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****** ***** The Online Magazine ***********
****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************
---------------------------
======================================================================
July 1990
Volume II, Issue 3
Contents
Etc... .................................................. Jim McCabe
Editorial
"Pearl Highway" ....................................... Philip Nolte
NU020061@NDSUVM1.BITNET
"Memories of Blue" .............................. David B. O'Donnell
Atropos@Drycas.Club.CC.CMU.EDU
"The Fundamental Nature of Research" ............. Kenneth A. Kousen
KAK%UTRC@utrcgw.utc.com
"Hibicus" ............................................... H. Newcomb
(c/o UCS_KAS@SHSU.BITNET)
ATHENE, Copyright 1990 By Jim McCabe.
Circulation: 747 (20% PostScript)
This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge under the
condition that it remains 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. This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe,
using the Xedit System Product Editor.
Subscriptions: Athene is available in PostScript and ASCII form, and
is distributed exclusively over electronic computer networks. All
subscriptions are free. To subscribe, send email to
MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET, with a message inicating which format (PostScript
or ASCII) is desired.
Etc...
By Jim McCabe
MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET
======================================================================
Sometimes things just don't go the way we want them to.
In September 1989, the first issue of Athene hit the network and
I had the stories and time to spare for the next month. Gradually,
free time has become an increasingly sparse luxury for me, which may
be evident from the sporadic distribution schedule Athene has had
lately. This latest delay has shown me that it is time for a slight
change in the way the magazine is put together each month.
The most time-consuming factor is in reviewing the many story
submissions that arrive. Currently, I sometimes don't even get to
read a story until weeks after I have received it. Not only is this a
pain for the author who submits it, but I sometimes feel like I am in
a hurry to get the work done. But, the best work isn't done at a
hurried pace.
What Athene needs is a few good assistant editors. As a group,
we would have an expanded view of each submission, and I would get
some idea of other people's opinions of a story instead of relying
completely on my own. Hopefully, this will only improve the quality
of the magazine. If nothing else, it will help to keep Athene on time
each month. I would like to hear from anyone who is interested in
becoming part of the Athene staff in this respect.
So, it's been forever since the last issue, but in a way it was
worth it. This issue is one of the best ever, with four excellent
stories. Three of the four featured authors this month have appeared
in Athene before, and I would like to send a special thank-you out to
these people who continue to write good stories for us. And of
course, I welcome all newcomers who wish to contribute as well.
For those readers who receive the text version of Athene on IBM
CMS mainframes, Bill Harvey has written an XEDIT macro that adds
carriage control, page numbers, and page titles to your file for more
attractive printouts. If you would like a copy of this program, Bill
can be reached at HARVEY@WUVMD.BITNET.
I'm not going to make any predictions on when the next issue will
be out, but I can assure everyone that there will not be another delay
like the one we just finished. I already have more stories to rewiew
for August, but, as always, I would enjoy seeing some new faces. In
the meantime, I hope you enjoy this July issue.
"Pearl Highway"
By Phillip Nolte
NU020061@NDSUVM1.BITNET
======================================================================
On December 7, 1941 the Japanese Imperial Navy staged a
vicious and very effective attack on the United States Naval
base at Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands. The result
was the loss of many lives and the almost total destruction
of the U.S. Pacific fleet. Suddenly, overnight, America
was a reluctant and unready participant in the conflict of
nations that is referred to as World War II.
That action will be remembered as one of the most infamous
sneak attacks in history...
Jap cars, thought Marvin, the damned things look like they were
designed by some alien from outer space. Front wheel drive, engines
mounted sideways, bodies made of tin foil, he shook his head. Give me
American any time! And not those damned American cars that are trying
to be just like the Japs either. No sir! Give me an American car
with some metal in it and lots of good old-fashioned V-8 horsepower.
Auto repair was Marvin's moonlight occupation, one that he
preferred to his regular job. In the evenings or, like today -- on
Saturdays, he could usually be found working out in the big double
garage behind his house -- A garage that was really a well- equipped
workshop. Marvin was in his mid-fifties with the lines and creases in
his face to prove it but his short, stout body was still as hard as
steel. In fact, around his neighborhood, Marv's incredible strength
was legend; stories abounded. No slave to fashion, he was wearing a
ragged and incredibly dirty pair of coveralls over a faded and
nearly-as-soiled red flannel shirt -- clothing that was practical and
couldn't be damaged much further, no matter what he did. He wore his
graying red hair in an efficient and equally practical crew-cut. Up
on the shelf above his workbench, a battered and grease-spotted old
radio was droning a country-western song as he worked under the hood
of a late model Nissan Sentra.
Oh well, he thought, Jap or not, a minor tune-up and valve
adjustment was good for about fifty bucks. Not bad for an hour's
work. The price was not at all out-of-hand, Marvin was a pretty good
mechanic.
He was almost done, ready to replace the cam-cover and take her
out for a test run to make sure everything worked the way it was
supposed to when his wife Dorothy called him into the house to answer
the phone. It was Dean Torkildsen, a friend of Marv's from the local
university where both men worked. Dean was a foreman in the
carpenter's shop and Marv drove the campus garbage truck. Dean had
run into something strange while trying to install a trailer hitch on
the family car. He didn't think he could handle it and could he come
over and have Marv take a look at it?
Marvin told him about half an hour.
He was just parking the little blue car in the street when Dean
pulled up into the driveway in his own Sentra, nearly identical to the
one Marvin had just parked except that Dean's was red and it was a
wagon. Dean grabbed a cardboard box off the passenger seat and
unfolded his long, lanky frame out of the little car. The flaps of
the box were open, revealing a mound of trailer hitch parts, plastic
wrappers, electrical wires, and installation instructions.
"Mornin' Marv," said Dean, balancing the awkward load as he
entered the garage. "Really appreciate you takin' the time to help me
out."
"No sweat," replied Marvin. "What's the problem?"
"Well, everything was goin' just fine," replied Dean, setting the
box and its jumbled assortment of parts down on Marv's not very neat
workbench. He rummaged around in the box until he found the paper
mounting template, turned it right side up, and pointed to the spot in
question. "Until I had to drill a hole, right there, in the frame, to
bolt the stupid thing on." His voice took on a note of concern as he
continued. "I hit something inside the frame rail with the drill. I
don't know what the hell it is, Marv. I mean I've even got the shop
manual for my Sentra and it just doesn't show this thing. I'm really
worried that I screwed something up."
"Bring her in," said Marvin. "We'll put her up on the jack and
have a look."
Marvin stood at the end of the garage stall and guided him in.
When Marv was satisfied with the alignment, Dean turned off the
ignition and again squeezed out of the tiny car, like some kind of
wingless praying mantis emerging from an egg case of red metal and
glass. Marvin rolled his hydraulic jack around to the back of the car
and, with a few powerful strokes, lifted the rear end up off the
floor. After carefully placing two jackstands under the frame to
insure that it was safe, he crawled under the little car to see what
the problem was.
An hour's worth of work poking, prodding and cussing had Marvin
confused too. Dean had drilled right through the middle of some kind
of electrical device. Marv pointed out that Dean had made the mistake
of reversing the hitch kit's mounting template. As a result, he had
drilled the hole in the wrong place. It seemed like a simple enough
error but Marvin had not only checked Dean's shop manual, but two of
his own and no hint of what the thing might be could be found. In
addition, he'd never seen anything like it before and he'd worked on a
lot of cars. Marvin was indeed puzzled.
Dean had obviously destroyed whatever it was or at least severely
damaged it, but the car seemed none the worse for it -- everything
still worked perfectly.
"I'm gonna get my air chisel and open up the hole a little so's
we can take the damned thing out," said Marvin, showing some of his
frustration. "Maybe the Nissan dealer can just give us a new one."
A couple of minutes work with the air chisel and Marvin was able
to remove the mystery part. He disconnected a black electrical lead
and emerged triumphantly from under the car, handing the prize to
Dean, who took it gingerly. The two men then piled into Marvin's 1974
Ford LTD Station wagon and headed off, in plush and smooth V-8
comfort, to the Nissan dealer.
An hour later they were back, as confused as ever. The Nissan
parts man had never seen anything like it and he'd been in the
business for more than twenty years. They had left with the man
chuckling after them, convinced that they were trying to play some
kind of elaborate joke on him.
"Let's open the sonofabitch up," said Dean, after they were again
in the garage. "It's for damned sure wrecked and the car still works
fine. What have we got to lose?"
"Hand me that pliers," said Marvin.
The "thing" was slender canister about six inches long and one
inch in diameter. Dean's drill had hit it near one end -- from the
side. A couple of thin copper wires hung loosely from the rather
jagged hole. Marv peeled back the thin metal skin of the canister
with the pliers to expose the innards of the strange device. After
five minutes of intense concentration, it lay disassembled on the
workbench.
It was really quite simple. There was a small cylinder about
four inches long, covered with paper. Dean's drill bit had severed
the wires that connected it to a tiny bundle of electronic components.
"You ever take a radio apart, Marv?" asked Dean. "I ain't no
expert but that thing looks like some kind of transmitter."
"Could be," said Marvin. "Look at this, the little paper
cylinder has some kind of plastic goop in it."
Their eyes met and grew large as the suddenly obvious truth
occurred to both men at the same time.
"That thing is a God-damned bomb!" said Dean, backing quickly
away from the workbench, his voice quavering.
"What've you been doing lately, Dean?" asked Marvin, taking the
hint and backing away too. He shifted his gaze back and forth between
the device and his friend. "Runnin' drugs? Messin' with the Mafia?
By God, you must have pissed somebody off!"
"I swear to God I haven't done nothing like that," said Dean.
"This is really weird, Marv. It's gotta be some kind of mistake." He
looked pleadingly at his friend. "Marv, what are we gonna do?"
"I don't know! Let me think a minute!" said Marvin. He went
cautiously back up to the device and, without touching it, studied it
for a few minutes. "There's only one thing to do," he said. "We need
someone who knows somethin' about bombs. Let's call the Captain."
"Yeah!" said Dean, with relief. "The Captain. He'll know what
to do!"
E. W. Strang, the Captain, lived only a couple of blocks away.
He was also associated with the university -- as an ROTC officer. He
and Marv and Dean were avid football fans. In fact, they often sat
together on the forty-yard line at the university's home games, which
is how they came to be friends in the first place. Strang was a man
with an interesting, one might even say fascinating, past. Before
getting involved in college life he had served in 'Nam where his area
of expertise had been in that of E.O.D. (Explosives and Ordinance
Disposal) -- Strang had disarmed booby traps and unexploded shells for
a living! He hadn't actually disarmed any live ordinance lately but
he still had the steel nerves and sure fingers required. Well, at
least he was pretty sure he still did. The experience had prepared
him well for his present career -- after disarming bombs and such,
almost any kind of job would have been a snap!
Strang was there in just under five minutes. Trim, athletic and
all-business, he had a military look about him -- even in casual
clothing. He stood ramrod straight with his short, dark hair neatly
combed and parted. The red sport shirt he was wearing fit him
perfectly -- so perfectly that it looked brand new, like it had just
come off the rack and even his faded blue jeans had a knife-edge
crease down the front. He cautiously approached the device on
Marvin's work bench.
"It's a bomb," he declared, after a brief examination. "But
don't worry, it's safe, probably has been since you cut the red wire.
Besides that black lead has to hook up to a battery of some kind.
Where the hell did you guys get this?"
"You ain't gonna believe this, Cap'n, but we found it in my car."
said Dean, still obviously shaken.
"It's a nice piece of work," said the Captain. "This little
cylinder is a charge of plastique explosive. That other thing is a
receiver. Just a simple radio signal and kaboom! You're history.
What've you been doing, Dean? You must have pissed somebody off!"
Dean just shook his head and looked even more miserable.
"Maybe not," said Marvin, his voice muffled.
The two men looked around at the sound of his voice, finally
noticing that Marvin's legs were sticking out from under the car
again.
"I've been thinkin'. The way that thing was buried in the frame
here, someone would've had to go to a hell of a lot of trouble to put
it there. No, by the way it looks, I'd hafta say it's more likely the
damned thing was built into the car, right from the factory!" He
crawled out from under the car, stood up and looked around for a rag
to wipe his hands. He found one, but from the looks of it, it was
highly unlikely that his hands would be any cleaner after contact with
it. Seeming not to notice, he wiped his hands with it anyway.
"Why would they want to do somethin' like that to my car?" asked
Dean, with a puzzled frown.
"I don't know anything about why, but whoever put it there sure
picked a perfect spot," said Marvin. "That thing was only inches away
from the gas tank and the rear brake lines. If that bomb had gone
off, the tank and the brakes would've both gone with it. Your car
would've become a flaming runaway. Not something I'd care to be in
out on the freeway!"
"No shit, Marv," said the Captain, getting into the game. "She'd
have been a handful on the freeway but, make no mistake, that bomb
would've raised a lot of hell even if the car was just innocently
parked in the garage!"
"God-damned foreign-built junk!" spat Marvin. "Wouldn't surprise
me if all them God-damned Nissans had bombs in them!"
"C'mon, Marv!" said Dean, "I know you ain't got a high regard for
Japanese cars, but that's ridiculous -- Even a little sick!"
"Well, why don't we just find out if I'm right?" said Marvin.
"And how are you gonna do that?" asked Dean.
"There's another Sentra right out there in the street," replied
Marvin, "Let's bring it in and see if it's got one of those things in
it too."
The other two men agreed that the idea sounded pretty good.
They immediately drove the little car into the garage, jacked it
up and carefully opened up an inspection hole in the same spot on the
frame where they had found the bomb in Dean's car. To their horror
they found an identical device.
"Ain't that a son of a bitch!" said Dean, "Somebody wanna tell me
just what the hell is going on?"
"I don't have a clue," said the Captain. "But it sure looks like
trouble. If every Nissan in town has one of those things in it and
they start going off, there's no way that the cops and the fire
department could possibly keep up with all the calls! Jesus, what a
mess!"
"Well, what if it ain't just Nissan," said Marvin, listing the
possibilities and ticking them off on his fingers. "How 'bout Toyota,
Mazda, Honda, Mitzubishi -- all those damned Jap cars? Listen you
guys, how many times have you heard about one of those little cars
blowing up when they get rear-ended? If you ask me now, I'd say it's
probably those damned bombs going off that's the cause of it!"
"I thought those were Ford Pintos?" said Dean.
"Don't kid yourself," said the Captain, "There's a lot of
Japanese parts, even on American cars. It really wouldn't be all that
much trouble to build in a bomb like this one. If you weren't looking
for it you'd never find it!"
"What the hell have we found?" asked Dean. Then he scared
himself even more. "Holy shit! Captain, do you really think they
could all be set off at once?"
"Why not?" replied the Captain. "They could use a satellite
broadcast and blanket the whole country!"
"Can you imagine something like the Brooklyn Bridge or the Golden
Gate with twenty-five or thirty out-of-control, flaming little Jap
cars on them?" said Marvin. "The bridge becomes totally useless in
less than two minutes!"
"How about the rush hour traffic in Los Angeles or New York or
any of our major cities?" said the Captain. "That would slow up the
traffic a bit! It boggles the mind -- flaming cars careening out of
control, fires in garages and parking lots and service stations -- the
entire country would be in chaos! We'd be helpless!"
The announcer on Marv's country-western station broke in on a
Merle Haggard song with a late-breaking news headline. He was
laughing so hard he could barely read it.
"This just in from Washington. Ha Ha!" said the announcer, "The
Japanese ambassador has just delivered an ultimatum (chuckle). If the
United States Government doesn't immediately begin proceedings to turn
over the rule of the country to Japan, they will begin to take
action."
"And we thought Pearl Harbor was a Japanese sneak attack!" said
Dean, shaking his head. "It ain't nothin' compared to what this is
gonna be!"
"Yeah," said the Captain, "This time it'll be a sneak attack on
the roads that carry the very lifeblood of our nation, sort of
a...'Pearl Highway'!" Gentlemen, say good-bye to our much vaunted
transportation system!"
The broadcast was interrupted by a pause while the announcer
regained control of himself. The three friends looked at one another.
None of them felt much like laughing. They didn't share the
announcer's scepticism either. They quickly moved both of the little
Jap cars a safe distance away from Marv's garage and waited
expectantly for the action to begin. It was not an overlong wait.
"Kaawump!" The little blue Sentra sedan went up in searing,
smoking blast of yellow flame. "Kaawump! Kaawump!" The red RX-7 down
the block with the "KUTI PI" license plate and the Jones's shiny new
black Honda Accord went too. Here and there even an occasional late
model American vehicle became a flaming car-bomb as a strategically
placed Japanese component went Kamikaze. Marvin did have one small
consolation. In spite of the uproar going on around it, his loyal,
true blue, made-in- the-USA Ford LTD wagon remained untouched by the
carnage.
...The so-called "Pearl Highway" affair will also be
remembered as a notorious sneak attack. But when a nation
initiates a war should its objective be to lose that war?
Or should it instead attempt to create the most favorable
environment possible? The answer is obvious: Wars are
fought to be won! The Japanese nation would have had little
chance against the mighty U.S. Navy in World War II and
they would have fared poorly in the War of 1995 also without
employing these brilliant surprise tactics. Sneak attack?
We remain the only nation on earth that has had nuclear
weapons used against us -- weapons that were used by the
United States of America. Such memories do not die easily.
May the sun shine gloriously on the new empire for many
thousands of years to come!
Honshiro Suzuki
Official Historian
The New Imperium of Japan
---------------------------------------------------
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 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 story marks Phil's third appearance in
Athene, and in no way represents his real opinions
of the subject. In fact, he owns two Japanese
cars, two Japanese motorcycles, and has "nothing
but the highest regard for the Japanese people."
---------------------------------------------------
"Memories of Blue"
By David B. O'Donnell
Atropos@Drycas.Club.CC.CMU.EDU
Copyright 1990 David B. O'Donnell
======================================================================
My friends tell me that I'm in the grip of an "unnatural
possession", but I know better than that. You see, I can't stand the
color blue. Any shade of it. Every time I see something that's blue,
I break down into tears. My psychoanalyst shakes his head, pats me on
the back, and charges me $90 an hour. But that's about the limit of
his help. I don't really blame him, I wouldn't want to have to
counsel me either. Poor fellow has to remove everything from his
office that's blue - he even can't wear blue underwear anymore, I can
tell when he has it on. I guess it could be worse - I could be unable
to stand the presence of green, or yellow. Well, come to think of it,
I can stand the sky, and water and they are blue. But every time I
see someone wearing blue, or a blue Audi drives by, it brings back
memories.
We met, like most people do, by accident. I was at a party in
New York City, given by the new-wave activist artist J------. It was
one of those open ones that everyone seems to know about so no
invitations were necessary. I saw him by one of the large paintings,
a study in blue of the PWA ward at some nameless New York hospital.
He appeared to be studying it intently, until one followed his gaze
past the edge of the painting, to the cluster of pseudo-intellectuals
raving over some small erotic sculpture in bronze. He wasn't
interested in the painting nearly as much as he was interested in what
was in the faded jeans of the "Villagers". Someone - Joan, I think -
who knew us both and had an eye for potentials brought me over to meet
him. I was shy, then, not nearly as reclusive as I have been, but
certainly not an "out" person. You chuckled over the difficulty Joan
(?) had saying my last name correctly, and then proceeded to greet me
in flawless Romanian. At least I thought it was flawless - I can't
speak a word of the language, never had an aptitude for anything more
foreign than a few pieces of Yiddish.
It wasn't much of a meeting, that is certain, and I probably
would have never seen him again, except that somehow we met in the
airport as I was preparing to head out West for graduate work at
Berkeley. I am sure it was fate then for he was going to the same
place, for the same reason. Fate is an evil bitch. At the party, I
was led to believe you were at least moderately well-off, by the
studied way your clothes looked tailored to be second-hand. Your
luggage assured me you were more than fairly well-off, though. It
placed you a few steps up on the social ladder from me, and I was
happy to let it slide by and let us go our separate ways. Already I
could sense a growing enjoyment in staring into your slate-grey eyes,
which constantly seemed to shift from that grey to a deep, almost
midnight blue. In fact I recall clearly having this terrible
fantastic desire to run my fingers through your hair when I saw you at
the gate to our jet; I've always loved black hair, especially in the
curled cut yours was in then and that you favored. You said
something, which I missed, and I was even more embarrassed. Luckily
we were several rows apart, you being in first class, and I somewhere
in the desolate wastes of "economy" class, wedged between a fat,
sweaty housewife from Chicago and a neurotic banker who kept taking
his briefcase, opening it, murmuring incoherently, then closing and
restowing it. He never did a damn thing with it.
Look - I've switched persons already. Sigh. I had hoped to keep
this impersonal, but it's not possible. At least the screen isn't
blue; you and that damn color!
Thankfully the graphic arts program at Berkeley was just large
enough that we seldom crossed paths. But every time, you were wearing
something blue, to accent your complexion. I began to pick you out
across the campus by your clothing, by your lilting voice which always
greeted me in Romanian. By the time we were sleeping together, I'd
learned how to say "Hello" and "Good Afternoon" in Romanian; I guess
that is good, at least.
I'm going to diverge from the usual here and not bother to
describe California. Yes it was sunny and yes there were beautiful
bodies everywhere. The state flower should be a fucking Narcissus. I
managed to get a tan, something next to impossible to accomplish in
the dreary climates out East, and I lost weight. I even joined a
health club, though I soon quit when, passing by one day, I saw you
entering with your gym bag. I don't know why I tried to avoid you
with such fervor - I should have known by then we were fated to be
together, and that I was fated to lose you.
New Year's Eve, 198-. No date, no snow, no celebration with my
new colleagues at the Technical Publications House I now worked at.
Instead I was in a bar - not quite a dive, I decided to step up a bit
for once and enjoy myself, even if it was alone. Now, don't get me
wrong: I wasn't celibate before we met. I am not the best looking man
in the world, but I am good-looking enough to be able to get a trick
when the need for release becomes overwhelming. It all sounds so
lurid now, the one night stands or occasional week-long flings, but I
was never much for permanency either. In two years, I went through
three apartments, five battles with my parents (who still expected me
to marry a nice girl and raise kids - Yecch), two beat-up Volkswagons,
and ten affairs. On the average, I had sex once every two weeks. Not
bad (though I could have done better among the timid sex-starved
Midwesteners where I grew up) but not enough. Funny, isn't it? I'm
mister impermanent, and yet the thing I desire the most in life is
security. "Big Fat Hairy Deal".
So there I was, New Year's Eve, alone, in a bar, with no one I
knew around, staring into a drink. So wrapped up in memory no one
even thought to try and pick me up - or if they did, I was too
absorbed in the colored liquors to care. I wasn't very drunk - I
needed to drive across town to get home later - but I was loose enough
that I didn't immediately cringe when someone dressed in midnight blue
sat down across the table from me. Of course I knew it was you. No
one else smells that color. Smelled, that is. Sigh.
We chatted, though god only knows how, for over an hour. You
were doing well, working on your thesis. I was nearly done with mine.
You weren't seeing anyone, and wondered how I was doing? It was so
obvious, I missed it completely. To this day I think you were simply
too drunk to realize who you were talking to. And I was too drunk to
realize that I was too hooked on you to possibly go home with you. Of
course, we did. I have to admit, it was wonderful. Your apartment
was tastefully done - in blues, of course - and you were far the
superior love-maker. By the third time (it was nearly sunny out) I
meant it when I said "I love you" and you were even replying in kind.
We could have stopped it, then. We should have.
Instead, that next weekend, you called me. I don't know how you
got my number - Joan, maybe? - I know it wasn't listed, and she is
about the only person I still talked to from out East. It doesn't
really matter; the damage was done, and nothing we can say or do will
avert the past. You called, you goddamn faggot, and invited me to a
party of all things - that silly activist J------ was in town, and you
wanted to commemorate our "first happenstance crossing". Sigh. Why
did I acquiesce? I really detested the man's work, it had no taste
whatsoever. I told you that, when we got there, expecting - hoping?
- that you would fly into a huff and take me home, never to see me
again. Not a chance. No, you agreed with me, said that the only
reason you went to his stupid parties was to gaze fondly at the
too-tight asses of the pseudos who always hung around his stuff. I
had to laugh at that, since there were only women at the party that
night (other than the host, his lover, and us). So we cut out and
went to see a film that had just debuted. A mindless comedy -
something with the guy from "Mr. Mom" I think - but we barely watched
it. Instead we held hands! Of all the pubescent things to do. But I
relished your touch, feeling your thin, almost fragile hands, sensing
the warmth of your body through the fabric of your (dark blue) shirt.
It seemed so natural that we would go back to my apartment,
eclectically furnished. You loved cats, you said. That was the
clincher for me, I was yours, body and soul. Three weeks later, you
moved in. Sigh.
Life with you was - wonderful? stupendous? - certainly the most
enjoyable time I ever had. You were witty, you loved cats, you liked
my work, and listened to my critiques with rapt attention. You
weren't pushy, but after time it was clear that in matters of the
home, you were the master. The redecorating was gradual, and at that
time blue was only another color, albeit one I associated with you.
You cooked well, and made me breakfast in bed on Saturday's. You even
gave up your church for me, when it was clear that I was terribly
unhappy going. I loved you with every ounce of my will. How could
you do what you did to me?!
Four years, two apartments - larger each time - and an Audi
(yours) later. Me, a successful consultant to several large
advertising agencies. You, finishing your Doctoral thesis. Five
cats; Malachi, Gabriel, Fuffi, Esmerelda, and Clarice. Joint checking
account. I even started hyphenating my last name with yours. Your
picture was everywhere in my office, and everyone was always
commenting on what a lovely couple we made. Then one day, I came
home, and you weren't there. It wasn't unusual at first; often you
were gone for long stretches of time, putting the finishing touches on
your thesis at school. The apartment felt a little funny, but I
didn't realize there was anything wrong till I went to get ready for
bed, and found your clothes gone. No note. No forwarding address.
No phone number. The police just laughed at me. Called me a "queer"
on the phone, first time anyone's ever done that to me. I had a hairy
fit.
No one knew where you were. Well, maybe Joan. But she wasn't
telling. It wasn't until almost a year later that I heard from you.
Your lawyer called, it was a Friday afternoon in August. I had just
finished off a huge presentation for a large firm in the area, and was
ready to head out of the office to hit the bars. I still thought of
you a lot, but as the time passed, moss grew on your memories, and I
started to go out again. I wasn't seeing anyone, but I was getting
more offers to move in with the guys I was sleeping with. At home,
four cats remained; Fuffi, your favorite, had been struck by a car a
month after your absence, and killed immediately. The decor was the
same, though perhaps a little more of me was projected into the
arrangement in the kitchen. I was becoming something of a chef, with
the resources your books provided. Instead of leaving immediately,
though, I had stopped by the receptionist, to wish her a happy weekend
and congratulate her on her engagement to a nice Jewish lawyer (really
a schmuck but well-off, and from what I'd heard well-hung, so who's to
argue with that?). I had a message, she said. To call some "Shyster
and So-and-so and Sons" in New York City. I didn't know who it was,
but she said it sounded important, so I went back to my office and
called.
I think the entire office heard my scream, though everyone was
conspicuously absent when I finally left the office and drove home.
Your mother called me that night - had been calling all day - she
wanted to contest the will. You had left me everything you owned, a
fairly sizable chunk of cash and bonds, and she didn't think I was fit
to get it. My lawyer talked to hers, and a few months later I was a
couple hundred thousand richer. Whoopie. You were gone. Without a
sound you had left my life, and had gone off to Europe to die in a
clinic. They wouldn't tell me at first, but I knew why. I remembered
that painting, in that trite little gallery in New York so long ago.
I knew what had happened to you.
Of course I was tested, immediately. I was in the clear, by some
twist of malign fate. You died, I lived. I went home and tore
everything down, made a complete wreck of the place. Took three
weeks' mourning leave from work. I even sent your mother flowers. It
didn't help. It's been two years now, since that phone call. I know
you're up there, reading over my shoulder as I type this into the
machine. I'm coming to visit you soon, but not until I get this out
on paper...
----------------------------------------------------
David B. O'Donnell, aka Atropos, is a technical
communications major currently on a leave of absence
from his undergraduage degree. When not sweating
over the keyboard at his job programming for GTE,
David enjoys reading, chatting on BITNET, Connect
and IRC, and dabbling in the "fine" arts. In
addition to the address above, he may be reached at
EL407006@BrownVM.Brown.EDU or LUTHER@MTUS5.BITNET.
This marks David's second appearance in Athene.
----------------------------------------------------
"The Fundamental Nature of Research"
By Kenneth A. Kousen
KAK%UTRC@utrcgw.utc.com
Copyright 1990 Kenneth A. Kousen
======================================================================
On the morning of September 9, James Alton had the dubious
privilege of watching all of his technical problems solved before his
very eyes.
Naturally, he felt elated. To finally understand the problems on
which he had spent his entire professional career was thrilling. Just
as naturally, he was devastated, because he was not the man to solve
them. Worse, the solution as it stood represented a change so basic
in character that it rendered all of his previous work obsolete.
You think this can't happen? You think it doesn't happen all the
time? Wrong on both counts. It has to do with the fundamental nature
of research. Before addressing this, first consider the specific case
of James Alton.
His field of interest was the dynamical behavior of fractal basin
boundaries. Actually, it doesn't matter what his field was. It could
have been quantum chromodynamics, or neural networks, or computational
aeroelasticity, or any of a dozen others. It helped, however, that it
was one of the so-called `hard' sciences, like physics or mathematics,
as opposed to one of the so-called `soft' sciences, like history or
literature. Any time a subject contains problems that have `definite'
answers of some sort, a person's career can be destroyed overnight by
a new breakthrough. It can happen in the soft sciences as well, but
not as often. In this particular case, however, it was the dynamical
behavior of fractal basin boundaries.
James W. Alton, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Applied Mechanics
at the Holmes Center for Nonlinear Physics at Cornell University,
cared more about the dynamical behavior of fractal basin boundaries
than life itself. He remembered the excitement he felt when he first
learned about them, and the thrill it gave him when he presented his
first contribution to the subject. He believed the problems in his
field had a special esthetic beauty about them, and he had built his
entire career on their solution. They had rewarded him with success,
recognition, and feelings of accomplishment, which is as much as any
researcher could want. The dynamical behavior of fractal basin
boundaries was his life.
What happened was this. Professor Alton was one of the world
authorities on the use of Smale methods. He had used them for years.
He liked them, and he was comfortable with them. He had been one of
the first to use them in the field of fractal basin boundaries, and
his results had gotten him tenure. Since then, he had become an
editor for the Journal of Nonlinear Mechanics, had become a University
Fellow, and had signed a contract to write an advanced text on his
subject.
As part of the last chapter of this book, he wanted to include a
survey of the newest results in the field. To accomplish this, he
decided to attend the 42nd annual AIAA/ASME/ASCE/AHS Structures,
Structural Dynamics and Materials Conference, which traditionally held
a session on novel new techniques in nonlinear dynamics. He prepared
a survey paper for this conference, giving the history of Smale
methods in the dynamical behavior of fractal basin boundary problems.
He felt that by presenting this work, he could simultaneously continue
to popularize his methods, encourage new researchers to enter the
field, and deduct the trip as a business expense.
He spent a considerable amount of time on the paper. In a sense,
it was a labor of love, and a welcome opportunity to immerse himself
in the older literature in the field.
As he did so, however, clouds began to appear on the horizon.
Certain fundamental problems had a tendency to reappear every so
often. They generally looked simple at first glance, but had an
annoying tendency to resist solution. Alton found that each
generation of researchers had encountered them and applied the latest
techniques for their solution, completely confident of the outcome.
To their chagrin, the answers never came out quite right. They were
close, but somehow the discrepancies between what they got and what
they thought they should have gotten were always a bit too large.
What usually happened then is that each researcher would attribute the
errors to higher order effects, with the comment that a more detailed
analysis would take care of them. It was a natural, even obvious
conclusion.
It was also wrong.
Don't be so smug. These people were not stupid. If they had
known then what they know now, of course they would have realized that
these errors were indicative of some pretty basic faults in the
current theory. It's also possible that some of them did suspect
this, but lacked the time or the skills necessary to follow up on
their suspicions. This is part of the fundamental nature of research.
You damn well can't solve everything, so some things have to be taken
on faith. If every once in a while an assumption like this gets you
into trouble, well, that's just an occupational hazard. The
researchers were doing the best they could at the time.
James Alton was, naturally, aware of these problems. What had
never struck him, though, was how one particular problem, the
so-called Hyperbolic Singularity Problem, kept coming up again and
again. It had defied all attempts at solution by some of the biggest
names in the field.
He received a nasty shock when he discovered that he himself had
encountered the problem as a young man during the course of his own
work. It had been only a small side detail at the time, but it had
proven necessary to get a solution. He found that he, like everyone
else, had been unable to solve the problem with techniques known at
the time. He personally had encountered the Error That Wouldn't Die,
and to his dismay had swept it under the rug, calling it a
`pathological' case, of no real importance.
Now he knew better. "Pathological, my foot," he muttered.
He dropped his other projects and spent the better part of two
months attacking the problem. He ate, drank, and slept the Hyperbolic
Singularity Problem. Its solution became an obsession, partly as a
matter of pride, and partly because he dimly glimpsed what the
inability of his methods to solve it could mean. There was no reason,
he believed, that the problem could not be solved by Smale methods,
but the problem refused to listen. Something was terribly wrong, and
disaster lurked over the horizon.
He tried all sorts of odd approaches to the problem. Some made
progress; some didn't. One thing he did not try, for the
understandable reason that he had never heard of it, was a technique
from outside his field known as Renormalization Group Theory. After
all, who knew it might help? Who could have suspected? Is it fair to
blame the man in retrospect?
It's funny how much difference little errors can make. It has
happened over and over again throughout history. The change in the
orbit of Mercury due to the effects of general relativity is
vanishingly small, yet the implications of that change altered physics
forever. Before, gravity was action at a distance. Now, it's all a
question of geometry.
Don't worry if you didn't follow that analogy. It doesn't
matter. There are plenty of others. Is the curvature of the Earth
zero, or not quite zero? Has the universe existed forever, or not
quite forever? Can you specify both where a particle is and how fast
it is moving exactly, or not quite exactly? Each answer is, of
course, `not quite,' and the result is that the world is round, the
universe is expanding from an initial Big Bang, and Werner Heisenberg
deserves his Nobel Prize, among other things. The lesson for the
researcher is that sometimes little errors _do_ matter. The question
here is, what happens to the poor sap who missed it?
In the case of Professor Alton, the answer wasn't pretty. After
much soul searching, he decided to center his entire paper on the
solution of Hyperbolic Singularity Problem with Smale methods. He
hated to call attention to the problem, but his basic honesty
tragically won through. He submitted the paper, including several
false tries and a desperate plea (if you read between the lines) for a
solution using his methods.
As luck would have it, his paper was scheduled to be presented on
the morning of the last day of the conference. Immediately preceeding
was the paper by Samuel Ware that would make history.
On the day in question, Alton entered the long, low lecture hall
with trepidation. He moved down the rows of padded metal chairs until
he reached a seat about one third of the way from the podium. Gentle
fluorescent lighting glowed from above, casting few shadows on the
amber carpeting. In front, a slide projector and an overhead
projector both hummed quietly to themselves. He felt that the silence
was deafening, and only made worse by the hush of his colleagues as
they entered and saw him. He tried mightily not to show the
nervousness that he felt.
He basically succeeded. In reality, of course, no one paid him
the slightest attention. They were far more concerned with getting a
good seat for this talk, or discussing the last one with a friend, or
getting a cup of coffee to help them stay awake. The rare individual
who did notice Alton simply assumed that he was nervous about his
presentation. In this case, that was prescient, but nervousness in a
speaker is sufficiently common that it engendered little commentary.
Promptly at nine o'clock, the session chairman introduced the
first speaker. His rather uninteresting paper concerned a certain
extension of the known theory into an area about which few people
cared. This was normal, and is another aspect of the fundamental
nature of research, this time involving production research to fill
out a resume. The only relevant point here is that such events are so
common that its very familiarity helped Alton relax a bit. There were
a few questions afterward, and most of them were silly. Again, this
was normal.
At nine-thirty, the chairman introduced Samuel Ware. This was
far from normal. Ware was a wunderkind; one of the brilliant young
men who published little but revealed entire new continents of theory.
Ware had a knack for knowing exactly what questions to ask that would
challenge the current understanding. Speakers dreaded seeing him in
the audience, as his questions usually drove them nuts.
Was Ware a genius? Who knows? What is genius, anyway? He was
often described as brilliant, but that only means that he was more
intelligent than the person who said it. If one person is ten times
smarter than you are, and another person is fifty times smarter than
you are, the one person who won't be able to tell them apart is you.
All you know is that they both can blow you away without trying.
Ware was one of those people who seemed to be smarter than
everybody.
Incidentally, if you think there aren't plenty of these people
around, you're wrong about that, too. Any professional researcher can
point to one or two. If one of them enters your chosen field, you
just hope that all they do is solve the problems you want solved and
verify the things you did yourself. This is due to yet another factor
in the fundamental nature of research. If you want to make progress
in a field, and you are not in the class of Samuel Ware, you have few
choices. In any established field, all of the easy problems have been
solved, and the vast majority of the unsolved problems are virtually
impossible. To survive, therefore, you either must spend your entire
career trying to work on one of the known unsolved problems, hoping
all the while that it will generate enough of interest to make you a
success, or you have to find a wholly new field, and make your
reputation by solving all the easy problems you find there. The
latter course is risky because new fields are tough to find, but has
the potential to make you famous, at least until one of the Samuel
Ware types wanders in and takes it for himself.
Some time earlier, Samuel Ware had decided that the dynamical
behavior of fractal basin boundaries was "interesting." He had quickly
mastered the commonly used Smale methods, and then stumbled upon the
Hyperbolic Singularity Problem. After some effort, he decided that
Smale methods were never going to be able to solve the problem. He
set about developing a new technique that would work.
Think about what this means. It looks noble on the surface.
Here is a guy that has the stuff of legends, attacking a problem that
had frustrated the best workers in the field for decades. Here is
Samuel Ware, a young, bright individual with a "fresh" outlook, who is
going to succeed where all the rest have failed. Leave it at that,
and it sounds like a hero-worshipping TV movie. But look further.
Someone had to develop the methods already in existence. Someone in
all likelihood staked his career on their accuracy and ability to
succeed. Someone cares very much about these methods, and Ware is
going to destroy that person. It may be necessary in this case (after
all, the problem still has to be solved), but the human cost is real,
and shouldn't be ignored.
Like James Alton, Samuel Ware tried several ideas to solve the
Hyperbolic Singularity Problem. Unlike James Alton, Samuel Ware knew
about Renormalization Group Theory.
After his introduction, Ware proceeded to the podium and began
his talk. At his mention of the Hyperbolic Singularity Problem, Alton
sat bolt upright in his seat. During Ware's subsequent demonstration
of the inadequacy of Smale methods to solve the problem, Alton hardly
moved a muscle. Ware's formal proof that no foreseeable variation on
Smale methods would ever be sufficient caused his jaw to drop in
astonishment.
Ware continued. "It is therefore fortunate," he said, "that the
recent advances in Renormalization Group Theory have allowed the
following reconstruction of the basic problem..."
Alton's brow furrowed in puzzlement. `Renormala-who?' he
thought. `What in the world?'
"... and therefore," Ware said, sometime later, "it can now be
seen that the imaginary time transform solves the whole problem.
Better than that, actually; it removes the singularity entirely. The
Hyperbolic Singularity Problem no longer exists!
"If we take these ideas to their logical conclusion, the entire
field can be reconstructed from the bottom, and the singularities
never appear at all. Were it not for an accident of history, the
original problems would have been developed in this form and the
entire issue would have been resolved long ago..."
He continued in this vein for some time, but Alton no longer
heard him. His wildest dream and his worst nightmare had come true
simultaneously. The problem he had wracked his brains over was now
solved. Actually, all the problems in his field were now solved.
In the process, though, all the work he had done during his
entire career was now made obsolete. Superfluous. Out-dated in the
span of half an hour.
His first reaction was to search desperately for a flaw in Ware's
reasoning, but that led nowhere. He didn't know the first thing about
Renormalization Group Theory, and he wasn't likely to find an error on
the spot. He did know about the Hyperbolic Singularity Problem,
however, and his years of experience in the field made him familiar
with what form the answer must take. Ware's answer looked right. It
felt right. He admitted to himself that it was right.
His next thought was to attack the intruder. He quickly scanned
the room, and noticed that Ware's presentation had left most of those
in attendance unmoved. This was due to one more facet of the
fundamental nature of research; the fact that great discoveries are
almost invariably made in retrospect. Few of the others in the room
had Alton's direct experience with the Hyperbolic Singularity Problem,
and most of them didn't know much about Ware. All they saw was a
person they didn't know presenting a technique they'd never used based
on a field with which they were unfamiliar. Alton realized that he,
and he alone, knew what Ware's solution really meant. Someday the
next generation of researchers would look back at this presentation
with awe and call it the beginning of true understanding in the field.
It would take time, though. Right now, the only people who knew what
had just happened were Samuel Ware and James Alton. If he so chose,
Alton could delay that time of understanding, perhaps indefinitely.
The opportunity was there. He could denounce Ware and his new
technique. Better yet, he could ensure that it be ignored entirely.
All he would have to do was to take the attitude of a patronizing
elder. "Very good, my boy," he could say. "Quite clever. Who knows?
Maybe your little trick will lead to something important someday." It
would be easy. He had seen it done before. These people knew him and
they didn't know Ware. They will listen to the person they knew.
`But Ware is right,' he thought, and his basic honesty warred
with his impulse for self-defense. `Can I betray the advancement of
the field I've cared about for so long?' He simply couldn't, and anger
and frustration welled up inside of him, to the point that he slapped
his fist into his other hand. The resulting noise caused everyone to
stop what they were doing and stare at him.
To understand what he did next, it is necessary to understand
what psychologists call a "displacement reaction." The classic example
is the following.
The arctic tern builds its nest at ground level, digging into the
snow above the arctic tundra. The tern relies on its white coloration
to provide camouflage and thereby hide it from its enemies. One of
these enemies is the arctic fox.
Consider this situation. The male and female arctic terns have
built a nest on the ground and the female has laid her eggs. Now here
comes the arctic fox. Each individual now has a decision to make.
For the fox, the decision is easy. Go get the eggs. Attack.
For the female tern, the decision is also easy. Protect the
eggs. Defend, even at the cost of her own life.
For the male tern, however, the decision is not so obvious. If
he stays with the female and defends the nest, he will probably die in
the process, though the nest will have a far better chance of
surviving. If he abandons the nest and the female, both will
inevitably fall to the fox. What to do? Self-preservation, or
survival of the species?
Such a conflict is too much for the male arctic term. Given two
choices, both imperative and both impossible, he chooses a third
alternative, a displacement reaction. He tries to mate with the
female. Pointless, counterproductive, and suicidal, but at least the
tern didn't have to make a decision it couldn't handle.
James Alton was not an arctic tern. He was a human being, and
though he too was faced with two imperative, impractical alternatives,
his displacement reaction took a different form, one uniquely human.
He laughed.
A chuckle at first, followed by a guffaw and then a full belly
laugh. Before long, he was on his knees, roaring with laughter, tears
streaming down his face. Someone asked him what was wrong, and he
doubled up with laughter and rolled on the floor, waving his arms as
though begging some nonexistent jokester to stop.
At long last he calmed himself enough to return to his seat,
still giggling but under control. The session chairman, not knowing
what else to do, then announced him as the next speaker, which of
course set him off again.
This time he really lost it. He banged his head against his
arms. He made outlandish faces at people around him. He danced a
maniacal dance of glee around the room, until he finally collapsed in
exhaustion at the podium. He looked out at the shocked audience.
"Paper withdrawn," he said, and he left the auditorium.
Samuel Ware found him later, standing in a bay window looking out
over the hotel gardens. It was a quiet place, and relatively
secluded. Ware hesitated for a moment before disturbing the older
man. With a shrug, he came forward.
"Nice day," he said to Alton, looking outside.
Alton glanced at him briefly and nodded. He sighed.
"Congratulations," he said. "That was a nice piece of work."
"Thank you," Ware replied. "I appreciate your opinion."
Alton dismissed the comment with a wave. "Nice of you to say so,
but it's hardly necessary." He chuckled. "As of a few hours ago, I am
no longer qualified to have an opinion."
Ware raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Ridiculous. I think you
were the only one in there who understood what I was talking about.
Those fools," he said disgustedly. "They didn't follow me at all.
But _you_ did. I'm sure of it."
"Yes, well, like I said, it was a nice piece of work."
"Again, thanks." Ware swayed from side to side, apparently unsure
of himself. "Anyway," he said, "that's why I came to see you."
Alton frowned and turned toward him. "That's right. Why did you
come in here?"
"I don't know exactly how to say this," Ware stammered. "I
always, uh, thought that the situation you've set up at Cornell was
awfully nice. I mean, it's very convenient and helpful, and you seem
to welcome new ideas, and---"
Realization dawned on Alton. "You mean you're looking for a
_job?"_ he exclaimed in astonishment.
Ware looked acutely embarrassed. "Well, when you come right down
to it, yes. Everyone knows that the Center is the best place in the
world for nonlinear dynamic research. There's lots of freedom, and
good people there. I sort of hoped you might let me come and join."
Alton stared at Ware in amazement. "Fascinating," he said
slowly. "But why did you come to me?"
"You're the best person there," Ware said, somewhat surprised.
"Everybody knows that. The Center would never turn down your
request."
"I think you overrate my importance," Alton said, but he could
see that Ware plainly didn't believe him. He shook his head. "I
don't understand. I thought you were happy in your present job. I
never heard anything different. What suddenly changed your mind?"
"Oh, the government's okay, but when I started learning about
fractal basin boundaries, I just fell in love with the stuff. It's
great fun." He smiled, wistfully. "I decided that that was the field
I wanted to settle down in. So naturally, I wanted to come to the
Center. You guys are the best, and I wanted to be one of them."
"I see. Why didn't you say anything about this until now?"
Ware reddened slightly. "Well, I wanted to show you that I was
worth taking on. I figured the best way to do that was to solve some
problem you were interested in." He grew excited. "It worked, too.
I'm so happy I found a way to solve that damned Hyperbolic Singularity
Problem. What a bear! It's a good thing I knew about Renormalization
Group Theory, or I never would have gotten anywhere."
"Yes, I suppose it is." He slowly shook his head. "You solved
the problem to impress me. Amazing. Simply unbelievable." He
laughed.
Ware looked at him worriedly. "Boy, you laugh a lot, don't you?"
he said.
A broad grin flashed across Alton's face. "More and more often,
it would appear. Look, the sun's come out at last. Let's go for a
walk in the gardens and talk about the job." He put his arm around
Ware's shoulders to lead him outside. As they reached the door,
however, he stopped. "Oh, there's one condition."
"Oh? What is it?"
"Next time you decide to impress me, please let me know about it
before hand, all right?"
"Uh, sure," Ware said, puzzled.
"Good." He gave Ware an amused grin. "You know, in about twenty
years, you and I are going to have to sit down and have a long talk."
"Really? What about?"
Alton smiled. "The fundamental nature of research," he replied,
and led the younger man out into the garden.
----------------------------------------------------
Ken Kousen is an associate research engineer at
United Technologies Research Center in East
Hartford, CT, where he does not work on fractals,
singularity problems, or renormalization group
theory. He has also met neither Stephen Smale nor
any arctic terns (at least, not yet). He does like
to write though. This is Ken's second appearance in
Athene.
----------------------------------------------------
"Hibicus"
By H. Newcomb
(Communications may be made via Ken Selvia, who can be reached at
UCS_KAS@SHSU.BITNET)
======================================================================
My luck was actually holding up, buy you wouldn't have known it
by the way I was cussing as I dressed that evening.
It was only the fourth time I had ever been trapped into actually
attending a (shiver) cocktail party. Still, I had gone through the
trouble of shocking my family and friends -- if they can be called
that -- by going to a southern A & M college instead of Harvard or
some other such place because I could not stand anything having the
odor of the preppie outlook anymore, and desired to establish a
reputation they would not care for. I'm no rebel, dropout, or hippie,
although you'd think so after listening to some of those people. I
just don't buy the idea that good clothes, fine food and drink,
etcetera, are only earned with plastic smiles and atrophied
intelligence. No Brooks Brothers suits or cordon bleu for me if I
have to read Buckley or Buchanan to keep up with my peers. I'll
settle for jeans, hot dogs with chili, Anderson, and Royko, thank you.
I thought six years away at college would see me safely past the
preppie threat. Uh-uh. Some bastard went and evolved them into
yuppies. Young, upwardly mobile pinheads -- don't have the slightest
idea what the structure they're moving up on consists of, or if it is
stable. Often they live by computer, speak computerese, and don't
know what one is or how it works.
I minored in sociology and computer programming, and took my
major and advanced degree in electronic engineering. I know how to
build a computer from scratch, tell it how to work, tell if it is
situated physically and socially in a stable environment, and I make
more money per effort than any of them I've heard of. Still, one of
them hears where I went to school and starts acting superior. Doesn't
make me the least bit sore, though, don't get me wrong -- it's just
that as an engineer, I hate to see potentially good material made into
a second rate product.
Usually I avoid situations where I might have such encounters,
such as that night's cocktail party I was trapped into going to. My
favorite (well, only, but still deserving of the adjective) sister was
hosting this one, though. Some sort of introduction party. Probably
for some completely useless geek someone else was convinced was an
artist, since she had gone through the bother of pulling in all the
favors I owed her to get me to attend. I suspected that immediately,
and that she cared so little for this party or its guest of honor that
inviting me was a way of getting back at whoever was to blame.
I asked her, but she just smiled. That, more than anything, made
me feel sure I was right and agree to come. It was scheduled for
eight, in highsocietyese nine-fifteen, but Carol (my sister) knew I
didn't hold with that kind of math, couldn't face this sort of thing
straight, and wouldn't stay past ten anyhow, so she met me at the door
right on the dot, led me to a den where we had a quick drink and
visit, then left me to finish preparing myself while she finished
preparing herself. I enjoyed a few drinks, and welcomed a few
individuals who shared my liking for being on time.
Carol was back down at a quarter of, just in time for the real
flow of arrivals to start. It only took twenty minutes before she
signaled me that all the invited guests had arrived. I was a bit
surprised by this at first, then remembered that in this crowd it was
usually a sign that there was another party to hit later. I only had
a small round to make to be done with it, checked and confirmed my
guess about the other party, then found a relatively quiet corner and
sat down to watch.
The guest of honor was really pitiful. I didn't say a single
word -- didn't have to, his pretensions were ripped by a lady I'd
often heard my sister describe -- not unkindly -- as the blankest spot
on the circuit. The crowd didn't turn ugly or get restless, though,
but seemed pleased with the outcome.
Carol wandered by about ten minutes later, so I intruded upon her
and quietly asked, "Mary was really the guest of honor tonight, wasn't
she? A little something to cheer her up or boost her spirits?"
She frowned and nodded, then shrugged her shoulders and said,
"Before you ask, smartass, we drew lots. I expect you to keep your
mouth shut. Don't, and I'll give you another one of these -- meaning
it." She walked off, spiking me close to the big toe. Nothing really
painful, so I grinned at her as a sign I'd behave before seeking out
my quiet corner again.
It was twenty to ten, but the party hadn't been all that
offensive, I didn't have anything on for the next day, and Carol owed
me for the foot business, so I figured I'd stick around for another
hour unless too many other people left and give her bar stock a good
working over. Besides, this one lady had been giving me a very strong
eye all evening, and I wanted to give her a bad impression before I
left lest she try to look me up. I did mention that I couldn't stand
those kind, right?
I even indulged in a rare cigar, luckily having one on hand, but
it didn't work. She came over about fifteen minutes later, catching
me alone, sat down, and asked, "Does it seem likely to you that the
true first law of any physical universe is inertia, and violating this
law is what leads to entropy?"
I had been set to frown and say something nasty, expecting her to
say something polite and brainless. I nearly sprained my tongue
swallowing the comment I had ready, regrouped, and finally grinned. I
still believed she was being pretentious, but her line was interesting
and intriguing enough to play around with for awhile. "It's
possible," I said. "I'm not an astronomer, and don't know that much
about current thinking on celestial mechanics. I am an engineer,
though, and if what I've worked with is any guide, I'd say you got it
dead to rights."
"Ah," she responded. "I thought you looked too real to fit in
with this bunch."
"Your hostess is my sister," I nodded.
"You're Carol's brother?" she said. "That's cheering. I didn't
know she had any good influences."
I laughed. Not especially brilliant, flattery seldom is, but
enjoyable. "Mind if I tell you a story?" she continued. "It'll be
brief."
"Full drinks for us both first," I insisted. "No worthwhile
story is that short."
She cocked an eye at me and smiled. "Thank you! I hope I'll
meet your optimistic expectations. Make mine water, since I've had my
limit, but throw in plenty of ice and a slice of lime."
I took her glass, did the honors, then returned and sat down a
bit closer to be in good position to listen. "This story," she
started, "concerns a man I've known for a long, long time. He and I
have known each other by many names.
"We've been married a number of times. Other times, we've just
been partners in business. It depended on whatever situation we were
in. Basic survival, court intrigues, smuggling, tavern keeping,
homesteading, sometimes just farming."
"A busy life," I observed, feeling slightly uncomfortable without
understanding why.
"Usually," she agreed. "Sad to say, though, I've not been in
touch with him for years."
"Thought about placing an ad?" I ventured.
"Yes. I've even got one written. I know, from past experience,
that he seldom remembers to look for me. Not that he doesn't want to,
or that he's not glad to have me find him. It just is not something
he's learned to do yet, so up to now it's always been up to me. I
don't mind, because he's worth it. The only thing is, I'm not sure
the ad as I've written it will catch his notice. Would you listen to
it and tell me what you think?"
"Sure," I said, reluctantly and nervously.
"Seeking -- long time partner, to resume partnership as per
understanding. Arrival in this area approximately 1958, avoids the
artificial, impatient with phony. Is seeking deeper under- standing
and patience, lessons on which I will trade for ones in his many areas
of expertise, as per understanding. Reply ASAP."
"1958 is not very long for all the things you mentioned," I said.
"The ad seems pretty vague, also."
"I know, but I don't really have any way of knowing what will
stir his memory," she said, looking sad. "He has that skill. We were
hoping I could master it this time around. He always knows what will
ring a bell, whether it would be a meeting, a chance phrase, or,
sometimes, even a dream." "What sort of dream?" I asked.
"Past exploits, usually, according to him. Making wine in
France, selling ale in Williamsburg or Sidney, sailing the North Sea,
fighting in Turkey, making love in a field of hibicus on Vanua Levu."
I was shook. As she mentioned these things, memories of dreams I
had had about similar occurrences had come to mind, but the topper was
her mention of Vanua Levu. Immediately upon hearing her say that name
I knew it was one of the Fiji Islands, but could not recall how I knew
it. The world history I had taken in college had been centered on
European history, and I had mostly taken it because the alternative
for freshmen was geography, which I loathed. Sure, we had spent a
week on the major explorations of the 1400's through the 1700's, but I
didn't remember getting anything out of it. I looked at her
helplessly.
She looked hopeful for just a minute, then sighed. "Oh, well,
don't worry about it if it didn't strike a cord."
"Something did," I admitted, frowning. "I just don't know what.
Something that seems long ago."
"Very long ago," she said, looking hopeful again.
"But you're what, only twenty or so?" I stammered. She nodded.
"I don't see how -- . Except another life."
She didn't reply. I tried to pinpoint my thoughts, failed. "I
don't really believe this story," I finally said. "Too improbable.
Too many accomplishments, not enough time. Even if there were other
lives. The timing would never work out right." Not very well put, but
I was disturbed.
"Timing is no problem if two souls are in agreement," she told
me. "Not that I remember all that much, but I do recall that. He and
I have the arrangement needed. Certainly, we sometimes have bodies
that are out of sync by a number of years, but he and I never have
been."
I had dealt with a lot of weirdness, including a motorcycle club
membership Carol didn't know about, and once talked an armed 'Namvet
friend of mine out of re-enacting the OK Corral shootout, but this
lady stated her thoughts with such self-assurance that it shook me
like nothing else I had ever had to deal with. All I could do was
stammer (without desiring to) "Then these thoughts -- "
"Can be trusted," she assured me.
"Some -- "
"Ten percent are pure dreams."
"And the rest -- ?"
"Are memories, a great deal of which I share," she finished.
"But I'm going to have to leave now. I'm running late."
She stood and headed out. I got moving in time to catch her at
the door and asked, "Can we continue this some other time?"
"Sure, come by anytime."
"I don't know where you live. Or your name," I objected.
"Carol does," she said. "However, I've given you enough clues.
Please, try. Trust your thoughts. If you can, and find me that way,
well, it's not what we had hoped for, but it is a start and may lead
elsewhere faster." She then turned and left.
Five days later, I still hadn't figured it out. But my dreams
have come through now, I believe. Last night, I dreamed once again of
a wide field of hibicus. This morning I checked the city map. This
town does have a Hibicus street, in the same general area my sister
lives in.
Also, according to my encyclopedia, the Fiji Islands were found
by the Dutch sailor Tasman in 1643. It might be the whole story was a
fable, but I have a feeling that 1643 Hibicus is where I'll find out
for sure. I could call Carol and check, but I wouldn't want to cheat.
If I'm wrong, I'll do so then, I guess.
* * *
I couldn't take it, and I was too nervous with the basic elements
of this situation to just go there and possibly make a fool of myself.
I didn't ask Carol, but I did go to her house and sneaked a peek in
her address book. She does have a listing for someone in the 1600
block of Hibicus, though not 1643 as it happens. I don't know if it
is this lady, but I feel comfortable enough now to go find out. I'll
admit I checked after figuring it out if I find her there.
======================================================================
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A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
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