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 ======================================================================         
 October 1989                Circulation: 278         Volume I, Issue 2         
 ======================================================================         
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                 Contents                                       
                                                                                
 Etc...  ..................................................  Jim McCabe         
                                                              Editorial         
                                                                                
 Shadow Box  ............................................  Lois Buwalda         
 ----------                                                     Fiction         
                                                                                
 Haute Cuisine  ........................................  Phillip Nolte         
 -------------                                                  Fiction         
                                                                                
 Solitaire  ..............................................  Garry Frank         
 ---------                                                      Fiction         
                                                                                
 Picture Perfect (part 2 of 2)  ...........................  Gene Smith         
 ---------------                                                Fiction         
                                                                                
                                                                                
   ******************************************************************           
   *                                                                *           
   *              ATHENE, Copyright 1989 By Jim McCabe              *           
   *  This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge   *           
   *      under the condition that it is left in its entirety.      *           
   *   The individual works within are the sole property of their   *           
   *    respective authors, and no further use of these works is    *           
   *           permitted without their explicit consent.            *           
   *               Athene is published quasi-monthly                *           
   *              by Jim McCabe, MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET.               *           
   *    This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe     *           
   *             using the Xedit System Product Editor.             *           
   *                                                                *           
   ******************************************************************           
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
 Etc...                                                                         
 Jim McCabe                                                                     
 MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET                                                            
 ======================================================================         
                                                                                
      This one makes Athene monthly!                                            
                                                                                
      After the  first issue, I  was more  than a little  worried about         
 finding enough  material to fill still  another one.  But, just  as it         
 usually happens, things  seemed to have worked out on  their own.  Not         
 only was there enough material for  another issue, there was enough to         
 make for a really GOOD issue.                                                  
                                                                                
      The past couple weeks have also brought a new surprise -- Quanta.         
 Quanta is  a new  electronic magazine  that deals  with topics  in the         
 world of science fiction and fantasy.  The magazine will include short         
 fiction as well as some reviews  and articles.  Like Athene, Quanta is         
 available in  PostScript as  well as normal  straight text.   For more         
 information, contact:                                                          
                                                                                
                            Daniel K. Appelquist                                
                            da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu                                
                                                                                
      Quanta  is an  entirely new  magazine and  I wish  its publishers         
 nothing but the best of luck.  The competition can only help.                  
                                                                                
      Since the first  issue I have also made available  a new index of         
 Athene  back issues.   The index  lists  the contents  of each  issue,         
 including the  title and  author of  each work.   Back issues  and the         
 index can  be ordered  by sending mail  to me  at MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET.         
 (Note  to  Bitnet users:  please  do  not send  interactive  messages,         
 instead use NOTE or some other mail package.)                                  
                                                                                
      I  am also  happy to  comment that  the readership  has grown  by         
 thirty  five  percent (about  seventy  new  subscribers), including  a         
 couple local redistribution sites.                                             
                                                                                
      All things considered, it's been  a pretty good month for Athene.         
 Let's hope it continues to move in the same direction,                         
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                 -- Jim         
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
 Shadow Box                                                                     
 By Lois Buwalda                                                                
 LOIS@UCF1VM.BITNET                                                             
 Copyright 1989 Lois Buwalda                                                    
 ======================================================================         
                                                                                
      She dipped  the brush into the  jar of green paint,  then drew it         
 deftly  across a  scrap piece  of paper.   The color  was the  perfect         
 shade,  but the  paint was  still a  little too  thick.  Well,  unlike         
 yesterday, she had plenty of paint thinner on hand.  As she reached up         
 to the top shelf,  she paused, looking at the picture  on the easel in         
 front of her.                                                                  
                                                                                
      It was  a woodland  scene, only  partially finished.   When done,         
 there would be a sparkling brook,  lush grass, and towering trees.  It         
 reminded her a lot of the vacation spot where she went every year with         
 her parents  until her mother  died.  In fact, she  suddenly realized,         
 she probably was painting that spot.  Her mother would have liked it.          
                                                                                
      Her mother never tried painting, Megan knew, but she had loved to         
 make pencil drawings of the places they visited.  Megan still had one,         
 tucked away  in the bottom  drawer of her  desk where all  her special         
 papers resided.   Her father  had destroyed the  rest when  her mother         
 died.  He hated her drawings--they were a waste of time, he said.              
                                                                                
      Megan frowned  at the  thought, then shook  her head.   Enough of         
 memories.  She resolutely grabbed the  paint thinner from its place on         
 the top shelf and added a little to the paint.  Once again she swirled         
 some on  the paper and  held it up to  the light.  Perfection!   Or at         
 least as close to perfection as an amateur could come.                         
                                                                                
      Megan closed her eyes, imagining the  picture as she wanted it to         
 be.  She imagined the grass swaying  in the breeze.  It should be long         
 and  untrampled, like  the area  where  her mother  always spread  the         
 picnic blanket.  Most of all, it should look alive.                            
                                                                                
      She  opened her  eyes again,  and surveyed  her paints.   Maybe a         
 touch of  silver would help suggest  the movement of the  grass in the         
 breeze, she  mused.  She  painted a  few strokes  of the  green grass,         
 added the silver  highlight, then leaned back to  critique the result.         
 She sighed.  Maybe Dr.  Burnstrom was right.                                   
                                                                                
      "Megan," he had said at one  of her father's parties, "you've got         
 talent.  But you  still don't know how to use  it properly." He pulled         
 out a business card and a  pen and scribbled something on it.  "Here's         
 the name of an excellent art professor at your college.  If you really         
 want to learn how to paint, you should take a class with him." Handing         
 the card  to Megan, he  continued, "He'll be  able to smooth  out your         
 problems with technique."                                                      
                                                                                
      She had accepted the card at  the time, Megan remembered, but she         
 had never looked up the professor.   After all, she had enough pre-law         
 classes  to take  without trying  to fit  an art  class in  somewhere.         
 Besides, dad  was paying for  the classes, and  he would have  hit the         
 roof at the thought of his daughter "dabbling in paints." But now that         
 she had  a scholarship for  her last two  years, maybe she  could take         
 what she wanted to take ...                                                    
                                                                                
      Megan's eyes  lit up briefly  at the thought, then  dimmed again.         
 No, dad  still wouldn't  approve.  Come  to think  of it,  her friends         
 wouldn't  understand, either.   They had  their eyes  set on  exciting         
 trials and  prestigious positions.  They were  practical, not dreamers         
 like her.                                                                      
                                                                                
      Megan sighed, then  began putting away her  paints.  The painting         
 just wasn't  going well today.  Better  to put it off  until tomorrow.         
 Besides, Michele was going to pick  her up in another hour.  Today was         
 Freddy's birthday, so they were all  going out to celebrate.  Not that         
 she was terribly thrilled by the idea, or anything.  Freddy was a good         
 friend, and she loved Italian food, but she just wasn't in the mood to         
 put up with the group.                                                         
                                                                                
      Megan picked up  the picture and carried it back  to her bedroom.         
 Though she liked painting in front  of the big picture window with the         
 fall  breezes blowing  through  her  hair, Michele  would  be sure  to         
 comment if she saw it.  Better to  tuck it away in her room, and never         
 let anyone back there.                                                         
                                                                                
      It  was  amazing  how  many   people  asked  to  see  "the  whole         
 apartment," as they phrased it, but Megan always managed to get out of         
 it by  pleading a messy room.   Only Dr.  Burnstrom, an  old childhood         
 friend of her mother's, knew that she still painted.  And she intended         
 to keep it that way.                                                           
                                                                                
                                                                                
      The doorbell  rang.  Megan dropped  her brush on the  counter and         
 ran to get the door in her bare feet.  "Hi, Michele!" she said.  "Come         
 on in."  She stepped  back to  let Michele  pass.  "I'm  almost ready.         
 Just let me grab my shoes and we'll be off."                                   
                                                                                
      "Sure thing," Megan heard Michele say  as she hurried back to her         
 room.  She  grabbed the nearest  pair of  shoes, shoved her  feet into         
 them, picked  up a purse  (it didn't match,  but she didn't  feel like         
 stopping to change it), then rushed  back to the living room.  Michele         
 was staring at a picture on the wall.                                          
                                                                                
      "Hey, I kind of like this picture," Michele exclaimed.  "Who's it         
 by?" She  reached out to touch  it.  Megan winced.  Why  does everyone         
 always have to touch everything?                                               
                                                                                
      "Dali,"  Megan replied.   "Salvador  Dali.  He  just  died a  few         
 months  ago."  She looked  up  at  the picture.   It  was  one of  her         
 favorites, given to her by her  mother after they had visited the Dali         
 museum in St.  Petersburg.                                                     
                                                                                
      "Ahh,  that's  too bad,"  Michele  said.   To Megan  she  sounded         
 insincere.  But  on the other  hand, Michele  was no Dali  scholar, so         
 Megan was willing  to overlook it.  "What's it a  picture of, anyway?"         
 Michele continued.  "It's, err, hard to tell."                                 
                                                                                
      Megan laughed.   "Yeah, Dali definitely has  some strange stuff."         
 She wondered  what Dali  would think  of one  of her  pictures, barely         
 stifling  a giggle  at the  thought.  "Anyway,  the picture  is called         
 'Velazquez Painting the Infanta Margarita  with the Lights and Shadows         
 of his Own  Glory.' What's interesting about it is  that, as the title         
 suggests,  it actually  has another  painting hidden  within it."  She         
 pointed to the picture,  tracing lines in the air in  front of it with         
 her finger as  she talked.  "See, here's the girl's  head, and the red         
 squiggles down  here form the trim  on her gown.  It  billows out down         
 around the  bottom." Megan pulled her  arms down from the  picture and         
 gestured around her legs in a  rough approximation of the shape of the         
 gown.                                                                          
                                                                                
      Michele nodded.  "Sure,  I see it now," she said,  looking at her         
 watch.  "That's interesting."                                                  
                                                                                
      Megan  hardly noticed  the  movement.  "Yes.   Dali really  liked         
 Velazquez's work, so he included his  painting in here as a tribute to         
 him." She paused.  "Some day I'm  going to frame a copy of Velazquez's         
 picture and  hang it  up here next  to this one."  She turned  to face         
 Michele, and  grinned.  "Then you  won't have any problems  seeing the         
 Infanta in it."                                                                
                                                                                
      Michele  laughed  politely,  then  looked  at  her  watch  again.         
 "Great," she said.  "We really should be going, though."                       
                                                                                
      Megan took a long last look at the picture.  Looking at it always         
 made her happy.  You could see  it as a relatively normal painting, or         
 you could dig deeper  and find what else it hid.   She liked that.  "I         
 suppose so," she  said with a sigh.  "Let's go."  She reached into her         
 purse for her keys, came up  empty-handed, then looked around the room         
 for them.   She was forever  misplacing them.   "Once I find  my keys,         
 that is," she said ruefully.                                                   
                                                                                
      Michele dangled them in front of  her face.  "They were under the         
 chair,"  she  said, wagging  her  finger  playfully in  Megan's  face.         
 "Great filing system.  Some lawyer you're going to make!"                      
                                                                                
      Michele  was still  laughing as  she  went out  the door.   Megan         
 paused, looking up at the picture again.  "Yeah," she muttered.  "Some         
 lawyer I'm going to make." She pulled the door shut on the picture and         
 followed Michele out into the night air.                                       
                                                                                
                                                                                
      "Sure, criminal law might be fun," Greg said as he helped himself         
 to more salad, "but corporate law is where the big bucks are." He took         
 a  bite  of salad  and  rolled  his eyes  in  pleasure  at the  taste.         
 "Besides, I'd probably get to travel a lot.  Private plane, champagne,         
 caviar, the works!" He linked his hands behind his head, stretched his         
 legs out, and smiled with self satisfaction.                                   
                                                                                
      Greg probably would be good  for corporate law, Megan mused.  His         
 blond hair  and trim body set  off his elegant clothes  to perfection.         
 Megan  always  felt  slightly   underdressed  around  him.   A  little         
 uncomfortable, too.  He was just so elegant!                                   
                                                                                
      "Well, you go ahead and be  rich," Freddy drawled.  "I still like         
 the old-fashioned concept of having lawyers around to help people." He         
 grinned.   "Although  I'm  certainly  not   going  to  turn  down  any         
 high-paying cases."                                                            
                                                                                
      Megan couldn't  help but smile  at Freddy.  She liked  his drawl,         
 his barreling laugh, and even  his crushing handshake.  "I don't think         
 you'd have a problem collecting  your fees," Megan teased.  Freddy was         
 6'5", a couple  of hundred pounds, with thick unruly  black hair.  And         
 some people thought he looked even bigger.                                     
                                                                                
      Freddy swatted  at Megan playfully.   "Unlike you, you  mean," he         
 said.  Megan was not known for her size.  "So what's up with you, Meg?         
 Still planning on civil law?" he asked.                                        
                                                                                
      Right  then the  waiter arrived  with their  food.  Megan  waited         
 until they were served, then replied,  "Looks that way." She was dimly         
 aware of an argument at the other  end of the table over who had eaten         
 the last  breadstick.  It sounded like  Jason was taking the  brunt of         
 the harassment.  "My father would like me to be a judge some day," she         
 continued.                                                                     
                                                                                
      "Your father, huh,"  Freddy said.  "But what do  you want?" Megan         
 thought back to the unfinished picture  in her bedroom.  She looked up         
 into  Freddy's troubled  eyes.   "Actually," she  said hesitantly,  "I         
 think I might like to--"                                                       
                                                                                
      "Get a load of this!" Jason interrupted from the other end of the         
 table.  "John here says he wants to take a creative writing class.  He         
 wants to be a writer!"                                                         
                                                                                
      "I didn't say I wanted to be a writer," John said.  "I just might         
 take a  class, that's all." He  brushed his hair from  his eyes.  "One         
 lousy little class!"                                                           
                                                                                
      Megan felt sorry  for John.  He was the quietest  member of their         
 group.  He didn't seem to fit  in with their usual boisterousness, but         
 Freddy had dragged him along on the  last couple of outings, so no one         
 felt like  complaining.  But on the  other hand, he had  really goofed         
 confiding in Jason.  Jason was the  type who stepped all over people's         
 feelings without ever noticing that he hurt them.                              
                                                                                
      "Sure, one  class, and  then you'll  start getting  ideas," Jason         
 said.  "Next thing  we know, it'll be bye-bye law  school." He laughed         
 scornfully.  "Don't you know how hard it is to make money as a writer?         
 You'd be crazy to settle for that!"                                            
                                                                                
      Greg nodded his agreement.  "He's right,  John, it would be a bad         
 move.  Trust me." He spooned another  spoonful of soup into his mouth.         
 It was amazing how Greg always seemed to assume that his opinions were         
 the definitive word on everything.  Generally, Megan was amused by his         
 attitude, but  tonight she  was merely  angry.  She  twirled a  gob of         
 spaghetti onto  her fork  and jabbed  it angrily  into her  mouth, not         
 trusting herself to speak.                                                     
                                                                                
      Michele put  a hand on  John's shoulder.   "Hey, we all  have our         
 doubts about law school sometimes," she said.  "It's hard and it takes         
 forever, but it's gonna be worth it.  You'll see." More condescension,         
 Megan  thought, shaking  her  head.   Michele and  Greg  would make  a         
 perfect match.                                                                 
                                                                                
      Okay, she thought.  So what.   The others were all jerks.  Freddy         
 would speak up, though.  He was  always fair.  She remembered the time         
 he didn't speak to  his best friend for a week  because he had punched         
 out the kid who had stolen  Freddy's bike.  Freddy didn't like the kid         
 either,  but a  bloody  nose was  a pretty  unfair  treatment, he  had         
 believed.                                                                      
                                                                                
      Megan looked over  at him, waiting for him to  speak.  The others         
 turned to  look at Freddy also.   Although Greg was the  flashiest and         
 liked to  think that  he had the  last word, it  was Freddy  that they         
 depended upon for the solid advice.                                            
                                                                                
      Freddy finished  chewing the last  bite of his garlic  bread.  He         
 wiped some stray  spaghetti sauce from his chin,  carefully folded his         
 napkin on the  table, then finally spoke.  "I'm sorry,  John, but I've         
 got to go along  with the others on this." He pushed  his seat back to         
 give his scrunched knees more room.   "Writing's a fun hobby, but it's         
 just not  practical to live off  of." He looked at  John thoughtfully.         
 "Look, my advice is to hold off on the class for a while, then take it         
 later if you have time.  You don't want to get behind on graduation so         
 early on."                                                                     
                                                                                
      John's hands tightened  on his glass, his  knuckles turning white         
 from the strain.  Megan was entranced by the glimmer of the candles on         
 the glass as he  twisted it back and forth in  the light.  Finally, he         
 looked  up and  nodded slowly.   "Yeah, I  guess it  was a  silly idea         
 anyway." He smiled weakly.  Michele mercifully changed the subject.            
                                                                                
      Megan stared back at Freddy.  He pulled the replenished basket of         
 breadsticks toward himself, considered for  a moment, then grabbed one         
 and ate on,  unaware of Megan's disbelief.  Greg  nudged her, pointing         
 to the fork  still clutched tightly in  her fist.  She set  it down on         
 the plate, tines  down, then pushed the plate away  from herself.  She         
 was no longer hungry.                                                          
                                                                                
      Freddy licked  his fingers to  get the  last bit of  garlic, then         
 turned  to her.   "So  where  were we,  Megan?"  he  asked.  His  brow         
 furrowed in concentration.   "Ahh, I know!  You were going  to tell me         
 what you  were interested in."  He looked at her  expectantly, tapping         
 out  a beat  on his  water  glass with  his class  ring.  Megan  never         
 understood why he still wore it.                                               
                                                                                
      She  looked  down the  table.   The  others were  off  discussing         
 football.  John stared morosely into his glass of Pepsi, rarely adding         
 a comment to  the discussion.  Music played softly  in the background.         
 Megan watched and listened for a bit, then turned back to face Freddy.         
 She  thought  first  of  her  unfinished picture,  then  of  the  Dali         
 painting.  Always in the background, she thought.                              
                                                                                
      "Civil law, of course," she said aloud.                                   
                                                                                
                                                                                
           ---------------------------------------------------                  
           Lois is simultaneously pursuing  an M.S.  degree in                  
           Computer   Science   and   a   B.A.    in   English                  
           (Literature).  Commenting on her unique combination                  
           of studies,  she says with a  grin, "English majors                  
           wonder  how   I  survived  Calculus   and  Physics,                  
           Computer  majors  leave  the room  when  I  mention                  
           English, and  everyone else  just plain  thinks I'm                  
           weird." Lois works part  time in Systems Support at                  
           the University of Central Florida.  "Shadow Box" is                  
           her  first story,  which she  wrote for  a creative                  
           writing class over the summer.                                       
           ---------------------------------------------------                  
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
 Haute Cuisine                                                                  
 By Phillip Nolte                                                               
 NU020061@NDSUVM1.BITNET                                                        
 Copyright 1989 Phillip Nolte                                                   
 ======================================================================         
                                                                                
      It  had been  one  of those  rare  one-on-one encounters  between         
 warships--our ship, the  FWS Macbeth and the  Chirr-is-tat, an Archeon         
 light cruiser.  This Archeon ship had hit the L-5 military base at New         
 Argent--hard.   Slashing in  with  ultra  high-energy pulse-beams  and         
 laser-guided projectiles,  they'd left the  old orbital base  in sorry         
 shape.  It would have been a highly successful raid, except that their         
 timing was  awful.  Our  ship had  just left the  same base  not three         
 hours before  their attack.  We  had stopped there  to pick up  a very         
 special group of  experimental soldiers and bring them back  to HQ for         
 further  testing.   We brought  the  Macbeth  about and  answered  New         
 Argent's distress call as quickly as we could.                                 
                                                                                
      Their ship  was a  little bigger  but ours  was a  little faster.         
 After  a  harrowing  three-day  chase at  hyperdrive  velocities  that         
 strained both ships to the limit, we  caught up with them way out near         
 Heard's World  where they stopped  and turned  to make a  stand.  What         
 followed was a classic, almost heroic struggle with high-speed thrusts         
 and  feints as  each captain  tried to  out-think and  outmaneuver the         
 other.  At  last, our  superior agility  gave us  the tiny  opening we         
 needed.  The  crew cheered wildly as  we put a HellHound  missile into         
 their port side.  But we had  celebrated too soon.  As we flashed past         
 them they  struck back with  two direct hits, pulse-beam  charges that         
 breached  the  shields  and  put   a  jagged  two-meter  hole  in  our         
 hull--right near  the bridge.   It had been  a hard-  fought encounter         
 between nearly  equal adversaries and  the outcome was  more-or-less a         
 draw with  both ships  sustaining heavy enough  damage to  make forced         
 landings.                                                                      
                                                                                
      The alien ship  went down at the  same time as we  did.  They had         
 little choice,  we had locked on  to them with an  attractor field and         
 pulled them with us as we began our descent.  We released the field at         
 the last  possible moment, hoping their  ship would be destroyed  by a         
 heavy  impact  with  the  planet.  This  last-ditch  effort  was  well         
 conceived but it didn't work; we  picked up their distress call within         
 a half- hour of  the crash.  Just our luck, some  of them had survived         
 and they were right next door, probably within a few kilometers!               
                                                                                
      Our ship  was so badly damaged  that only a few  systems on board         
 were  even partially  usable.  Life  support and  the emergency  power         
 generator were  okay but  pulling the  Archeon ship  down had  all but         
 ruined  our main  drive,  and the  navigation  computers, the  Hopkins         
 defense shield  and the beam weapons  were out.  We had  also lost our         
 Captain and three crewmen, leaving  only three officers and five crew,         
 two of  whom were pretty  banged up.   The platoon of  highly trained,         
 fully equipped, experimental marines had made it through just fine.            
                                                                                
      My name's  Harris and I  was the Food Procurement  Specialist for         
 the  Macbeth.  That's  "ship's  cook" to  those of  you  who might  be         
 civilians.   Now on  a  modern  warship that  doesn't  amount to  much         
 usually.   Feeding the  men is  mostly a  matter of  programing a  big         
 automated kitchen that synthesizes perfectly balanced (and very tasty)         
 meals from stockpiles  of raw materials--big canisters  of amino acid,         
 sugar and fatty  acid stocks or whatever other kind  of biomass we put         
 into  it.  But,  that doesn't  mean I  can't cook!   I had  been well-         
 trained in  the same time-honored  cooking techniques that  chefs have         
 used for centuries because every now  and then, I cooked real food for         
 the officer's mess and for other  special occasions.  A big part of my         
 duties was to have consisted of  keeping the marines supplied with the         
 right  kind  of  nutrients  in   their  diet.   These  guys  had  been         
 extensively modified  surgically and had biomechanical  and electronic         
 implants that were supposed to make them into some very nasty fighting         
 units.  Because  there were still  a few  bugs in the  procedure, they         
 needed more things  in their food than normal people,  people like you         
 and  me.  Del  said that  their amino  acid requirements  were totally         
 different.  For  maximum efficiency  they needed several  D-form amino         
 acids that didn't occur in regular  food and weren't produced in their         
 bodies.  I'm not  sure why, it had something to  do with the interface         
 between  their biochemical  and electronic  components.  I  would have         
 been reprogramming  the food unit  several times  a day to  supply the         
 right  amounts  of these  supplements  in  their food.   Normally,  it         
 wouldn't have been a big problem.                                              
                                                                                
      Normally.                                                                 
                                                                                
      In that running fight out in  space with the Archeon ship and the         
 bone-jarring forced landing that followed, our frightfully complex and         
 absolutely  essential food  synthesizing unit  had been  reduced to  a         
 crumpled, burnt and useless chunk of fused metal and plastic.  HQ said         
 three weeks,  minimum, before we  could hope for  any kind of  help to         
 arrive.  Three  weeks!  No doubt about  it, we were in  deep Sardinian         
 sludge!  Those  twelve marines needed  about 5000 Kcal per  day apiece         
 just to stay awake!  There wasn't much on the planet's surface that we         
 could use either.  When it was  working, the kitchen could make useful         
 food out of almost anything,  including the miserable scrub brush that         
 grew sparsely on  that desert world.  But, without it  and the special         
 supplements it  supplied, my marines would  be helpless in a  few days         
 time!                                                                          
                                                                                
      Within  three hours  of  the crash  we sent  out  a small  damage         
 control party  to survey the wreckage  of our ship.  Heard's  World is         
 hot, almost unbearably so, but at  least the air is breathable so they         
 didn't need suits.  As a precaution, three of the experimental marines         
 went  out with  them as  an  armed guard.   The enemy  must have  been         
 waiting for something like that because not five minutes passed before         
 they attacked.   There were half-a-dozen  of them on a  small antigrav         
 sled,  armed with  portable weapons.   With their  augmented strength,         
 speed and  agility, our three marines  were way more than  a match for         
 the six hapless Archeons.  It  was incredible!  Those guys fought like         
 demons, leaping  and dodging,  spinning and weaving--all  while firing         
 with deadly accuracy!  The conflict ended abruptly when Marquardt, the         
 gunner's mate, dashed  up to the front  gun pod and cut  their sled to         
 ribbons with a burst of 20  mm explosive projectile fire.  The marines         
 had  gotten three  of  them before  the rest  went  scurrying away  to         
 safety, over a dune.                                                           
                                                                                
      Full of  confidence from our  easy victory, we struck  back.  The         
 raid that  we staged on them  ended with five Archeon  casualties, two         
 dead and three wounded, but without any real appreciable change in the         
 situation.  Two  rounds--slight advantage earth.  The  Archeons closed         
 up their ship and wouldn't come out after that.  Meanwhile, my marines         
 were getting hungry and edgy.                                                  
                                                                                
      I made a sort of gruel out of some local plants and herbs that we         
 had analyzed as  non-poisonous.  I mixed them with some  of the twenty         
 or so kilos  of amino acid stock that had  somehow survived the damage         
 to the food module.   They ate it but they didn't  like it.  Worse, it         
 wasn't doing them much good  either.  "Jesus Christ, Harris!  What the         
 hell is  this slop?"  said Fenster, a  hulk of a  marine who  had been         
 slightly wounded in the raid on the Archeon ship.  "Fighting men gotta         
 have real food!  You can shove this bullshit!"                                 
                                                                                
      I didn't  get upset with  them, they  were just letting  off some         
 steam.  Those marines had a lot of energy, it was a consequence of the         
 modifications that they had undergone.   You see, it wasn't just their         
 bodies that had been changed, their heads had been messed with too.  A         
 lot.                                                                           
                                                                                
      As a chief petty  officer I had to share my  quarters with one of         
 the  junior  officers,  a  tall,   skinny,  black  kid  named  Delmont         
 Richardson.   He was  a  xenobiologist, sort  of  the ship's  "Archeon         
 expert" if there really was such a thing.  Del's not a bad guy, but he         
 takes the  scientific approach too  far sometimes.  It gives  him some         
 very  strange ideas.   He asked  me to  come with  him to  examine the         
 bodies of the  enemy soldiers that had been killed  in their ill-fated         
 raid on our ship.  I shrugged  and went along; there weren't that many         
 able-bodied men about and he needed help.  Besides, he was my friend.          
                                                                                
      When we got there we found  one of them still alive, although not         
 in very good  shape.  Del said that  we were two of just  a handful of         
 people who had actually seen a live Archeon up close.  They were a lot         
 different than I had imagined.  To tell the truth, I thought they were         
 kind of  pretty.  We called the  Archeons "crabs" because they  look a         
 lot like an oversized horseshoe crab.  They have the same pointy tail,         
 the rounded shell and the multiple  pairs of jointed legs.  Their eyes         
 are violet and there  are six of them, four right on  the front of the         
 shell and  two that are  borne on  short, delicate stalks.   Below the         
 eyes  are the  intricate, ornate  and very  complex mouthparts.   Just         
 behind the  mouth are the manipulators,  the first pair of  legs which         
 have evolved  to serve them  much as our hands  do for us.   There's a         
 pleasing symmetry  to the  Archeon form,  meaning the  proportions are         
 right  and all  that,  but  there's real  beauty  in  the patterns  of         
 blue-green  iridescence  that  shine   in  their  carapaces--rich  and         
 colorful when  they're alive, but it  fades quickly when they  die.  I         
 know, we watched the colors fade as the badly torn-up survivor finally         
 lost his battle for survival.                                                  
                                                                                
      Del  said that  the  familiar  shape was  an  incredible case  of         
 something  he called  "convergent  evolution".  That  means that  even         
 though  they look  like  the old-earth  creature,  they aren't  really         
 related  at  all.   They're   the  products  of  completely  different         
 evolutions.  I don't know, it makes sense to him.                              
                                                                                
      We brought the "survivor" and the remains of his two buddies back         
 to Del's  little bio-lab which  was one part  of the ship  that hadn't         
 been wrecked  in some way or  another.  He came out  three hours later         
 blinking his eyes and stretching to  get the kinks out of his muscles.         
 Apparently that biological  investigation stuff can be  hard work.  He         
 looked dog-tired!                                                              
                                                                                
      "What did you find out, Del?" I asked him.                                
                                                                                
      "Interesting  anatomy,"   he  said.   "It's  a   basic  arthropod         
 architecture  much  like  the  forms  found on  earth.   They  have  a         
 chitinous exoskeleton,  an open circulatory system  and paired ventral         
 nerve chords.  Where they differ dramatically is that three or four of         
 the front  ganglia on each  nerve chord are  swollen and fused  into a         
 huge masses  of nerve tissue that  probably serve them as  the centers         
 for higher learning.  At least I think so.  If it's true, their brains         
 are  actually larger  for their  body size  than ours  are!" When  Del         
 starts to ramble like  that, I just sort of let him  go, even though I         
 don't understand a lot of what he's saying.  It helps him to relax.  I         
 had no trouble understanding what he said next, however.                       
                                                                                
      "I do have some good news for you though, Harris," he said.  "I'm         
 done with them.  I've put what I need to save in the freezer."                 
                                                                                
      "Great, Del," I said.  "Ah...what does that mean to me?"                  
                                                                                
      "It means  that the chemistry of  those beasts is such  that they         
 have all  of the D-amino  acids you could  possibly need to  feed your         
 marines."                                                                      
                                                                                
      You see what I mean about strange ideas?                                  
                                                                                
      "Jesus,  Del," I  asked incredulously.   "You don't  mean that  I         
 should  cook dead  crab and  serve it  to those  marines do  you?  You         
 should've heard them complaining about the food before!"                       
                                                                                
      "It sounds  kind of gruesome,  I know," he shrugged.   "But there         
 are reports  that they  eat humans  when they get  the chance  so that         
 shouldn't be  a problem.  Besides, I  don't see any other  solution to         
 this  food thing.   I checked  them over  extensively, they  should be         
 perfectly safe to eat.  As for  the marines, they might bellyache some         
 but they'll follow orders.  Let's talk to Gibbs."                              
                                                                                
      The ship's acting commander,  Lieutenant Theodore Gibbs, felt the         
 same when we  asked him about it,  although he thought about  it for a         
 while before he made up his mind.  "It seems a bit barbaric, I agree,"         
 he said.  "But we really don't have  much choice do we?  I'll give the         
 order."                                                                        
                                                                                
      That night I built a small fire  out in the sand a short distance         
 from the ship.  In  a pot fashioned out of a big  bearing cup that I'd         
 scrounged from  engineering, I cooked  up a generous portion  of "crab         
 stew" for  my marines to  eat.  An Archeon is  a little bigger  than a         
 man, so there  was no shortage of  the rich, white meat.   I can still         
 picture that  makeshift pot  bubbling and  frothing over  a smoldering         
 scrub brush fire  with a bunch of long, jointed  crab legs sticking up         
 out of it.  I used all my cooking skills and the meager stock of local         
 herbs in  an effort to make  the stuff palatable.  I  won't repeat the         
 things  that the  marines were  saying as  they watched  me cook.   To         
 demonstrate to them that it was safe, I ate some first.                        
                                                                                
      You  won't like  the way  this sounds,  but that  stew was  good;         
 damned good!  Our enemy cooked up into  a meal fit for a gourmet!  The         
 flavor was sort of  like a cross between snow crab  and lobster but it         
 was better  than either  one of  them!  Several of  the men  asked for         
 seconds.  Best of all, they began to regain their strength.                    
                                                                                
      The biggest  surprise awaited  us the  following morning  when we         
 were contacted  by the  master of the  Archeon ship.   Unexpected good         
 news!   He wanted  to talk  about some  kind of  cooperative agreement         
 between  them and  us  that  would enable  our  two  small parties  to         
 survive.  We decided that they must have had enough of our marines and         
 wanted an  end to the  business.  To our  knowledge, it was  the first         
 time that any kind of meaningful dialogue had ever been attempted with         
 a crab war party since mankind  had first encountered them and the war         
 had started, over eighteen months before.                                      
                                                                                
      We were understandably a little nervous.                                  
                                                                                
      We met them  out in a wide-open area that  was about eqi- distant         
 from both  ships.  From that  spot we could  see both ships;  with its         
 tail in the air and the fuselage bent and crumpled, theirs didn't look         
 any  better  than  ours  did!   Each  group  was  represented  by  six         
 individuals.  Richardson and I were included in the delegation because         
 he was what passed for the local crab  expert and I was one of the few         
 men left who were well enough to  make the trip.  They gave me the job         
 of holding  the Kravitz universal  translator; across the way  I could         
 see a  crab counterpart  holding a similar  device.  Their  leader was         
 easy to  pick out,  he was  a little  bigger than  the others  and the         
 blue-green of his shell had purple  highlights in it.  He was also the         
 first to speak.  This was a  series of staccato clicks and chirps made         
 with his mouthparts that was followed shortly by the synthesized voice         
 of the translator.                                                             
                                                                                
      "Greetings are given to the valiant earth-born warriors.  We come         
 in peace." He did  a sort of bow.  Gibbs hesitated  a second and bowed         
 in return.                                                                     
                                                                                
      "We  are honored,"  Gibbs  replied.  "The  Archeon soldiers  also         
 fight gallantly.   I complement  them.  We  come with  peaceful intent         
 also.  You spoke of cooperation.  We  feel it would be advantageous to         
 both of our races."                                                            
                                                                                
      There was another series of chirps and clicks.                            
                                                                                
      "We the  descendants of the  great Archeon hive-den  were greatly         
 touched  by your  act of  supreme  respect for  our fallen  comrades,"         
 continued the leader.                                                          
                                                                                
      "We  have nothing  but supreme  respect for  all Archeons,"  said         
 Gibbs, "But I must apologize.  I'm not sure I know what you're talking         
 about."                                                                        
                                                                                
      "I refer  to the  consumption of  the flesh  of our  hive- mates.         
 Your  rites  were observed  last  evening  by  a  large group  of  our         
 warriors, including  myself.  Because  of this  most reverent  act, we         
 feel that we can safely extend to you an offer for peace."                     
                                                                                
      "I..um..ah..on behalf  of the  Federation, I accept  your offer!"         
 said  Gibbs.  He  was caught  off-guard but  wasn't about  to let  the         
 opportunity slip away.                                                         
                                                                                
      The crab leader continued.                                                
                                                                                
      "One of the major obstacles to peace between our races has been a         
 total lack  of understanding  of each other's  customs.  By  your most         
 gracious act,  your small  party has made  enormous strides  towards a         
 peaceful relationship with our race in the future."                            
                                                                                
      We were absolutely blown away!  Over  the next two weeks, we were         
 able to  maintain a genuine, if  rather uneasy, peace.  Of  course, we         
 didn't allow our  marines to have any contact with  the aliens at all.         
 By their  very nature, they  were difficult  to reason with,  even for         
 their  fellow humans!   Most of  the actual  dialogue and  contact was         
 undertaken by Del Richardson and me.  Yes, me.  The crabs had insisted         
 on it.                                                                         
                                                                                
      Our  usual  contact  was   a  smaller  (younger?)  Archeon  named         
 Clack-whirr-snap-click-click who seemed to actually enjoy our company.         
 We got  to know  "Click" well  enough to  ask some  pointed questions.         
 Yes, they thought  our marines were demon fighters.   No, they weren't         
 afraid of them,  just respectful of their abilities.   On that fateful         
 night, a  war party consisting  of all of their  remaining able-bodied         
 soldiers (about thirty, I think) had been poised for an all-out attack         
 when they  saw me and the  marines at our little  cookout and realized         
 what we were doing.  They had immediately called off the attack.               
                                                                                
      He told us  that the Archeons always had a  ritual for their dead         
 which  included the  consumption of  at least  a portion  of the  dead         
 comrade's flesh.   A little more  talk and some  further investigation         
 revealed why.                                                                  
                                                                                
      The crabs have a sort of  racial memory.  Each member of the race         
 inherits these memories  from both parents at conception.   All of the         
 experiences of each individual are somehow added to this racial memory         
 and can be passed on to a living member of the race, usually by eating         
 a small portion  of the flesh.  The experiences of  the individual are         
 thus passed on to whichever of his  mates eats a part of him.  To pass         
 away uneaten, and  therefore without the retention of  his memories by         
 at least  some other member  of the race is  the worst thing  that can         
 happen to  a crab!  They had  observed our stew-making party  and had,         
 luckily for us, assumed that we were paying homage to their dead, thus         
 the  overtures for  peace from  their leader  the next  day.  What  an         
 incredible break!                                                              
                                                                                
      The  one  who does  the  actual  cooking  is usually  the  hive's         
 religious leader, a greatly honored position.  I guess that's why they         
 wanted  me as  a contact  and why  all of  them, including  the ship's         
 leader, treated me with so much respect!                                       
                                                                                
      Del took a closer look at some  of the crab remains that he'd put         
 in the freezer  that night.  It didn't  take him long to  find what he         
 was  looking  for.  Each  and  every  cell  in the  creature's  bodies         
 contained a number of large pieces of extrachromosomal DNA.  He called         
 them "plasmids".  These  structures were the agents by  which both the         
 racial  and  individual memories  were  passed  on.  These  particular         
 plasmids are extraordinarily heat stable  so they survive being cooked         
 and they are also evolved to  reach and enter the recipient's cells by         
 way  of the  gut.   Once  inside a  cell  they  replicate and  spread,         
 replicate and spread, much like a  virus, until every cell in the body         
 contains   them.   A   perfectly   evolved  method   for  passing   on         
 information--by eating it!                                                     
                                                                                
      On a hunch he took blood samples  from me and some of the marines         
 who  had eaten  the  stew and  checked  us for  presence  of the  same         
 plasmids.  To my utter shock and amazement, he found them in our cells         
 as well!  Our  biochemistries are similar enough to  the Archeons that         
 "infection" can occur.                                                         
                                                                                
      Fortunately, I  don't have  the necessary  enzyme systems  for my         
 body to translate or "decode" the  Archeon plasmids, so I can't get at         
 any of  the memories, thank God!   No, Del says that  they'll probably         
 just remain in my system, not  doing much of anything, but not hurting         
 anything either, just sitting there.                                           
                                                                                
      You would  think that a  race with  such a well-evolved  means of         
 passing on  information would be very  wise indeed.  In many  ways and         
 about many things, they are.   Unfortunately, they'd had a run-in with         
 a couple  of mammalian races early  in their history.  These  had been         
 faithfully recorded in  their racial memories and, as  a result, every         
 Archeon  had   a  sort  of  built-in   paranoia  against  warm-blooded         
 fur-bearing creatures.   Creatures like  us.  In their  minds anything         
 but war with us was unthinkable when they had first encountered men.           
                                                                                
      All that is  changed now.  Diplomats of both races,  armed with a         
 bit  more knowledge  about each  other--mostly because  of the  chance         
 events on Heard's World--were able  to hammer out a peaceful agreement         
 for  coexistence.  Within  two months,  the  war had  ended.  A  truly         
 significant step forward for man and crab!                                     
                                                                                
      There  was a  part  of  the treaty  that  isn't well  publicized,         
 however.  Like I said, the crabs  hate to lose the life experiences of         
 even  a single  one  of  their individuals.   So  the authorities  are         
 keeping a watchful  eye on your's truly.  I'll be  allowed to live out         
 my normal  life just  fine but  as soon as  I began  to show  signs of         
 fading  they're  shipping me  off  to  Archea-hive, the  Archeon  home         
 planet.  I house  the memories of three of their  fallen mates.  Their         
 solution to  this problem is  simple: I'll  attend a gathering  of the         
 families of  the deceased--as the main  course on the menu!   A chance         
 for me to serve mankind by being  "served" myself!  In a way I suppose         
 it's a kind of  honor so I'm not complaining.  I  just wish they could         
 do something about the awful dreams I've been having lately...                 
                                                                                
                                                                                
           ---------------------------------------------------                  
           Phil is a research specialist in Plant Pathology at                  
           NDSU in  Fargo, North Dakota.   He is also  a Ph.D.                  
           candidate  at the  same  time.   He's been  writing                  
           science  fiction  for  about three  years  but  has                  
           enjoyed reading  it all his life.   He comments, "I                  
           got interested  in the  writing end because  of the                  
           many  disappointments  I've   had  while  attending                  
           science  fiction movies  and coming  away wondering                  
           how they could  have spent so much  money on actors                  
           and  special effects,  and  so damned  little on  a                  
           decent story!"  This is  his fifth story,  of seven                  
           total.                                                               
           ---------------------------------------------------                  
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
 Solitaire                                                                      
 By Garry Frank                                                                 
 CSTGLFPC@UIAMVS.BITNET                                                         
 Copyright 1989 Garry Frank / Failsafe Productions                              
 ======================================================================         
                                                                                
      Davidson warned me about it.  He said it wasn't a good idea.  Now         
 it's too late and I'm not sure  how I feel.  The time doesn't help any         
 and  since  a  human  brain  takes up  only  about  a  thousand  cubic         
 centimeters, you realize  how small that volume is, and  how little it         
 can possibly contain,  and you simply don't have  anything left inside         
 to think about.  I  never liked how it started, and I'm  not sure if I         
 like how it finished, but a story is a story.                                  
                                                                                
      I  am a  murderer.  I  don't  like being  a murderer,  and to  be         
 totally honest,  I never really intended  to kill.  I suppose,  in all         
 fairness,  nothing could  be more  irrelevant at  this point.   I just         
 thought I'd throw it  in to try and convince myself that  I used to be         
 an  educated, thinking  creature  at  one time,  and  try  not to  let         
 society, and I  suppose that includes myself, stamp me  as a murderer.         
 I'm not the  unshaven, wobbly-eyed drunk that killed for  money or the         
 psychotic, crazed youth who killed for  sport.  I'd like to say that I         
 was  framed, but  I can't  think of  anyone who  could have  framed me         
 except God.  I  got into an argument  at a party.  One  of my friend's         
 wife's friend's deals.  I went alone.   I didn't even know the guy.  I         
 disagreed with him about disagreeing with  me.  I was drunk and raving         
 about nuclear weapons.  Next thing I  know, push comes to shove, and I         
 suddenly see him on the floor with blood pouring out of his eyes and a         
 long, furrowed welt on the side of his head deep enough to hold water.         
 I look down and see a fireplace poker in my right hand.  I passed out.         
 I won't dwell on that too much.                                                
                                                                                
      Needless to say, after a lengthy trial I got fifty to seventy.  I         
 never even knew what  hit me.  Now, if there's one thing  I got out of         
 this, it's the  dim realization of how easy prison  is.  No shit.  You         
 have so many people screaming about mistreatment and abuse in prisons,         
 and the government  dumps out quadrillions of bucks to  fix the places         
 up, and  to try and give  the inmates more opportunity  for growth and         
 creative development, Lord help us all,  and it's really a swell place         
 now.  I got  to read a lot,  and think, and do some  writing, and they         
 showed us movies all the time, and during the first two years, I began         
 to wonder if it was supposed to be torture at all.                             
                                                                                
      I  was  the bright  guy.   I  could  help people  with  financial         
 problems, and relationships  with the outsiders, and I  was setting up         
 huge CD accounts for the long term  inmates whom after they got out in         
 fifty years  would discover their  ten thousand dollars  had blossomed         
 into half a million.  Needless to say, I was pretty popular.  Davidson         
 was big  on keeping track of  shit on the outside.   He had newspapers         
 and  current  magazines spread  out  in  his  cell  as though  he  was         
 housebreaking  a dog.   He came  to me  because he  considered me  his         
 intellectual equal.  We had been designated the smart ones.  He wanted         
 my opinion.  He also wanted me to go first.                                    
                                                                                
      He  told me  about the  new sentencing  system that  the NSC  was         
 trying to put into effect.  He told  me about the NASA mergers and the         
 grant funds and about how it was just in the beginning stages, and the         
 more he  talked, the  more I began  to feel like  Alex in  A Clockwork         
 Orange,  finding out  about the  new treatment  that gets  him out  of         
 prison quick,  provided he  becomes brainwashed.   That, I  think, was         
 when  the first  light  pangs of  fear kicked  in.   But Davidson  was         
 constant, and he  really thought I should talk to  the warden.  When I         
 asked him  why, he told me  about a recent  vote in the Senate  he had         
 uncovered, a vote attached to some other goofy bill that wouldn't show         
 up in  Newsweek, but  would in the  Congressional Record,  for anybody         
 bored or boring enough to sift  through its all-text pages.  Turns out         
 the Senate vote was that the selection  for the test orbital was to be         
 pulled  from Gladstone  Maximum  Security, which  was  the place  both         
 Davidson and I were staying at the time, courtesy of the United States         
 judicial  branch.   That's  why  he   was  so  interested  in  it.   I         
 reluctantly agreed, and went to see the warden the next day.                   
                                                                                
      He was a  little stunned, and wanted to know  where I came across         
 my information, and again  I felt like I had just  fallen onto the set         
 of A Clockwork  Orange.  I just beat  the bush for a bit,  and then he         
 settled back into his naugahyde chair and decided to tell me about it.         
 The NSC and NASA were working together to develop what they called the         
 orbiting cell.   The idea was  to lock a  hardened criminal in  a tiny         
 clear plastic  bubble, with food and  air and shit, and  fire him into         
 orbit.  The  idea was  that he  could see  out, and  it would  feel as         
 though there  was nothing between  him and  space.  This plus  the raw         
 boredom,  the  soundproofing, and  just  the  goddamn loneliness  were         
 supposed to be really good rehabilitation methods.  I wondered why and         
 how.   I guess  it  had something  to do  with  the philosophy  behind         
 solitary confinement.   I had  been in solitary  several times,  and I         
 didn't really mind  it.  It was relaxing.  It seemed  kinda fun to me,         
 and  that's what  I told  the  warden.  He  smirked and  said that  he         
 wouldn't want to try it.  He said that studies had proven the orbiting         
 cell was  sheer torture, and  some other  studies said it  could cause         
 insanity or even be lethal.  That's why they wanted to try it out.             
                                                                                
      I'm not sure why I did it.   Sometimes I dream that I did it just         
 to help  the scientific research  aspect of it, that  I did it  so the         
 people who designed it could know more about it, but I know that's not         
 true.  I suppose it was just the short duration of it.  They said that         
 if I stayed in the bubble for  one month, that the rest of my sentence         
 would be remitted and  I would be a free man.  In  the words of Fibber         
 McGee, it seemed like a good idea  at the time.  To make the dull part         
 brief, I was taken to a  NASA training center, specially built for the         
 Orb.  That  was what they called  it, the "Orb".  They  had built only         
 one  of them  so  far,  and they  let  me see  it  before  I began  my         
 debriefing.  Apparently, it  went up with the  automated shuttles.  It         
 was sealed,  and placed in a  huge apparatus in the  shuttle bay which         
 would put it into orbit and  could also retrieve it.  Then the shuttle         
 would  land.  The  whole thing  was automatic,  and the  plan was  for         
 nobody  to be  on board  except  me, as  though they  thought I  might         
 actually try to hijack a space shuttle.                                        
                                                                                
      They showed me  the Orb.  It was a clear  plexiglass sphere about         
 four feet across.  There wasn't any hatch.  They would have to cut the         
 top off of  it to let me in,  then they would seal it  shut again with         
 some kind of torch.  It didn't leave any seams.  It was incredible.  A         
 clear, plastic  bubble just  floating in space.   The only  thing that         
 marred it was this  black box on the outside.  It was  about a foot on         
 all sides,  and it was  attached to the outside  of the bubble  like a         
 parasite.  The box contained a special  algae.  I could tell the goofy         
 scientist who was there just loved to brag about it.  They developed a         
 new strain just for this project.  They built their own life form, how         
 about that.  I guess it was like being God.                                    
                                                                                
      The box had  this algae in it, and a  self-contained light source         
 that would let  it grow.  Three holes connected it  with the Orb.  One         
 of the holes  was for the air.   Through it, the algae  used my carbon         
 dioxide and  made water  and oxygen.   Just enough  for one  man.  The         
 second hole was for processing urine  and feces.  It wasn't fancy, and         
 it wasn't comfortable, but it worked.  Through the third hole, I could         
 sip some water mixed with algae.  That was my food.  I was supposed to         
 eat this  plant.  No  shit.  They  told me it  was tasteless  and very         
 nourishing and the tube only let  a certain amount go through.  Enough         
 to  support  one man  indefinitely.   It  was  a little  ecosystem,  a         
 controlled one.  It would  let me live, but it would  not let me enjoy         
 it.                                                                            
                                                                                
      It was around now that I began  to get a little scared.  I had no         
 idea what it would  be like, and I spent most  of my four-day training         
 period worrying.  Again, to make the boring part short, they sealed me         
 up, naked,  in my  little Orb, and  set me up  for launching.   It was         
 pretty uneventful, since I spent the entire launch in the blackness of         
 the  cargo bay.   I just  sat  and waited.   And enjoyed  the lack  of         
 gravity.                                                                       
                                                                                
      The terror started when the hatch opened.  There was some kind of         
 goop in the  plexiglass that would prevent nasty rays  from burning up         
 my skin,  but it  didn't seem to  change the fact  that the  earth was         
 agonizingly bright.  I had to shield  my eyes for about seven minutes,         
 while the launcher shoved me out  into orbit.  Squinting, I looked out         
 and saw the engines fire, and the shuttle went out ahead of me.  I was         
 in orbit.  I was alone.                                                        
                                                                                
      At first, I was impressed by  the bright sun, which was tolerable         
 now,  as was  the earth.   I studied  the motions  and the  shapes.  I         
 watched the shadows of the earth bounce  off the moon, and I stared at         
 the motions of cloud patterns and land shapes with hypnotic intensity.         
 But after a few hours, you just plain  run out of stuff to see.  I got         
 bored with  earth and started  studying some other planets  and stars.         
 Needless to  say, I got bored  with them fairly quickly  as well.  I'd         
 say about five  hours had passed since my launch,  and already I could         
 think of nothing to do.                                                        
                                                                                
      The minutes,  which used to pass  by like seconds, now  seemed to         
 drag into endless days.   I began to slowly lose my  sense of time.  I         
 ate as much  of the algae as it  would let me, and I had  a good shit,         
 but then what else is there to  do?  I started to wonder if eating and         
 shitting would become  priceless luxuries now that they  were the only         
 real physical activities I could do.   I wondered how long it would be         
 until  I  could get  more  food.   The  horrible  idea that  the  food         
 distributor might be broken flashed across  my mind.  I had nothing to         
 do but think.                                                                  
                                                                                
      I started  talking to myself for  a while.  I began  to just talk         
 and talk  about anything  that came  to mind.   All of  the background         
 voices in my brain  which are cut off somewhere before  they get to my         
 mouth  just blurted  themselves  out.  After  a while,  I  ran out  of         
 thoughts  and began  to  recite  poetry.  I'm  not  sure why.   Little         
 fragments  of stories  and  plays  and shit  I  was  supposed to  have         
 forgotten after I  graduated from college.  Shards  of Shakespeare and         
 Dante.  Verses of Homer and  Frost.  I babbled nonsensically for hours         
 until I realized I wasn't even listening to myself.  I realized that I         
 had just been staring out of the  side of the Orb the entire time, and         
 got hold of  my brain.  I decided talking to  myself accomplished very         
 little and decided not to do it again as I wiped a river of saliva off         
 of my chin and neck.  My breathing slowed down.                                
                                                                                
      I began to spend entire days  with my eyes closed.  It was easier         
 to think if you didn't have to look at the nothingness above your head         
 and the  earth, a two hundred  kilometer drop below your  feet.  I was         
 comfortable with the blackness behind my  eyelids, and that was what I         
 stared at for  the next week.  Things began to  play themselves out in         
 swirling images,  trying to  replace the  black, to  cut into  it like         
 fireworks.  I  started to play  movies in  my head.  Every  fragment I         
 could  remember, it  was  flashed  onto the  silver  screen behind  my         
 eyelids, larger  than life.   The sounds were  totally clear,  and the         
 images  flowed  easily.   I  replayed Bogart  and  Jimmy  Stewart.   I         
 replayed  Hoffman,  Redford,  and  Malcolm  McDowell.   Sean  Connery.         
 Michael Caine.  Endless Woody Allen  lines flashed across my mind with         
 unbelievable ferocity, and I found  myself laughing out loud more than         
 once, half from comedy, half from  shock.  The second half of the week         
 was filled with songs.  Thousands of  them, played back across my ears         
 like  some  flawless  recording  system.   Every  move.   Every  note.         
 Classical, rock, and all the Jazz  I could remember.  But, perhaps for         
 the same  reason why  we forget a  good tune in  daily life,  I became         
 bored  hearing  Beethoven's  Ninth  six  million  times,  and  started         
 grabbing  at fragments  of  songs I  had only  heard  once ore  twice,         
 mentally scrambling to catch hold of  one or two notes that could lead         
 to a ladder  of music.  It was frustrating, and  I found myself crying         
 continuously without even being aware of it.                                   
                                                                                
      I started  to think about what  was beyond the glass.   The vast,         
 black emptiness  which I could  see, yet  couldn't see.  It  was black         
 because there was no  light, but I could still see  it, even with this         
 lack.   I  could see  the  lack  of  light.   The blackness.   It  was         
 literally nothing.  There was nothing out there.  The fear turned into         
 claustrophobia over  the next two  days.  I found myself  blinking too         
 often.   I found  myself unable  to focus  on sound.   I found  myself         
 tapping the  glass for no apparent  reason with the tip  of my finger,         
 very lightly, just  tapping, and unconsciously intensifying  it into a         
 light  slap and  I remember  sweating madly  as the  power of  my taps         
 increased until I was pounding on the  glass with the full force of my         
 fist and not even being aware of it.   I would scream at the top of my         
 lungs for minutes  straight with my fist pounding against  the side of         
 the plexiglass  with booming rhythm.  I  started to see things  in the         
 black emptiness of space.  My mind  started to play horrible tricks on         
 me.  I began  getting paranoid.  I kept jerking  around, glancing over         
 my  shoulder  thinking that  something  was  in  the bubble  with  me.         
 Sometimes I would push myself away from one side of the bubble where I         
 thought that  something was outside trying  to get in, then  I'd think         
 that the same thing was happening  on the other side, and whirl around         
 again,  screaming with  fear, yet  unable to  hear myself,  lashing my         
 fists and legs out into the clear, cold solidity of the Orb.                   
                                                                                
      That was how I cut myself the first time.  Pow!  Into the side of         
 the glass.  Stinging  pain in my knuckles.  The red  spot on the wall.         
 I found  myself staring at that  red spot for hours  on end afterwards         
 for lack  of better things to  do.  The blood tricked  upwards from my         
 hand and began  to separate into little globs that  bobbled in the air         
 like tiny acrobats.   I watched the blood flow into  the zero-g of the         
 Orb, a thin stream  of red responding to it's own  laws of physics.  I         
 jammed the knuckle into my mouth and  kept it there for about an hour,         
 staring at the red  spot on the side of the Orb  with shaking eyes and         
 terrified sweat.  I kept it there  until the bleeding stopped.  Then I         
 passed out.                                                                    
                                                                                
      Sleep  was rare  and fragmented.   My body's  timetable had  been         
 turned inside- out,  and it seemed as though I  was never totally sure         
 if I had gotten too much sleep, or not enough.  My sleep was liberally         
 coated with nightmares  too horrifying to mention.  Visions  of evil I         
 hadn't had  nightmares about  since I was  a kid came  back, as  if to         
 haunt me, as  if to say "You  thought you were scared  of your closet!         
 Ha!  Whaddya think of this?!" I think that was when my mind started to         
 go.  I think I just plain ran out  of stuff to think about.  I spent a         
 day mowing  lawns.  Mentally mowing lawns  which I had plotted  out in         
 size and  shape beforehand,  noting every tree,  every tall  weed, and         
 when I came  to them, mower buzzing furiously, sometimes  I would have         
 it choke or run out of gas,  and I would mentally imagine every second         
 of my angered, sweaty trip to the garage to get a gas can or a wrench.         
 I spent a week building houses.   Plotting out the land, surveying it,         
 pouring  in the  cement foundations.   I imagined  every insignificant         
 motion, every board,  every nail, every stroke of the  hammer.  It was         
 all flawless.  I once spent five  minutes on the same set of shingles.         
 I built  seven houses  in all.   Very big  ones, too.   But as  I said         
 before, you just run  out of stuff to think about.   You can feel your         
 mind  just  slowing down,  devoid  of  not  just active  thought,  but         
 creative energy too,  and you run out of stuff  to do.  It's difficult         
 to describe, I know, and a part of me hopes that none of you ever find         
 out exactly what  it's like.  I started  to think of HAL  in 2001, and         
 about his dying words: "My mind is  going.  My mind is going, Dave.  I         
 can feel  it." I  spent the next  two days repeating  his lines  in my         
 head: "My  mind is going.   I can feel it."  Over and over  again, for         
 forty-eight hours: "I  can feel it." I no longer  knew where the lines         
 were from:  "My mind is going.   I can feel  it." I no longer  had the         
 urge to  cry, or to sleep,  or to think,  or even to move.   My joints         
 began to stiffen up: "My mind is going."                                       
                                                                                
      I'm not sure how long I remained  in that trance, but I do know I         
 came  out of  it.  It  was something  on the  outskirts of  my vision,         
 something almost  subliminal that made  me realize that I  should have         
 been paying more  attention to the planet.  I  remember suddenly being         
 able to think again, and I remember my first thought being pain.  Pain         
 in my knees and  back.  I hadn't shifted my position  in God knows how         
 long.  Weeks?  The pain subsided  quickly, and I whirled myself around         
 to face the planet Earth.  The first  thing I noticed that was odd was         
 all  of the  flashes.   All over  the surface  of  the planet,  bright         
 flashes would erupt, then spread slowly  over areas the size of Brazil         
 as their  glare reduced from  a pinpoint flash  to a dull  smoky glow.         
 Then I  saw the source of  the flashes.  I  was not the only  thing in         
 orbit.   Emerging from  strategic points  on every  single land  mass,         
 there  were  tiny  disruptions   in  the  atmosphere  which  propelled         
 themselves in  smooth, flawless arcs,  leaving trails of  smoke behind         
 them,  and  touched  the  surface   again  to  create  other  pinpoint         
 explosions.  It was then that I knew.  I knew what was happening.              
                                                                                
      The sizes of the warheads  were staggering, six thousand megatons         
 at  least.  I  watched slowly  as the  United States  civilization was         
 wiped clean  off the surface  of the globe, as  if by God  himself.  I         
 watched  retaliatory strikes  do the  same to  almost every  corner of         
 every  continent, and  it  was then  that I  knew  that the  remaining         
 population would be lucky to be a number in the millions.                      
                                                                                
      I  glanced back  to  the  United States.   There  are only  three         
 shuttle  launch stations,  and all  of  them were  practically in  the         
 center of some detonation radius.  I  am almost certain the Orb design         
 station is  now rubble, and  I am starting  to think that  nobody even         
 remembers my name.                                                             
                                                                                
      The temperature in here is  seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, but I         
 still feel very, very cold.                                                    
                                                                                
                                                                                
           ---------------------------------------------------                  
           Garry is  a Broadcasting  and Film  major attending                  
           the  University   of  Iowa.   He  is   an  aspiring                  
           screenwriter and  an accomplished  playwright, with                  
           three of his full-length plays having been produced                  
           by the  West Side  Players, an  alternative theatre                  
           organization at  Iowa.  He writes short  fiction in                  
           his  spare  time,  and  watches  too  many  movies.                  
           Garry's  other interests  include reading,  skiing,                  
           acting, "splitting atoms and graduating."                            
           ---------------------------------------------------                  
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
                                                                                
 Picture Perfect (part 2 of 2)                                                  
 By Gene Smith                                                                  
 ESMITH@SUVM.BITNET                                                             
 Copyright 1989 Gene Smith                                                      
 ======================================================================         
                                                                                
      Sunday crawled  by.  Phil got up  early and worked on  three more         
 lawns that day but his heart  wasn't in his work.  He kept remembering         
 the pictures he  had seen.  He'd look  at a bed of  flowers and wonder         
 how they would look in a picture  taken by the new camera.  He'd see a         
 bird in flight and wonder the same thing.  Sunday finally ended.               
                                                                                
      On Monday  morning Phil awoke  early, went over to  Mr.  Harris's         
 house to mow  his lawn and when  he had completed his  work there took         
 his bike,  trailer and all, to  the schoolyard.  He went  into the all         
 too familiar building and to the physics lab where he hoped Mr.  Riley         
 would be found.                                                                
                                                                                
      Stephen Riley was  there trying to get across  the coefficient of         
 friction to a  group of three students.  Phil poked  his head into the         
 classroom  and  made a  quick  motion  with  one hand  indicating  the         
 laboratory.  Mr.  Riley  nodded that he understood  and continued with         
 his lecture.  This was  a signal that they had used  many times in the         
 past.   The schools  darkroom  was  located just  off  of the  physics         
 laboratory  and Phil  needed  permission to  use  it.  As  photography         
 editor he  actually didn't need  permission, but it was  school policy         
 that someone had to know whenever anyone was using the darkroom.  This         
 policy came  about after  he had  lost track of  time last  year while         
 working in the darkroom and was locked in the laboratory overnight.            
                                                                                
      The principle wasn't too upset over the whole episode but his mom         
 had been hysterical!  No one had  known where he was until the janitor         
 had let him  out of the locked physics lab  the following morning.  By         
 that time the  police were looking for him and  his mother was certain         
 that he had  been kidnapped.  He was grounded for  two weeks for that!         
 It was Mr.   Riley that had suggested this notification  scheme and it         
 satisfied all concerned.  If Phil was  going to be working late in the         
 darkroom  Mr.  Riley  would let  the  night janitor  know.  Before  he         
 locked up, the janitor would stop by the lab and tell Phil it was time         
 to go.  It worked well for everyone.                                           
                                                                                
      Phil had  been waiting in the  laboratory for about half  an hour         
 when Mr.  Riley came  in.  "I thought you were going  to be working in         
 the darkroom," Mr.   Riley said as he  saw Phil sitting at  one of the         
 laboratory benches.                                                            
                                                                                
      "No,  actually I  wanted to  talk to  you," Phil  told him.   Mr.         
 Riley had taught  Phil everything about photography that  he now knew.         
 Darkroom  technique and  safety, developing,  printing, cropping,  air         
 brushing and everything else he had learned from Mr.  Riley.                   
                                                                                
      "Well, I'm  done for the day,"  Mr.  Riley said sighing,  "I hope         
 those kids pick this stuff up  this time.  They won't graduate without         
 it." He then added, "I just hate  to see a kid not graduate because of         
 what could be  my failure to get something across  to them.  Now, what         
 do you want to talk about?"                                                    
                                                                                
      Phil  again explained  the new  camera  and the  pictures to  Mr.         
 Riley.  He had told  him that he had practically made  up his mind and         
 that he had the money with him right now.  After he left the school he         
 was planning to head to the camera shop.  Mr.  Riley urged caution.            
                                                                                
      "I know you're  excited about the camera but I've  never heard of         
 that make, though  the name does sound familiar for  some reason.  Nor         
 have I ever heard  of a camera capable of taking  pictures of the type         
 you  describe.   I'd wait  a  few  days  before making  the  purchase.         
 Something that sounds too good to be true usually is."                         
                                                                                
      Phil thought  to himself,  "First my father  and now  Mr.  Riley.         
 They both  don't want me to  buy the camera.  Hell,  they haven't even         
 seen it or those pictures!"                                                    
                                                                                
      Aloud he said, "Thanks Mr.  Riley.  I'll think about it."                 
                                                                                
      Mr.  Riley replied, "You do that  Phil.  I'll tell you what, I'll         
 check into  the literature I  have and see what  I can find  out.  The         
 name is familiar but I don't know  why.  Stop back in a couple of days         
 and I'll let you know what I find out."                                        
                                                                                
      As Phil was leaving the lab he said to Mr.  Riley, "Thanks again.         
 I'll stop back  in a couple of  days." He left the school  to where he         
 had  parked his  bike  and trailer.   On  the way  out  of the  school         
 building he had decided that he  couldn't wait to own that camera.  He         
 was going to go back to the shop and purchase it today.                        
                                                                                
      He headed  downtown to the camera  shop, parked his bike  so that         
 the trailer wouldn't interfere with  anyone walking by and went inside         
 the shop.  The bells attached to the door announced his entry again as         
 he opened then closed  the door.  The heat inside the  shop was as bad         
 as it  had been two days  previous.  Phil was surprised  at this since         
 the weather had  cooled off Saturday night and it  was no nowhere near         
 as warm as it had been on Saturday afternoon.                                  
                                                                                
      The storekeeper came  though the doorway leading to  the back and         
 said  cheerfully, "Good  Morning young  man.   Back I  see.  Have  you         
 decided on  purchasing the camera?" All  the time he was  smiling that         
 disconcerting smile.                                                           
                                                                                
      Phil was again  uneasy as he said, "Yes I  have." He then quickly         
 asked, "Can the camera be returned if it isn't all you claim it is?"           
                                                                                
      "Oh, by  all means,"  assured the  storekeeper.  "If  this camera         
 doesn't give  you pictures just  as good  as these," he  indicated the         
 pictures still  lying on the  counter top,  "you bring it  right back.         
 I'll refund every penny, no questions asked."                                  
                                                                                
      "You've got  a deal!" said  Phil excitedly.  He reached  into his         
 pocket  and pulled  out  the  $200.00 he  had  brought  along with  an         
 additional amount sufficient to cover the sales tax.                           
                                                                                
      "Oh,  this is  unnecessary,"  said the  storekeeper after  having         
 counted the money  Phil had handed to him.  He  handed Phil the amount         
 Phil had  given him  to cover the  sales tax and  said, "My  price was         
 $200.00 even.  Put the remainder in  your pocket to purchase film." He         
 was smiling as he counted the money as though enjoying a private joke.         
                                                                                
      Phil was  surprised that he  didn't have  to pay sales  tax.  You         
 paid sales  tax on  almost everything  in New  York!  He  didn't argue         
 further however.  He put the money back in his pocket and waited.              
                                                                                
      "Ah, your  camera." said the storekeeper  apologetically.  "I had         
 almost forgotten."  Reaching into  the display case  he removed  a box         
 containing the Follis 138.  He opened the box and checked the contents         
 and  asked Phil  to do  the same.   The box  contained an  instruction         
 booklet, the camera, and a black  carrying case.  "Here you go.  Enjoy         
 your pictures,"  he said as he  slid the box and  it's contents across         
 the counter to Phil.                                                           
                                                                                
      Phil excitedly closed the box and said, "Oh, I will!" and quickly         
 left  the  store.  If  Phil  had  turned  around  he might  have  been         
 disturbed to see the wicked grin on the storekeepers face.                     
                                                                                
      Carefully maneuvering his bike  and trailer another three blocks,         
 Phil made his  way to the ShutterBug.  He walked  inside, carrying his         
 purchase, and made his  way to the display counter at  the back of the         
 store.   The ShutterBug,  specializing  in  photography equipment  and         
 supplies, displayed  photographs on every  wall.  On this  side, where         
 Phil was walking, was a winter  theme.  A skier was in mid-air, caught         
 in the instant he hurtled from the  top of a large dune.  Next to this         
 was a  photo of three skiers,  taken from above, making  snake pattern         
 traces as they skied down a mountainside.                                      
                                                                                
      "Wait until  they see my  photographs," Phil thought  to himself.         
 He patted the box he was carrying.  "It will put these to shame."              
                                                                                
      He made his way to back and  set his purchase on the counter.  He         
 looked at the man behind the  counter and said, "Mr.  Jenson, I'd like         
 a roll of Kodacolor 135-24, ASA 100, and a roll of Tri-X Pan film, ASA         
 400, please."                                                                  
                                                                                
      Mr.  Jenson, the owner of  the ShutterBug, was familiar with Phil         
 having seen him in the store many  times before.  He looked at the box         
 Phil had set on the counter top and asked, "Buy a camera Phil?"                
                                                                                
      Phil said proudly, "Yes.  My first  one.  Bought it just today at         
 the new  camera store where  the old arcade used  to be.  Need  to get         
 some film though.  The store hadn't stocked any yet."                          
                                                                                
      "New camera  store huh?" said  Mr.  Jenson.  "I'm not  aware that         
 another had  opened up.  Well, the  competition might do me  good," he         
 said  laughing.   "What   did  you  buy  Phil?"   he  asked  genuinely         
 interested, "Mind if I take a look?"                                           
                                                                                
      "No, go ahead  Mr.  Jenson," Phil said, pleased to  have an adult         
 take interest  in something he  himself enjoyed.  Phil opened  the box         
 the camera was  setting in and slid  it across the counter  top to Mr.         
 Jenson.                                                                        
                                                                                
      "A Follis ay?" asked Mr.  Jenson.   "Can't say I've ever heard of         
 it before." Looking at the camera more closely Mr.  Jenson said, "Phil         
 this camera  has no controls,  no way to  set the aperture  or shutter         
 speed."                                                                        
                                                                                
      "I  know," replied  Phil.   "It doesn't  need  them.  It's  fully         
 automatic.   All  I have  to  do  is load  the  camera  and shoot  the         
 picture."                                                                      
                                                                                
      Placing the camera back into the box Mr.  Jenson said, "Well good         
 luck with the camera son." He then  added with a wink, "You know I'm a         
 little disappointed that you didn't buy  a camera from me.  Would have         
 given you a good deal too."                                                    
                                                                                
      Phil blushed a little with  embarrassment and said, "Well I would         
 have bought the camera here, you know that, but I got such a good deal         
 and the pictures this camera takes are so incredible I had to buy it."         
                                                                                
      "I understand," said Mr.  Jenson as  he retrieved a roll of black         
 and  white and  color  film  from the  honeycomb  display behind  him.         
 "Here's the film  you wanted, and here," Mr.   Jenson selected another         
 roll of film from  the display case and placed it  with the other two.         
 "I assume  you're testing  the camera  with both  black and  white and         
 color film.  This roll  is on the house.  It's a  1600 ASA color film.         
 If you want to test a camera thoroughly test it through the extremes."         
                                                                                
      "Thanks Mr.  Jenson,  I do appreciate that!"  Phil said, honestly         
 surprised.  "I'll be back in a day or two to have this film developed.         
 You still have same day processing don't you?"                                 
                                                                                
      "Oh yes," said Mr.  Jenson collecting the money for the two rolls         
 of film he had rung up on  the register as they talked.  "Bring in the         
 film before  noon and you'll  have your pictures ready  before closing         
 time."                                                                         
                                                                                
      Taking the bag  containing the film and carefully  picking up the         
 box containing his camera Phil made his  way out of the store.  He was         
 now ready to shoot pictures with his new camera.  HIS new camera!              
                                                                                
      Phil made his way carefully back  home.  The camera was placed in         
 the wire  basket in front on  the bike.  Phil took  his time, avoiding         
 most of the bumps and walking his bike around the worst of them.               
                                                                                
      When he got home he called the  customers on his list that he had         
 scheduled for the next  two days and told them he  would not be coming         
 on the regular day.  He would catch  them up during the weekend or the         
 following week.  He then took his new purchase to his room, closed the         
 door, laid on the  bed with the box next to him  and began reading the         
 instructions.                                                                  
                                                                                
      The instructions were understandably brief.   They were more of a         
 sales pitch than  instructions.  After showing how to  load the camera         
 the instructions  touted the camera's ease  of use and the  quality of         
 pictures that could be expected.                                               
                                                                                
      Phil removed the camera from the  box, loaded the black and white         
 film according to the directions, then  put the camera in the carrying         
 case  provided.  He  put the  other  2 rolls  of film  in the  pouches         
 provided in the  camera carrying case.  He was ready  to shoot his own         
 pictures!                                                                      
                                                                                
      Phil grabbed  his notebook from  the desk and went  downstairs to         
 find his mother.  She  was in the living room sewing  the pockets in a         
 pair of his jeans.  He had somehow  managed to put a hole in them last         
 week and had told his mother about it.                                         
                                                                                
      "Mom, I bought  a camera.  I'm going out to  shoot some pictures.         
 I'll be home in time for supper," Phil told her.                               
                                                                                
      Phil's mother stopped her sewing and looked at Phil with a little         
 concern.  She knew better than to  say anything about how he spent his         
 money, he worked hard for it and it was his.  She simply said, "I hope         
 you got a good deal.  Please try to be home on time tonight."                  
                                                                                
      Phil smiled  and said, "I did.   And I will, promise."  He walked         
 over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.  He then hurried outside.         
                                                                                
      Phil wasted no  time.  He selected subjects the  he thought would         
 test the capabilities of the camera.  He photographed dark subjects in         
 a bright background, colorful storefronts, canopies, and anything else         
 he  thought might  make an  interesting photograph.   After he  took a         
 photograph he logged each subject in  his notebook.  He noted the time         
 the picture was taken and the subject.   He had no idea of the shutter         
 speed or aperture settings so he  left those notations blank.  He even         
 made the entries of the pictures he shot of Cathy Danis!                       
                                                                                
      He had been so intent on taking pictures and making notes that he         
 hadn't noticed that he had made his way to her house.  She was outside         
 dressed in a halter top and shorts and was raking the lawn.  He felt a         
 little like  a peeping Tom as  he photographed her through  the hedges         
 surrounding the schoolyard adjacent to her parent's house.  If she had         
 seen him  with his  camera she  would have  immediately gone  into the         
 house.  His  heart was  pounding as  he snapped  shot after  shot.  "I         
 can't wait to see how good these look!" he thought to himself.                 
                                                                                
      It didn't take long for him to shoot the three rolls of film.  He         
 made his way back home, placed his camera and notebook on his desk and         
 went back downstairs.   It was only 3:00  pm and he wanted  to get the         
 film to Mr.  Jenson before 5:00 pm, closing time.                              
                                                                                
      He couldn't find his  mom so he left her a note  and placed it on         
 the kitchen table.   He took his bike  out of the garage  and made his         
 way to the ShutterBug to turn  the film in for processing.  He arrived         
 well before closing and  went to the back of the  store with the three         
 rolls of film.                                                                 
                                                                                
      "Back  so  soon?" said  Mr.   Jenson  surprised.  "I  would  have         
 thought it  would have taken  you another  ten minutes to  shoot three         
 rolls of film!" he said jokingly.                                              
                                                                                
      Phil laughed too and said, "Well I am a little anxious to see how         
 these turn out.  Will they be ready tomorrow?"                                 
                                                                                
      Mr.  Jenson looked  at the clock on the wall  and said, "Tell you         
 what Phil.  I'll develop the  negatives tonight and print the pictures         
 tomorrow.  They'll be ready about noon.  How's that?"                          
                                                                                
      "Oh, that would be great Mr.  Jenson!  Thanks!"                           
                                                                                
      Phil went home and for the  second time in three days hardly paid         
 attention to  supper.  He  was thinking about  how great  the pictures         
 were going to  be, how clear the  images were going to  look, and yes,         
 how Cathy was going to look raking her lawn.                                   
                                                                                
      The hours  crept by and Phil  hardly slept.  The next  day was no         
 better.  Noon  seemed to take  an eternity to arrive.   Shortly before         
 noon  Phil headed  out to  pick up  his pictures.   He arrived  at the         
 ShutterBug just at noon and went to see Mr.  Jenson.                           
                                                                                
      "Are the pictures ready Mr.  Jenson?" Phil asked excitedly.               
                                                                                
      "Yes they are Phil.  Came out  of the printer just a little while         
 ago," he  said, indicating  a complicated  looking piece  of equipment         
 further back  in the  store.  "I  put them into  their packages  a few         
 minutes ago.  I purposely didn't look  at them as they were coming out         
 of the machine.  Care to share them with me?" he asked.                        
                                                                                
      Phil  thought of  the  pictures  of Cathy.   Not  that they  were         
 anything to be ashamed of, he just didn't want anyone to know he liked         
 her.  "Uh," Phil  began, "I'd rather not if you  don't mind.  Not this         
 time."                                                                         
                                                                                
      Mr.  Jenson smiled and said,  "I understand.  Your first pictures         
 and you want to look at them  yourself first.  Don't blame you.  I did         
 the same  thing with  my first camera  too!" He rang  up the  sale and         
 placed the three envelopes of pictures  into a yellow plastic bag with         
 the ShutterBug's logo  on the side.  He handed this  to Phil and said,         
 "Hope they turned out alright."                                                
                                                                                
      Phil was relieved at not having  to explain any further and said,         
 "Thanks  again Mr.   Jenson.  I'll  stop back  and show  you how  they         
 turned out." Mr  Jenson smiled at that, and Phil  quickly made his way         
 out the door.                                                                  
                                                                                
      He raced  home and went  quickly inside.   His mother was  on the         
 phone and  he heard  her say, "Oh,  wait a minute  he just  came home.         
 "Phil," she called to him, "it's  Mr.  Riley from school.  He wants to         
 talk to you."                                                                  
                                                                                
      Surprised,  Phil went  into the  living  room and  picked up  the         
 telephone  receiver from  the table  where his  mother had  placed it.         
 "Hello Mr.  Riley," Phil said.  "What can I do for you?"                       
                                                                                
      "Phil," he heard Mr.  Riley begin, "I wanted to let you know what         
 I found out about your camera."  Mr.  Riley continued as Phil took the         
 packages of pictures out of the bag and opened one.                            
                                                                                
      "The name  seemed familiar to  me but  I couldn't place  it," Mr.         
 Riley continued.  "I looked in the literature I have here and couldn't         
 find  any  reference  to  the   Follis  138.   After  looking  through         
 everything I had, I gave up and was going to call you to let you know.         
 Then this morning I was in the  teachers lounge having a cup of coffee         
 when Mrs.  Landry,  the biology teacher, came in and  sat down next to         
 me.  She looked at  the piece of paper I had written  the name of your         
 camera on and began to laugh."