In its almost 50 issues since June 1993 Ibn Qirtaiba has become more of a fiction zine than what it began as. It seems this has been a reasonably popular evolution (and in any case the submissions received to a large extent dictate the style of the magazine), but on the eve of our half-century issue what better time for a brief survey of reader opinion on this question?
This month we have two short short stories; next month will be the opposite with two serials (a two and a three parter) being run alongside each other for the first time in this magazine. Keith de la Rue's story Killing the Cat was first published in Australian Mensa's national journal TableAus, whereas Owen Williamson's Night Journey Home appears here for the first time. Following these is the conclusion to Virginia Chandler's serial The Adjustment which appeared last month, and we conclude with another of Richard Stevenson's whimsical SF poems. Issue 49 features artwork by Canadian artist Noel Bebee, whose striking images in this issue lead to his gallery of fantastic and surrealistic imagery.
Short story: Killing the Cat by
Keith de la Rue Short story: Night
Journey Home by Owen Williamson
"Hey, what does that sign mean?"
"What sign?" asked the taxi driver.
"That one that just says 'Miller'," asked the passenger.
"Dunno, never noticed it."
When the taxi arrived at the airport terminal, Brian pulled out his briefcase and bag, and wandered in towards the airline lounge. He tried to remember whether he had seen that sign before or not. Like so much of the scenery on the frequent trips to Sydney Airport, he was not really consciously aware of it. He was usually mentally reviewing the last meeting of the day, or contemplating the prospect of getting home again.
At the service desk, while checking on the possibility of an upgrade for
his seat, he asked the attractive, uniformed girl behind the desk if she had ever noticed
the sign.
"What sign, Mr. Crewe? No, I can't say I've ever seen it." Brian put it out of his mind, as he walked over to the bar for a quiet gin and tonic while waiting for the plane.
Some weeks later, as he quietly sipped an early cup of coffee in the lounge at Tullamarine, Brian's attention was diverted from the newspaper by an announcement over the PA. "Would Mr. Miller, passenger on flight 416 to Sydney, please report to the service desk."
"Huh!" thought Brian, the name triggering a memory, "I wonder what he looks like?" He looked back down at his paper, not taking the thought seriously. A little later, the boarding call came, and he pushed away his empty cup and walked off to the departure lounge.
"... so, I'm sure you will agree, that if we accept the results of the trial as indicative, we should see some true business benefits achieved by the full implementation of the new system." Brian was pleased with the results of the presentation. The MD personally thanked him, and promised sign-off at the next board meeting. He smiled quietly to himself as the taxi battled the Friday night traffic down Botany Road.
"You're pretty happy with that, Brian?" asked Kevin.
"Sorry? Oh, yeah. I didn't expect such a quick response from them, I must say. Your explanation of the changes in the technology really helped, too."
"No worries," responded Kevin. "That's why I'm part of the team - hey, that must be their Alexandria office there." The taxi crawled past a large industrial site.
"Yes, that's it," confirmed Brian. Suddenly, another sign caught Brian's eye. "Kevin, what's 'Miller'?"
"What's who?"
"Oh, it's probably nothing. I've seen that sign a few times, but I have no idea who or what it's about. I don't even know why it's caught my eye."
"What sign? asked Kevin, "I can't say I've noticed it. After all, I don't get up here as often as you do."
"Never mind. You've got your work cut out for you now, getting the delivery schedule arranged ..." The conversation wandered back into business. Later, at the lounge, while talking about their respective plans for the weekend, Brian just caught part of the announcement: "... please report to the service desk. Mr Miller."
That night, as they walked to the bedroom after a late tea, Brian said to his wife: "Funny coincidence. I keep hearing the name 'Miller'."
"Oh?" said Michelle, "What about it?"
"It just seemed an odd coincidence."
"Uh huh. We had a Mr. Miller in our office today. Business consultant, down from Sydney."
"Really? There was a Miller on the plane down tonight."
"Couldn't have been the same one, then."
"No, I guess not. What time do the kids need to be at this party tomorrow?"
Sometimes, the mind can play strange tricks on us. Insignificant, unrelated things can appear to become overwhelmingly important and meaningful, and take on strange new meanings. There was a story once about a 'roadie' for a rock band, who finally figured out why microphone leads always seem to disappear, and power cords seem to accumulate. He explained his theory to his sceptical colleagues, but got short shrift. One day, a new bass amplifier just appeared on stage after a show, as if by magic. Before our hero was able to convince anyone of his discovery of a new form of evolution, he was found back-stage - dead. Hanging from a power cord.
Brian dredged through his e-mail. "How can I possibly have 60 new messages?" he demanded of Louise, his Sales Assistant in the next office cubicle.
"Well, you have been in Perth all week."
"But I was checking my mail on my lap-top!"
"Obviously not often enough. Did you get the one about the presentation by Miller?"
"Miller? No, who's that?"
"They are the new multi-media company we are entering a joint venture with" advised Louise.
"Never heard of them. But I've certainly heard the name before."
"Really? They're fairly new."
"Never mind. I can't see the message. I must have deleted it already. I can't afford the time to go to all these free lunches."
"Okay. I've heard that they are pretty good operators. The Sydney office saw them last week. Everybody was impressed."
***
"Now, Belinda, it's time to turn off your light and go to sleep."
"But, Daddy ..." she pouted.
"No, that's enough reading now. You can finish your book tomorrow night."
"But Mr. Miller said we have to finish it by tomorrow!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Miller. He's our temporary teacher. Ms. Ritchie is having a baby, remember!"
"Oh, yes. I forgot. Anyway, it's too late to read any more."
"When's Mummy coming home?"
"She'll be home tomorrow, when you get home from school."
"Oh, good. I miss Mummy."
"She's only been away at her conference for two days."
"I know. But I still miss her."
"Okay. Good night."
"Good night, Daddy."
Brian dimmed the light, and gently closed the door. He went off to the study to finish typing up a sales report. He looked at his watch. Michelle should have finished dinner by now. On cue, the phone rang. He picked it up quickly, before the noise disturbed the children.
"Hi darling!"
"Hi. How's the conference?"
"Good. Tiring, though. I'm going straight to bed."
"What? You're not staying up partying all night?"
"Ha ha! I don't think so!"
"How was your dinner?"
"Great. I was talking to John over dinner. He's very entertaining."
Brian felt slightly miffed. "John?"
"You know, John Miller, the business consultant."
"Oh, right. Did you say Miller?"
"Yes, he's been facilitating our business planning session this afternoon."
If I hear that name again today, I'll scream, thought Brian. "Okay. Busy day tomorrow?"
"Yes and no. Golf for most of it. John's offered to teach me how to play."
"How nice. I thought you couldn't stand the game?"
"Maybe it's time I changed. Might help my career."
John changed the subject. Eventually they said goodnight, and he put down the phone.
The world of dreams is a strange place, where reality blurs, and everything seems perfectly logical. When you wake up fully, you realise how unreal things were in that limbo of the mind. As the dream-world slips from your grasp, you laugh about how it could ever have seemed real.
Brian was restless. He couldn't get comfortable. Dreams faded in and out. He was at a service desk in an airport. The man at the desk looked up and asked if he was Mr. Miller.
"No, I'm Brian Crewe."
"That's all right, Mr. Miller. We had a message for you, that's all."
"No, I said my name is not Miller."
He was handed a phone. The voice on the other end said that there was a call from Miller, would he hold the line, please?
Belinda tugged at his sleeve. She said, "Look at my picture, Mr. Miller."
Then he was walking into his office.
"Why's the company sign been changed, Louise?"
"Didn't you know? We are now working for the new company; the joint venture with Miller."
The phone was in his hand again. He was asking to speak to Mrs. Crewe, please.
"I'm sorry," said the receptionist. "She's in a meeting with Mr. Miller. Can I ask her to call you back?"
Brian woke up suddenly, in a sweat. He stumbled out of bed, and got a drink of water. He tried to make some sense of the dream, but it receded from his memory as he grappled with it.
The next day in the office, he asked his colleague what was happening with the new joint venture.
"This supposed to be a big secret, you know," Kevin warned him. "Don't spread it too far. But from what I've heard, they have their own sales force. I'm a bit worried that some of us mightn't be around for much longer."
"You're joking! I haven't heard anything like that. I thought it was just a joint venture."
"Sure," said Kevin. "That's where it started. But it looks like going a lot further than that."
"We'd better look busy. You know that Sydney deal looks like unravelling."
"That's bad news, Brian. What happened?"
"I don't know. It started going bad as soon as this Miller thing started up."
"Hey - you said something about a sign on the way back from that meeting in Sydney. Must have been a bad omen."
"I don't believe in omens," said Brian, "but I'm starting to wish I hadn't seen it."
Brian felt ill as he drove home from the office that night. Suddenly, everything seemed to go dark.
Stress can kill. Threats and fears that have no tangible reality can take on enormous proportions in our mind. Sometimes, we can consciously combat these fears. Other times, we are not even aware of the chimaeric nature of these fears. Our body doesn't know the difference. The feared, imagined world is reality, and the body acts accordingly.
He woke up in a hospital bed, feeling somewhat disoriented. Michelle faded into view.
"What happened?"
"Don't you remember?" Michelle asked anxiously. "You had a car accident last night. We've been very worried."
Brian gradually became aware of a variety of aches and pains. There was a plaster on his leg. Michelle smiled bravely at him.
Over the next few days, Brian slowly recovered. Doctors talked to him about stress, and the need to review his lifestyle. He could see green grass outside his hospital window. He couldn't remember the last time he had paid attention to such a view.
Kevin came in to tell him how much they missed him in the office. "You know that merger thing? It's all off. Nobody seems to know why. We finally got approval for the Sydney project, too."
"Great. Although, somehow I find it hard to get excited just at the moment."
The doctor talked to Brian about taking some extended leave from work. "I'm taking a few weeks off myself, next week," he said.
The children came in often. Belinda was bursting with the news that Ms. Ritchie was back at school, and had brought in her new baby to show everyone. Michelle talked about her work occasionally. "It's just as well you have plenty of paid sick leave, and that medical insurance is covering everything. I wouldn't be keen to go back full time."
"I thought you wanted to advance your career?"
"Well, sometimes. But I like to have time at home. The kids have really needed me this last little while."
"What about all that business planning you were working on?"
Michelle paused. "Well, that seems to have gone quiet. That consultant has changed jobs, and gone overseas. Everyone seems to have lost interest in that now."
Brian was lying back in his bed that night, slowly drifting off to a peaceful sleep. The nurse came in and checked his pulse, and gave him his medication. As Brian settled down, she slid the card with the departing doctor's name out of the holder at the head of the bed, and replaced it with a card for the new doctor. It read "Dr. Miller."
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I've heard people brag that they've made the trip from Houston to Phoenix in 12 hours flat. Of course, that's if you're driving a "muscle car", with lots of luck, no cops, and a full moon. Driving an 18-wheeler, it takes us considerably longer. We leave the terminal at 9 pm every Sunday and Thursday, with a full load of Gulf shrimp, and by midnight we're out in the Hill Country beyond San Antonio. Once we're past San Antone, the driving gets a lot easier.
There's not much traffic after midnight in west Texas or New Mexico, once
you get out of the cities. In fact, there's not much of anything. On a cloudy, moonless
night, it's so dark you can't see squat, out beyond the headlights. That's where it
sometimes seems like the ragged edge of reality begins to fray, and the intersections
between worlds start to show up in the darkness.
Old timers always like to share tall tales over Texas chilli-bowl and jet-black truckstop coffee, stories about hooded night-riders, monsters or phantom trucks driven by demons, crazy nightmares they've seen on the road in the wee hours of the morning. When I first got my CDL, I thought they must have been using too many "little white pills" and funny cigarettes, but these guys and gals swore it was the truth. Old Santos, who's been driving the big rigs since before I was born, says that's why he always keeps a rosary hanging in his cab, "for just in case," as he says. He warned me not to laugh too soon, because I would find out the truth for myself some day. I used to laugh at him.
During my first couple years on the road, I bragged more than once that I had never seen any bogeymen, and not even a bogeywoman, which always got a laugh out of the truck-stop gang. Actually, aside from a couple of near-misses with deer, cattle and stalled four-wheelers, I hadn't see anything much out of the ordinary. True, I'd occasionally hear some weird stuff on the CB, mostly gabbling in languages that didn't sound like anything I'd ever heard before. But, when one of the gals at the shop explained about "skip," sunspots, and radio signals bouncing in from all over the world, I quit worrying and just turned the CB off after midnight. After I got bored with playing and replaying all the music cassettes I owned, I started scanning the AM broadcast radio for a decent all-night country station that would keep me awake and alert while my old lady was back in the sleeper.
It was probably a month or so after I found the all-night truckers' program out of Window Rock, Arizona, when one night the radio went all crazy. It was about 2 am, and I couldn't hear Window Rock, Dallas, or even San Antonio. FM was dead, as it always is in west Texas. So, I set the AM on "scan," to catch whatever I could hear. It stopped on a funny-sounding station, all quavery and full of static. I was ready to keep tuning, when the music was interrupted by a squawk that sounded like the emergency broadcast alert. I immediately turned up the volume. The sky was overcast, and Texas tornadoes can strike at any hour of the day or night. If there was a twister coming, I sure as heck wanted to find out about it, before it found us. Big rigs and high winds don't mix, believe me!
"This is an Emergency Alert System warning," intoned the announcer. "Listeners in the Galveston and Orange, Texas areas should take cover immediately." I sighed with relief, thinking of the 400 miles or so separating me from the funnel-cloud, or whatever.
"Coastal radar has once again detected incoming cruise missiles fired by aggressor ships standing offshore in the Gulf. Civil Defense authorities warn that these may be targeted at refineries or chemical plants in the Galveston and Orange areas. All civilians should take cover at once. Our antiaircraft defense units have been activated, and the aggressors will not prevail! People of east Texas, stand firm! The West can and will win! We shall win total victory over aggression! Stay tuned to this channel for local Civil Defense instructions." The alert squawk was repeated, followed by a John Phillip Souza march.
I yelled to my old lady, but she was back in the sleeper, dead to the world. I started to pull the rig off the road, but then thought the better of it. If World War III had really broken out, I'd better head for a town where we could get supplies and maybe shelter from fallout. The trailer-load of frozen shrimp we were carrying might make the difference between starvation and survival for some small town, if things were about to get as bad as it sounded on the radio. And then, if we could make it to Ft. Hancock or El Paso in the cab, there'd be an Army recruiting station where we could enlist "for the duration." I punched the "seek" button on the radio, and was rewarded with a buzzing, warbly signal from another, stronger transmitter. A heavily-accented announcer was finishing what sounded like a prepared speech.
"... and if President Jackson and his gang do not order an immediate halt to their vicious ethnic cleansing, we will continue and intensify our air attacks. Hitting with surgical precision, we will smash his Army and Air Force facilities to rubble. We will cut his fuel and supply lines, degrade his communications and transport infrastructure, and ultimately eliminate the American ability to wage war. People of America! Do not listen to Jackson's lies. Do not follow your criminal leaders. Do not be a party to their genocide. The Cherokee deportations must stop! The refugees must be allowed to return to New Echota! Tune in for more news on this frequency at 0800 hours. Allied Command Radio One signing off. Good night."
The broadcast abruptly cut off, leaving my head swimming. I didn't have time to worry about it, though, since at that moment my headlights died, and every warning light on the dash panel flared red and then went black. The trailer started fishtailing, and I barely avoided a jackknife before fighting the rig to a stop in total darkness. Electromagnetic pulse, I thought. Stratospheric nuclear device. Gotta take cover. I ducked to the floor of the cab, trying my best to remember the Act of Contrition the catechism teacher tried to teach me in First Communion class so long ago. "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee..." "Oh God," I sweated, "What the hell comes next?"
When I dared to look up, the headlights were back on. On the radio, WBAP in Fort Worth was broadcasting a humorous ad for truckers' ample jeans, followed by the Interstate Highway weather report for the western United States. Total normalcy. My old lady was climbing out of the sleeper in her long underwear, and turning the air blue with her language. I wanted to explain about the radio, but immediately thought the better of it. Instead, I made up a story about an animal in the road. She went grumbling back to the sleeper, shaking her head. The rig started like a dream, and after a deep breath I pulled into the westbound lane and got her back up to speed.
The morning sun was rising when I pulled the rig into the truckstop at Fort Hancock. The waitress spoke Mescalero, which was close enough to my native Lipan that I could almost understand her. I was ready to try a little friendly flirtation, when I caught the angry glare in my old lady's eyes and reconsidered. She's a Jumano from El Paso, and thinks all Apache women are loose, though she knows at heart I'd never have anyone else but her. As we were walking back to the rig, I looked around at the familiar, peaceful west Texas desert, and breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I'm bushed," I mumbled over a yawn. The reflex was contagious. "Don't you go giving me your sleepiness!" she scolded with a laugh. "I won't," I assured her, "if you promise you won't wake me up until we're in sight of the Phoenix city walls!" We laughed, kissed, and I handed her the keys. "God," I whispered, " it'll be good to get home!"
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Michael seemed strangely thoughtful when Traclin informed him of the 'Bounder's report. Traclin had moved his ship further away from Earth to insure no detection even though the Brotherhood of Arab Nations had been demanding that the United Nations officially acknowledge them and the Americans and now Great Britain had been pushing just as hard to investigate the coalition before any official statement was released.
"We must consider all possibilities," Michael told Traclin via the monitor screen.
Traclin silently agreed as he lit another cigarette. He turned back to the screen to be greeted with the disapproving face of his mentor. Michael's face was almost surreal in its beauty and wisdom. Traclin always felt rather meek when he looked his leader directly in the eyes. As Traclin prepared to sign off, Michael's smooth voice spoke again. Traclin's eyes moved once again to those of Michael's and the intensity nearly burned a hole into the mirror of Traclin's soul.
"Imar," Michael said, surprising Traclin since the two of them generally
avoided official titles, "it is never pleasant to inflict death and pain, but
remember the means to which we strive: The Ramsies control much of the Eastern hemisphere.
We may never be sure of how many there are or what exactly they control. 
Yet,
we can be sure of this: The evil which holds the future in jeopardy right at this moment
is not our doing. And," the voice suddenly sounded very hollow, "if a Holy War,
or jihad, erupts, then we will have the next world war on our hands. The East and West
will once again be fighting over their spiritual sanctity. If the Coalition of Arabs, with
the help of the Ramsies, prevail and move in to control any of the West, we will be forced
to abandon Earth; we cannot control the entire planet from a distance, and the Ramsies
will never allow us to return. We need an action- adjustment. Perhaps it may have to be
one that is similar to our infamous actions from this century; but, whatever the call is
for, I need Faulkner at my disposal."
"Michael, how do we know that the Ramsies don't already control some of the West? The government of America is not as strong militarily as it once was. They used to be more action-oriented themselves."
"Yes, certainly another consideration. Contact Faulkner. I want to speak with him myself."
Traclin could not even mumble the proper farewell before the transmission went dead.
At dawn the next Earth day, Faulkner transferred to the Dalphi craft. Reports were rolling in from 'Bounders revealing a military buildup in the Brotherhood of Arab Nations. They had armies on the move already. The Americans and British were responding appropriately. And the Pope had released a statement. Tensions were high on Earth as well as on the Dalphi ship.
Traclin was sitting behind his desk feeling both unsure and rather weary. He hadn't slept at all since the mission had begun. He nervously smoked at he watched the world turn just beyond his window.
Faulkner entered the office quietly and moved with cool, liquid motion. He wore what Earthlings called jeans and a shirt very similar to the one that the 'Bounder had worn the day before. Traclin frowned again as he still failed to recall what the clothing was named. Faulkner's shirt had words on it that read, "Save the Whales", and his hair was shoulder length and unkempt. His face was unshaven and he looked so very pale. He sat down opposite Traclin in a nonchalant way. He offered no greeting.
"Salam Ishi, Brother," Traclin said, watching his face.
"I was told that Michael wanted to see me," Faulkner replied, waving the greeting aside like a foul odor.
Traclin nodded. "We may need an Action-Adjustment. Similar to your last assignment."
Faulkner nodded. His eyes did not flicker nor did his face change expression.
"We assume that you remain loyal to Michael and Dalphi," he said.
"Not all of those who are loyal to Michael are loyal to Dalphi, nor are those that are loyal to Dalphi loyal to Michael. It's not the same thing anymore, Imar. We may be far away and sometimes forgotten by you, but we still hear and know. There are those who stop by and have lunch with us as they travel the stars," Faulkner smiled a bit, "but we cannot be tempted to follow because others do. Michael taught us that. I follow whom I want."
"Then, whom do you serve, Faulkner?"
"Some Adjustors have become simple assassins, did you know that? They kill and wound for whoever can pay the top dollar. They've forgotten about the Future-Patterns, or they don't care. Even the Ramsies have hired some of your so-called 'Bounders and Adjustors to do their dirty work because we are better trained than they are. But," Faulkner seemed to shrink in his chair, "I remain loyal to Michael and his teachings. I serve the Cosmos. I adjust for the Future-Patterns. I want to live in open alliance with Earthlings. I never got to do that, you know? For two millennia we have been here in secret, even my father died without seeing the alliance restored. I've watched the Ramsies gain power and I've wondered if Michael is aware of what he's up against down there. I've seen the Ramsies build up the East and gain power ten to one over us. I'm not going to let them overthrow the Future- Patterns that I adjusted before with this situation that is going on now. They could do it, too, you know? They could revert us right back to the state that we were in back in the '40s and '50s. Paranoia. Fear. Imminent destruction. The Ramsies have not had this opportunity since the A-Bomb came about, and that, let me remind you, with all due respect, came about because Michael wouldn't get rid of Hitler! Anyway," he paused again, "to put it simply. I serve Michael. I serve his purpose."
Traclin simply nodded. He went to retrieve the message capsule that Michael had sent and noticed that his hands were sweaty with nervousness. He wiped them on his trousers and then remembered the name for the Earth clothing.
"Sweats," he mumbled, shaking his head and handing the capsule to Faulkner.
"Pardon?" Faulkner said, taking the small, metallic tool.
Traclin shook his head and pointed to the capsule. "No one has seen it but Michael. Not even me."
Faulkner nodded as he rose to leave.
"Salam Amar, Brother," Traclin whispered.
Faulkner turned and raised his hand, "Salam Amar."
"We have received a dreadful piece of news," Michael said as Traclin became glued to the monitor, "the Ramsies have contacted the Prime Council and warned us against trying any type of adjustment at all. They claim to have someone very close to the American president and will act if we do not retreat immediately. They, in effect, are holding us hostage from acting."
Traclin was shocked. "It could be a lie."
Michael looked grim. "No, I am afraid not, Traclin. Our sources reveal that they are truthful. They have at least one adviser in the White House."
"Then," Traclin asked, "we will retreat?"
"You must contact Faulkner and cancel the adjustment."
Traclin averted his gaze for a quick moment. So, the spiritual leader had ordered another adjustment without the approval of the Council. A sudden rush of emotion surged through Traclin.
"Then we give up what ground we do have? The Ramsies are in the White House, Michael, we can't simply leave them there."
This time it was Michael that looked away. For an awkward moment, the two Dalphites could not speak.
"Get Faulkner to your ship immediately. There may yet be a way," Michael ordered. "I'll contact you again in one Earth hour."
Traclin stood next to his window tapping his fingers nervously on the wall. He bit his lip absent mindedly as he stared intently at the Earth. The word "time" kept banging in his head as a single drop of blood formed on his lower lip. Making a fist and lightly bumping the window, he stepped away and tried to calm himself. After all the years of watching, waiting, hoping, and striving for the ultimate alliance between the peoples...
"Not now," he said between clenched teeth. He began to pace the floor.
The door slid open and Faulkner entered in a rush. He was dressed in a dark business suit and carried a large briefcase. He stopped just inside the office and looked expectantly at Traclin.
"Well?" He said in a strained voice. "There I am, poised to carry out my orders, and suddenly I'm jerked back up here. Can you tell me what is going on?"
"Someone wants to talk with you," Traclin said, walking to the monitor and flipping it to the "on" position. Faulkner followed him and sat down in Traclin's chair.
Moments later, Michael's face appeared before them.
"We can retreat and leave the Earth to the mercy of the Ramsies; or, we can attempt an adjustment without the Blessings of the Council. The adjustment must be altered, however. It is imperative, Faulkner, " the Adjustor shivered at the sound of his name, "that you follow my orders with the preciseness of a finely sharpened blade..."
Traclin sat in the darkness of space that filled his office. The only light came from the planet below. The paleness reflected off of Traclin's face as he blew out yet another train of smoke rings into the smoky atmosphere. He blinked his eyes slowly and tapped his cigarette on the lip of the ashtray.
The sliding of his door did not disturb him. He slowly turned his head and saw the Earthbounder, still wearing sweats, although a different color, standing near the door. The 'Bounder smiled subtlety and approached the desk. He handed Traclin a small, rectangular black object.
"Salam Ishi," he said.
"Ishi Salam," Traclin replied, taking the object.
"It's a videotape of tonight's broadcast from my station. I think that you'll find it enlightening."
Traclin quickly inserted the tape into the converter. He hesitated to play it for a moment, but then hurriedly turned it to the "play" position as if the converter were burning his hand.
The screen of the monitor came alive with faces and words, but none of it really reached Traclin. After the tape ended, he looked at the 'Bounder with a frown on his face.
"My English is not good, at least not this fast," he confessed.
"Ah," the 'Bounder replied, "well, the President of the United States was shot today - an attempted assassination. They missed, though, and hit someone else: one of his top advisers. The beauty of it is: No one was killed. Perfect. The Prime Council cannot prosecute because there was no crime!"
Traclin shrugged. "I don't even know if this is what Michael wanted."
The 'Bounder frowned then. "You don't know?"
"No. But, it is done. You must return and so must I. May I keep this?"
The 'Bounder nodded as he rose to leave. "Sure, Imar, but, tell me, are we going to... are we going to stay?"
Traclin nodded. "At least for now."
Michael signalled almost immediately. Traclin showed him the tape and the leader seemed pleased.
"Quite successful. Very, very good indeed. The Future-Patterns reveal a break so large it will take the Ramsies twenty years or longer to stitch it together again, if they choose to do so. And, for us, a chance to replace those that are close to the leaders of the West." Michael seemed elated.
"So," Traclin stammered as he jerked his eyes to the window, "the West is set for us; what about the East? The Brotherhood is still strong. A jihad could still take place. It seems to me that we have weakened the Americans."
"Our Adjustment was carried out exactly as planned," Michael insisted, "Faulkner was exquisite. No one is dead; yet, the Ramsie is no longer a threat to the American government. As for the East, well, I have a plan for that as well. Faulkner caught a plane to Median this evening. Patience, Imar, trust me."
Traclin nodded his head and felt a mixture of relief and satisfaction. He looked out the window once again, but this time he found no hope nor happiness for the future. This time, an empty, wrenching feeling overcame him. His mouth became dry and the bitter taste of doubt flavored his tongue. He tried to swallow and nearly choked. He couldn't help but wonder: Were they right, Ramsie or Dalphite, to exercise such power over this beautiful world? The question numbed his mind.
He painfully turned his gaze back to the screen. With a sweep of emotions ranging from happiness to confusion then to understanding, he turned off his end of the already dead transmission from Dalphi.
"Salam Amar."
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The thing about us saucer folk
most humans fail to see
is that we've always been among you,
though our ways are slippery.
The E.T. hypothesis is fun, of course,
has us flitting from earth to stars,
and, yes, we have the technology,
but, no, we're not from Mars.
We don't travel from other galaxies,
let alone some distant place;
we simply transmogrify reality,
mess with time and space.
Just as dogs can hear high frequencies
that most humans cannot hear,
we are attuned to other dimensions
than the three through which you steer.
When we travel to the edge of infrared,
or the ultraviolet of human range,
we boot it into hyperdrive
and our molecules go strange.
To you it seems we disappear
right off your radar screens.
We're there one second, gone the next;
blow your jets to smithereens!
But we're really not so violent;
don't so much blow folks away
as re-arrange their molecules,
the sandbox in which they play.
We take 'em through a wormhole
to a universe next door,
let them cruise in astral bodies
and explore the heretofore.
True, they can't manifest themselves
in your spectrum like we can,
but they're happy and collected,
not spam served au gratin.
Likewise with yer crypto critters
The Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot
You can't ever nab or bag 'em
cos their molecules don't stay put.
We materialize and de-materialize
kangaroos, big cats, entire herds
of burger cattle. They look bemused,
look for food, leave scat and turds
that have you scratchin' yer noodles,
checkin' for vacancies in zoos,
and, sometimes, you blame the viewer,
put sightings down to drugs or booze.
It amuses us to watch you bag
scat and fur, take plaster casts
to speculate and catalogue
all the "evidence" you've amassed.
Really! We're just sub-letting space and time
for extinct and endangered species,
providing interdimensional eco-niches,
so to speak. We don't weigh their feces!
As far as that goes, it's you humans
that sputter and spew, exude
the most methane and poo. It's you
who pollute, extract, and extrude.
You aren't content with polluting this planet;
you gotta flush the atmosphere!
Pardon us for letting loose
the occasional Bronx cheer!
We're impish and devious beings
because we have to be, you see.
You call your toilets thrones
and crap on eternity!
Hold the phone there homo s.!
You'll be most enlightened to know
you're not alone! Big surprise!
You're not even runnin' the show!
Extra! Extra! We're not Martian mutants,
fairies, trolls, leprechauns, or E.T.s!
We're ultranot extra-terrestrials!
Time to genuflect, get down on your knees!
We're bendin' your reality, baby!
So wrap your brain around this:
we're gonna change your D.N.A., honey!
Ain't gonna put up with no homo s. dis!