Vissile 7

"Moxy! What's wrong?" Hastily, the doctor stooped beside him. Moxy sat on the floor, his face the very image of terror. The kid looked down, and his expression transitioned rapidly from fear to confusion to embarrassment. "Oh, gosh. How stupid," he exclaimed, tugging at the tape measure tangled around his knees, "I dreamed somebody had tied me up, and I couldn't break free," he explained apologetically. "Shayden's voice! I heard it. Did you?" Orry demanded, helping the kid to his feet. "What? When?" Moxy asked. "Not two minutes past," Orry replied. "Come on! There's no time to lose," the kid shouted, running into the next room and flinging open the door to his computer complex. Moxy dropped into the command chair in front of a complicated control panel, depressing buttons and clacking away on various keyboards simultaneously. He muttered as he typed, the words sounding to the doctor like an incantation, "my love's tattoo's a bright red rose, my hatred's stained much blacker, my enemy's a poison green, and the Devil is a hacker!" Then he spoke in his normal voice, "he's slower than I thought. Thinks he's scaled the firewall again, does he? Well, I left that particular little vulnerability open on purpose, as a trap. And he snapped it up, didn't he? Just couldn't resist, could you? Let's see what he's left for us. Pathetic, this should be easy as sin!" the kid declared, scornfully. Several monitors showed what appeared to be game screens. Moxy, guised as a sword-wielding knight, dodged rapidly through a maze of fire breathing dragons, assorted goblins and trolls, to receive a quick kiss from a scantily clad princess, before the screen went gray. Then he filled in a cross-word puzzle, "ha, ha, 13-down is a six letter word meaning 'latterally'. 'Across'. And 13-across is a four letter word meaning 'direction of descent'. 'Down'. Very, very funny, sir, I split my sides laughing," he declared as that screen went gray. "You got an open port over there, Doc?" the kid asked, as he rapidly fired numbers onto a rotating screen labelled "mathematician's desert..." "Yes," Orry responded. "Well, quick, grab a disc out of the ammo box and shove it in, would you?" Moxy instructed, "I'm running out of pi..." "Pie?" Orry asked, grabbing a shoe box with "ammo" scrawled across the side, filled with discs. "No, pi, and there's a limit to how many decimal points I can remember, so please hurry. If he thinks I'm stalling he'll shut down and I'll lose him." "Which disc?" Orry asked. "Dealer's choice," the kid replied. The top-most discs in the stack were labelled "nitro", "nuclear waste", and "loud metal music". Hastily, Orry grabbed one at random and clicked it into the open port. "Plague and pestilence" the screen read, and the speakers gave forth with a sinister "muahaha!" "Take that, evil-doer!" Moxy shouted, triumphantly, as a large, red-eyed rat crawled across each screen in synchrony. Each cartoon rodent simultaneously lifted a paw to scratch at its ear, giving forth a cloud of hair and fleas that scattered and grew in size until every screen was filled with creepy crawling content. Moxy hit "enter" and the images spiraled with a loud, sucking sound like waste water down a sewer line. The kid studied the mischief a moment, before declaring "gotcha" in satisfied tones. He then turned to Orry with his mischievous grin in full force, saying "you know, Doc, that's illegal, don't you?" "What?" Orry asked. "Hacking. Sending out destructive computer messages like that," he tapped the disc box with his fingernail, a loud tatoo. "You should be ashamed of yourself. We wrecked their computers. Again." "We? What do you mean 'we' ?" Orry retorted. "Well, fine, take all the credit, 'you' did, then" Moxy asserted. "I heard Daville Shayden's voice, inside the house," the doctor stated. Moxy nodded. "How?" Orry demanded. "Well, if I had a telephone, that would have been the telephone answering machine you heard, taking a message while I slept. But I don't, so it wasn't," the kid explained. He popped the "plague and pestilence" disc out of its port and tossed it back into the shoe box. Underneath the "ammo" sign on the carton's side was a printed label "size 5, style 3 inch fettish heel pump." Orry's sense of humor caught up with him, and he tried to picture Moxy sporting "3 inch fettish heel pumps". He would have succeeded better, if only he knew what they looked like, but there his imagination failed him. Since the doctor had never seen Moxy wearing anything but boots, he assumed the box had belonged to one of the kid's lady friends. He hoped so, anyway. The kid's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Breakfast!" Moxy announced, and headed back to the kitchen. As the kid fussed about the stove, Orry picked up one of the postcards still lying on the floor. He glanced at the picture, then turned to the text. "The Trevi Fountain, Rome," the caption stated. Underneath was written, "My Dear Berke, I tossed three coins into the fountain, and found my most fervent wish was for a drink of our own clear mountain spring water from back home. Nobody here understands the consumption of water as an art form. Picture me choking on aqua-not-so-vitae and say to yourself 'to the Victor goes the spoiled.' Yours as ever, Grey." Orry said "so, these are Victor Grey's million dollar postcards? Ted told me about them." Moxy nodded, "yeah, Bethany Berke brought them by. Asked me if I could solve the riddle. And its millions, plural, at least. Millions of dollars per year folks spend on toxic chemicals that are basically ineffective against fire ants. How much would it be worth to have in hand a molecule that was ecologically harmless and truly effective as a killing agent? If one person had the sequence for the molecule available to sell to the highest bidder... I wonder..." "Wonder what?" Orry asked. Moxy replied "well, would it be a motive for murder?" "Whose murder?" the doctor responded. The kid answered "Victor Grey's. I think he was finally heading for home. Back to 'my dear Berke'. Having decided to spill the beans. Tell all. Make up. Give Bethany's father the notes on the mega money molecule. As a peace-making gesture. If Grey had succeeded in returning home, the million dollar formula would have been out of reach of Shayden's grasping fingers. And for an unscrupulous person, it would be so easy to kill Victor Grey. You know more about this stuff than I do, Doc. Don't some of the quack medicines for cancer available out there contain traces of cyanide?" Orry nodded. The kid continued explaining "I mean, the killer could pick up cyanide in one country. Administer it months later in a different country. Have the quack drug ready to hide in the patient's baggage, in case of positive autopsy results. It would look like the victim had overdosed accidentally on the quack cure. And the killer would get away with murder." "It's feasible," the doctor agreed, "but strictly speculation. So what do you think of the postcards?" "They were fun. Victor Grey had a great sense of humor," Moxy declared, clanking a spatula against a frying pan. A fragrant aroma wafted across the room. "What are you cooking?" Orry asked, his mouth watering. Moxy replied, "there's chili, buttered grits, and quesadillas. Otherwise known as Tex-fest breakfast. Too spicy for you?" he asked with a grin. "Never," Orry rose to the challenge, "hey! You said ' were fun'. The postcards were fun. Past tense. Like you're finished with them. Like you've solved the puzzle." "Uh huh," Moxy drawled, "want some coffee?" "Do you mean to say, there really was a riddle in those postcards? And you've figured out the answer?" Orry demanded. "Yup," Moxy agreed. "So, was the formula stashed in Berke's bible? And did Shayden get away with the prize?" Orry asked eagerly. "Nope," the kid replied, "drink your coffee while its still hot. Its ground and brewed fresh." "Well, aren't you going to tell me anything?" Orry demanded, "what's the answer? Where's the formula?" Moxy asked innocently, "now, where would be the fun in that? Don't you want to give the puzzle a try first? Have another look at the cards," Moxy suggested in kindly tones. "I'm really not very good at riddles," Orry grumbled, "straight cut along the linea alba, right through the middle is my favorite approach." The kid said angelically, "if you asked nice, I could give you a hint." "Please," Orry enunciated clearly. Moxy glanced at the postcard Orry held, "what've you got there? Mm, Rome, Trevi Fountain. That'll do. Call that card 'negative findings.' Consider that it's representative of all the rest of the pack. By the way, there are exactly 52 postcards there, and 12 of them mention royalty, four kings, four queens and four princes. I already worked my way down the 'deck of cards' road and it's a dead-end so don't bother with it." "I don't think I would have, but thanks for the warning," Orry mumbled, staring intently at the cards. Moxy commented "I really would've liked to meet Victor Grey. He had a wonderfully warped sense of humor, the kind of person who would turn a paragraph inside out and sideways for the sake of a bad pun. These cards are full of red herrings. Now where was I? Oh yeah. Four postcards, Munich, Helsinki, Vienna, and London. Now call them 'positive findings.' Put them next to Rome. Come on, Doc. Remember English Composition 101? The professor says ' compare and contrast.' " Orry studied the cards thoughtfully, "okay, I see the date with the Scripture-style notation, chapter and verse, like the Bible. But Shayden saw that, and Ted, and Bethany. You already told me that was wrong." Moxy protested, "did I say that, Doc? Wrong? I don't think so. It's not wrong, it's just not enough. Let me ask you something. Is a book called 'a first edition' if there is no second edition?" The doctor's brow wrinkled in concentration, "I don't know, I never thought about it." Moxy grinned, "all you got to do is push along a path until you get to a stopping point, and then go beyond that. A second turn and a twist and you're at your real destination." Orry shrugged, "sorry kid, I just don't see it." "Oh, you see it all right, you just don't think convoluted enough to use it," Moxy replied. "Listen, Doc, do me a favor. Don't tell the others, yet. I haven't had a chance to confirm the solution. If I'm wrong, it might disappoint Bethany Berke. I wouldn't want to make her cry or something. After all, this has to do with the death of her father, and possibly the murder of his best friend. Serious stuff," Moxy said earnestly. Orry patted Moxy on the back, "sure kid. I mean, what would I tell them, anyway? 'Moxy thinks he's solved the riddle, but damned if I know what the solution is...' "Orry picked up one of the black and white glossies, "nice photography. What's it for?" Orry asked. Moxy grinned, "Khaz was up here, same time as Bethany. She asked me to help her with a design project of hers." Orry guffawed, "you mean dress design, lacy lingerie, that sort of thing?" Moxy agreed with a shrug, "uh, yeah, that sort of thing, more or less. Why not?" "Fashion design! What next? Sometimes you still have the capacity to amaze me," the doctor laughed out loud. "If Victor Grey were here, he'd probably say I just like to keep 'a-breast' of things," Moxy joked. Orry retorted, "then I'd say that the subject had been sufficiently 'a-dress-ed'. Now what gives between you and Daville Shayden? What was all that funny business on the computers earlier?" The kid replied "first of all, we got no proof that it is Shayden. I mean, it sounds like his voice, associated with the computer messages. And they're just nasty little viruses wrapped up in pretty packages. Kind of like Trojan horses. By the way, why do they call it that? Shouldn't it be Greek horses? Anyway, they don't do me any harm. I got a fake firewall he gets past. And then a contamination containment area. So the rest of my computer stuff never sees the viruses. But I keep accepting them when he sends them, just for fun. They're quite easy to disassemble and inactivate." Orry looked puzzled, "but surely he realizes that. He can't think he's actually causing you any trouble, can he? And if you send him back viruses that destroy his computers, why does he keep doing it?" "Maybe he's smarter than I think," Moxy shrugged, "maybe my ammo stuff never actually gets to his computers either. A harmless exchange of fire? Beats me." The doctor thought to himself that the kid didn't know the whole story. That Moxy hadn't seen the candy with the poisonous greeting card, because Orry and Dare had intercepted it. Orry tried to think of a way to explain how he had come to intervene in the kid's affairs. That maybe interacting with Shayden was not so harmless as the kid might think. Moxy wasn't in receipt of the whole cruel message, and it was Orry's fault if the kid underestimated his enemy as a result. But the doctor couldn't bring himself to be the messenger, knowing the pain the message was intended to bring. It occured to Orry that it must be the sort of dilemma that a parent would have raising a child. Do you shield an innocent from cruelty, only to let them receive the blow unprepared at a later date? Or do you show the kid death, destruction, deformity and say 'kid, this is the real world, brace yourself...' ? Orry climbed back down the mountain, the message still undelivered. It was a Saturday morning, and Ted Dare usually treated himself to a slower pace on Saturdays. He still did a bit of business, picking and choosing what chores to finish up, and which to leave for Monday. Savored an extra cup of coffee, a stroll around the clinic grounds, a genial nod and a handshake with staff, patients, family members. He even signed an autograph book now and then. But this particular Saturday morning was not progressing well at all. Dare was in mind of the old saying that troubles came in groups of three. The first problem seemed rather silly at first blush. Stated simply, the current director of auxiliary services was stepping down. She was a wealthy society lady who had acted in a volunteer capacity for the clinic. But she was elderly and now, experiencing some ill health, had decided to give up the job. The board of directors had unanimously voted to convert the post to a full-time paid position. Perhaps their unanimity would have been more surprising, if each and every one of them didn't have a different particular person in mind to fill the position. Now Ted Dare was paying the price, sorting through the applications of everyone's second cousin or niece who wanted the job. The board members' stated requirements sounded like some sort of beauty pageant finalist... "yes. I'm 25 years old, 5 feet 10 inches tall, weigh 125 pounds. My measurements are 36-21-34, I have three advanced degrees in physics, and play harp with the Philharmonic in my spare time. My goal is to be happily married to an astronaut and have lots of children..." The board wanted a person not too old, to be a role model for the teenage volunteers. But not so young as to be dismissed by the senior citizen volunteers, someone they could look up to as a leader. Someone with serious experience in economics, to be competent in the realm of fund-raising and budgets. Someone with advanced diplomatic skills, to deal with the rich and famous with aplomb. Someone who could plan a charity ball for 2000 guests without getting shell shock. Someone with enough intelligence and education to talk to doctors and scientists and lawyers without straining themselves. Everyone seemed to know someone who wanted the job, whom Dare didn't want to offend when he turned them down. And to date, none of the applicants was really qualified for the position. Ted Dare set the stack of resumes carefully to one side of his desk. Definitely a Monday morning task, he decided. Immediately, the second trouble arose to replace the first. Moxy and Matters Military. The kid had come to TD's office the day before, refusing to work for the Colonel's associates anymore. That particular collaboration had been one very near and dear to Ted Dare's heart. Dare had sunk huge chunks of capital into his fleet of experimental helicopters. The federal government's cooperation was essential to the future of that operation, and to other investment irons TD had in the fire. Ted had cultured his affiliation with the aerospace brass, nurtured it, and watched it grow stronger. To TD's way of thinking, their recognition of Moxy Youngblood's talents, their request for the loan of Dare's protege was worth much more than money. It meant prestige. And power. And the brokerage of power that amplified strength into force. It meant favors, debts owed, to be repaid to Dare in unspecified currency when the time was ripe, and on his own terms. It meant controlling that which others needed. It meant being in charge. But now the kid wanted to back out. Apparently encouraged in this by Chief of Staff, Benjamin Orry. Moxy Youngblood intended telling the Powers That Be to take their project and shove it. Which was far worse than never having initiated the collaboration in the first place. Without acceding to the proposed withdrawal, Dare had made soothing, conciliatory noises to the kid. After all, Moxy was young, still wet behind the ears. He couldn't be expected to grasp the subtelties of behind the scenes negotiation. Dare had resolved to become more involved in overseeing the kid's activities. This would probably reassure Moxy as he continued working for the Colonel's associates. Moxy's timidity was understandable. The boy just needed a firm hand to guide him. However, Benjamin Orry's response to the problem was inexplicable to Dare. Why had Jam led the kid to believe that backing out now was acceptable? And without consulting Dare first. TD shook his head over his second in command. Orry, a former officer, career army, should have known better. And as Chief of Staff, his approval of Moxy's withdrawal had all the weight of the office behind it. Ted Dare shook his head sternly. He predicted a head-on confrontation with Orry on the subject. The reason behind it all was still puzzling. Dare couldn't quite grasp what was troubling Moxy. The kid's stated concerns had seemed very vague and non-descript. And it wasn't as if Dare had initiated the collaboration. Quite the contrary, Moxy had presented it as a work already in progress when TD had first heard the details. No, Ted Dare decided, Moxy needed to learn a lesson here, to follow-through on his promises. True to TD's prediction of a triple-threat of trouble, this reflection was interrupted by the telephone ringing. When TD answered, Bethany's voice began abruptly, "Ted, there is an off-duty police officer here. He says he works for you." "Yes, I know," Dare replied in soothing tones, "its strictly temporary." "I don't need a babysitter," Bethany stated icily. "Yes, I know, of course not," Dare responded smoothly, "just consider him to be guarding the house and grounds, Grey's first editions, your father's work files..." "If he's supposed to be guarding the house and grounds, then why is he following me around?" she demanded. "Its strictly temporary," Dare reiterated. "Many things in life are 'strictly temporary' ," the lady informed him in a frosty voice and abruptly hung up. Next, Dare's computer jingled at him. "Three problems is the quota for the morning," he warned the machinery, "don't exceed the limit, or I might just toss you out the window. And its a long drop down, trust me." He accessed his message center. At the top of a long column of waiting messages was one from the Colonel: "TD...Surprised here to find that M.Y. has withdrawn from collaboration with associates. Unexpected and unwelcome development, since associates rate interaction as productive and have intended long-term working relationship. Urge you to reconsider this move. M.Y.'s continued collaboration insures associates' protection of him. Withdrawal from collaboration will result in withdrawal of their protection. M.Y.'s safety my chief concern...Col." It was apparent from this that the kid had ignored TD's wishes and unilaterally dropped out of the military project. Also apparent was the fact that the brass had chalked this move up to Dare's personal account with them, which had suffered a resultant blow. The rest of the message was difficult to interpret, but might have represented a threat. Rather angrily, Dare replied:"Col...Will discuss future efforts with M.Y. as appropriate. His clinic work must take priority over other optional pursuits. Continued collaboration possible, not ruled out at this time. Regarding M.Y.'s safety, protection from what? Kindly specify ASAP...TD." The Colonel must have been hovering, since the next message was on-line. It was just a computer address, which Dare quickly accessed. The electronic page had a bold title "PISCES" with an accompanying logo of a large prowling shark offering a razor array of teeth to the viewer. The subheading read "Classified Advertisements". Under this heading, Dare spotted a paragraph that read: "First offering! Male, American mixed-breed. Genius level productivity proven in Molecular Biology and Polymer Chemistry. Stud is young, active, physically perfect. Also talented artist, musician, athlete. Offspring unproven. Current bidding at $100K per pop and escalating rapidly." The Colonel's follow-up to this read: "M.Y.'s cooperation with PISCES considered possible but improbable by associates. Please inquire and advise...Col." Hastily, Dare forwarded the material to Maldonne. Of course, the ad could be referring to some other young American genius Molecular Biologist. TD found the fact rather alarming that the Colonel's associates were taking the subject seriously. And the Colonel himself did not seem to be someone who would concern himself over lunatic pranks. The request to inquire and advise left Dare in a bind. Moxy's previous response to the eugenecists had been emphatically scornful and dismissive, not to say reckless and illegal, considering he had admitted crashing their computer equipment. Apparently PISCES had fully recovered that aspect of their operation, Dare observed grimly. TD could think of no way around asking Moxy point blank if he had joined the PISCES ranks and was willingly offering his services as stud. The prospect of such a conversation was distasteful to Dare. He felt fully justified in paging Dr. Benjamin Orry. The response was startling in its promptness. As Dare exited the pager program, his office door swung open, and there stood Orry. A moment later, the doctor's beeper sounded the page TD had just sent. "Its from me," Dare gestured toward the pager. "I was already on the way," Orry explained, "look at this! I intercepted it in the morning mail. I think Shayden's at it again..." he slammed his hand onto Dare's desk. TD examined the delivery. It was another frilly greeting card. Inside, the saccharin poetics began "to be a father is so special..." Dare handed Orry a print-out of the PISCES classified ads. As the doctor read it, pacing the length of the room, his face turned scarlet, and then went pale, and his hand trembled. "Are you all right?" Dare demanded. Orry sat abruptly in a chair. "Vaso vagal response," he replied hoarsely, "adrenalin, fight-or-flight, didn't do either, be okay in a moment," he tried to explain but could only whisper. He waved his hand "just give me a minute," he forced the words out as the spasm in his throat shut it down entirely. He waited. Gradually, the doctor felt his pulse normalize. The detoured blood returned to his brain. Orry shook his head. The sparkling orbs in his visual field dispersed. Gratefully, he sucked in several lungs-full of air, and then tested his vocal cords. "Sorry I lost it," he croaked, "but this stuff..." hastily he rephrased what he wanted to say, " really makes me angry." That didn't adequately cover the subject, but he was translating into a second language: polite. Dare turned his back and strolled over to the water cooler. When he returned, he was carrying two tumblers of water. He left one in front of Orry, before resuming his desk seat. The doctor watched as Dare helped himself to three aspirins from an apothecary jar that must have contained a thousand tablets. Wholesale volume. Orry wanted to ask him if he ever had any stomach pain. Indigestion? How often did he take aspirin and how much? Were his headaches frequent? Random or at particular times of day? Did there seem to be specific triggers to the headaches? But he feared the answer might be, "Yes, every time I think about Moxy Youngblood," and so he stifled the questions. Meanwhile, Dare had his computer dial the phone. Maldonne's voice responded on the speaker. TD asked "where is Moxy Youngblood?" "Sorry, but I don't know," Maldonne's voice admitted, "at least not exactly," he ammended. "The kid touched based with us, left a message that he would be traveling. Out of town. By the time I heard about it, he was gone." "What about your office?" Dare asked Orry. "Good question," the doctor replied as he dialed. His secretary's voice started her polite "how may I help you?" speech but he interrupted her, "Orry here. Did Moxy Youngblood leave a contact number or address before leaving town?" The Surgery Department had a terrific head secretary. She took no umbrage but replied efficiently "I'll get it for you, Dr. Orry. Just a minute, please. Oh yes. His leave paper says just 'the mill at Safton', with no street address, but there is a contact phone number." Orry jotted it on the pad Dare proferred. Then he thanked the lady and courteously refused her offer to dial the number for him. "The mill at Safton?" Dare wondered. Orry shrugged in agreement with TD's puzzlement. Since Dare made no moves toward reclaiming the phone, Orry dialed the long distance number. A female voice answered. "Yes," Orry told her, "I'm trying to contact Moxy Youngblood. He said he could be reached at this number..." There was a pause and a loud clatter in the background. Then a male voice asked him if he was being helped. Orry explained again, "Moxy Youngblood, left this number, said he could be reached there. I'm trying to contact him." The male voice replied "good looking, dark-haired kid? Came in with a classy babe?" Orry sighed, "sounds about right," he agreed. "Hang on a minute," the male voice instructed. There was an echoing sound of shouting, as if from the depths of an airplane hangar. After several minutes of noise, a female voice came on the line, "Hello? Are you calling for Moxy Youngblood?" she asked. "Yes, is he there? This is Benjamin Orry calling..." "Oh my goodness! This is Khaz. Did I get Moxy in trouble at work?" she sounded dismayed. "Khaz? Not exactly," Orry explained, "but he is supposed to request leave time. Not just throw the paperwork at us as he motors past at high velocity..." the doctor disliked the sound of his own voice as he said this, like some grumpy old truant officer at a reform school. "Oh, gosh," Khaz declared, "its all my fault, really it is. I had asked for time on the machinery here, and they didn't expect it to come available for awhile, and then it did unexpectedly because of a delayed shipment. And they didn't give me any advance warning. And the equipment is costing me a small fortune on a per minute basis, whether I use it or not. Moxy was just being really nice, dropping everything and running over here to rescue me. Can I have him just a little while longer? Please?" "Yes, of course," Orry replied, "he has vacation time coming to him. I'm not trying to tell him how to spend it. Just tell me, are you two driving back together?" "No. He's got his motorcycle with him," she replied. "Okay. Just tell him to wait there when he's through with whatever it is he's doing. I'll meet him there, okay?" "All right," Khaz sounded puzzled, "you're sure he's not in trouble over this? I'll feel terrible if he is." "Don't worry about it," Orry tried to make reassuring noises. Khaz still sounded doubtful as she said goodbye. "I guess the kid is helping her with some sort of project," he shrugged at Dare. "How soon you planning on leaving?" Dare asked him. "As soon as I talk to my chief of service," Orry responded. "What's your schedule like?" Dare asked. "All through until PM rounds. After that, I have a date," Orry declared. TD raised an eyebrow at his friend. Coming from Dare, this was the equivalent of a raucously suggestive joke. Orry flushed slightly. "We should be there and back in time. Do you want to drive or shall I?" TD asked him. "You're going out to Safton?" Orry wondered. "Yes, I am" Dare said, straightening the paperwork on his desk. "You drive," Orry answered. Orry couldn't decide whether it was his years overseas or a constitutional peculiarity, but he hated driving. Dare liked driving, and enjoyed using an expensive collection of well-kept antique vehicles. Today, he was in a 1957 supercharged Thunderbird. It seemed to hover over the highway as they drove south. Dare began, "Moxy pulled out of that collaboration with the Colonel's associates." "Oh?" Orry replied. "Why did you encourage him to do that?" TD challenged. Orry snorted, "because, when the Colonel's colleagues play hardball, the ball has a tendency to be a pinless grenade." "You should have come to me with the situation," Dare said. Orry shrugged, "I told the kid to come to you." "He did," Dare admitted, "and then went ahead and pulled out anyway." "He was spooked. The kid doesn't spook easily. Ergo, it was a bad situation," Orry declared blandly. "Its left me with a mess to clean up. If you'd come to me straight off, I probably could have managed it better. I would have appreciated a heads-up," Dare stated coldly. "Of course, you're right," Orry agreed, "I guess I did the hands-off number, because it was the Colonel. My old C.O. Sorry." This lack of confrontation left Dare back-peddaling. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Jam. The doctor glared ahead at the horizon in a deep study. Dare had touched a raw nerve, but Orry's anger did not seem directed at TD. "Damn! I wish the Colonel hadn't reconnected with the kid. Nothing good will come of it," Orry muttered abstractedly. "They seem to be taking this PISCES group seriously," Dare said. "Its their business to be suspicious," the doctor responded with a caustic edge to his voice, "stir up trouble, or create it, if its useful to them." "You think its just a diversion, then?" Dare asked him. "I think, if you've got one eye on the trouble, keep the other eye fixed on the Colonel's associates," Orry recommended emphatically. This sounded to Dare like the voice of experience coming from the former soldier, and he studied the advice carefully. As Dare reconsidered the situation, it occured to him that having Moxy just out of the associates' reach might be as strong a power position for him as permitting the kid's collaboration with them had been. Or even stronger. If he thought about it any longer, he might grow to like the idea. TD smiled at the road ahead of them. The mill at Safton was the largest building in a small industrial complex. The company was fairly new, state of the art, and specialized in outdoor synthetics, light weight thermal, water resistant camp fabrics and the like. Dare parked in front of the building. Then he and Orry walked in through a large office, devoid of people. The main work room looked as well as sounded like an airplane hangar. The heavy equipment stood idle. A large group of people was gathered around a long central table. They reminded Orry somewhat of a crowd of tourists he had seen once, viewing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. But these folks were looking down instead of up, murmuring comments to each other in quiet tones. Dare caught sight of Moxy and Khaz in the group. He and Orry made their way to the table. Khaz looked up at them and said with excitement, "what do you think?" The crowd made room for Orry and Dare at the table's perimeter . There, before their astonished eyes was a miniature view of their beloved skyline. But more than a view, it gave the eerie feeling of depth, the feeling of intensity, the exhilaration of being perched on one of the snow topped peaks and looking down at the ageless geologic beauty of the mountain range, spread in spectacular panorama before them. Orry could not resist reaching his fingers outstretched toward the little niche where the city nestled in the valley, it's lights sparkling in the very moment of sunset transitioning to night. Instantly, the vision, the illusion of reality disappeared and all he saw was his hand and a scarf. "What is it? A piece of cloth?" he asked in amazement. "Did it appear to you in three dimensions?" Khaz asked him. "Absolutely, most definitely. Right up to the time when I put my hand out, and then it vanished. How about you, TD?" he asked his friend. Dare replied "the same story. Like being in a helicopter on a good visibility day. Until Orry's hand spoiled it." "Thank goodness. I was beginning to worry that it was just eye strain on my part. Or halucinating from exhaustion," Khaz exclaimed. "It's phenomenal," Dare declared. "How does it work?" Orry asked. The rest of the table of technicians and supervisors and floor workers and secretaries, who had been admiring the work with pleased exclamations and occasional outstretched hands, paused and looked up expectantly at Moxy. Everybody stared at the kid, waiting for an explanation. Moxy stammered, "uh, I'm not exactly sure. It's sort of a hybrid stereogram-hologram. I think. With a kind of self projection system. I mean, well, er. There are slightly different overlying images. There's light-activated power panels woven in. Then there's lazer projection fibrils, reflection fibrils, and absorption fibrils. And the fibers themselves are lined up at very specific intervals. At least that was what I was trying for. The first couple of tries, all we got was mud. And then, I changed so many variables this last time, I'm not at all sure which changes were significant. We were running out of time, and materials, and I just took a best guess." Moxy looked rather embarrassed, and many of the workers groaned out loud at his conclusion. "The main thing is, we've got a finished product that's spectacular," Khaz exclaimed hugging Moxy. Then she carefully began layering the scarf into tissue in her portfolio carrier. "Hey, don't leave us hanging like that," the man speaking seemed to consider himself in charge. Dare recognized the voice as that of the speaker who had called Khaz a 'classy babe' when talking to Orry earlier on the phone. The man continued, "you've really got something going here. You can't just walk out with it under your arm." Khaz looked instantly ready for a fight, "why can't I? I paid for the materials and the time. Good money. The ink is hardly dry on your check. Up front, in advance, on the barrel head, were your terms," she waved what looked like a printed contract at him. The man backed down from Khaz with her claws out, "take it easy. Let me rephrase that. You can leave us clueless. But we wish you wouldn't." Khaz shrugged calmly, "it's Moxy's software. And his designer fibers. Not to mention his invention." Moxy still looked muddled, "actually, the Dare Clinic Foundation has first dibs on all my work. Whether the invention makes any sense or not." Dare told the supervisor, "you can give me your business card. The foundation's attorneys will contact you in the event of any possible future interactions." The man looked disappointed, but nodded replying "at my desk up front." Dare and Orry gathered up the kid, along with a cardboard box full of supplies, and made their escape as briskly as possible. Looks like another triumph for you," Dare commented. "Mm," the kid shrugged doubtfully. "When was the last time you had any sleep?" Orry asked him. "What's today?" the kid responded. The doctor looked his disapproval, "that's what I thought." Khaz said pointedly "he has a reservation at a motel just up the road. A pretty little place with a view. I thought this was supposed to be his vacation," she added with a certain level of annoyance showing through. "Cavalcade," Dare suggested as they loaded the supplies into Khaz's jeep. "Khaz can go first, and Moxy's bike next, and I'll drive behind him to make sure he doesn't fall asleep and drive off the road. Orry, you can ride with Khaz and explain about the raiding party." The doctor opened his mouth to object, and then changed his mind. The alternative seemed to involve letting Dare do the talking, while Orry drove the T- Bird. He shuddered at the thought of scraping a fender or dinging a door on the gleaming antique car. They all got situated. Orry sat in the passenger seat of the jeep as Khaz shifted gears. The stick became a weapon in her hand. Orry wondered which one of them she was eviscerating in her imagination with each savage thrust of the shift. "What a jerk!" she exclaimed. "Imagine, telling me I can't leave with my own project, after paying money up front for the use of the equipment!" "You could take it as a compliment, that the project turned out so well," Orry suggested, somewhat tentatively. He didn't want to sound patronizing when he was wanting her in a good mood for his upcoming explanation. He was relieved at her smile, which sparkled at him suddenly. It was apparent he'd said the right thing to her. "It is fantastic, isn't it?" she said with good humor that bordered on childishness in its enthusiasm. "I'd so set my heart on this working out. I never imagined there would be this waiting, the tension, the build up, the outcome like shouting 'eureka'. I mean, you imagine invention to be like that when you're a kid. But this is reality. At least I think it is. Maybe I'm asleep at the wheel and I'm having a terrific dream, and any moment now, I'll crash into a spruce, and the project will disappear, poof, back into the ether. Sorry. I'm babbling," she still looked childishly happy, all the sophistication she usually projected vanishing in the emotion. Orry thought how pretty she looked that way. Distracted, he wondered a moment whether he, himself, had any of his former youth to his face when he was with Katya. Whether the strain and anger and fatigue of responsibility dropped from him, whether he reverted to some previous decade of his life where the joy of the moment was all in his face and in his enthusiasm. He hoped so. Maybe he just might look good to Katya if he did. It occurred to Benjamin Orry that he must be in love with Katya Borgan. Otherwise, how could he account for looking at a woman, thinking how pretty she looked, and then instantly thinking of Katya? He found himself wondering how in the world he'd come down with this malady, and how in the world he should treat the condition. But this was definitely wandering from the current point. "Khaz, I hate starting conversations with apologies. But if you'll just add the sentiment to whatever I'm about to say, I'd appreciate it. TD thinks Moxy's in trouble. What's more, my old C.O. in the army. He's a real savvy old timer. And he knows things about the mean people in the world, that you and I never think about. And he thinks Moxy's in trouble. Now, you never met the Colonel. But you do know Ted Dare. You know he's not given to wild imaginings, so just listen to what I'm saying, and bear in mind that TD came all the way out here with me for just this reason." Khaz asked "does this have anything to do with Daville Shayden? All that stuff about leaving Bethany with a 24-hour bodyguard?" The question took the doctor by surprise. "Well, yes and no," he puzzled a moment. "This is sort of like having a patient with two diseases and you don't know if they have anything in common. Like, does it add up to some sort of syndrome, or is it just two maladies cohabiting by chance in one sick person?" "Okay..." Khaz sounded doubtful. Orry sighed, "let me start over again. We think Moxy is some sort of target. There's this group of people who are into the practice of worldwide eugenics. You know, kind of modern day reversed-Nazis with a mission. They've got this crazy notion that genius people should go around progenizing with other brilliant people. Whether they want to or not. Sounds crazy, right?" "Yes," Khaz agreed. She was looking out of the corner of her eye at Orry as if she was wondering whether he'd been working too hard, or was just suddenly taken raving mad, or whether he'd been like this all along and she just hadn't noticed before. Orry was having difficulty proceeding under the circumstances. He took a deep breath and flung the rest out, "they're advertising the kid for stud. We haven't asked him yet if he's cooperating with them or not. If he isn't, they might mean something violent. Kidnapping or something. Then there's this other stuff with Daville Shayden. Moxy thinks the man may have murdered Victor Grey. For the sake of a valuable scientific formula that belongs to the Berke Corporation." "The postcard riddle," Khaz nodded her head. Orry was relieved to have at least one bit of wild storytelling out of his hands. He continued, "Shayden's been harassing the kid. Only Moxy doesn't know it all, because sometimes the harassment comes through the mail. In greeting cards. And we've been, well, intercepting it before it gets to him." "Wow. Poisonous post. Particularly peculiar," Khaz was smoothing her hair style with one hand and driving with the other. "Listen, I know this is difficult to swallow in large doses. I'm not sure what to think of it myself," Orry admitted. "Uh huh," Khaz agreed. Now she was tidying her lipstick at the corner of her mouth with the tip of her little finger. The conversation lagged. Orry didn't quite believe any of what he was telling Khaz enough to try to persuade her to believe it. So, there he and Dare were, interrupting what appeared to be a tryst between Khaz and the kid. The lady didn't seem to be unduly worried by the prospect of an attack by world terrorist baby makers. The more Orry thought about it, the more awkward he felt. The car seat was too small. He couldn't decide where to rest his elbows, and his knees were pressing into the underside of the dash. Shifting his limbs so that he could look out the window took some concentration. "So, what's the bottom-line?" her voice interrupted his discomfiture, and he resumed twisting to get back to looking at her. "You gents going to hang around and fight off attackers? You planning on sleeping at the foot of the bed? Or what?" "I don't know. The more I talk, the more I feel like a total idiot. It all sounds so reasonable when TD does the talking. Suppose I just back off and let Dare command? This criminal element stuff is his domain, not mine." Orry replied. Khaz had taken a turn off the interstate, onto an old cracked two lane black top that merged into a dirt road. This dead-ended into a driveway that led up to a touristy-looking mountain lodge. The view was nice, as Khaz had said, but not as spectacular as their own back at the clinic. Orry figured Khaz had been looking for privacy. And there they were, TD and himself, ruining her party. Orry felt that chagrin must be permanently attached as a foolish look on his face. Khaz parked emphatically, walked around to the backseat, grabbed a small, elegant overnight bag and the portfolio containing the treasured scarf. Then she opened the passenger side door, causing Orry's elbow and knee to burst out suddenly. She stood on tiptoe, leaned close to his ear, whispered "you're sweet," and kissed him lightly on his cheek, before heading for the check-in desk. Thoroughly confused, Orry sat puzzling over Khaz and Katya and Moxy and international terrorist baby makers, and frilly cards with nasty messages. He didn't see the dirtbike or the T- Bird arrive, and he jumped, startled when Dare said "did you explain to Khaz about Moxy?" "Oh yes. I explained," Orry replied, unfastening the seat belt and unfolding his legs from under the dashboard. "What did she say?" Dare asked. "She told me I'm sweet," Orry stated. "Sweet?" Dare asked skeptically. "That's what she said," Orry shrugged, bumping his head against the car door frame. He burrowed his way out into the cooling afternoon air and stretched. Dare said "I'm going to go talk to her. Stay and watch the kid." A half hour later, Orry and Dare had said goodbye to the two of them, and were heading back to the clinic. "How did you leave it all?" Orry wondered. "I've got part of Bethany's bodyguard team detailed to watch over Moxy and Khaz, at a polite distance." "She agreed to that?" Orry asked. "When I told her it was either that or me," Dare smiled slightly, "I guess I'm the greater of two evils." "She taking it seriously?" Orry asked. "About as much as you are," Dare answered calmly. There was a cold edge to his voice that Orry associated with unpleasant orders from commanding officers. At least one of them was taking it seriously, the doctor reflected. Khaz had ordered room service, dinner for two. But Moxy was sleepwalking. He passed out on top of the colorful quilt spread on the bed nearest to the door, still in his biking jacket and boots. Khaz got the boots off of him, but decided to leave the jacket alone. She pulled the quilt off of the other bed and covered him over with it. Dinner looked pretty good, and she was feeling famished, but instead of eating, she got the scarf out again and spread it across the empty bed. At first, she couldn't get it to work right. It was just a pretty, panoramic view of the city nestled in a range of mountains, depicted on a fragile wisp of sparkling fabric. The bed wasn't long enough to accommodate the length of cloth. She arranged the central region, which contained the city view, as smoothly as possible. Remembering what Moxy had said about light activated power panels and self projection, she found the places that seemed to have the most silvery, metallic highlights to them and made certain they were exposed to light sources. Then she turned the lights up in the room as high as possible. A glance at Moxy assured her he still slept, oblivious to lamps, company, and the universe in general. Then she drew up a chair from the vanity table and settled comfortably. And as she stared at the scarf, the view sprang up and out at her. If she shifted her reference point, the image gave her a different perspective. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of a bird, an owl on his evening flight, soaring above the forest, backlighted by the glistening snow on the peak of his mountain home. He seemed to gain altitude when she moved her viewpoint, and the feathers of his out spread wings were so finely detailed she could feel the wind catching him and lofting him in effortless grace. "Fantastic! It's really real," she told herself. Khaz came to the startling conclusion that she didn't care about the Saraste Award in Design. She didn't care about the judges' opinions. She didn't want to know whether TD's lawyers thought the process was patentable or profitable. She dismissed the irritating thought of mill supervisors who lusted after the software. All practicality aside, she was caught in the fervor of an idea that had materialized out of imagination and into her outstretched hand. Her understanding wrapped around the passion of creativity, and in that moment, it was everything to her. She loved Moxy for taking her imagination and building upon it more than she could have hoped. She loved Bethany for encouraging her in the enterprise, in spite of its fantastic impracticality. She loved TD for including the project in his paternalistic defense plans. And she loved Benjamin Orry for offering his awkward, gentle approval. Suddenly, Khaz was afire for her next move. To her, art was nothing without the presentation. It was now up to her to frame Moxy's masterpiece. At the outstart, she had done some very tentative sketches of models wearing the scarf. But the models had been almost devoid of human features, and the dress underneath the scarf had been downright apologetic in its juxtaposition with that magic piece of cloth. What a challenge this would be, she realized. The accessory was the reason for the outfit, almost certainly overshadowing even the human that wore it. Choosing an actual model for the scarf would be a huge difficulty. Short of going back in time and drafting Cleopatra or Helen of Troy, she could not think of a modern person who had the presence to wear the scarf nobley enough. Khaz set that problem aside, and concentrated on the dress. Maybe Moxy would have an opinion in choosing a model. She carefully replaced the scarf in the portfolio, and pulled out her sketch pad. She started drawing in a sort of frenzy, a dozen figures in a minute, like the changing-pose challenge in life-drawing class. The nameless ladies danced across the pages, a swirling procession of faceless female figures, all seeking to stake a claim on the scarf, arguing voicelessly over who was to claim the prize. The dress should not apologize nor should it overshadow the scarf. It should collaborate proudly. The fabric of the dress had to be dusky but not dim. The tone of the past-sunset sky as it embraced the star lit night. The depth of fragrant forest shadows, fearless in their stand amongst the predators. The ageless shade of the mountain crags that survived before and beyond all life. A color without a name she knew. Slowly, the creative effort wound down. Khaz reviewed the drawings with dissatisfaction. She told herself that it was a start, at least. Dimming the lights, she nibbled at the dinner that had faded from freshness. The entree was meant to be served hot and the salad cold. The bread was still reasonably soft. Khaz combined the salad and entree on top of the bread. It made a fairly palatable sandwich which she devoured. Then she undressed wearily. The bra that she had been wearing for hours and hours had gnawed an angry red crevice under her breasts. Gingerly, she massaged some lotion into the most tender areas and dusted a little talc over it all. She had an elegant nightgown in her case, but instead pulled into a large soft T-shirt that covered the subject much more comfortably. The taste of her teeth was repulsive to her. She took her time cleaning them, luxuriating in spearmint foam. Better. She was brushing the gloss back into her hair when the silence was interrupted. From the corner came a groan that embodied some sort of human failing. "You awake?" she asked Moxy, softly, in case he wasn't. He made a terrible face, depicting desperate pain, and laughed, "only from the waist down." He stood next to the nearest chair, shedding his outdoor clothing onto it. His jeans went last, nothing on underneath them. "Innervated directly by the spinal cord. No higher cerebral function needed," he added. She didn't require the lecture in physiology. The anatomy drew attention to itself, awake, alert, demanding. "Well," she laughed too, "all of me is awake. But just barely," she removed the T-shirt to emphasize the pun. She shoved him in the chest with both hands and he collapsed backward onto the bed. She smoothed on the latex, climbed on top, and straddled him. "The view's terrific," he put his hands behind his head, lolling lazily on an overstuffed pillow. "The motel is famous for its view, of course, that's why people come here," she squeezed him hard to emphasize the pun. "Argh!" he responded. "I'm glad you got up," she punned again, "I was getting lonely." She guided him inside, and started lowering down, taking a mere millimeter more of Moxy per moment. Smiling wickedly at him, she stated, "you weren't in any hurry were you?" He squirmed and then shrugged, "hey, I'm on vacation, aren't I?" "That's right. And so am I," she replied. She leaned forward over his face, and caught his lower lip between her teeth. Then she released it and kissed it. Idly, she wondered why his mouth always seemed to taste sweet to her. Compatible chemistry? She sat up again abruptly, eliciting a groan from him. "Sorry, am I boring you?" she teased him. "If anatomy was a drill bit, I'd be the one doing the boring," he protested. "That's true," she agreed and began rhythmically riding him. Suddenly, he grabbed the pillow from behind his head and buried his face in it. She paused, puzzled, "what are you doing?" Muffled Moxy sounded from the depths of the linen, "I think I'll last longer if I don't look," he explained, "breasts bouncing, 'tis tittilating, tits." She grabbed the pillow away from him and thwacked him with it. "Hit me, why don't you?" he complained, "gee, try to do someone a favor, and what thanks do I get?" "I like your face. Its just not the same without it, okay?" she told him. "If I look, next thing I'll want to touch," he told her. "Help yourself," she leaned forward. He grabbed her breasts and buried his face in them, "hey, same effect as the pillow, can't see a thing," he muttered. "Be serious, now," she told him, "or we'll be at this all night, and we wont get any sleep at all." "Terrible!" he lay back again, making a dreadful face at her, "what a threat! No sleep? Horrible prospect. Well then, hurry up!" Suddenly he toppled her over backwards and surged over her. "Intense," she commented breathlessly. He kissed first one breast, then the other, then the first one again. "I can't decide which is my favorite," he told her. "This one, no this one, no this..." emphasizing each exclamation with a thrust. She sighed through several small tremors before the ultimate one shook her. Determined to bring him along, she grappled and wrestled with the climax and pulled him with her in a massive muscular effort. He breathed as a marathon runner, gasping for oxygen enough to survive. When, at last, she let him go, he fell face first and lay still. She snuggled down next to him comfortably. "Thanks. I love you..." he murmured into the depths of the mattress. She considered it might well be true of the moment, and accepted this. He was asleep, and she was sleepy. She realized with another laugh that he was now atop both of the quilts. She relieved him of the latex. Then she leaned over his face, kissing the beautiful curve of his cheek, and folded what was available of both quilts over his body. Shivering slightly, she resumed her T-shirt, and then pulled Moxy's sweatshirt over everything. It was gray like his eyes, and musky with his aroma, and it covered her like a memory of the warmth from his arms. She wanted to lie down next to him, but knew she wouldn't sleep there, hearkening to his pulse and feeling his musculature, waking to the sounds of his breathing, and sensing his barely submerged intellect. The blanket on the other bed seemed warm. She slid between the smoothness of the sheets, and in moments she sounded the depths of oblivion and was even beyond dreaming. When she awoke, there was brilliant sunlight through the picture window that featured mountain scenery, and a sound of the shower running beyond the bathroom door. Moxy was whistling a Bach three-part invention, running from the first part to the others and back again, to visit the most intricate and interesting runs of each. In a few minutes, he appeared, glowing, dripping, with a grin that challenged the sunlight to a duel for cheerfulness supremacy. "I scrubbed off the top few layers," he told her, toweling his mane briskly, "but I didn't bring a change of clothes." She told him, "there's a laundry room. I'll run a load for us. Why don't you call for breakfast in the meantime." She got the clothes at least semi-dry before she came back to see whether the food had arrived yet. Carrying the slightly damp clothes on one hip, she crossed the path of a foreign-looking maid, who was giggling and blushing as she walked away from their room. Inside, Moxy sat wrapped in a towel, sunlight, and a smile. Breakfast was steaming on a large tray. "Room service came by," the kid declared. "It took me a couple of sentences before I could figure out the waitress' dialect, talking through the door. Then I warned her about the towel. And such. But she said, she didn't mind, she has a son my age. But he's away at school. And she doesn't get to talk much in her own language with him gone. So she came in and chatted a few minutes before she left." "Looked like you made quite an impression on her," Khaz commented wryly. Breakfast, hot, with Moxy for company was much better than dinner, cold, by herself. She began to think well of room service. After she gave Moxy his jeans, and had satisfied a ravenous appetite such as she rarely had first thing in the morning, she felt ready for work. "Help me out. I need a specific model to design the dress around. For the scarf," she told Moxy, as she rummaged in the carrier for her file folder. She drew it out and brought it over to him. He was staring fixedly at her. She said "come on. You should enjoy this part. They're very pretty," as she waved the glossies of photogenic girls under his nose. Slowly Moxy shook his head. "What's wrong?" Khaz asked. "It won't work," he told her. "What won't work?" she was puzzled. "The scarf," Moxy explained, "you asked me to make a scarf for you. I made the scarf for you. Only. It wont work for anyone else." Khaz laughed nervously, "sort of like Cinderella's slipper?" She had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Exactly," Moxy agreed. "It's a question of fit. I used your drawing and your measurements. Your personal measurements. There's a little tolerance worked in. Enough to breathe in and breathe out. That's about it. The way you drew it..." "I know, I know," Khaz nodded. Her preliminary drawings had the scarf tied around the forehead, swept across the shoulders, gathered at the waist, cascading down the leg and culminating triumphantly tucked over a boot top. Scarf of my scarf. The scarf to end all scarves. The scarf that ate Tokyo. Mega-scarf. What a scarf! "How did you get my measurements, anyway?" she asked suspiciously, "I don't even know what they are." "Simple. Photography and computer imagery. I've got your head circumference, bust, torso, leg length, etc. etc., right down to the millimeter." Khaz groaned, "I know, without asking, that the fabric can't be altered. Cut and pasted," she said, remembering how she'd tried to get the scarf to work, spread out on the bed in a dim room the night before. "Too true," Moxy agreed, "every cut or fold would interrupt the circuitry and projection fibers, not to mention ruining the periodicity of the thread pattern. Easily destroyed." "No way you could reprogram the software for another person?" she asked hopelessly. "It would take every bit of the time it took me for the first one and no guarantee it would work again at all. I told you, it was mostly dumb luck. I changed too many parameters at once. I don't know which ones are crucial," Moxy shook his head. She grimaced, "this is awful. I'm not a model. At the height of my youth, I wasn't a model. In all my years in the garment bag, nobody has ever said ' Khaz, you ought to be a model. It's just not part of my talents, personality, physique, to be a model. I'm a designer. A pretty good one. I'm supposed to sit at the back of the room with my sleeves rolled up, looking brilliant but harassed, with a sequin and a small scrap of silk thread accidentally stuck in my hair spray." "Well, if it's going to make you unhappy, maybe you should just withdraw from the competition," Moxy suggested, "it hardly seems worth all this agony." "Withdraw? Admit defeat? Shelve your beautiful scarf when its so spectacular? Never. Maybe we could submit it as a tapestry. Or a piano shawl..." "Can I borrow your tablet?" he asked her. She nodded, distracted. He turned to a new page in her sketchbook. With swift, sure strokes he started drawing. Khaz was a fine artist, proud of her work. But Moxy's sketches made her feel like she drew children's stick figures. She watched Moxy draw. His hand movements were fascinating to her. There was no doubt in his mind where each line, each suggestion of shade, each highlight belonged. The likeness grew rapidly with every second. Khaz' profile on the paper before her, like looking into the mirror of his eyes. This was how she looked to him. In humorous cartoon printing with wavy arrows pointing to the face, Moxy wrote ' this is Khaz'. She laughed. Then he resumed sketching. There was the scarf, that troublesome piece of elegant technology, knotted around her forehead, flowing with her hair over her shoulders, cascading brilliantly down. He paused and wrote "this is Khaz' scarf " and drew another wiggly arrow inward toward the image. "Oh, Moxy!" Khaz laughed, shaking her head. He told her, "you're not a model. Okay. Don't model the scarf. Just wear it. It was a great idea. Your idea. Just look beautiful, and intelligent, and artistic and proud of it. It'll be perfect on you." "Only if you stand next to me," she told him. "Sure. No problem," he agreed. "And you let me dress you up for the occasion," she added slyly. He made a face down at his still-damp, raveling jeans legs, "gee, that ought to be a challenge," he remarked. "Why? You're a lot prettier than I am," she teased him. "Cut it out, will you?" he grimaced. "Sorry," she apologized, "but I don't see why I should be the only one that's terribly uncomfortable. Misery loves company," she told him. "Yuck. I hate trying to do fittings on myself. Have to be two places at once, trying to step out and look at your own backside," she added. "I got a mannequin. Made it precisely, exactly your size and shape. Or is it a woman-nequin? Anyway, you'll need it to get the scarf positioned exactly right," he told her. "How very convenient! And a little bit kinky. Can I keep it? My very own personal dummy," she responded. He protested "I hope you're not referring to me when you say that. Oh, and don't gain or lose any weight," he warned her. "An excuse not to diet," Khaz exclaimed, "what more could a girl want? I wonder if..." she was interrupted, mid-thought by a loud thud that shook the curtained, side window. The disturbance was followed by a confusion of angry shouting outside. Moxy jumped up, flung the door open, and before Khaz could try to stop him, he dashed outside. As the kid ran out, a dark figure rocketed from the shadows at the corner of the building. Uncontrollably, Moxy collided full-force into him, and was flung down, tumbling headlong onto the field stone pavement. And there Khaz stood on the walkway, alone, confronting the unknown enemy...

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