy defied recognizable descriptors. His appreciation for the kid's multifaceted genius went beyond admiration. In this sense, Orry was a follower rather than a leader, and his persona was in danger of being engulfed by Moxy's. Then again, when their many common interests were eagerly discussed unobserved, the conversation was between equals, no age or status distinction existed. And when Moxy needed protection, the emotional interest went rapidly beyond that of the professional medical practitioner for his patient, and Orry loomed monumental as defender. Yet, more concerning still was the question of physical attraction. Benjamin Orry's interest in anatomy extended from his vast academic prowess to an engulfing passion for the art form. In his travels, he had sought out the many famous pieces of sculpture first viewed only in meager textbook illustrations. Seeing the statuary, sharing the air and space of the artist's vision was thrilling for him. Orry had stood in front of Michelangelo's David and silently disagreed with the learned lecturer. The academy docent, glibly reciting dates and dimensions, telling the enthralled listeners that the boy's hands were disproportionately large, because of the height of the statue and the position of the viewer far below. Idiotic. Orry knew for a certainty, as if the artist had stood at his side in unified dissent. David was the adolescent male incarnate. Hands and feet growing before your very eyes. That awkward teenage grace that epitomizes youthful beauty. Novitiate muscles doubling in power under glistening marble-perfect surfaces. The powerful sex organ, overtly flaunted but flacidly innocent. And the face, eloquent of intellectual potential, fired with the yearning for conflict with arrogant authority. There was nothing more beautiful in the world than the healthy functional human form in all its diversity. Male or female, young or old, each had its own defining perfection that was infinitely admirable to the doctor. Orry loved the human anatomy and was physically attracted to beautiful bodies, wherever he found them. Inanimate statuary or living breathing soul. From head to toes, mind, creative function, and feeling, Moxy was a work of art. David was a vast adolescent measured by the ton, and Moxy was rather less large, but otherwise, both had a similarly powerful effect. This was a simple enough reason for Orry's attraction, had he cast about, attempting to find it. But he had not gone searching, because he hadn't acknowledged that the attraction existed. Hence, his unease, and his avoidance of Moxy. "How's your research coming along?" the doctor asked. "Great. I can't decide what aspect to study next, there are so many different things to investigate. So I run back and forth from one experiment to the next and never quite finish anything. I mean, I can talk the Juggler into spitting out polymers like an underwater silk worm. And I know there's a lot of potential for industry there. And the aerospace folks..." here the kid lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder, as if the Colonel's associates might be hiding in the shadows, recording the conversation. "Well, I know they would like to get me going on that again. But, its so much less exciting, now that I've got the basic premise down. And I'm beginning with something that is just logs more thrilling. I think..." Moxy paused to arrange his overflowing thoughts. "I think the Juggler can draft other cells to his cause. Like instead of going around slaying his enemies, sometimes, I think he can give them genetic instructions to win them over to his persuasion. Remember, Praestigiator furtivus is the water police. He comes into a happy ecological niche where there is enough lovely clean water to go around, and all the different species are friends and neighbors. But then some species shows up, spewing vile toxins into the water supply. Praestigiator furtivus grabs the other guy and gets him to kill himself off. Feeds him a genetically synthesized self destructo button. But sometimes, instead, he gives him a message that turns off the toxin synthesis. Turns the evil doer into just another benign neighbor. Well, I think, what if we get this mechanism to work for us. And instead of letting the Juggler hand a suicide package of DNA to his enemies, we alter the DNA package. To get some cell of our choosing to do something else other than kill itself. Like get it to change its surface antigens. Or get it started synthesizing insulin. Or whatever we want it to do. Vector city. I think we could get this system to work like no other vector ever did before. But there's so much work to do. I never have enough time," Moxy concluded somewhat breathlessly. This excited speech had induced a glowing flush on Moxy's pale cheeks. Orry scrutinized him. They had just arrived at the part of the hall where a left turn arrived in the Department of Pathology and a right turn into the Trauma Center. Orry grabbed Moxy's shoulder and enforced a right turn. "I was going to go see about the software on that ultracentrifuge," the kid reminded Orry. "I need you over here for a couple of minutes," the doctor told him. "What for?" Moxy asked. "Oh, maybe I'll get some specimens from you and screen for Parsecian Purple Plague," Orry smiled. "The which?" Moxy made a face at this silliness. "Well, then, instead of that, maybe I'm just wondering what your CBC will look like when I request one on you." "There's nothing wrong with my CBC that a good dinner or two wont cure," Moxy retorted, trying unsuccessfully to shrug his shoulder free of the doctor's enormous grasp. "That's likely enough," Orry agreed cheerfully, "so just chalk this up to academic interest. Maybe I'm going to write a paper on the subject of research-induced anemia." "Don't I get a say in the matter? I thought you weren't supposed to treat someone without their agreeing to it," Moxy protested. "Oh, sure. You can refuse. And then I can declare you medically unfit for work at the Dare Clinics Foundation. Which happens to include your laboratory at Cliffside. So think twice about that," Orry advised him, releasing his titan grasp. Moxy followed him meekly into the Trauma Center. The doctor appropriated an examining room, and prepared a syringe and needle while the kid removed his shirt. The most recent antecubital site of phlebotomy was evident. Orry pointed to it, saying "you have been drawing blood there for your experiments, haven't you?" "Just a little at a time," Moxy mumbled. The doctor drew a couple of tubes of blood, saying "I thought I told you not to do that." "I got to. I need it for my research," Moxy explained. "Why can't you use donor blood?" the doctor asked. Moxy sighed, "which reason do you want first? Cause there's a bunch. Ever heard of the IRB?" "Sure," Orry responded, "the Institutional Review Board. They make sure our research is strictly according to government specs. And ethical, and acceptable, and etc." "Well, if you don't like the way I'm using my own blood, what chance have I got to convince the board to let me use some volunteer's blood that way?" Moxy pointed out. "It could happen. If you used multiple people's blood, so you didn't give them anemia. And the phlebotomy was medically supervised," Orry argued. Moxy sighed patiently, "I told you before, Doc. That would be useless to me. Every person's genome is different from every other person's. I'm trying to figure out which DNA sequences mean what to the Juggler. If I have a different source of blood each time, I have a different genome every time, I have a different set of DNA sequences every time, and I have to go back to experiment number one every time. If I don't stick to the same source of blood, I'll never sort things out, and I'll never make any progress. And that's not the half of it. The instant the blood is drawn, its out of the circulation, it starts changing. Clotting, cells leaking electrolytes and dying. It doesn't look like it does in the circulation, the cheerful cooperative thriving community turns into a traumatised dying one. The Juggler responds differently to that. I've got maybe seconds after its drawn to throw the Juggler into the works. And even then, I'm not sure how different he reacts in the test tube than he would in real life." So the next step to the rabid researcher was likely to be injecting the Juggler into the circulation, Orry thought grimly. He would have confronted Moxy with this scenario along with threats as to what retribution he would wield if Moxy ever tried such an insane experiment on himself. But he didn't want to give Moxy any ideas. And he didn't want to play Goliath to Moxy's David if he could at all avoid it. So he didn't address the subject of in vivo Juggler experiments. Instead he tried a different tack. He guided him off the table. "Feet on the floor. Now kneel down. Now squat. Now stand up. Be quick," the doctor ordered. The kid scrambled up, and toppled forward. Orry caught him as he fell, and pushed him into a chair. "You feel dizzy, and queasy, so don't try to tell me not. You look sick. And you obviously feel bad. I'm not the only one around here to have noticed. As your boss, and your doctor, do you think I should just leave you alone to drag around here looking like that?" Orry demanded. "If its temporary. Why not?" Moxy retorted, and then continued before Orry could reply, "when you stay up all night doing surgery too many nights in a row, you look bad, and you feel bad. And trust me, you're lousy company. Nobody ever suggests you should stop doing midnight surgery." "That's different. Its necessary. Its something that's got to be done," Orry snorted. "You mean, your work is more important than mine?" Moxy demanded. "I didn't say that," the doctor countered. "Sounded like it to me," Moxy stared a challenge back. Orry thought for a moment. Then he said, "look. I don't think any doctor will try to convince you that medical research isn't important. But what you're doing now. You think this Stealthy Juggler stuff is worth compromising your health over?" "Yeah, I do. But I could be wrong. It may be a whole bunch of yesterday's breakfast hogwash. I don't know. And I won't know until I work on it some more. If it was a sure thing, it wouldn't be research. At least to me it wouldn't. And as long as we're on the subject, that's what's wrong with Ted Dare's grant committee. They want to show him exactly how much bang he's getting for every buck he spends. They want a sure thing for him every time. Guaranteed progress. No risk. Is that what you call research? Just how much real progress do you think we'll make that way? And is that what you really want from medical science? A boring, safe, sure thing? Cause that's what TD's paying for. And, Doc, that's all you're ever gonna get," Moxy declared. Orry knew that his own sane logic could never win out in the face of this passion. He nodded his head, simply saying as he exited, "just wait here until I get your lab values back. And then you can go." He ordered a basic metabolic and heme eight on the specimens, and then the inevitable happened. Multiple trauma cases arrived by Dancer, the ER and then the O.R. was swamped, and Orry pitched in to help. He told one of the ER attendings that Moxy could leave just as soon as his labs were back. And then he scrubbed in on one of the messier surgery cases. Benjamin Orry firmly believed that he needed to keep on taking care of the patients. Just because he was administratively high up and had a lot of executive duties was no reason to stop working as a surgeon. Quite the contrary, he reasoned. Since he was trying to direct things, all the more reason to keep in touch with the daily action at the hospital. Basically, he felt that nobody should take up a slot in medical school, and then not practice medicine. Other equally capable people who had wanted his place in medical school had been turned away. So he felt obligated to take care of the patients. Plus he enjoyed doing what he did so well. Opening up the injured and prowling their inward aspect, finding all the ruptures and leaks, in all the probable and improbable locations, stoppering and repairing, faster than the patient could exsanguinate on the table. He found it downright exhilirating. Especially when he won the race on some otherwise doomed soul. He was therefore very cheerful when he scrubbed out on this case. And only when the coordinator flagged him down to give him the message that Pathology had been calling with some lab results he'd requested earlier, did he remember Moxy. He hesitated at the hallway intersection between Pathology and the Trauma Center. Pathology had called him, and if he turned that direction, he might well encounter Katya Borgan. And surely Moxy had long since gone home. But Orry hadn't finished the paperwork on the kid. He'd left that longer than he should have. And he could easily get the lab values off the computer. Duty called. So he turned back to the ER central desk. "Where's the paperwork on Youngblood?" he asked the coordinator. "Should be on his door," she replied, meanwhile giving a facsimile transmission to one of the housestaff with one hand, and picking up the telephone with the other. "He's still here?" Orry asked in surprise. She nodded to Orry, while simultaneously saying "Dare Clinics Trauma..." into the telephone, and accepting a log sheet from a corrections officer who stood in front of the desk with a bandaged, handcuffed prisoner. Hastily, Orry returned to the examining room. Pausing to knock on the door, he heard Katya Borgan's voice inside. Well, at least the kid had been in good company, Orry smiled as he entered. Then he laughed out loud at the sight Moxy presented. The kid was clad in a floral print cotton hospital gown over his denims and boots. He stood at the farthest reach of an IV line, tethered by it to a pole. There he paced as best he could within the limited reach of the line. In response to Orry's laugh, Katya Borgan snapped out a sentence in her native language which sounded angry. By the time she had converted to English, she sounded calmer, but was addressing Moxy, "see now, here is Dr. Orry already to say what is to be done." "I'm sorry you got left here so long. I told Dr. Smith you could leave as soon as your labs came back," Orry said, while he studied the results in the chart. "Dr. Smith has been away to the PET with a patient. And his housestaff did not want Moxy to leave until you said it was right," Katya Borgan explained, nodding emphatically at the lab results in Orry's hands. He could see their point. Between alcoholic dehydration and vomitting, the kid's electrolytes were out of whack. And the combination of auto vampirism and vegetarianism had rendered his heme profile rather alarming as well. Orry clucked at the kid, "look at that hemoglobin. And your reticulocyte count," he shook his head. Someone had added the retics, which Orry hadn't ordered, and then gone to the trouble of a manual differential. Likely, that someone had been Katya Borgan. Giant platelets circulating, too, trying valiantly to staunch the hemorrhage that existed only on paper. Altogether, it was not the laboratory profile of a healthy young male, ready to roar out of the ER without even waiting to change back into his own shirt. Orry could appreciate that the housestaff, not being in on the secret of how Moxy had gotten into his current state, might figure there was something pathologically wrong with the kid. Other than several screws loose or missing in his thick skull. Now Orry studied the kid. And it became clear to him that Moxy had another phobia, that of being a patient in a hospital. The kid was panicked, pretty much oblivious to Orry's presence and Katya Borgan's soothing voice. He was staring at fearful visions of ghastly somethings clinging to the walls, threatening him. The housestaff had pumped him full of benzodiazepines. And when these had failed to calm him, they had sent round two of the drugs chasing after round one. Orry resolved to request from the pharmacology department a seminar on the subject of idiosyncratic responses to common medications. And what to do when pharmaceuticals did not result in desired effects. Other than give more of the same drugs. Said lecture to be applied to the younger physicians until they got the message. "Moxy, sit down," he said firmly. "I'll pull that line so you can go home," he added. This instruction failed. So Orry grabbed the kid and lowered him into the chair. "Sit down, and I'll pull your IV," he reitereated. In response to the patient's agitated activity, the nursing staff had taped the needle rather thoroughly in place, and Orry had to do mighty battle with these restraints before he could free Moxy's arm. He explained to Katya Borgan what was amiss with Moxy. Meanwhile she had the gown untied and Moxy's shirt sleeve ready to receive the emancipated limb. Between the two doctors' efforts, they got their rather frantic patient dressed and ready to make a dash for the front door. "I really dont want to explain to the others what he's been up to. But they're going to wonder why I'm springing him," Orry told Katya Borgan. "Dr. Benjamin Orry can do no wrong," she replied, shrugging eloquently. "Indeed?" he asked with a quizical expression, "that's useful in a pinch." "Indeed," she agreed with him, and urged Moxy to a stand. Orry wrote as little as possible into the medical record, and signed the kid out with a hasty flourish. Then he and the pathologist escorted Moxy out of the trauma center. "You're coming to my place," Orry told the kid, and took the following silence as agreement. As they entered the crystal clearness of sunset reflected from the cliff faces, the doctor was pleased to see his patient's hyperventilation slow gradually to normal breathing. "Breakfast for dinner," Orry announced, "griddle cakes. Everyone is invited who's hungry. I'm cooking." "Breakfast," Katya said in a pleased voice. "Please join us," Orry urged. "Yes, thank you," she nodded. They walked peacefully under the early star lit sky to Orry's house. It was Katya Borgan's first visit. As usual, the place was spotless and painfully tidy. Orry dropped Moxy off in the big arm chair. "Make yourself comfortable," he told Katya Borgan. "Dinner is my favorite time for breakfast," he explained. She followed him into the kitchen, thinking to herself how surgically clean everything was. The kitchen looked to be organized by a thoroughly competent cook. And one who was prepared to break camp and move a thousand miles away at a moment's notice. If she had imagined a soldier surgeon' s home, it would look exactly like Benjamin Orry's. But then her eye caught a glimpse of color. On the far wall hung a picture calendar. The text was in German. Probably a gift from a friend or patient, she thought. The current month featured a photograph of two small children playing with a large shaggy dog in a field of wildflowers. As Orry rummaged in his refrigerator, she glanced at some of the other months. All were pictures of children and their pets. And he had liked the calendar well enough to hang it in his otherwise Spartan kitchen. It seemed totally incongruous to her. She puzzled over the personality of her colleague. The strangely shaped pieces of this puzzle pleased her. A hugely intimidating soldier, who was fond of kids, fuzzy animals, and flowers. She found the combination irresistible. Orry adjusted the flame under the griddle. He skittered a drop of water across it, then went back to stirring his batter in a tall steel pitcher. He poured four cakes out onto the griddle. As they cooked on the first side, he pulled the container of syrup out of the refrigerator and set some to simmering in a sauce pot on the back burner. He flipped the cakes. As the second sides were browning, he set a stack of plates to warm over a pot of steaming water. Katya Borgan would have offered to set the table, but had the feeling that this might upset the rhythm of a schedule she felt certain existed in the big surgeon's mind. Orry flipped the cakes a final turn, assessing their doneness, and then set them swiftly onto the steaming plates. He poured four more cakes onto the griddle, and while they heated he got out the table settings and placed them on the table. He flipped the current set of cakes. Then he put out tumblers of ice water. He pulled off the set of cakes and started the next. "Surg path?" he asked, nodding at her attire. She was clad in surgical scrubs under her lab coat. She shook her head, "autopsy," she replied. He liked that she was in surgical attire. As if they were members of the same private club, there was an affinity ready made there. "I appreciate your staying with Moxy until I got back," he told her. "I didn't realize he needed rescuing." "He is afraid to be in the hospital, I think?" she asked Orry. He nodded. She wondered "how can he work there and have this fright?" Orry commented "oh. I guess it's different being a patient. Than coming in to work. In his mind. Definition of a phobia. Unreasoning fear. It's not supposed to make sense." She nodded agreement, "yes. It is to hope it will not make medical school impossible for him. He will become a good doctor, I think." "Medical school?" Orry exclaimed. Katya Borgan popped her hand over her mouth, "he has not asked you about this. I am sorry that I spoke too soon." "Medical school? Are you sure about it?" Orry asked. Katya Borgan nodded, "he has application, yes. He asks me to write the letter of recommendation for him." "Well, I'll be. Medical student Moxy?" Orry thought about it as he stacked the last of the cakes on the platter. He pulled a clean towel out of a drawer, and polished the other warm platters before setting them on the table. "I always thought he should. Wonder what changed his mind." Orry turned off the dials on the stove, and started toward the sitting area, "hey, kid. How come you didn't tell me you were thinking about..." Orry stopped abruptly. Moxy was sound asleep in the arm chair. Orry shook his shoulder. "Are you going to wake up enough to eat?" he asked. The kid didn't stir. "I guess all that sedation finally caught up with him," Orry said over his shoulder to Katya Borgan. "I'll save some dinner to warm for him later, if he wakes up." He pulled off the kid's boots, lifted him, walked into the bedroom, and settled him on the lower bunk. Then Orry counted respirations and felt for the pulse. "Man, are you down for the count," he said to Moxy, covering him with an extra blanket. Orry returned to the dining room, shutting the bedroom door behind him. "Breakfast for two, Dr. Borgan," he told her. "It smells excellent," she replied as she added the hot syrup to her stack of griddle cakes. "So, Moxy wants to try medical school? He should bring the application papers over, and let me have a look at them. I can give him advice on getting an interview," Orry told her. As Katya Borgan finished a mouthful, she nodded her head, "he said he would. But then, well, I think he is worried you are angry with him. Because that maybe you do not approve so much of his research." Orry protested, "he's got me wrong. I don't disapprove of his research. What gets me mad is how hard he is on himself. Like he was some sort of disposable commodity. Use it up and throw it all away." "I understand that you are saying. But your approval. It is important to him, do you know?" she explained. "You think? Seems to me he goes out of his way to do precisely what I've told him not to. Does just exactly whatever he damn well pleases. Pardon my French. I can't figure what it is that motivates Moxy. It's a mystery to me. But it surely isn't my approval he's looking for," Orry replied hotly. Katya Borgan looked her disagreement but didn't voice it. "Well. It is sure, he will want your help with the medical school application," she said instead. She helped clear the table after their meal. Then she watched Orry as he did the dishes. He was very quiet, preoccupied. She hoped he was going to kiss her, and was thinking about that. She had a love charm with her, made according to her gypsy grandmother's formula. In her mind reciting the words that went with the love charm, she concentrated her thoughts on Orry kissing her. Perhaps she would have been shocked if she could have heard Orry's thoughts. Because again he had been thinking about proposing marriage to Katya Borgan. And strangely, that was a subject very far from sex in his mind. It felt right to him, having her under his roof, eating his food, within the realm of his protection. He wanted to keep her there. But again the thought had presented itself that she would reject him. Or simply laugh, if he asked her. Because they didn't know each other very well, and proposing marriage was therefore ridiculous. So he decided that he couldn't ask her tonight. Having disposed of the subject of matrimony for the moment, his mind became less preoccupied. And perhaps therefore more susceptible to the power of suggestion. Or incantation. Katya had the little fabric sachet of herbs, the love charm, tucked into an inner pocket of her scrub shirt. The fragrance was mysterious and inviting. She walked over to the picture window, and admired the view of the moon rising over the mountainside. The craggy summits were snow blanketed year-round. Opalescent lunar highlights winked off the icey edges, creating diamond sharp profiles for the cliffs. The impossible clarity of the image made the peaks tower over them, threatening the tiny house with a moon melted avalanche. From enjoying the brilliance of the image Katya Borgan's attention strayed to the floor. The softness underfoot offered a brilliance of warm colors to her discernment. She felt the luxury of the oriental carpet beneath her feet. "Oh, it is silk," she exclaimed, kneeling to feel the carpet. "I have never felt a silk carpet so very thick." Orry joined her in the moonlight. "Its the only one I've ever seen of its kind. I bought this carpet on my last tour of duty," he explained. "I was strolling through the market place, looking for stuff to bring back for my family, presents you know. And this carpet caught my eye from far away. And the closer I got to it, the more I knew I was going to take it home with me. Even though I didn't need a carpet and wasn't looking for a carpet. Some things are just like that, you know?" She nodded her agreement. He continued his story "maybe the carpet is magic. The merchant who sold it to me told me it was. Magic. Take off your shoes. Really, it's the greatest thing to walk on barefoot. Try it," Orry tempted her. They had already taken off their lab coats before eating. Now they were sitting there, together, in their hospital scrubs. Orry took off his shoes and socks. And then Katya Borgan took off hers. She sat on the carpet, running both hands and feet over the glossy surface. She closed her eyes, giving all her attention to the pleasant sensation. When she looked again, Orry was sitting quite close next to her. "The old man who made this carpet must have been about ninety years old. And his daughter who was with him in the market must have been about seventy. He saw me admiring it all the way from a distance. And as I drew nearer, he said to me 'you have the eye of the artist. You know a great work when you see one. You will never see another such a carpet as long as you live. You will never feel another such a carpet in all the world. The knowledge of how to make such a carpet has gone from the world. Except for the old dusty parts of this old man's mind. The knowledge is magic. You should buy this carpet. And take it home for your wife.' And then I told him ' sad to say, I haven't got a wife.' And the old man replied, ' all the better reason to buy this carpet. For a man who has no wife has need of both softness and beauty.' And then the daughter said ' forgive the old father if he offends. You should buy the carpet now, and give it to your wife when you have one. As you certainly shall, soon. Such a strong and valiant soldier cannot go for very long from the wars before he finds himself a wife.' " Katya Borgan laughed, "I like your magic carpet. And your magic carpet story." Orry replied "I like my magic carpet best with you riding upon it." The kiss he offered seemed slow to arrive, as if he wanted to give her every opportunity of escape. She leaned toward him, which shortened the transit time. If the kiss took long to arrive, it made up for the fault by lingering. Then in another moment, they were both lying back upon the carpet. His huge hug surrounded her, and she felt the bristles of his fifteen hour beard, Orry with his face buried in her hair. "We have too much clothing on to really appreciate this carpet," he told her, softly in her ear. He sat up, pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. Then he lay back down, stretched out, with his hands behind his head. "That's better," he commented. Katya Borgan sat up and studied Orry's bare chest. The nacreous light provocatively clothed in rich shadows settled wickedly upon his musculature. She touched his tricep with an assessing finger tip. The solidity contrasted with the yield of the carpet beneath them. And then she stared at him some more. To him, her eyes were a consuming force. As if she were having a hard look at him for post prandial dessert. This was challenging. He was in excellent physical condition, he knew. He thought he could bear the scrutiny. He reached for her shirt, tugged at it, wordlessly offering to remove it for her. She lifted her arms, allowing it. His attention had been first caught by her eyes. Before. That day she had come into his office to talk, shaken hands with him, allowed him the first minimal knowledge of the feel of her skin. Now he was captured by her eyes, held by them. She was moving magic with them, winding incantations into silk threads surrounding his body, binding him to her. He willed himself to escape her eyes, to look lower, to participate actively in this proceding of hers, whatever it was. "In medical school, did you enjoy your studies in gross anatomy?" he asked her. "Not too very much," she shook her head, shrugging. The moonlight transformed the dark gloss of her hair with backlight like an electric storm. "You probably would have enjoyed it more, if you could have studied anatomy while lying upon a silk carpet," he suggested. "Probably," she agreed. "The anatomy of a slender lady is absolutely the most beautiful thing in the world," he asserted. The arch of her eyebrows lifted, "the musculature is the more pronounced on the male," she responded. Once more she was devouring him with her eyes. Quickly, he extended a hand, slid his forefinger underneath the front fastener of her brasier, and popped it open with a single brisk flick. He told her, "I am an expert on human anatomy. So I know an excellent body when I see it." He extended his other hand, separated the two halves of her garment, and allowed them to drop, drifting down her arms toward the carpet. He continued, "in point of fact, you will never find a more educated, a more appreciative viewer." He ran his forefinger along the line of her sternum to the xiphoid tip. "Very fine," he declared. "Indeed," her lips curved wryly, and her eyes glowed amber embers in the shadows. He grasped her shoulders and lowered her back onto the carpet again, " now you can appreciate the feel of it," he said. She stretched her arms luxuriously above her head and closed her eyes, " yes," she agreed, pressing her bare skin into the silk. The movement of her arms presented her breasts fully. Perfection as if painted on a Renaisance canvas. He reached his hand out toward them, and she opened her eyes upon him. His gesture paused. And then it occured to him, suddenly and unexpectedly, that she was enjoying looking at him. Admiring him even. Long before, he had kept fit in school for the sake of the sports he was in. And then after, in the army, staying in shape was part of the job description. And more recently, he had continued just out of custom, and because he thought it was right for the doctor to set an example for his patients by keeping in good physical condition. But he was unused to the thought of someone admiring him. It set him completely aback. He had talented hands in surgery, he knew. Maybe that was why he liked the work so much. But the rest of him, large, awkward, sometimes threatening, he tended to feel apologetic about. This woman who chose to be with him this evening seemed to be enjoying herself, savoring each sensation, eager for more. Having had the thought, now he wanted to test his supposition that she was admiring him. He moved away a small distance, rose up on his knees, drew out the drawstring of the scrub pants he was wearing, from where it was carefully tucked at the waist according to correct surgical suite protocol, and slowly untied it. She did appear to be examining his movements rather closely. He loosened the waist and carefully lowered the pants to floor level, exposing his thighs. He told himself he would never make a burlesque entertainer. He was wearing a pair of gray briefs. They were considerably tighter than usual. How the devil did the male strippers get their pants off gracefully? He wondered. And then he told himself, of course, they weren't parading around the dancehall with a boner the size of the nearest large cliff. He paused to see her reaction. She was still watching him. No sign of repulsion. Or laughing out loud at his display. He concentrated on getting the elastic waistband past his erection without generating a ridiculous sproing like an animation version of a diving board. This would seem to be a crucial point in the action. If she suddenly chuckled, or started nonchalantly talking politics, or told him she needed to go home now and wash her hair, what would he do? There was a smallish smile at the corners of her mouth. Orry sat back, his bare buttocks on his heels. He stared away in the direction of the wall, looking off into nothingness, waiting for a cue from her. Suddenly there was a sensation. She had moved soundlessly, and now knelt behind him. He could feel her warm hands on his back, her lips soft against him, caressing here and there. It caused him to shake. He waited for her. He felt her hair, brushing against him. His thoughts were confused, chaotic. He couldn't quite credit this piece of his fortune, that the woman he found irresistable might be equally attracted to him. It was like being a kid again, inexperienced at rutting. Instead of the usual adult sex play of convenience, in which he was confident in his movements, relieved with the act, grateful toward his partner, and then nothing more. Tonight he wanted very much to please her completely. Which seemed to insure that anything he did for her might be foolish, awkward, ineffectual instead. She was still finding new and different places to put her lips and hands, and now she was side by his side, looking up at him. Her hair was mussed, and he spontaneously reached to stroke it from her face, grasped her, and then kissed her cheek, her mouth, her chin, her neck, her shoulder as he clutched her against him. They both held on so tightly now they seemed ready to merge at the molecular level, permanently, inextricably. She had shed the rest of her clothing, he couldn't remember when. Her body was more graceful than even his imaginings of it had been. They were mutually consuming each other when he groaned. "I should get a condom," he said, cursing his damned practical practitioner brain for the interruption. Now she did laugh out loud, "yes, I suppose so," she agreed. He left her upon the carpet, gazing out the window. And he, silently swearing a steady stream, proceeded toward the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, realizing he would have to walk past the kid to get to the condom. The knob rattled and the bedroom door opened with a creak Orry had never noticed before. Each floor board moaned as he trod upon it. He paused next to the bunk bed. The kid lay completely still. Motionless, exactly as the doctor had left him. Not so much as a twitch. In the bloodless pallor of the moonlight, he looked dead. Hastily, Orry squatted beside him, groping the carotid triangle for the pulse, and watching the blanket until it finally rose with an inspirational impetus. The doctor exhaled long upon the whispered phrase, "damn, don't scare me like that." He got again to his feet and snorted at the view of his own image in the full length mirror on the bathroom door. Naked as a new nestling nuthatch. With his member still in full upright and locked position. "Gawd but you're keen for it, aren't you," he addressed the faithful, at-attention soldier, scornfully. Having achieved the necessary, he retraced his steps, finding the lady still picturesque in the frame of the glowing mountain view. Pleased that the passion prevailed over the pause. They found the place where they had waited, clasped each the other and plunged off the precipice. Bound in extreme pleasure. And their atoms fused into one intracorporeal spirit. Stars could collide with insufficient force to split them asunder. As they slept together in afterpeace, Orry dreamed of future time. Where all his plans were draped in moonlit silk.
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