** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- ====================================================================== 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."