DREAM FORGE Lite: The e-magazine for your mind! - - Staff: Managing Editor, Rick Arnold Humor Editor, Dave Bealer DREAM FORGE Lite is a quarterly compilation of DREAM FORGE(tm) ISSN: 1080-5877, which is published monthly by, and is a trademark of: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228 President: Dave Bealer Vice President: Rick Arnold dbealer@dreamforge.com or 75537.1415@compuserve.com =================================================== Table of Contents: ----- -------- Editorial: Domestic Enemies .................. Dave Bealer ...Page 2 DREAM FORGE Interactive - Changing the definition of "magazine" ... 3 TRAVELS WITH LESLIE- a serial of life, eat it. Leslie Meek ........ 5 PANDORA'S DOGS - .... fiction................. Mary Soon Lee ...... 11 MELUSINE REVISITING - ..... fiction .......... Gay Bost ........... 18 Advertisement: DREAM FORGE Goes Interactive! ........... 38 THE EXHAUSTION THEOREM - ..... humor ......... Greg Borek ......... 40 BENTLEY'S RECIPE - .... humor ................ Matthew MacDonald .. 43 GOLF, ANYONE? - .......... humor ............. Jim Rosenberg ...... 46 THE OLANCHA BEAR HUNT - 1st/3 .. humor ....... Bud LeRoy .......... 47 Advertisement: "TRUSS OF VENGEANCE" the movie. Dave Bealer......... 60 VIRUS VERSES - .........fiction .............. Lisa Morton ........ 60 ROADKILL - .........fiction .................. Jack Hillman ....... 67 UNICORN'S FOREST - ....... fantasy ........... Leah Suslovich ..... 78 LUNCH IN THE PARK ...... fiction ..............Francis Kaltenbaugh. 81 Book Review: ALL THE TROUBLE IN THE WORLD .... Dave Bealer ........ 85 Music Reviews/SPIRITUAL ADVICE 'N STUFF ...... Rev. Richard Visage. 86 Poetry -- for you and good too - ............. Various ............ 88 BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway ............... 92 DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates ................................... 93 DREAM FORGE - Official Distributors Wanted (ODFD's)................ 94 - ODFD'S - FAQ's .................................................. 96 Legalities & Where to obtain DREAM FORGE .... Editor.............. 98 Writer's Guidelines ............................................... 99 AWAKENINGS: Puritanical Gardens -- OP-ED...... Dave Bealer ........100 DREAM FORGE Lite Page 1 August 1995 DREAM FORGE Lite (tm) August 1995 Publisher: Dave Bealer (dbealer@dreamforge.com) Managing Editor: Rick Arnold (75537.1415@compuserve.com) DREAM FORGE Lite is a representative compilation of the material contained in three recent issues of DREAM FORGE Magazine. DREAM FORGE Lite (DFL) is freeware, and may be distributed for any non-commecial purpose. DFL may not be modified in any way or distributed with any other product. DREAM FORGE is published monthly at an annual subscription rate of $24 (via regular mail on DOS diskettes) or $12 (via internet email or BBS download) by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike #201, Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 Contact: FidoNet: 1:261/1129 (1200-28800/V.34) BBS: (410) 255-6229 (1200-16800/HST) FidoNet: 1:2601/522 (300-28800/V.34) BBS: (412) 588-7863 (300-28800/V.34) Internet: info@dreamforge.com Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved. ===================================================== DREAM FORGE Lite Page 2 August 1995 Editorial - Domestic Enemies by Dave Bealer Robert McNamara, who served as Secretary of Defense under Kennedy and Johnson, admitted in his recent book that the U.S. involvement in Vietnam may have been ill advised. This confirms what a lot of people have been saying since the 1960s. It also goes to show that nobody is perfect, not even the people who run the most powerful nation on earth. In fact Johnson's successor, Richard Nixon, was so imperfect that in 1974 he became the first President in U.S. history to resign from office. Vietnam and Watergate eroded American's respect for their govern- ment, although there have always been some people suspicious of the power and motives of Federal officials. Recent efforts at gun control have raised the paranoia level of those most worried about their Second Amendment rights. The deadly 1993 federal raid on the Branch Davidian compound outside Waco, Texas brought many of those smoldering suspicions to the flash point. On April 19, 1995 a car bomb destroyed a nine story Federal office building in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Over 150 people, many of them children, lost their lives in the attack. Most of the dead were federal workers, either civilian or military. Like all those who serve the Executive Branch of the United States in any capacity, from the President on down, these people had taken an oath of office upon entering federal service. The most important phrase in all federal oaths of office is a pledge to "Support and Defend the Constitution of the United States against all Enemies, Foreign and Domestic." Car bombings are not a new phenomenon, even in America. Just two years ago a car bomb, set by Middle Eastern fanatics, damaged the World Trade Center in New York City. Because of that attack many people, including members of the news media, instantly assumed that the Oklahoma City bombing had been perpetrated by Middle Eastern terrorists. This despite statements by Arabic and Muslim groups in the U.S. condemning the attack, and cautioning against making rash assumptions. But this incident, the most deadly terrorist act ever carried out on U.S. soil, was perpetrated by domestic enemies. The suspects in the atrocity in Oklahoma are ultra-conservative fanatics who were apparently trying to punish the government for its role in the Waco tragedy. Are these paranoid people terrorists or revolutionaries? Most of them are pathetic losers who can't make it in modern society. Whatever the real cause of their dysfunction, they blame the government (really, anyone but themselves) for their problems. The government hasn't become any more perfect in the past twenty years, but blowing up federal workers, their children, and their customers is not the way to change things for the better. The United States, model for all modern democracies, provides a way to alter the government if you don't like the fit of the current one. It's called voting a new one into office. Many people felt the system didn't work anymore, but in November 1994 they were proved wrong when voters gave the Republican party control of both houses of Congress for the first time over 40 years. That revolution will continue next year when the Republicans win the Presidency and the (non-ultra) conservative agenda really starts to roll. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 3 August 1995 Americans have proven themselves quite capable of defending their nation against foreign enemies. Defending a truly free nation against domestic enemies is far more difficult. There will always be people who oppose the government, no matter who is in charge. For all its faults, the U.S. system of government is the best one yet devised by humans. Those who use the system to change things (including the system itself) are revolutionaries, those who attempt to destroy the system are terrorists. Actually, the fanatics who set off the Oklahoma City bomb are guilty of treason, since "levying war against them [the United States]" is defined as treason in the Constitution. Detonating two tons of high explosives with the intention of destroying a government building and killing innocent government and civilian personnel certainly qualifies as "levying war," if anything does. If the penalty for treason isn't death by some very unpleasant method, it certainly should be. Civil disobedience, up to and including violence, is an old American tradition. In fact that is how the nation gained independence from its European masters in the 18th century. America's Founding Fathers tried to ensure that Americans would always have the means available to defend themselves and their country, a very wise provision. More gun control is not the answer to the Oklahoma traitors. Providing and enforcing severe penalties against those who use firearms (and other weapons) in the commission of violent crimes is the answer. {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Dave Bealer, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as he writes and publishes electronically. Dave can be reached via e-mail at: dbealer@dreamforge.com --------------------------------------------------------------------- DREAM FORGE GOES INTERACTIVE (tm) >> Changing the definition of "magazine" << Description & Organization DREAM FORGE INTERACTIVE (DFI) takes the concept of an electronic magazine one step farther, making it interactive. Delivered as a daily series of e-mail or conference messages, DFI allows the reader to continuously interact with the staff, writers, and other readers. DFI combines the features of the standard DREAM FORGE magazine: * Satire * Commentary * Fiction * Reviews * Poetry * DREAM FORGE Lite Page 4 August 1995 With features not available in a standard monthly magazine: = Tagline of the Day -- new material for your tagline files delivered daily. No need to wait a month for more great taglines! = Who's Online -- a weekly list of celebrities appearing online. Updated daily as changes are announced. = DFI Talk - an open channel to the DFI staff and writers. This open forum allows communications with the staff and other DFI readers. These real conversations beat even the best "letters to the editor" column. ORGANIZATION: DFI is delivered as mailing list messages to an internet e-mail address, or as FidoNet-technology echoes to bulletin board systems. Many internet gateway packages allow sysops to set up mailing lists as public conferences on their boards, so operators of internet- connected boards can make DFI available to their users. Conferences are: DFI-MAG - moderated conference that contains the professional editorial content of the magazine. This is where all the articles, stories, and taglines will be posted on a daily basis. DFI-TALK - a public conference where readers can ask questions of the DFI editors, writers, or each other. Other conferences will be added as needed. Topical public discussion areas and moderated conferences for other types of materials (e.g. photos and graphics) are just some of the possibilities. COST: DFI is available for the same low price as the standard editions of DREAM FORGE. There is no additional cost for internet e-mail delivery. Sysops who want to receive DFI as FidoNet echoes will be responsible for polling a DFI publication system for the echoes. There will be no requirement to poll more than weekly, but the more often you poll, the more often your users will receive new information. Who? DREAM FORGE INTERACTIVE (DFI) is brought to you by the same team that produces DREAM FORGE (tm), The Electronic Magazine for your Mind! -- providing food for thought -- eat it! What? DFI provides the same satire, fiction, commentary, and reviews as the standard editions of DREAM FORGE. It adds timely information about the online world, such as which celebrities will be online in the next week. Plus DFI offers the chance to converse with DREAM FORGE authors, staff, and other readers in conferences available only to DFI subscribers. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 5 August 1995 Where? DFI is delivered to your internet e-mail inbasket as mailing list messages, or to your bulletin board system as FidoNet echoes. When? DFI information is released on a daily basis, with such features as "Tagline of the Day." Articles and other features are released as soon as they're ready. You don't have to wait a whole month to get your next DREAM FORGE fix. Why? Because online citizens have consistently proven that they're looking for more than pre-packaged information. People are online mainly for one purpose -- to communicate with other people DFI combines professional editorial content with the chance to interact publicly with the writers and other readers. This interaction takes place day-to-day, or even hour-to-hour; you don't have to wait to read a "letters to the editor" section a few months from now. ===================================================================== {DREAM} (Note: Leslie's adventures will be serialized in future issues.) =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TRAVELS WITH LESLIE by Leslie Meek ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Adventure Continues, Part 5, (XIII, XIV) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Travels With Leslie August 28, 1993 LAS VEGAS, NEVADA -- Las Vegas is just like buttermilk. Either you love it or you hate it. No one, it seems, can maintain a blase attitude while visiting this plastic, soulless city of obsessions. The glaring neon lights burn as a 24-hour reminder of the city's false promises and its founder's ultimate arrogance. Those who turned on the switches for the first and last time did so assuming they could deceive a human being's innate ability to distinguish the nighttime from the day. The illusion works for thousands of people who walk its casino lined streets at all hours of the day, looking for something for nothing. If they paused to consider who paid the electric bills, they wouldn't be here. But they are here, hoping they will leave with more than they came with from a city that takes more than it gives. I drove down Las Vegas Boulevard with a well-nourished attitude problem. I was tired. I was hungry. I was lonely. I watched the people on the "strip" ablaze with fantasy gone riot and forced back pictures of the long, solitary drive from Corpus Christi. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that, somehow, I had left reality behind, stranded in the desert. I thought back. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 6 August 1995 I had watched through my windshield as the sun set over the rusty orange sand, yucca plants, and jagged out croppings of un-touched stones. From my speeding van, it seemed the cactus trees were holding up two hairy arms toward the sky and pleading with me to stop. Granted, the neck is a bit too long and the head non-existent, but otherwise the trees look remarkably human. With the setting sun behind them, they stand as authority figures over the desert floor. But they seem to become more patient and approachable when the light dims. At dusk, I pulled off the highway onto one of the million little sandy trails that scar the desert. I bumped along through nowhere until the highway behind me was just a tiny string of silent lights. I turned off the engine and took off my Nikes. Leaning back in the seat, I took my first real breath of air since my trip began. "Silence" is an unfit word to describe what surrounded me. The desert whispers to those who listen. It hums for those who dream. I knew only that I was exactly where I belonged at that moment in time. I thought about my friend, Jennifer, sitting in front of a computer screen somewhere, searching for a word that made some sense, and wished she were with me. She belonged there as well, just at that moment in time. When night falls almost all of the desert's creatures, both large and small, respond to their instinctive alarm clock and venture out onto the sand. This is their time to eat, to play and sometimes to die around the watching cactus. They do this without thought. They wouldn't change any of it -- even dying -- because this is the way it is meant to be. Those who survive return to their crevices, holes and bushes to sleep during the day; none of them with even the slightest expectation of another night. As I watched the desert come awake outside, I began to understand the difference between being alone and being lonely. This evening would be all that mattered to creatures blessed with not having to know why things were as they were. Some would find another of their kind and copulate with no less passion than we do, yet, part happily and unchanged. They do not fall in love, because love is not theirs to give or to take. Love is a gift, given all of them as part of a plan none of them would dream of designing or changing. They have only to share it and live it. I realized that I was just another animal put here as part of the same plan. As a human being, I differed from them only in thinking I could somehow change the plan. My loneliness was a byproduct of this arrogance. I had to be alone in the desert to understand that. I belonged there, just at that moment in time. I opened the door and waited quietly. A pack rat appeared from nowhere and tentatively studied a bush some 20 feet away from me. He circled it, then, satisfied, skipped off into the darkness. Soon, the area around me was teeming with animals living their moments. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 7 August 1995 I took off the rest of my clothes, grabbed my purse and some blankets, and wandered out into the night. I did not watch my feet as I made my way between the scrubs. I had nothing to fear from creatures that crawl. Jeni wouldn't fear them either. We would call them by their genus, Crotalus, and understand one another. Most of mankind refers to them as rattlesnakes and watch their feet when they walk in the desert. Our fearlessness stems from playing with snakes instead of dolls when we were little girls and living with boys instead of men when we grew older. We've learned. In the desert, they rattle first. I stopped -- when it was whispered I do so. Then bunched up one of the blankets and impaled it on the needles at the base of a tall cactus tree. I spread out another blanket and sat down. Leaning back against the cactus, I listened and watched and felt. A gentle gust of wind swept by, swirling around my thighs, tickling and cooling me. It fluffed my hair, gently carrying strands and wrapping them about the thorns above me. The sand underneath me gave way for my comfort each time I moved. There was no competition among the crickets that serenaded me and no jealously within the owl that watched. Hours later I was zooming along the highway, nibbling on what was left of an apple. Heaving up and down over the bumps the highway was built on, I was filled with a new sense of determination about where I was going and what I was going to do. The cactus trees seemed to get smaller and smaller; massive four-legged structures carrying power lines into the city seemed to grow even larger. The van strained up a hill, then suddenly, bathed in impossible light below, Las Vegas began lying to me. A metropolis stuck in the middle of nowhere, it was a geographical obscenity. * * * August 28, 1993 LAS VEGAS, NEVADA -- I wonder if Eve would pick another apple if she had it all to do over again. After I had left paradise hours before, I thought I was prepared to go through with what I learned from the past to be a mistake. All of my new-found determination left me when I started fighting the traffic on the strip. That's when the attitude problem ripened. I struggled with the traffic for another block or so and then turned into the parking lot of Caesar's Palace. I parked the van and took out my laptop, the video camera, my smaller suitcase and my "escape" basket. The basket is one of those wicker carrying cases crammed full of stuff like books, poems, letters from friends back home, computer disks and old diaries. I open it up when I want to run away from today. I put the computer inside the basket and locked up my van. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 8 August 1995 The giant hotel and casino loomed in front of me. It was an imposing building, all lit up in an impossible turquoise-blue color. I lugged my baggage to the front of the place and asked the guy standing there in uniform for a taxi. He raised his hand, snapped his finger, and wham -- a taxi zoomed up and squeaked to a halt beside me. I was impressed. The driver opened up the trunk and started loading the baggage. He paid particular attention to the camcorder case. I stood there and watched him. He reached for the escape basket. "No, I'll take it up front with me, if that's ok," I said. He opened up the back door and tossed the basket in. He stared at it as I ducked into the back seat. He closed the door behind me and walked around to his door and jumped in. "Downtown, please," I ordered. "Oh, you want the bus station." "Nope. Fremont street. Motels there below the Nugget." The driver stumped on the gas and we were off. He blended into the traffic with a vengeance. It gave me an inner-sense of joy watching him play out my resentments against the other drivers on Las Vegas Blvd. Besides becoming quickly bored with whatever lane he was in, the driver couldn't tolerate silence. "Fight with the boyfriend, huh?" he said, into the mirror. When I didn't answer he said, "Usually, luggage means the airport. You here on business or pleasure?" "Little of both, I guess." "Oh, I see." He was doing a bad job of hiding a smirk. As he zig-zagged over lines and between cars, I leaned back in the seat and tried to relax. The people outside were all anxiously casino hopping, hoping that the odds would be better next door. I watched them and realized that I was really very much in the same boat. I had come to "Sin City," as it is called by some, for different reasons -- but I was still repeating the same mistake and expecting something different to come of it. "I bet I could guess what your, ah . . . business is." I glanced at the driver and noticed that he had dropped all pretense of concealing his thoughts. So I returned to mine. I wondered about Eve and tried to remember if there was anyone else with an extra rib that crashed into her life. Maybe Adam was enough. Maybe she learned. "The video camera part of your business?" The driver asked, chuckling. "Well, kinda'. I . . . ." DREAM FORGE Lite Page 9 August 1995 "Wow . . . . And what's in that basket of tricks there?" He looked back at me, leering. "You've heard of Crotalus cerastes?" I asked. "Ah, no . . . sounds pretty kinky, though." "Long, thin. It's got little tiny horns on it. Works the same way the sidewinder missile does. In fact, cerastes were around first." "Wow. I don't think I get you. But, I can call in and take the rest of the night off if . . . ." "The missile senses the infra-red heat from a plane's engine. Crotalus cerastes senses infra-red heat too -- from living things. We all give off heat," I continued, pointing to a single level motel off of Fremont Street. He pulled in and stopped in front of the lobby. "Yeah, I'll say. I'm pretty hot right now, if you don't mind me saying. I'm not a `Palace' guy, but I have some bucks. Maybe we . . . ." "It works perfectly in the dark. It's got a little pit in it's head, right underneath it's little horns, that tells it where the heat is," I said. "Cool." "That's why they call them pit vipers." "What the hell?" He spun around in his seat and glared at the basket. "Cerastes kinda' moves sideways in the desert sand, so they call 'em sidewinders. That's where they got the name of the missile." "A Rattlesnake! Jesus!" The driver hit a switch that unlocked the trunk and leaped out of the taxi. He made the trip back to the trunk a lot faster than one would have expected from a man his age. By the time I got out, he had my luggage on the pavement and his hand outstretched for the fare. I know I wasn't doing a good job of holding back my smirk as I stood there, staring at the back door of the taxi. I had left the door open for him. The basket was on the seat. He followed my gaze. "Now, wait a minute, lady. No way. What do you . . . Jesus." I picked up my suitcase and camcorder and started toward the lobby. "Lady, what the hell? You haven't got everything. Come back!" I set my stuff down in front of the door and turned around, folding my arms across my chest expectantly. I just couldn't resist the temptation to buy some more moments. Opportunities like this do not appear often in my little life story of mice and men. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 10 August 1995 "No way. No, lady. Nope." The driver was standing maybe fifty feet from his taxi, carrying on a very intense conversation with himself. I walked back . . . slowly . . . and ducked into the taxi for the basket. The meter read $9 and some change. I hugged the basket close to my chest and started toward him with a ten-dollar bill. When he gestured me away, I walked back and dropped it on his seat. Neither one of us would have considered a large tip appropriate. "I just love it when you call me a lady," I told him, as he crabbed back to his taxi. I checked into a room with two twin beds and two of the same oil paintings on four of the same walls. I tossed my suit case on the bed furthest from the window and picked up the phone. "Thank you for calling the Mirage Hotel and Casino, may I help you?" "Do you have a James Clark registered," I asked. "Yes, we do. Would you like us to connect you?" "No, thank you." I yanked the cord out of the phone and got out my laptop. I plugged the line into the computer, and waited while it booted up. Once I got Telemate blinking on the little screen, I chose The Night Exchange Bulletin Board and hit the enter key. While my laptop dialed my favorite BBS, I walked over to the window and pulled the drapes. The bright neon lights outside were now out of sight and soon, hopefully, they would be out of mind. I don't think much of buttermilk. {DREAM} (Get the next issue of DREAM FORGE to follow the continuing saga.) Copyright 1995 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already knew. She's eager to hear from her readers and can be reached via: U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto Crackpot Connection (816-747-2525). She likes to chat, if you catch her online -- tell her Rick said, "Hi!" ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE Lite Page 11 August 1995 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- PANDORA'S DOGS by Mary Soon Lee =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Ann lit a cigarette and slowly inhaled. The cheap tobacco smoke scraped her throat raw, but the kick of the nicotine unknotted her shoulder muscles. Ann leaned back in the chair, one eye on the clock. Five minutes to four, almost time to go home. Hell, if a call came through now, she'd ignore it. She took another drag on the cigarette, blew a smoke ring gently to the ceiling. The phone rang. Ann turned her back on the customer service screen, and watched the white curls of smoke instead. Two rings, three. "Priority call. Picking up automatically," the desk computer said. Shit. Ann stubbed out her cigarette. Bad enough that the computer could override her line -- there was no need for it to sound smug. She forced a smile as the screen dissolved to show the customer. Her smile slipped into a grin before she managed to control it. Where had the man found that suit? It looked like a period prop for a movie, maybe even manufactured from real animal fur. Come to think of it, the man could have been a prop himself, metal-rimmed glasses pushed up onto his bald head. "Simoco Limited," she said. "How may I help you?" "I want you to collect this . . . object . . . immediately." He brandished a model 232 robo-dog, shaking it vigorously. A gash in the soft orange synth-fur of the dog's head exposed a pale net of optical fibers. The old man must be stronger than he looked if he'd caused the damage. "If the unit is defective, I can order a replacement. We have a wide selection of --" "I don't want a replacement. I don't want your sales pitch. And I most certainly don't want this -- thing -- lurking in my apartment, sticking its steel snout into my private business." "Sir, I assure you that Simoco is in full compliance with the UN guidelines on reasonable privacy." "Don't treat me like a senile dotard, girl. The guidelines are worth rat's spit. I know precisely what that thing's doing, with its beady little eyes watching me." Ann took a deep breath and counted to three. Never raise your voice at the customer. She glanced at the information highlighted at the bottom of her screen. "It says here that the robo-dog belongs to your son. So he's the only one who has access to its video logs." DREAM FORGE Lite Page 12 August 1995 "Exactly! He's spying on me." The old man thumped the dog on the table, and its bright orange ears wriggled in protest. "Now would you please get rid of this thing." "I'm sorry, I can't authorize the unit's removal without your son's consent." "Bullshit. You're the senior service representative on duty. You can issue a recall whenever you feel like it. So shift your backside and get on with it." Beneath the edge of her desk, Ann made a rude sign. Every so often, one of these centenarians would call up wanting their unit removed. At least this one hadn't started ranting about the Good Old Days. Turning to the camera pickup, Ann gave her best saccharine smile. "I'm sorry, sir. We only issue recalls if our equipment is hazardous. Apart from a little cosmetic damage, there's nothing wrong with your unit. Even so, I see that your son requested an auxiliary unit as backup. It should arrive tomorrow morning." "Another one?" the man asked hollowly, all the energy seeping from his voice. At Ann's nod, he sagged in his chair, his mouth working silently. Ann bit her lip. The fragile kind were worse than the Good Old Days brigade. Sitting there, his face all crumpled, the old man reminded her of her grandfather. In the months after Grandma's death, Grandpa would spend whole days alone in his apartment, staring at a 2-D photo of their wedding, not even bothering to look up if he had a visitor. The old man straightened up. "Please. Ann. I'm not asking you to break the rules, just to bend them at the corners. All I ask is a week or two -- find some excuse to recall the units for that long. Please." Ann hesitated. "Why? What are you planning?" "To subvert the government." Ann's eyes widened before she noticed the corners of the man's mouth twitching upward. "Oh, very funny. What are you really doing?" "I don't want to discuss it over the phone. Why don't you come around and see for yourself?" Ann hesitated. "I have a few packets of Marlboros you might care to sample --" "How do you know I smoke?" He shrugged. "I scanned the files on Simoco's employees, cross-checking with the public databases. You're one of the few who opposed compulsory sterilizations in South America, and of those you're the only one who smokes. I can't stand tobacco myself, but I like people who don't just do what's fashionable. So, how about it? Will you come over?" DREAM FORGE Lite Page 13 August 1995 Ann bit her lip. For all his grumbles about privacy, the old man had, had no scruples about poking into her background to try to manipulate her. Contradictory and devious and charismatic -- and that, too, reminded her of Grandpa, but in the years before Grandma died. "Okay," Ann said. "I'll come." * * * The transcity lines terminated half a mile before the old man's address, so Ann had to walk the rest of the way. Even with a robo-Alsatian tagging her heels, she didn't like the narrow streets, fetid with decomposing garbage. Boarded up windows and discolored graffiti-streaked walls loomed above her. The old man had money, so why was he living here? Ann quickened her pace, careful to look straight ahead. From the corners of her vision, she glimpsed faces peering out at her, the whites of their eyes pressed to cracks in the buildings. The route-finder beeped: number 572. The old man's place. Ann blinked. A yellowing brick house squatted between two plas-frame slums, its windows picked out in fresh green paint. Despite the building's age, the walls were free of graffiti. Puzzled, Ann pressed the doorbell. "Mister Warnell?" The old man -- Mister Warnell -- opened the door. "That thing stays outside." He pointed at the Alsatian. "Don't know why you had to bring it." "I don't want to leave it on the street. People might --" "If it stays where it is, no one will bother it." Warnell closed the door firmly behind her. Ann sniffed; there was a rough damp smell that she didn't recognize, a bit like a wet rug, but more agreeable. "Through here." Warnell waved her forward. As they passed a locked door, something metallic scraped behind it. Warnell grinned. "Your robot's in there; I tricked it into a small trap. But first, come see my dark secret." He wiggled his eyebrows theatrically, and opened another door. Wet rug smell and high-pitched yaps assaulted Ann before she sorted out what she was seeing. There were patches of brown fur jumping around the floor at her feet, like miniature robo-pets, but there was something wrong with them. Brown hairs littered the worn carpet. Alive, the creatures were alive. Ann backed away, her throat dry as sand, trying not to inhale. One of the things bumped against her leg, its cold wet nose snuffling her. She pushed past Warnell. But the door was locked. Images from school holo-vids ate at her: the plague, children with their skin peeling from their faces, rats and cats and dogs being hurled into the incinerators. Gulping, she saw Warnell standing there calmly, letting the animals touch his bare skin. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 14 August 1995 Ann forced herself to breathe normally. If the dogs were carriers, it was too late anyway. "The penalty," she said carefully, "for keeping mammals is life imprisonment. But I didn't think there were any left, and I certainly didn't think anyone was stupid enough to try. What if they escape outside? What if --" "They're called dogs, and they've all been vaccinated." Ann shook her head. "No. When I was eight, I asked my grandmother what animals were. At first she wouldn't answer, but I nagged at her. And eventually she told me about the plague. How tramps were shot in the streets because people assumed they were infected. And the morning her mother put the cats out in a box for the incinerator man. I'd never seen Grandma cry before. If there had been a vaccine, people would have used it." "Don't be naive. The military had a vaccine almost from the start, but if they'd used it people might have suspected they knew a little too much about DY22 to be natural." Warnell held one of the puppies in his arms. His thumb rubbed gently back and forth across its fur, but his voice was harsh. "And, as one of the generals pointed out, it was hurting our enemies worse than us." Ann's flesh prickled with cold goose bumps. "That can't be true. Someone would have told the doctors --" "One of the technicians tried. They caught him taking serum from the lab; a week later his name was listed as a plague victim." His mouth twisted. "Hell, it wasn't all bad. At least there are no more rats." Ann stared at the bundle in his arms, a little scrap of fur with pudgy legs and moist eyes. It wasn't what she'd imagined: neither a manic beast prowling for victims, nor the calculated cuteness of the holo-vids. The vids never mentioned the smell. She'd have to do so if she was interviewed: "Woman Who Smelt Real Dogs." One of the dogs bumped insistently at her calves. Ann bit her lip. The vaccine must be safe; there hadn't been any cases of plague in over a decade. She bent over and lifted it up. The dog was warm and wriggled in her grip, struggling to free itself. "Woman Who Held Real Dog In Her Bare Hands." Ann giggled, the situation was ludicrous. "What's the matter with this one? It won't stay still." "Support it properly, and then pat it," said Warnell. Gingerly, she stroked the dog's back. There, it seemed happier, its head lolling against her. Odd how satisfying it was to hold it. Ann stopped that thought angrily, and set the dog on the ground. There was no sense in getting attached to the creatures. Vaccinated or not, they were bound to be killed. When the news had broken about a laboratory in Switzerland that still had live monkeys, UN forces buried the site beneath four hundred feet of concrete. Ann cleared her throat uncomfortably. "You know I have to report this." DREAM FORGE Lite Page 15 August 1995 "And there I was, erroneously assuming you had free choice." Warnell's gaze pierced her sarcastically, before returning to the puppy in his arms. "Canis familiaris, a species renowned for their loyalty and trust, the first animals to be domesticated by man. And, barring any other reckless criminals harboring disease-prone beasts, the only land-based mammals left alive. Other than man, of course. How proud you'll feel when you've exposed my scheme, how safe when the soldiers eliminate the last dangerous specimen." Ann flushed, her fingernails digging into her palms. "That's not fair. You were the one who asked me here. What'd you expect me to do?" "I expected you to have more guts." "You're trying to manipulate me --" "Of course I am! Six hours ago, that metal monstrosity with its prying camera eyes landed on my doorstep. I never guessed that Mark, my son, would do that to me. I'm out of time, and I need your help. Please." "Sorry. There's nothing I can do. Now if you'll unlock the door, I have to leave." Without a word, without looking at her, Warnell undid the door. Her lips pressed into a hard line, Ann marched to the entrance, and let herself out onto the street. * * * Ann knew she should call the police immediately, but she told herself that it wouldn't hurt to go home first, have a shower. They'd probably question her for hours, and then keep her in some hospital isolation ward for tests. She stood in the shower for half an hour, letting three days water ration course down her body. But it didn't help. Even the last of her cigarettes didn't help, the smoke souring in her mouth. Each time she thought of reaching for the phone, she felt sick. But she didn't have any real choice, whatever Warnell said. She wasn't prepared to spend years behind bars because of some old man. Dogs were only dumb animals, less sophisticated in many ways than Simoco's robots. Why did it matter what happened to them? Finally, she sat by the phone, pressed the emergency button. A sunburnt man appeared on the screen, his uniform stretched taut over his paunch. "Police, fire, or --" "Sorry. Mistake." She disconnected the call. Her fingers shook as she selected another number. One ring, two. "Yes? Who's there?" Warnell had switched off the video link. "Ann Connor. Look, even if I wanted to help you, there's nothing I could do. Right?" This wasn't coming out how she'd intended. She tried again. "Suppose I got rid of the robo-dogs for a week, that would only delay things slightly." DREAM FORGE Lite Page 16 August 1995 "Long enough for a friend of mine to drive down to see me." Warnell's face solidified on the screen. "She's a good friend, with a large transport truck. She tells me she's found homes for forty breeding pairs." "Forty pairs? You have eighty --" "Just so. You didn't wait to see the rest of my house. Or to sample my cigarettes." "All right." Ann had the distinct impression she'd regret doing this, but her mouth carried on by itself. "I'll come back over, take your robo-dog away. But that's all. Okay?" Warnell grinned. "It's a start. Thank you." * * * Ann sat in her office, waiting for Warnell's son to phone. Every day for the past nine days, he'd called at precisely noon. She took a final drag on her cigarette, and braced her shoulders. The phone rang. Gritting her teeth, Ann pressed the receive button. "Mister Warnell, what a surprise." "Ms. Connor." Warnell, Jr., lounged in an executive water chair, his scarlet tunic conspicuously filigreed with designer holos. "My lawyer tells me that the two Simoco units are still on your premises. Is that correct?" "I'm afraid so. Their diagnostic routines are --" "Don't bother to fabricate another excuse. At first I assumed you were merely incompetent. But it's become clear you're deliberately stalling. Unless both units are installed within the hour, I'll ensure that you lose your job. Is that understood?" "Yes, Mister Warnell," Ann grated. Her blood pressure was doubling, and her jaws ached from her frozen smile. "But if you would just give me a little more time, I assure you --" "You have one hour. I'm confident you'll decide to cooperate." That smug, self-assured -- Ann flicked up the volume of her outward transmission. "You pompous asshole. I'd rather lose my job than help you spy on your father. It's none of your business what he does in his own home." "But it isn't his own home," Warnell, Jr., murmured. "Under UN rules I assumed legal guardianship on his hundredth birthday. Purely for his own best interests, you understand." He clicked the disconnect, and the screen flickered back to Simoco's logo. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 17 August 1995 * * * Ann hummed to herself as she approached Warnell's house. In the autumn sunlight long shadows flowed across the buildings, the light piercingly clear. She felt as though she'd been turned inside out, upside down. She'd lost her job, yet she was happy. A sheet of plastic shifted in one of the windows, and a boy peered out at her openly. She waved at him, then jumped as a man appeared beside him. "Ann?" Warnell leaned out of the window. "Come in here for a minute." The front door creaked open. Cautiously, Ann stepped through. There was a wet . . . doggy . . . smell in the hallway. Warnell ushered her into the single downstairs room. Two foam beds were folded against the walls, a small rusty cooker in the corner, but the place was clean. And in the center, clutched in the boy's arms, was a golden-brown puppy. Warnell nodded at it. "Half Labrador, half the Lord knows what. And this is Thomas, he's minding the dog while the others are out." "Hello, Thomas." The boy sniffed noisily. "Hello. Don't mind if you sit down." Taking that as an invitation, Ann eased down onto one of the beds. "Thanks." She looked around, noting the three hardcopy books on a makeshift shelf, the neatly patched clothes. Warnell raised an eyebrow. "Not what you expected?" "No, I, that is, on the vids . . ." Ann stopped, unable to continue while the boy was listening. "On the vids, unemployables are always criminals. That doesn't make it the truth. Don't watch like a dope-dulled idiot -- think for yourself." His mouth twisted sourly. "Not that I ever did." Ann sat there awkwardly, her cheeks hot. She played with an object in her pocket, taking it out as the silence stretched. "What's that you got?" The boy gazed round-eyed at her. Glancing down, Ann focused on the little hand-carved dog with its pointed muzzle. "The man in the antique shop said it was a Border collie. Here, you can have it." "For real? I can keep it?" "Sure. I was going to give it to Warnell, but he won't mind." She glanced up at Warnell, but the old man didn't respond. Ann frowned. "Maybe I should come back tomorrow. Warnell?" DREAM FORGE Lite Page 18 August 1995 He didn't react as she stood up. "Warnell?" She laid her hand on his back. "Is something wrong?" "Sixty-nine years," he muttered. The muscles bunched in his arms, and he swung round. "Sixty-nine years ago to the day. I was eating oysters in a French cafe when the lab director phoned, priority message. There'd been a power surge, half the networks had gone down, and several of the DY22 rats were missing." He shook his head. "I'd never had any qualms about our research, thought we needed to maintain a covert strategic advantage. Arrogant, self-deluded fool." His voice trailed into silence. For a minute, Ann couldn't think of anything to say. She stared at the old man, at the boy crouched on the floor beside him, his arms wrapped tight round the puppy. There was an odd pressure in her chest, and her voice emerged thickly. "You've done what you can to make up for it. Just standing there blaming yourself won't help anything." She paused. "Besides, you're a centenarian now. I thought that meant you weren't responsible for what you did." Slowly, Warnell looked at her. His mouth crooked into a smile. "Are you calling me old?" Ann grinned at him, her throat too full to speak. {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Mary Soon Lee, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Mary, a Brit, is now living in PA, and has been writing fiction for over 3 yrs. Her most recent success can be seen in F&SF May 1995 (out now), with others seen in ABORIGINAL, GALAXY, PIRATE WRITINGS, and ON SPEC. She can be found at: mslee@cs.cmu.edu ===================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= MELUSINE REVISITING by Gay Bost -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The birds had alerted him to what lay on the beach. Sea gulls swooped and landed, only to rise, screaming, for the beach. He'd left his glasses on the hood of the pickup and didn't care to go back for them. He didn't really need them to see. They were for distance. He'd bridge the span between what lay on the beach and himself soon enough; an elongated lump of something, seaweed covered, more than likely a dead seal. But the sea gulls didn't so much fight over the spoils as fuss and announce to each other, in excited voices, that something special was there. He likened the sound patterns to those they made on days he scattered potato peels from the catwalk of the lighthouse. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 19 August 1995 As he neared it he thought the seal might be alive. The gulls danced around the body and chattered at it. He could imagine them encouraging it to go home. The closer he got, though, the less sure he was of his impressions. Whatever it was seemed to be partially wrapped in a dark coat or blanket. "Dead body," he thought, "Junkie or victim of life gone sour." It happened, if the tide was just right. His dread rose like bile, threatening to choke him. There'd be the sheriff's office and the county coroner tracking up and down the beach, banging on his door for coffee and answers he couldn't possibly have. He wasn't fond of the new sheriff, great hulking oaf with tobacco wadded into his cheek, constantly casting about, looking for somewhere to spit. Not in his lighthouse. He stood over it and looked down, vision half clouded by the thought of inquiries. They always brought a rash of questions about a man who preferred to spend his time alone with books and machinery. Like some bell going off in the heads of widows, divorcees and spinsters, they'd remember, the women would, that there was a man, alone, in dire need of baked goods and solace. "Now look what you've done," he accused the body. He squatted, sitting on his heals, talking to the thing. Sand matted hair glittered in the morning sun. It was, indeed, wrapped in a blanket, or the thing was tied on somehow, a lightweight shawl sort of thing with bedraggled fringe. Seaweed had woven itself through arms and around feet, wreathed itself around the neck. He reached over and pulled on the covering, rolling the body onto its back. Female, then. The blanket covered most of her, seaweed the rest, but the unmistakable swell of breasts beneath told him gender. He brushed the hair away from the face and tilted his head. "Indeterminate age," he pronounced. He looked more closely at the inside of one arm. No needle tracks. "Who knows," he said to it, her. "Was life a bit too much for you, then?" The fingers curled, loosely, weakly. The shock set him back and toppled him onto the sand. He caught himself on both hands, set behind him into the harsh grains. He stared at the fingers. They curled a bit more, the hand moving a fraction of an inch. He scrabbled forward and lifted her at the shoulders, peeled back one eyelid. Blue gray and very much alive, it focused on him as if she hadn't the strength to open it herself, but now that someone else ad she could see. She blinked. He felt for a her pulse at her throat, wanting to know how weak she might be, whether to call an ambulance or get her up himself. She blinked again, tears rolling from her eyes. Her heart beat strongly, though it seemed rather slow. "Well you're alive," he said. "Did you want to be?" She tried to speak. He could feel a spasm beneath his supporting arm. He rolled her onto her side, though he thought she must have lost most of the sea water while she was on her stomach. A patch of slickly gleaming something lay on the sand where her face had been. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 20 August 1995 "Well, shall we dance?" he asked, standing. He thought he saw her torso shaking as he bent to lift her, seaweed, blanket and all. "I'll lead." He felt her laugh, then, a quivering, pitiful laugh released to rattle through what must be a very painful throat. She'd taken water into her lungs and kept it. Pneumonia would probably follow her survival. The gulls scolded him, running alongside, screaming at him from the air, hovering as he took her back to his world and out of theirs. "You've made friends and influenced people in your stay here," he told her, looking into her face. "I don't suppose you'll get any lighter as we go along, though." She'd already acquired ten pounds. His arms ached by the time he got her to the pickup and set her on the tailgate. He propped her there against a barrel and went into the shed, seeking an old coffee cup he knew was there, and water. He returned to find her head slumped forward onto her chest, the fingers of one hand tangled in seaweed. He lifted her chin with one hand and put the cup to her lips, carefully tilting and wetting her mouth. He eyes flew open. She had decided she would live, it seemed. She sipped, slowly, licking her cracked lips often, stopping to swallow in obvious pain, sipping again. "I'll call into town and get you some help," he told her when she seemed revived enough to hold herself erect and help him hold the cup. Her fingers racked across the back of his hand, and "No," she whispered harshly. "No." She frowned. He looked into the eyes so like a cold morning sea seen at a distance. She didn't plead. She didn't beg. She instructed. 'No'. His own brow furrowed, multiple lines in his high forehead. "Hmm," was all he said. She finished the cup of water, looking over its edge at him, sip after slow sip, seeming to know what she was about. "Shall I call a cab for you, then?" he inquired. She tried to clear her throat, undoubtedly ready with a scathing remark, but winced, instead. She sighed, an ironic little smile shaping her lips. He nodded. "I'll get you some clothes. You seem to have ruined your gown." The smile grew. He shook his head and turned toward the lighthouse. "Towel," she croaked, her hand at her throat. She was picking sea weed from her blanket wrap with the other. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 21 August 1995 "But of course." Fortunately he kept a set of work clothes in the cabinet just inside the door. Unfortunately, there were no towels. The bathroom was in his living quarters one level up. He hadn't realized how much the burdened trek back up the beach had cost his legs until he took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the first landing and massaged his calves, thinking, wondering if he'd lost his mind. He fully intended to deposit the woman on the cot he kept in the control room, fully intended to drag it down from that elevation and ensconce her in his living quarters. But not until she'd shed some of her dirt. That being his main concern, he filled a plastic bucket with warm water from the kitchen sink while he went to get the towel. She'd managed to loose most of the larger strands of seaweed. They littered the tailgate. She'd pulled her hair out of her face and tucked some of the matted strands behind her ears. She'd also untied or otherwise unfastened the blanket. She had been, of course, quite naked beneath it. He looked away, watching his feet, watching the water steam and slosh in t he bucket. He hadn't expected to come back and find her sitting primly in lace and woolen skirts, but the sight of her sitting upright, shoulders squared, healthy chest bared ass he brushed sand from herself, stirred him. It was the shock, of course. That, or nights dreaming of a woman coming to him from the sea. He lifted the bucket onto the tailgate and handed her the towel, pointedly looking at her face. She extended her hand to him, palm down, expecting something his mind could not, at present deal with. He looked at the hand. She rolled her eyes, a sign her interpreted as exasperation, and took hold of his forearm, jiggling forward to get down from her perch. The jiggling didn't help. She jiggled quite nicely. He assisted her, then, her hand grasping his arm tightly, depending on him to support her weight as she dismounted. She stood, braced against the edge of the tailgate, firm thighs suddenly long and shapely, the blanket abandoned totally. She lifted her face and croaked, her voice sounding a bit stronger, "Will you play mother?" "What?" He was at a loss. "Pour," she instructed, stretching her neck and tilting her head upward. "Of course. Sorry." Lifting the bucket he doused her with half the contents, watching her move her hands swiftly over her body. She turned, then, presenting him with a previously unseen view. There were marks on her back, a waffling, as if she'd lain on some kind of grate and been bruised just beneath the skin. He poured again, watching the muscles in her back move as she lifted her arms and ran her hands through her hair. She picked the drop splattered towel up and applied it to her hair. He warred with himself, then, wanting desperately to watch her jiggle from the front and needing very much not to take his eyes from the view of her rear. "You've been injured," he managed to say, swallowing suddenly and discovering he hadn't done that in a while. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 22 August 1995 "You should see the other guy," she said. She turned and handed him the towel, plucking the shirt he had brought off of his shoulder where he'd draped it. She buttoned it with trembling fingers, obviously at her end. "Now what?" Each time she spoke she swallowed hard and winced. "Breakfast, madam?" he asked, recovering, extending his arm in a gentlemanly manner. "Coffee?" Surprised at her tone, he angled his head to look into her face. There had been a desperate plea in that voice. "Pots and pots of it," he assured her. "And only one flight of stairs." She groaned and stepped away from the tailgate. Her knees buckled. He caught her, an arm wrapped around her waist, tightly. She smiled, ruefully, up at him. He found himself gazing into her eyes, aware of her having spoken, but lost as to what she'd asked. She waited, expectant. She winced as she prepared to repeat her question. "Bathroom?" she prompted. "Ah," he exclaimed and supplied the information. She rose slowly, but on her own, and left the table. A cup of coffee, steaming, sat before her next a nibbled piece of toast. He looked at his own cup, held tightly between both hands, and swallowed audibly. He didn't remember coming up the stairs, pouring coffee, making toast, or seating her at the table. The cup in his own hands was half full. He stared into it as if the lost time would be revealed to him within it's depths. She took sugar, no cream. Or she had, today, for the energy. There was a hard lump in his throat. Behind him the bathroom door closed. In the silence he heard the light switch being flipped. The shower door creaked open and the water began to beat against the enclosure walls. He remained still, hearing everything. There was a sense of waiting, a calm before a storm, perhaps, but unlike any he had known before. He had a sudden urge to bolt up the stairs to the watch room and scan the weather reports. He felt certain something should be happening, something was missing. She seemed to take an unusual amount of time in the shower. He grew concerned that she had passed out. He thought he would go to the door and call to her, but found himself unable to do so, unable to do little more than stare into his coffee, waiting. He occupied himself with thoughts of work, of routine chores awaiting his attention, of logging in to the forecast channels, of storm clouds rolling in from the west the night before. Yes, that was why he had been prowling the beach; looking for storm wrack. It seemed he had found it. Suddenly, without forewarning, her hand was on his shoulder. The sense of waiting lifted. With the speed of a summer squall the swiftness of lightening striking a silent headland, he found himself with an erection. The hand upon his shoulder applied pressure, as she stopped to catch her breath. The muscles in his back stiffened, a steel hard response to her need. The moment passed. Her hand lifted and she moved to the chair, collapsing into it with a self satisfied grin. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 23 August 1995 She shared her triumph with him as guilelessly as a child. In her hand she held a comb, one she had found in the bathroom. Her face glowed softly, clean. Her tangled mass of hair hung down the back of her neck, soaking the shirt. Her arms lifted to her head, throwing her breasts into relief inside the shirt. He swallowed, again, knowing he had to get away from her before he revealed his own need. He rose, mumbling, "I have work." She stopped her struggles with her hair and held the comb out to him, eyes gently pleading. "All right," he assented, taking the comb from her and going round behind her. She'd made the mess worse, washing it, more than likely scrubbing at it with vigorous movements. He closed his eyes and imagined her doing that, breasts uplifted and jiggling with the movement, all the while his hands touching her damp hair, dragging the comb through the tangles. She sat patiently, enduring his inexpert touch, her head bent forward. The ends had begun to dry and curl by the time he'd finished, yet he continued. At last her hand came up and found his, stopping him, gently. "Long time," she whispered, the harshness of her voice beginning to smooth out. "Yes," he answered. "A long time." He tossed the comb onto the table. "I'll bring a cot down in a little while. There's a bed just the other side of the bathroom. Get some rest. I'll wake you." "Thank you," she said, turning to look up at him. She looked like she would say more, but thought better of it. At his nod she turned back to the table, picked up the cold toast and began nibbling at the edges. He set the coffee pot on the table before he left, knowing she was still too weak for unnecessary activity. The shower had exhausted her. "You clean up nice," he offered over his shoulder. * * * She dreamt strange dreams and woke with a start, a cold sweat stinging in the scratches on her back. She rose stiffly, wondering if there was, at least, one muscle that hadn't been strained in her ordeal. There were thick drapes on one wall, tiny slashes of light breaking through where the fabric was worn. She wanted sunlight, wanted the day to warm her, wanted . . . . She parted the drapes and found herself looking at the sea through a window which occupied most of the wall. "It's a lighthouse," she reminded herself, and wondered what a lighthouse keeper did. Surely there were electronics and mechanics to operate the light. There must be a control room of some kind. She imagined something like the bridge of a great ship. She knew nothing of the area, knew nothing of fishing fleets or pleasure craft, nothing of the people who lived this life. She barely knew the sea from which she had come. There was a taste to it, an oiliness she found repugnant. The gulls, though, she felt she knew. She smiled at their eternal antics. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 24 August 1995 The tide was coming in. Something below had attracted their interest, their avarice, some morsel the oceans had tossed up for their amusement and now threatened to take back. A dead fish, perhaps, washed forward to tantalize them, to test their agility and intelligence. She felt the sea did that, especially to its inhabitants. There was a long history of such. The room itself drew her interest. Books lined one wall, neatly arranged, their bindings even with the edges of the shelves. A set here, their even color and size somehow reassuring compared to the riot of color and diversity of sizes displayed elsewhere. A small desk, a comfortable chair, a table with a lamp and various personal items scattered about its surface. The kitchen and bath had been spartan, practical. Here, in his sanctum, were the signs of his presence. She thought of his hands in her hair, the steady strength in his arms and the consideration he had shown a stranger. Lonely, perhaps. Lonely enough to risk the invasion of his sanctum? And then she remembered the humor. She chuckled. Dance, indeed! She crawled back into the bed, snuggling into his pillow, wondering what his dreams held, what essence had soaked into the soft downy feathers beneath her own head. * * * Damned if she hadn't stripped! The shirt he'd loaned lay at the end of the bed. She'd mussed his covers and pulled them loose at the foot. Her hair spread out over his pillow, half covering her sleeping face. She slept restless, evidently, sheets twisted and tucked, a corner grasped in long fingers. He stood in the doorway, the cot folded and tucked under his arm. It seemed a ludicrous thing of canvas and wood, odd angles drawn together, poised to attack the floor space that was chosen for it. He set it against the wall, meaning to put it up in the kitchen later. He wished he had the key to Rob's room, then. He'd let her sleep in his relief's bed and ruin his covers. The cot seemed so small considering the way she'd sprawled and turned in the bed. He doubted she'd be able to stay on the smaller piece of furniture. There'd been an advisory, a tropical depression threatened to come ashore in the south, scattering its tempers along the coast to invade his domain. He wanted his bed. He would be up most of the night and he wanted his bed, now, for a nap. He watched her breathing, watched the curve of hip and leg beneath the sheets from across the room. He'd feed her, again. Cook something nutritious and wake her. Soup. A hearty stock with meat and vegetables. He thought there might be something made up in the freezer. A chowder. Yes. And yet he stood, watching her breathe, her shapely arm stretched out, the long fingers curled in dream, grasping at who-knew-what. She drew a knee up in her slumbers, tucking it into her stomach. The resultant curve sent his pulse racing. Damned if she hadn't stripped! He turned and nearly walked into the door facing, demanding of himself, "Soup!" DREAM FORGE Lite Page 25 August 1995 The rattling of pans would wake her, the smell of food draw her from the room and save him the turmoil of bending over her as she slept. He rattled and dropped, cussed severely in his agitation, banging spoons and plates, envisioning her coming to the door, rushing naked into the kitchen to see what was the matter. Instead, a drowsy eyed face peered round the door, disappeared only to return, frowning. A moment later she came out, the shirt buttoned to the throat. She went to the sink and turned the tap, getting herself a drink of water, filling the mug she had used earlier and leaning against the counter to watch him, silent. "There's a storm coming up coast," he said, standing at the stove, banging a metal spoon against the interior of a metal pot. "I see that," she said, smiling. Her voice was a throaty velvet, a lilt of laughter barely concealed. He felt flush. "Tonight?" she asked, holding his eyes. "If it moves as predicted." "Who predicts the storms here?" Something in her question disturbed him. He scowled. "The National Weather Service, of course." "Ah, I see." She sipped at her water, looking every bit as if she didn't see, at all. She took a seat at the table, sliding the chair across the floor without scraping it. He left the spoon to rest on the counter, wiped his right hand on his pant leg and extended it to her, "I don't believe we've been formally introduced," he said. "Ethan Quarrels, at your service." "Melusine," she returned, lacing her fingertips in his palm, touching the inside of her thumb to the back of his fingers in a way he found both disturbing and highly sensual. "A stage name?" he asked, smiling slyly. "Pardon me?" She looked up at him with genuine perplexity. "The name: Melusine. Is that a stage name?" "No." He felt a chill sweep across his shoulders as he attempted to look deeper into her sea gray eyes. He could have sworn they had been blue that morning. "There's soup and then I'm to bed. I've brought a cot down for you." "Yes, I saw it. Thank you." He returned to the stove, dishing up their meal, feeling something trying to dig itself free from his memory. Her presence, her quiet regard seemed to prevent that. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 26 August 1995 "Thank you, Ethan," she said, smiling, as he set the bowls on the table and handed her a spoon. * * * He stood on the catwalk, listening to the ever present pulse of the sea, its life a promise. A solid bank of fog stood offshore 5000 yards or so, more a wall of security than a threat. He'd walked this way a thousand times, a thousand nights, just so. That fog bank never came any nearer. A slight chill alerted him to the fact that he was naked, the cold metal railing a line of ice just below his right knee. Something flashed along the shoreline. A familiar warmth spread through his loins. She was coming. The flash was Her pendant, silver nestled between ample breasts, bobbing as She drifted above the sands toward the lighthouse. He knew Her face, knew ever line, every contour, every tiny smile and frown wrinkle. He knew the scent of Her hair, the taste of Her lips, the dewy honey texture of Her love. She came to him often, here, in the dark, drawn to him, drawn to the lighthouse, by his need. He was often alone, but never lonely, until he walked the catwalk. The She would come. In eager anticipation he watched Her. She would look up, soon, and see him. She would smile, brush the hair back from Her forehead and crane Her neck as She blew a kiss up to him. And then She would run. His excitement would mount as She slammed the door open, in Her haste leaving it open. He would run to his room, fling the door open and find Her there, waiting, her arms held out for him, Her thighs parted, Her own desire glistening in the fog misted moonlight as it seeped in through the observation window. He thought, tonight, he would run ahead of Her, not wait for Her to look up. He left the surety of the rail and made his way back to his bed, smoothing the sheets, laying himself upon them, his erection held loosely in his fingers. Any minute She would come through the door. She might laugh at him, but She would come. She might tease him over his anxious behavior, but She would hold her arms out to him and drawn him into Her depths. He stroked himself, once, just as the door came open. She stood, long dark hair still adrift in the wind of Her movement, laughing. Her eyes shone with a memory of the moon, delighted. Full breasts rose and fell with Her breaths. Her creamy thighs whispered passionate promises as She walked across the floor. Something jarred him. Something was wrong. He sat up, his fingers still curled around his manhood. She'd never touched the floor before! She smiled, strangely, unfamiliar curves giving an impish character to the face. A face subtly changed. She came to stand at the foot of the bed, body contours changed. She licked her lips, breathing deeply through flared nostrils. She watched him, Her dark eyes, too light, drawn to his hand, the hardness within it. They rose to meet his, a question She had never asked before. He blinked, once, twice, trying to get Her back into focus. She should flow to him, her love a sweet fluid to quench his thirst. Instead his mouth was dry. His fingers curled more tightly, stroking slowly. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 27 August 1995 "Long time," She whispered, drifting to the window, staring into the fog. "No," he said, not liking the conversation. "Come to bed. Come away from the window." "There is a castle," She whispered. "I thought this was a castle." She turned from the window, Her back against the glass, Her form outlined by moonlight and the eternal fog bank. "Too long?" She asked. "What have you done with the sun?" She came to the bed then, stood beside him, reached to touch the back of his hand as it moved up and down. She leaned to kiss his brow, whispering something he couldn't quite hear against his temple. * * * "What?" "I said `the fog is rolling in fast'". Melusine stood in the open doorway, her hair a wild halo of light against the brighter light of the kitchen behind her. Guiltily, he looked down his own length, relieved to find himself covered. "All right. I'll be right out." The door closed behind her. He stared at the solid rectangle, the memory of a dream gone awry fading swiftly. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and looked at the shrouded remnants of an afternoon sun as it grew dimmer. He had no time to wonder why his mouth was so dry, no time to think about the visitor he had taken from the beach that morning, no time to dwell upon the unrelieved tension which lived in his groin. On automatic reflex he dressed, left the dream, left the room, left the strange taste of change behind to tend to his job. Melusine sat on the edge of her cot, bare legs dangling comically from the wooden bar rail. Her toes buffed the floor in little circles. He paused briefly in his rush to tell her she could come up and watch the operation if she had a mind, later, if she felt strong enough. She smiled a weary little smile and nodded. The was an indefinable sadness about her, but he had no time for that, either. The radio was chattering ceaselessly. Of course some fool had gone out, gambling against the predictions, gambling against the storm, the fog, the sea. His light, a beacon reaching deep into the gloom strobed far past the boat's location, a visual guide for fools who took their navigation lessons too lightly, forgetting where the land was. The Coast Guard was on this one. It was early. Much later and this lost wanderer would be left to drift while those in greater need and danger were tended to. They must have been close to his location at the onset. Ethan scanned the weather reports, the radar feed and the text screens. This was his most vital duty. Most lighthouses were fully automated, requiring only maintenance and repairs. Most keepers were electricians and general handymen. Many were students and part time shift workers, the care and feeding of a tradition a mere part of their daily rounds. But here, on the point, a relay station and weather watch had been established. Here Ethan's special needs were met, multiple talents utilized. Here he could recluse 30 days on and 30 days off. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 28 August 1995 The storm had decided to remain at sea, keep her tendrils to herself and spread only temperature variables, creating the fog, and keeping him at his station through the still night. Sometime in the small hours of the morning he was startled by the rumbling roar of medium sized boulders being ground against each other. She'd found the elevator. Rarely used, its routine maintenance was often overlooked. The cables needed greasing, had for months. Its basic operation was unhindered, but within the upright shaft of the lighthouse the mechanical objections it made to movement were amplified. The door opened upon a slightly chagrined woman. She'd brought sweet rolls and the coffee pot. She had them and two coffee cups arranged on a large tray. He rose to help her with them. "This contraption sounds like an old ship being drug along the deep reefs!" she exclaimed. "One of those huge metal rust buckets they sunk after the naval wars were over." He noticed she'd taken some care with her hair, tying portions of it up and back with kitchen twine. He settled her into an observers chair and pulled his own nearer, suddenly revisited by the alteration his dream had taken. Something in the shape of her face, the nature of her attentive regard. He had almost named the differences to himself when she spoke. "This is all so fascinating," her fingers fluttered like an injured bird over the panels. "You're not alone at all, here." Her delight transformed her, he thought. She was quite pretty. Her lips, quaked in childlike pleasure, only heightened his awareness of her charms. She watched the radar sweep, enraptured. "These are the storm predictors, then?" She'd used her chin to indicate the screen, the sleek curve of her neck brought to his attention. He'd thought her hair brown, but in the well lit vault of the observation chamber he found rich wheat-colored highlights. Her skin was rather pale, but he formed the impression that as the sun darkened her skin it would lighten her hair. She turned blue green eyes on him and smiled. "Yes, in part," he answered. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm used to thinking before I speak. Having someone here, asking questions, expecting a timely answer to a question is a bit of an adjustment for me." "I understand," she said, reaching a hand out to him. He looked closely at the long fingers, the neatly paired nails, the tiny bruises and scratches on the back of the hand. "Do you?" he wondered aloud. He took the hand, drew his chair nearer to hers and reached for the other one. One of her knees touched his, bare skin against twill. He thought, then, of a three pronged plug inserted into a wall outlet, the invisible force of an unseen generator surging through the contacts of hands and leg. "Do you?" DREAM FORGE Lite Page 30 August 1995 Her eyes moved in a slow circle, taking in his face, settling on his lips. "Yes, I do," she whispered, the hush of a fog cushioned night seemly part of her speech apparatus. She squeezed his hands, minimally before releasing them. She curled her legs beneath her in the chair, a sudden shift, like a bird settling into a rocky perch to watch, eyes blinking, head turning at each flash of light or burst of noise from the radios. The tails of the shirt covered her thighs in spots and exposed more in others. He toyed with the idea of fetching her a lap cover and decided to allow himself the view upon occasion. "Am I going to get an explanation of how you came to be washed up on my beach?" He swiveled round to his keyboard, entering an inquiry. A prolonged silence drew his attention back to her. She seemed suddenly helpless, lost. He considered it might be an affectation but discarded that idea. Her lower lip twitched, once, before she answered. "Do you really need one?" "Are you an escapee" A criminal? A wanted woman? A wayward wife gone missing?" "I hope not!" she exclaimed, chuckling. She jiggled, the tails of the shirt riding up her thighs, slipping loose from where they had been tucked beneath her. "And what am I to do with you? Granted, you don't eat much, but you don't seem to be able to dance, either." "You haven't asked since yesterday, and, at the time, I was a little worn out from my last partner." She gestured toward the open sea, invisible beyond the fog. The great light stroked the density, silently moving on its well oiled mechanics. "What shall I do with you?" he persisted. "Are you afraid the townspeople will think you've taken a sea-bride from the foam? Will they whisper about the lighthouse keeper and the storm's waif?" Her body attitude was relaxed, her amused smile conspiratorial in nature, as if they two shared a secret beyond the ken of those who dwelt away from the constant pulse of the ocean, wrapped in cozy fires and shielded by the gray light of television, sheltered from the timeless disturbance of the wave. "There is that," he admitted. She sighed, a disappointment that he wouldn't, evidently, play the game she had set for him. "Well, then, I shall be gone when the fog lifts." She shrugged her shoulders forward in a gesture of dismissal. "Just think of me as a stray cat come to your door begging fishtails and milk." "One did," he commented, thinking she fit the profile quite well, curled and perched in the chair, watching him watch the world. She begged petting, too. "Rob took her home." DREAM FORGE Lite Page 31 August 1995 "Rob?" she leaned forward, ready for a story. "My relief. I do a bit of traveling in my off time. There's another bedroom in the living area. I don't know if you've noticed. That's the relief's room. He hasn't settled in as much as I have, but then he has a home in the world, where I don't. "You, too, are sea tossed?" "My dear, if you only knew." He attended the boards, then, suddenly dedicated to the monitoring devices. He didn't tell her he was building a home even more remote and isolated than this solitary lighthouse. He didn't tell her about families lost to the variances of lives set at different paces and angles. He didn't tell her . . . . Once more her hands were on his shoulders. Both of them. This time she didn't seek support, but gave. It was a strange feeling, the warmth which flowed through her hands, trailing along his tense muscles, falling like sheeting water onto his chest, warm and soothing, cascading into his lower back and buttocks. Her hands moved to the base of his neck, fingers stroking knotted muscles and seeking the loosening of corded tendons. They found their way into his hairline, walking at the back of his head. He heard her sigh outward, deeply, missed the intake of breath that should have come, found himself waiting for it. Her fingers ran above his ears, pressing lightly in a pulsing rhythm that matched his own heartbeat. He loathed the thought of her stopping, needed desperately to turn and face her. Did she read his thoughts, he wondered, reach the deep pain of loss, the longing, touch the comfort of his dreams? The hands dropped to his shoulders and held there, still, before moving downward onto his back. He felt a restive sort of peace, like the moments, in his dreams, just before his dream Lady looked up. She worked the large muscle groups, wide ranging curves, kneading fingers, heavy pressure with the sides of her hands, pulling grief away like a vine wrapped round a trellis. In a moment, he thought, he would turn and pull her to him, indeed taking a sea bride from the foam, at least for the moment. She tugged at the tail of his shirt, pulling it from his pants. She pushed it up, exposing his back, laying her flattened palms just above his waist, working tissue and muscles upward in undulating waves, until a roll of fabric rode his shoulders. It was then that he felt her lips upon his skin, the moist tip of her tongue centered as she kissed the lower region of his right shoulder blade. He felt her breath hovering, awaiting his reaction, perhaps. She took slow pains to rub fingertips into the place she had kissed, tiny spirals dancing and retreating, before her lips moved on to grace another spot. His groin was an agony of delight, his fingers still on the panel before him, frozen, stolen from their assigned occupation. The kisses comprised his world, the spirals imprinting them into his flesh. It was she that stopped the magic, she that grasped his shoulders and pulled him around, swiveling on ball bearings made in a far distant world. She looked into his eyes as she stepped between his legs, her fingers at his throat, stroking the hair which peeked forth. She began to unbutton his shirt. He swallowed, suddenly dry mouthed, as in the dream he'd had earlier. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 32 August 1995 "You've been wandering through my dreams," he stated, speaking into her hair as she bent to kiss his chest. His hands came up from the chair arms where they'd landed when she turned him. He touched the halo of her hair, buried his fingers in the soft mass and willed himself not to guide her head toward his throbbing erection. He had no doubt she knew it was there, cramped within the cruel confines of cloth. She dropped to her knees on the floor, her breasts wedged between his thighs, her hands working the muscles of his upper chest while he held her head. The warmth which emanated from her fingers spread to his thighs, warring with the tension in his groin, soothing, quieting, releasing a flow of peace into his lower legs and feet. As it surged upward, a swirling rush of desire at his groin, a quickening of his pulse, the radio squawked a call. Her fingers paused, returning him to his world. He removed his hands from her hair and rolled back, twisting to answer. Coast Guard. A lost boat, a request for a beacon redirect. He swallowed, grabbed up a gulp of cold coffee and groaned. He felt her rise behind him, missed her immediately as she left him, heard her footfalls on the stairs, going down. * * * He stood on the catwalk, his eyes closed as he listened to the waves ride across the sea floor and crash onto the sand. A solid bank of fog stood offshore, a wall which isolated him from unseen horizons. He walked, as he had before, watching, waiting, wishing. The fog seemed tattered at the moving surface of the ocean, a blanket just lifting, or now quite fallen. A chill reminded him that he was naked, the cold metal under his hands sending chills up his arms. He saw something flash in the distance, something just coming out of the water to fall onto the sand. Pain shot through his groin as she fell. He gripped the railing, wishing, willing her up, to him. How had she come this way, injured, changed, her dark hair falling forward to cover her profile as she lay on the beach, sobbing. He wanted to vault the railing, fly to her, running, his feet a solid print on an otherwise ethereal plane. "You're dreaming," said a voice, so like his own he turned to look. His reflection stood, mocking, several feet behind him. "You're dreaming," it repeated. He nodded, an acknowledgment, returning his attention to the woman on the beach. She'd risen and was coming slowly across the sands toward him, her face lifted, still obscured by the dark hair which had fallen over it. She should brush it back. Her hand rose to do so, but a gull swooped toward her from nowhere. The hand rose as a shield and paused in mid air. The gull landed there, on the back of her hand, like a pet. "Of course," he spoke, "she is Lady of the sea." "A daughter of the Neptune, submariner, mermaid, delver into the depths of Atlantis," prompted the presence behind him. He turned, again, ready to confront what appeared to be his double. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 33 August 1995 The gull screamed. The fog rolled in, sudden, a mass as solid, or more so than the walls of the lighthouse. He looked up with terror, realizing the light itself had gone out. No, it was his vision, for he could barely see his own hands as he held them up before his face. The sobbing reached his ears, then, in that way fog sounds will, near and yet so far away. The chill which had lain in his arms became a burning, a flush of water too hot from the shower head. He jerked, awake, suddenly, and sat up. The chill which had lain in his arms became a burning, a flush of water too hot from the shower head. He jerked, awake, suddenly, and sat up. Melusine was sitting cross legged on the foot of his bed, her eyes nearly closed. The shirt, now worn for two day lay open, revealing the creamy skin of her breasts, her belly, the insides of her thighs. Her arms were braced behind her, an open invitation spread waiting for him. He remembered then, coming down to find her asleep on her cot, her back turned, her knees drawn up to her chest. He'd showered and gone to bed, the morning sun just starting to thin the fog. He'd sat in his chair, considered reading until his head dropped onto his chest, picked at the upholstered arms instead, irritating himself until, in a flurry of activity he'd pulled a thread loose. Then he'd drawn the drapes closed and fallen into bed, his fingers wrapped around the semi erection he'd had through the entire shift. His chest heaved with the trauma of the dream, with her luscious presence, with anger and confusion, with a bit of fear that the light had truly gone out, or worse, that his dream lady was wandering the beach looking for him. Melusine's eyes opened, looked into his, her face devoid of expression. She leaned forward, closed the edges of the shirt and got off the bed. She walked to the window and pulled back a flap of drape, disappeared behind it, bathing in the misting sunlight. "What have you done with the sun?" she asked, her tone neither accusing or wondering, as if she read, poorly, from a script. He wiped at his damp brow and tried to clear his sight. She moved suddenly and violently, ripping one drape from the curtain rod, tugging on it until it had fallen to the floor. Gulls whirled outside the window, their cries muted by the double pains of glass. She faced him, her entire demeanor demanding, "What have you done with the sun, Ethan?" she hissed, her brows drawn together in anger and confusion. "I . . ." he paused, uncertain of her tempers, dismayed by the change in her mood since she had touched him in the chamber above. "Night fogs and tattered dreams!" she threw at him, coming across the room, flying at him on pounding feet. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 34 August 1995 "I think the little lady is put out," said his own voice from the wall behind him. He twitched, jerked around and saw his own face, enlarged, looking at him from the seascape above his bed. "Night fogs and tattered dreams," she whispered into the hair on his chest, her head cradled there, her hands stroking his belly. He grasped the sides of her head, lifted her face and looked into it. Her gray green eyes reminded him of something, something undifferentiated. Her lips parted, a softly tempting diversion from the madness of his layered dreams. A tear rolled from the corner of one eye, fell onto his chest. "Melusine," he breathed, the word echoing through the layers of his dream. He woke later, knowing he had overslept, realizing he'd forgotten to set an alarm. After grabbing up his pants and jumping into them he took the stairs up two at a time, his legs seeming endlessly powerful. He slammed a hand on the controls, reading quickly in the bright sunlight, the report on the light itself. No problem, there. Relieved, he took the stairs at twos and threes, searching for his house guest, sure he must have awakened her with his dash through the kitchen. He found a pot of coffee on the stove, still hot. An opened carton of eggs sat on the counter next the stove, grease already scooped into a cold skillet. Her cot was folded neatly, leaning against a wall, the shirt draped over it. Something cold and heavy sunk at the pit of his stomach, drawing his testicles upward into his body, seeking a warmth they could find no other way. He vaulted the railing and dropped onto the first landing, his descent so rapid he surprised himself when he reached the exterior door and flung it open, flooding the anteroom with sunlight. Something fluttered near, screaming. He disregarded it, a foolish gull come searching for scraps, others hovering, waiting for news. He had become a refuge for the lazier birds. He resented their intrusion at the moment, flinging his arms about his head and running onto the beach. He must look a madman to her as she turned from the spigot outside, dunking her blanket into a water filled bucket, twisting to look at him with a slight smile. He came up short, at a loss for words, for thoughts. She stood naked in his yard, his hospitality neatly folded in his living quarters, his breakfast laid out, fresh coffee brewed, washing her only possession, the ragged blanket she had come wrapped in. "Good morning, Ethan," she said. "You are not my dream!" he yelled, startling himself, rushing to her and taking the blanket from her hands. He flung it into the sandy yard, scooped her up and carried her back into the lighthouse, his chest expanding with the fervor of his emotions. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 35 August 1995 "I never claimed to be, Ethan." Suddenly he held a crushed child in his arms, the tears silent and bitter, pooling in blue depths to overflow onto her cheeks. He stopped where he was, just on the first step up, and kissed her, his lips a heated pressure against her moist coolness. Her arms tightened around his neck, her back arched, the backs of her thighs sliding against his forearm. She returned his kiss, her tongue seeking past his lips, a passion brought to a life of its own. The strength he'd held on the way up to the control room remained as he carried her up the stairs and through the kitchen to his room. He laid her on his bed and bent to bury his face between the mounds of her breasts, afraid to loose contact with her flesh while he took his pants off. Her hands caressed the sides of his face, guiding his lips to the erect perfection of a nipple. She squirmed, her hips sliding over the sheets, her legs parting. His mouth moved downward, tongue sliding across her belly, dipping into her navel, as he placed his hand beneath her bottom and lifted her pelvis. Her fingers trailed along his shoulder as he pressed his mouth to her uplifted mound, parted moist lips and tasted her. "Don't move," he said, straightening, undoing his britches one handed, the other still holding her above the sheets. "I can't make any promises," she said, wiping a tear from her face with the back of one hand while her other stole downward and stroked the lush growth of hair between her legs. He felt the muscles ripple in his hand, felt her buttocks tighten. He let her drop to the bed, shoving his pants down over his hips, releasing his straining penis to spring upward, kicking the constricting clothing away from his feet as they dropped. Carefully, slowly, he knelt beside her on the bed, hands stroking the soft skin, angling his body to lay next to her, petting the length of her like the coat of some great sleek cat. She writhed under the attention, stretching sensually to give him access to an area she wished touched. His fingers crept to her mound, short, persistent strokes, determined, finally parting, again, the hair, the swollen lips there, to roam the slick moisture he had so recently tasted. His erection pressed against her leg, insistent, commanding. He rolled onto her, covering her body with his own, his hips between her thighs, his hands grasping her shoulders, his lips pressed wetly against the side of her neck. Her wetness, spread, rocked against his lower belly, slid, pulsing, there, in tiny movements. He brought himself to his knees, loomed over her, bent to suck at one nipple and the other, pulling them tighter and tighter across the firm globes of her breasts. His groin, his lower belly, his entire being demanded entrance. He looked into her face, asking silently, for the immediacy. Her hips arched, feet pressed against the bed, bringing herself to him. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 36 August 1995 She moaned, her head thrashing as he entered, the ache that was his manhood slowly pushing past each soft barrier, tunneling through the contracting passage, succumbing to the force which pulled him in. Slowly he plunged, ever falling, ever soaring to her depths. There, at her center, he rested, his slow climactic plunge finished, as she bucked beneath him, her own rhythms carrying her into other worlds. He gave a moment to regret the speed of his descent, yet felt a certain pride in the intensity of her response, the abandon with which she continued to thrust upward, seeking her own heights over and over, her hands grasping at his shoulders. He held himself steady, realizing he still maintained, at least, a semi erection for her pleasure. * * * "She comes to me at night, from the sea. Sometimes during a nap, if I have worked through the night," he explained. She lay on her side next to him, the warmth of her cupped palm on his moving testicles, delighted in what she had referred to as: "Full shift-work getting ready for the next order of supplies." "From the sea," she repeated, thoughts racing behind sky blue eyes. "Like Aphrodite or Venus." "Exactly," he said, glad she understood him. "And," he added, sheepishly, aglow in her affections, satisfied, for the moment, by her shared desires, "She loves me." "Ah." Melusine rolled to kiss his side, her fingers loosening at his testicles and coming to stroke below his navel, "one may not contest with such as She, then." "It's a dream, another life," he commented, careful of her feelings, since she took care with his. He drowsed against her, the only sound aside from their breathing that of the gulls outside. He felt her leave the bed and wished for liquid refreshment but found himself unable to rouse enough to speak. He heard water running in the bathroom and closed his eyes. It was the sound of the lighthouse door closing that woke him. She was nowhere in the room, a depression at his side the only warmth left of her presence. Lazily he stroked himself, rolling from the bed, seeking the bathroom. When he'd finished he wandered into the kitchen, took a can of soda from the refrigerator and ambled back into the bedroom, anticipating her return. The noisy birds outside his window drew his interest, the setting sun a bright disturbance he was unable to control, since she had pulled down the curtain. He frowned at the tempers of women, the duality of their passions, making a note to ask her to draw the drapes, next time, using the cord at the side wall. He leaned upon the sill, watching the gulls swoop and soar, his eyes drawn by one that seemed to dive more expertly than the others. It had climbed very high, seeking whatever gulls might seek in the heights, and dove with remarkable speed, zeroed in on a figure on the beach. DREAM FORGE Lite Page 37 August 1995 Ethan started when he realized the figure was Melusine, walking naked along the shore, sunlight gleaming in her tousled hair. The bird dived, coming up short of her and hovered, wings spread, before landing on her out held arm. Slowly she drew her arm down. With a thrust she flung the bird into the sky, dancing upon the beach, twisting to watch it ascend, a smile on her face, laughter but a whisper in his mind. She was quite mad, of course, running naked along the beach. And yet, there was a freedom there he envied. In truth there would be no one coming along this beach for months, aside from Rob, who would arrive in two weeks. He, himself, could thus cavort without fear of reprisal from any. He paused, giving the thought some examination. "Now," he practiced, hearing the townspeople in his mind, "the lighthouse keeper has been seen running on the beach with his sea-bride." He smiled indulgently at the woman on the sand, watched as she danced with the incoming foam, watched as she went deeper and deeper into the surf, splashing like a child, her hands patting the waves as if she were welcoming old friends. She dropped, dipping below the surface, to stand, her hair streaming down her back in water darkened strands which, from his angle, appeared as seaweed. He saw a flash, then, a tiny light of pearl soft radiance just back of the crown of her head. Perhaps, he thought, he had plucked a gem from the sea, a living jewel to grace his afternoon. She dipped again, disappearing beneath a wave, the gulls gamboling in the air above her position, striking out to sea, following her. Ethan set his soda can down and leaned into the window, straining his eyes. He couldn't see her head, her limbs flashing in the waves, the line of her passing. The gulls rose, one by one, each in their own time, peeling of from their scattered vigilance, going to their own affairs, as they, too, lost sight of her beneath the waves. {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Gay Bost, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her first modem the summer of '92, has been exploring new worlds since. Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17. The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great stories in the best Electronic Magazines. ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE Lite Page 38 August 1995 SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION ===================================================================== <<(*=-- DREAM FORGE --=*)>> MAGAZINE <<((*=-- The electronic for your mind! --=*))>> ===================================================================== (formerly RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and RUNE'S RAG) DREAM FORGE Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD 21228-3915 BBS: (410) 255-6229 (data to 28800 bps) Publisher: Dave Bealer Managing Editor: Rick Arnold dbealer@dreamforge.com 75537.1415@compuserve.com DREAM FORGE (tm) is a monthly e-magazine for a thinking and literate readership. What goes into DREAM FORGE? Take the zany satire and taglines that made RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR an international sensation, then carefully blend the insightful commentary and fiction of RUNE'S RAG. 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Online BBS Display subscribers may make the DREAM FORGE support conference available to their callers. Allow them to communicate directly with the Authors, Editors, and other Readers. To order, fill out and return OLORDER.FRM. Make your check/money order (all amounts are in U.S. dollars) payable to Dream Forge, Inc.: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 Software Creations (SWC), the giant PCBoard BBS in Clinton, MA., has been named "Home BBS" for DREAM FORGE, and an Official DREAM FORGE Distributor. SWC callers may purchase copies of current and back issues of DREAM FORGE for immediate download using a Credit Card. Type "STORE" to access the SWC STORE Door. Subscriptions are available under the "Software Registrations" menu option, "Software Creations Products" sub-menu option. Personal subscriptions may also be purchased online in the SWC Store Door. Type "J 291" on SWC to join the DREAM FORGE support conference. SWC can be reached by modem at: (508) 365-2359 (1200/2400 bps) (508) 368-7036 (14400 bps/V.32bis) (508) 365-9352 (28800 bps/V.FC) DREAM FORGE Lite Page 40 August 1995 SWC is also accessible directly from the Internet: telnet bbs.swcbbs.com (or rlogin) * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. ===================================================================== {DF Document: INFO.TXT} Other DF documents available: writers@dreamforge.com DREAM FORGE Writer's Guidelines odfd@dreamforge.com Info for Official DREAM FORGE Distributors ad_rates@dreamforge.com Advertising information and rates order@dreamforge.com Personal Subscription Order Form olorder@dreamforge.com Online Display Subscription Order Form odfdfrm@dreamforge.com ODFD Application Form ============================================== {DREAM} -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE EXHAUSTION THEOREM by Greg Borek =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Proctor: "You will have two hours to complete the midterm. Starting now. Good luck everybody." John: "Eight questions . . . doesn't look too bad. OK, let's see, question 1: `Describe how the coefficients in the binomial theorem are related to combinations of the exponents. Express the theorem in concise summation notation.' A little work, but definitely doable. That would be . . ." <<>> Hal: Hi Bob! John: "Whoa! Who are you?" Hal: I'm an hallucination. You should definitely NOT have stayed up all night last night cramming for this midterm, Bob. John: "An hallucination? How does an hallucination know it's an hallucination? On second thought, never mind! Just be quiet and leave me alone. I only have two hours." Hal: Not so fast, Bob. Your exhausted mind created me so now you have to deal with it! Hah! This is sure is going to be fun, Bob! John: "The binomial coefficients . . ." Hal: Say Bob, isn't that a huge hairy spider climbing up your arm? John: "Aaaaugh!" Proctor: "Is there a problem up there?" John: "No, sorry, sir.