Copyright: RADIUS © Ewan Grantham & Assoc 12/94


RADIUS ¸ Ewan Grantham & Assoc 12/94yesyesyesyesyesyesRADIUS - December 1994radius03yesyes08/12/94


Table of Contents

A Word From The Editor

FICTION:

The Eve of Feast  ............................................................  by Bud Sparhawk

A Corner of the Mind  ......................................................  by Ron Collins

Bah, Humbug!  .................................................................  by John B. Rosenman

Making A List  ..................................................................  by Ann-Marie Horcher

POETRY:

Falling  ..............................................................................  by Lawrence Schimel


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A Word From The Editor

PEACE ON EARTH?

The latest proceedings of the CSCE have introduced a new term into the political lexicon -- "The Cold Peace."  While the New World Order produced chaotic responses to chaotic situations in Somalia and Bosnia, the NATO alliance has struggled to redefine its role. At the same time, Russia has tried to make sense of its place in the world now that it is no longer the Soviet Union.

Initially, cooperation was the guideword.  Powerful, differing domestic interests have asserted themselves in recent months, and exposed the rifts between the parties - highlighting the disagreements in goals and policies.

Boris Yeltsin and Bill Clinton are not alone in discovering they can please their country or the world, but not both -- Yassir Arafat is discovering he is in the same boat.  While I doubt he shares any more love for Hamaas than the Israelis, the domestic reality is that he cannot govern effectively without at least their tacit agreement.  To this point he has shown a disturbing lack of ability to reconcile the divisions among his own people, and has provided ammunition to those on both sides who wish to keep the Middle East peace process stalled.

With so much having gone right this year in places such as South Africa and Northern Ireland, perhaps it was too much to hope that sanity had afflicted us all and that this year there might have truly been "Peace on Earth."  Maybe it is best that we settle for "Good Will towards Men."

*** ***

In other matters, this is the last free issue of RADIUS that will be published. Starting in January, we will only be available through a 1-year disk subscription.  12 issues, on 1 or two disks, will be $30.  Single issues can be purchased for $5/each.

This is occurring for several reasons.  Partly because many users were spending as much or more for each issue without our getting any of the proceeds; partly because we can then add animated illustrations, as well as sound and video where appropriate; and partly because we cant generate enough advertising revenue without being able to track our subscriptions in a way that can be audited.

If you wish to subscribe, send your check or money order made out to Ewan Grantham & Assoc. to:

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Radiantly yours,

Ewan Grantham


The Eve of Feast

by Bud Sparhawk

T'was the night before . . . the eve of feast, a time of joyous celebration, when I wandered our abode.  Using every aspect of my sensorium I could not detect any movement within the place, even the infestation of small scurrying creatures who sought refuge from the harsh winter cold were still.  The moltings were waiting in the chamber in anticipation of the Feast day to come.

The children were . . . safely and warmly nested in the nursery as I entered and scurried over their shiny new forms that glistened from the light filtering through the skylights overhead.  I checked the guards and adjusted the restraints on each of the thirty youngsters so that they would rest undisturbed by the others.

Rest was ever a problem with the freshly molted young, so full of energy and vigor, anxious to put their new forms into action, scarcely wanting to waste so much as a moment in sleep.  I knew that all were probably ravenous from the molt, but I was also wise from our previous broods and knew that high energy food so soon after the change would be damaging to their tender bodies, not to mention being extremely wearing on all of us adults.  Tomorrow, after they digested the high carbohydrates and rich sugars of the feast, and prepared their young bodies for their next stage of growth, my mates and I would hide someplace and pray that their competing bodies didn't do too much damage to the furniture and fixtures.

One of the children had shifted position, cramping two of her rear legs into an awkward bend.  Knowing how pliable her chitin was at this point I gently massaged each leg straight and placed a kiss on her brow.  Her mandibles moved in eating motion, mimicking  her siblings.  I knew that anticipatory visions of the sweet things they would soon consume danced in their heads.

Carefully I pulled myself backwards from the brood chamber and stood outside my own sleeping chamber for a moment.  In this quiet moment I reflected on all of the preparations that had been made for Feast Day.  I mentally checked carefully for anything that I might have overlooked.  Satisfied at last that nothing had been omitted I pulled on the small cap that would cover most of my sensorium, leaving my ears open to hear any stirring of the brood and my lesser eyes free, to detect the first morning light.  My mates had all donned their full scarves, blocking out all sensory inputs so that absolutely nothing could disturb them.  I could scarce fault them for this: In the morning they would be the ones who had to ride herd on the young.  They needed their rest, the poor dears.  I hoped that they were fast enough that the children wouldn't eat one of them again this year.  Carefully I backed into the chamber and arranged my limbs about me.  I clasped the fore manipulator of each of my mates with my nether limbs and settled down for a well-deserved and long nap until dawn.

When out on the yard there arose such a. .   roaring sound that I released my hold on my mates, sprang from my bed, scurried down the hall tunnel to the observation shaft , clambered up, opened the wards, and looked out of the turret.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow. . .enabled me to see despite the late hour.  The dropping temperature had frozen the residual moisture in the air so that everything was coated with a layer of sparkling frost.  It was an unusually clear night so the stars gave the scene a bright luster equal  to that of a cloudy mid-winter day.  I wondered at the sight, for I had never seen the stars so clearly; a smear of bright dust that bisected the heavens.  But this small wonder was nothing as to what next came into my sight as I peered about for the source of that roaring sound.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear . . .  in the distance, so far that I could only see its vague outlines, was a vast silvery artifice.  The tree line hid its lower parts while above I could see a huge arcing shell easily vast enough to cover our entire city.  Portions of it shimmered in the faint light as if some great heat source were at it's base.  I opened my eyes wider to see if I could gather better definition when a second wonder appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Over the treetops came a disjointed, swooping monster.  As it moved near my abode I was able to discern more details about the thing.  It was twice my own length with runners along both sides.  Above the runners were pods, four on a side, open front and back, that hung on some sort of wing arrangement.  Perhaps they were what made the monster move, I surmised.

On it's back was  one of the pesky creatures that had infested our place since late summer.  The actions of these peculiarly strange and indecent creatures had greatly disturbed our society.  Their uninvited intrusions into our daily life were an uncivilized outrage.  Nevertheless they did strive to give full benefit for their intrusions and I, more tolerant than most, was willing to let them be.  But, like most, I did hope they would soon tire of us and return to wherever they originated.

The little driver, so lively and quick, that I knew in a moment it must be ..  the "Da-Ka-Tor-Ni-Ko-Las", one of the Who-Mhens, as they called themselves, who had chosen my home for his particular target.  Despite his obvious attempts to tame his vehicle it darted up and down and twisted from side to side like a drunken beast.

Its movement was akin to the detritus that blows about prior to a spring storm and zooms skyward whenever it hits an updraft.  Crash, and it took out a portion of my hedgerow that marked the decorative border between my property and the town's.  Crash, and it glanced off the top of the barn where I kept our mounts.  Crash, and it descended to the very cover of our domicile.  From the clatter and clang of its arrival I wondered at the intelligence of these things.  Ni-Ko-Las climbed down from its perch and moved quickly about, as if checking the vehicle for damage.  I noted that one of the runners on which it now rested had been bent in the encounter with the barn, making the whole vehicle lean crookedly to one side.

Apparently the driver, if that is what it was, satisfied himself that all was in order for he returned to the back and opened a side compartment.  I marveled at how smoothly the door had fit into the skin, would that our own artisans could work metal that well: we'd have less trouble with pests, that's for sure.  Ni-Ko-Las had taken a large sack from inside the vehicle and placed it on the ice while it pressed the door back into place.  Then it took a long prod from somewhere on its person and began to probe the ground.  I watched until it disappeared behind the peak.  I was immediately alarmed:  Obviously the creature was searching beneath the ice for the entrance to our home and had ventured very close to the shaft where the young would emerge. I flew down the observation shaft and hastened to the great room at the bottom of the shaft, only to find that the creature had preceded me.

I hesitated in the outer tunnel.  These were unpredictable creatures, and obviously had resources far beyond our own.  Best I study it a while before venturing to challenge.  Besides, since I stood between it and the brood chamber. It could threaten them only at its own peril.

It was dressed . . .  with an integument of some sort of hairy down from top to bottom.  At first I thought this an odd sort of exoskeleton but then realized that its own shiny carapace was beneath this - I could see glimpses of it as the creature moved about the room.  From my vantage it was a bright red color, not unlike the fluid of some of the warm things we found in the woods.

The creature must have been warmer inside than out, for puffs of water vapor came from a pipe near its head and circled its head before dissipating.  It was broad in the middle and tapered toward both top and bottom, a most unlikely arrangement and one that made me wonder how it could remain erect without toppling over.  The middle jiggled fluidly as it moved about, making me wonder if the creature had yet filled out its body.  Perhaps it had recently molted and had not yet completely filled out its new form.  It was a strange thing for certain, looking quite unlike a person.  The abdomen and waist were absent, and it had only two limbs for manipulation and one lower set for motion, a poor arrangement to anyone's mind.  No matter how hard I looked I could see no evidence of mandibles and wondered how the creature communicated.  I heard the creature's small huff-huff sounds as it moved quickly to examine each item in the room.

Earlier in the day we had carefully cleaned each of the brood's old exoskeletons after the young had emerged.  This was no small matter, for their first impulse, sparked by their bodies needs for minerals and protein, is to eat the carapace.  One of my mates had lost half a limb earlier in the day when one of the brood moved to consume its shell.  She wouldn't tell me which of the children had done it, so I knew it had to be Scamp, the cute little rascal who'd always been my favorite as well, even when he gnawed one of my feet off.  We had arranged the molts into a circle, facing the entrance so they would be the first thing the children saw when they entered in the morning.  If I reduced the input to my eyes the empty shells would look just like the angelic little tykes their occupants had been days before, the cutest little buggers you ever saw.  Of course my broods had never stood still for anything except digestion.  That was their heritage from part of my own lively nature, I suppose.

Curiosity held the better of me, I suppose, for I stayed my position and watched as Ni-Ko-Las pored over every item in the room.  From it's sack it produced a astounding array of metal pieces that it quickly assembled into a tree-like structure in one corner of the room.  No sooner had it finished this then it began attaching a wondrous assortment of devices to the tree.  Festoons of colored lines descended from many to connect to others.  Various spots on the devices sparked red and blue and yellow and green while their shiny surfaces reflected every stray light.  All in all it was a wondrous sight to behold and gave the great room a sparkly, festive appearance.

The creature's efforts must have been taxing, for it collapsed onto the floor near the sack.  The poor thing must be ravenous to have expended so much energy in such a short period of time, I thought.  The creature situated itself by folding its lower limbs in a most disturbing way.  How could it do that without breaking its joints, I wondered?  As if that wasn't surprise enough, the creature, without warning, reached up with its manipulator limbs and cracked its head open!

At that point every one of my hearts stopped cold: I was fearful that the creature was going to moult right there in the middle of my great room.  But it didn't crawl out of the opening as I half expected. Instead the opening exposed a tiny round thing  with two small eyes and a number of strange openings.  Clouds of vapor emerged from one of them.

It reached into the sack, extracted a block of something, and began peeling back a covering.  The tantalizing sweet scent that struck my antennae was so overpowering that I feared it would wake the young and send them into a premature feeding frenzy.  I had lost half of my first brood that way, inexperienced as I was in those early days.  Never before had I smelled so strong a sweet as what the Ni-Ko-Las creature held.  It made my limbs quiver in an almost sexual dance and forced me forward into the room.

The creature made a cry  and came erect with a confusing twisting and unfolding of limbs.  Using its two manipulators to snap the covering closed, it scrambled backwards toward the entrance.  I kept moving forward, waving my forelimbs and moving my mandibles in placating motions, meaning no harm.  But my efforts to stay it were to no avail, for it reached beside its head and, with a blast of warm air, rose up through the shaft.

Although I was disappointed that I could not detain Ni-Ko-Las I was gratified that it had left the sweet.  Happily, the sack contained several identical items, all of which I surmised contained further sweets.  After a moment's reflection I placed one in each carapace for the young; they would enjoy a special high energy treat.  I secured the rest in a cubby for myself and whichever of my mates survived to enjoy the next evening, after we had driven the last of the brood out into the cold.

That done I made my way back to the observation shaft and once more ascended to the turret.  Ni-Ko-Las had apparently entered its vehicle, for it raced along the surface, glanced off of the berm where we kept the bodies of my parents for the Spring breakfast, and rose into the sky, heading back the way it had come.

Perhaps it was my imagination, or an overly dramatic sense brought about by the season, but I will swear to my dying day that I heard it call out as it disappeared from sight, "Sweet feast to all, and to all a good night."

[With apologies to Clement Moore]


A Corner of the Mind

by Ron Collins

How many times have you heard the saying: "If the walls had ears and could talk, what tales would they tell?"  Well, they do, and let me tell you about the young boy who often does time here in one of my corners.

Jack is a good-natured kid whose desires run in the same vein as those of every other youngster--a sprint through Alpha deck's corridors at break-neck speed, a chance to one-up his acquaintances at holo-ball, maybe a quick ice cream cone before bedtime.

But space travel is a tough life for a pre-teen.  Especially if that child happens to be the only son of the ship's Chief Security Officer.  A brute of a man, Jack's father stands just a shade under two meters tall and reeks of military regimentation.  He is, truly, a space cop of the highest order whose gung-ho attitude would almost be bearable if this ship were a little more grand than a lousy mid-class freighter.

Jack's mother was lost before they came aboard.  Vacuum accident, they say, but the ship's records are fuzzy on the incident.  The boy has been cooped up here ever since.  He does have some friends; ten or twelve other children his age are aboard.  However, he has yet to be accepted into the core of that clique.  Of course, Jack has never gone out of his way to be one of the crowd.  Yes, he plays with them, and yes, he often wins.  But, there is something different about him.

He plays games that the other children can't.

Until recently, only I had seen him play when he was alone.  Only I could bear testimony to the countless mind twisters he works his way through, the computer wizardry he performs, the intricate puzzles he creates and solves.  Truly, he is not like the rest.  His imagination is a marvel to behold.  Call it telepathy, call it reading auras, call it what you will.  Jack sees things others can't.  And he can create.

Anyway, I felt terrible for the child at first.  Here it was, a shade over a week until Christmas.  The boy was obviously excited.  Who wouldn't be?  All that his friends could talk about was Santa, and toys, and Rudolph the Red-nosed Rocket.  Jack woke up that morning and shot down the tube, sporting the radiant smile that only a child can muster.  He caught his father in the midst of wrapping his Christmas presents.

Captain Horner had been on duty all night and I can assure you he was tired.  However, I cannot help but consider that to be a lame excuse.  He blew up at his only son and sent him to do duty in a dingy little corner of his room, merely because the boy happened to wake up a bit early and catch him in the act of playing Santa.

Jack's face immediately darkened.  He sat on the stool and bit his lower lip, glancing over his shoulder while his father finished putting the presents under the tree.

"I'm taking a shower," Captain Horner said.  "Don't move till I'm back."

So Jack sat in the corner and thought.  And when Jack thinks, things happen.

The first image he created was his mother.  She was tall and lanky with shoulder-length black hair and an almond-shaped face.  She leaned over Jack and laid her hand gently against his cheek, all the while telling him how proud she was of him for doing so well in school.  She kissed his forehead and stood up straight before the image dissolved.

I must admit to being surprised when the next image turned out to be of Jack's father.  I can't ever remember Jack including his father in his games before.  The captain was decked out in hiking gear--flannel shirt, denim pants, brown leather boots--and toting a heavy backpack.  I almost didn't recognize the man without his uniform.  He looked healthy and strong, invigorated.  His eyes sparkled and he was quick to take on a smile.  A forest enclosed him, offering only a thin path leading forward.  Jack, younger in this scene by at least three years, walked behind his father, wearing a similar style of clothing but carrying a smaller pack.

I think it important to note that Jack does not usually conjure images that contain himself, either.  These last two shots were real scenes from his past, memories he held down deep in his heart.

Suddenly, Jack's father stopped and knelt down, one knee to the ground.  He beckoned Jack closer and wrapped his arm around the boy as he drew near.  Jack's gaze followed his father's arm as he pointed to a small animal, a chipmunk that dashed from tree to tree.  Jack smiled and then the image disappeared.

A short while later, a new scenario grew.  This time, the mood was somber.  There was soft music in the background and people milled around, dressed in formal attire and speaking in quiet voices.  A small, decorative casket sat on a pedestal along the far wall--the kind of casket that is displayed when the body remains unrecovered.  Captain Horner materialized in the middle of the room.  His face was drawn and haggard, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze lowered.  Another man stood next to the captain, with his hand on his shoulder.

"I should have saved her," Jack's father said.

"No, you would have never made it back.  You have a boy to worry about, too."

"You don't understand,  I'm the one who found the anomaly, and I'm the one who decided to study it.  I'm the one who sent her out there."

"Yes, but Marie was the mission specialist, and a damned good pilot.  She was the best person to send.  Everyone knows that."

"I checked out the surveying pod myself.  Somehow, I missed something."

"Post-mission analysis of the pod determined that the structure was undamaged.  Nothing was wrong."

"Then how do you explain that communications were interrupted, that the cabin lost pressure, and that Marie is gone?  Something had to open."

The two were silent for a moment; soft organ music filled the gap.

Captain Horner rubbed his eyes and spoke in a coarse whisper.  "It doesn't help that we never determined the cause of the anomaly."

"You can't blame yourself, John."

"Yes."  Jack's father paused to breathe deeply.  "Yes, I can.  I should have gone out there and saved her."

The image vanished, and Jack stared with wide-eyed bewilderment at the spot where his father had stood.  Until this moment, I don't think Jack realized how much his father blamed himself for his mother's death.

Jack seemed to think for a moment, then closed his eyes and began conjuring.  This wasn't Jack's usual creative process.  This time his hands and body swayed with the effort; his eyes closed and small beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead and upper lip.

An image formed--his mother seated in a cramped cockpit.  She stared at the controls, furrows of thought creasing her forehead, her lips drawn into a tight line.  Lights from the instrument panel pulsed on and off, creating alternating red and green blotches on her face.  Her fingertips brushed lightly over the panel's buttons and touch-screens, but nothing happened.

She pushed the communications control and spoke.  "Command Central, I don't know if you can hear me, but everything's dead here.  I'm going for EVA to see if I can see anything wrong with the main power cell."

She pulled an emergency spacesuit out of a small locker and, despite the tight confines of the pod, managed to wriggle into it.  The airlock mechanism still worked, and within a minute, she stepped into space.

As the door shut behind her, there was a flash of light.  At first, I thought that the whole image had dissolved, but that was not the case.

Jack's mother had simply disappeared.

Jack held the image for a few moments longer, then let it slip away.  When it was gone, he finally noticed his father standing in the doorway, tears streaming down his face.

Christmas was postponed in the Horner household this year.

While the rest of the ship celebrated the holiday, Jack's father convinced the ship's captain to return to the scene of the accident.  It took two weeks to travel there, two weeks that the captain spent in intensive study.  He reviewed video; he studied technical reports; he delved into advanced mathematics.  He was a driven man, spending twenty hours a day poring over these items.  And all the while, Jack stayed by his side, using his talents to model complex, multi-dimensional geometries.

When they arrived, Captain Horner ordered a series of high-frequency scans.  In a matter of two days, he found what he was looking for.

It was a spatial rift--a small, pin-sized break in time.  Once this discovery circulated through the ship, the rest of the crew pitched in.  Within a day, the entry point was found and Jack's mother was recovered.

She was thin and worn, but alive.

Sick bay ran test after test, and despite the fact that Jack's mother had been missing for almost a full year, they could not determine why she was still living.  The doctors described her condition as being malnourished and dehydrated, as if she had been without food or water for a week.

Three days later, when he heard that his wife was being released from sick bay, Captain Horner commissioned himself chief swabby, and Jack his first assistant.  They commenced to scrubbing the floor, dusting the shelves, and vacuuming the carpet.  Jack straightened up his room and put his toys away.

Both of them walked with a new attitude.  Both of them whistled and sang to themselves.

Jack fell asleep that night with a dust rag in his hand.  When he awoke, he found his father had worked through the night.  The table was set with their best dinnerware.  The smell of fresh-baked pie and simmering chicken soup--homemade, not stuff from the regen-facility--wafted through the air.  Even the walls looked freshly scrubbed.

Late that afternoon, Jack's mother, still peaked, but walking under her own power, returned to their cabin.  They ate a light meal--except for Jack, who ate like he would never get another opportunity.  Jack told her about his last year in school.  They swapped jokes and laughed, sometimes for no reason at all.  Jack had promised his father not to discuss his magic until his mother was stronger, so he kept that part a secret still.

And they opened presents.

Two and a half weeks ago, Jack had been despondent at the prospect of a delayed Christmas.  Now, the look of sheer excitement on his face told me that this was the best holiday he had ever had.

As the evening grew into nighttime, Jack's mother and father moved to the couch to watch videos.  Captain Horner sat tall, with his arm draped around her shoulder while she snuggled against his chest.  They were both exhausted--he from staying up all night cleaning, she from the exertion of coming home.  They fell asleep, softly snoring.

Jack went back to the table, picked up the pie tray, and walked to the same corner that his father had confined him to before, pulling a stool with him.  He sat down and rested back against the wall.

He closed his eyes for a moment and his whole body slumped; it looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.  Suddenly, Jack's mother disappeared.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at the Christmas pie, eyeing it hungrily.  He quickly stuck his thumb into it.  When he drew his thumb out, a piece of fruit remained on it.

He licked it off and looked at his father.  Concentration crossed his face again, and his mother reappeared.  Jack smiled.

What was that?  What did he say?

"Oh, what a good boy am I."


Bah, Humbug!

by John B. Rosenman

     "So you think you've made a breakthrough this time?"  Perry Wyndom said, gazing at the large boxlike structure before him.

     "Yes, sir."  Stoffer, Vice-President in charge of Applied Research, nodded his head respectfully.  "Instead of crudely stimulating the brain's pleasure centers as it did in previous tests, it now accesses specific, pleasurable memories from one's past.  Consequently, we avoid the gross effects we had before."

     "No orgasms or intense euphoria?  That sort of thing?"

     "Yes, sir.  Because we stimulate memories rather than aim at pure sensation, the enjoyment is more subtle and pervasive.  The sense of well-being extends throughout the subject and is far more profound and satisfying."

     Wyndom turned, gazed at Stoffer's plump face until the man dropped his eyes.  "I certainly hope you're right and that we don't have yet another failure.  Feelies are a glut on the market.  We can hardly hope to expand our sales with the same crude pleasures.  What we need is something other companies don't provide."

     "I believe we've found it, sir," Stoffer said promptly.  "Over a dozen personnel have tried it and the results are remarkably consistent.  But of course, you've seen the data."

     Wyndom glanced at a Christmas tree in the corner, ignoring its gaudy tinsel and bright lights.  Yes, he had seen the data, a mountain of it, and he had arranged for several of his loyal assistants to go through the device before he did in case there was a glitch.  So far, there weren't any.  The device worked perfectly.  If Stoffer's claims were right, Wyndom's company, Neoways Unlimited, would crush the competition in the growing pleasure industry of electrostimulation.  He smiled, thinking it would be especially nice to crush Nehemiah Frost, his closest rival, with whom he had a secret meeting at three so they could 'adjust' a few prices.  Since their last meeting had been in Frost's territory, this one was scheduled for Wyndom's, giving him a slight but significant edge.

     Wyndom looked again at the mild, plump man beside him, remembering that at one time, Stoffer had actually been the front runner for the presidency of the company.  But Stoffer had been soft, a scientist rather than a corporate meat eater.  His defeat had been inevitable.

     Briefly, Wyndom wondered if he should enter the device.  But of course, it had been repeatedly tested, and Stoffer was too soft to pull anything.  Not only that, his weakness for women made him vulnerable in other ways.  In the unlikely event that Wyndom even stubbed a toe in there, both information and pictures would be sent immediately to Stoffer's wife and associates, ruining both his marriage and reputation.  Wyndom chuckled, recalling Stoffer's outrage when he'd told him.

     Nodding at the Christmas tree, Wyndom raised his arm and slipped it around Stoffer's shoulder.  "Charlie, just to show you I've got the holiday spirit, I'm going to give you a big fat raise when this thing works.  And I know it will."

     Stoffer smiled.  "Faith can move mountains, they say."

     Wyndom waved his hand.  Faith was one thing, but if he was going to invest millions in a new service, he must know firsthand that it was a real breakthrough in pleasure.  That meant he had to experience it personally.  Reading reports and studying data wasn't enough.

     Accompanied by Stoffer, he walked to the device's door, which he opened.  Halfway through it, he stopped and turned back.  "By the way, has your team recommended a name for this yet?  We need something with commercial appeal."

     Stoffer wet his lips.  "We're . . . uh, having a dickens of a time finding one," he said.  For some reason, he laughed.

     Wyndom frowned and started to move out of the box.  To his surprise, though, Stoffer stepped forward and nudged him back.  Before Wyndom knew it, he had closed the door in his face.

     Wyndom stared at it.  Had Stoffer actually shoved him?  No, he wouldn't dare.  He was just clumsy, that's all.

     Suppressing his unease, he turned and faced the chamber he stood in.  It looked soft and padded.  Looking up, he saw the neurotransmitter trained on his brain, moving slightly as he changed position.

     He swallowed.  There was nothing to worry about.

     You never loved me, Perry.  You never gave me one moment of yourself!

     His ex-wife -- why was he thinking of her now?  He remembered her parting words, the sting of her slap.

     Cold, heartless bastard!

     Thinking of Judith made him imagine he could see himself as she had left him, standing in their hallway.  A necktie seemed to appear, framed by a brown jacket that quickly darkened.  The man had a scar on his chin just like his.  Odd, it. . .  No, wait.  It was him.  But how . . .He looked down at his body, seeing breasts and a slender waist.  Hips flared beneath his hands, and he saw he was wearing high heels.  He also wore a familiar green print dress.  Rubbing his eyes, he tried to make sense of it, but he felt so odd.  His center of gravity seemed different, even the way he perceived things.  A moment later, strange thoughts rushed in.  Hurt.  Anger.  Hate and love.

     He stiffened, clasped his hands together.  "You never loved me, Perry," he heard himself say in a taut soprano that sounded like Judith's voice.  But how could it be coming from him?

     He watched the man -- no, himself! -- step forward.  His face looked so cold.

     "I don't know what you're talking about," the man with his face said.  "I buy you everything you want.  What more do you expect?"

     "That's all you can give," Wyndom replied with Judith's voice.  "Just money.  You never give of yourself.  All you care about is your company, your next deal, your . . . Your. . . YOUR!  That's all you ever talk about."

     Before him, his lips twisted in a sneer.  "I'd say I've done pretty well by you, wouldn't you?  If it weren't for me, you'd have to give up your furs and all those stupid art courses and get a job."

     Damn him.  He hadn't heard a word she'd said, and he never would.  There was just no way to get through!

     "Cold heartless bastard!" she screamed, and slapped the arrogant face, feeling hard flesh beneath her hand.

     She turned, started to leave.

     But the place looked different.  She didn't seem to be in the apartment. . . .

     The Box.  Suddenly he remembered Stoffer closing the door in his face.  Looking down, he saw the soft swell of his breasts fade.  As he watched, his body grew taller, larger, more muscular.  A business suit replaced the green dress he had been wearing.

     I'm Wyndom, he thought.  Perry Wyndom.  President of Neoways Unlimited.

     He closed his eyes, thinking of the time Judith had left him.  What had Stoffer done?  This wasn't what the device was supposed to do at all.  Instead of making him feel good by tapping into a happy memory, it had brought back a painful one he didn't want to remember.  What's more, it had made him live it through his ex-wife's eyes.   Somehow, Stoffer had accessed Judith's thoughts and transferred them to him.  Wyndom was familiar with the concept, but supposedly they were years away from achieving it, assuming they ever would.  But now that meek, innocuous little man had succeeded.  It had been incredible, simply incredible.  He had actually forgotten who he was and become his ex-wife!

     He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself and not think of why Judith had let Stoffer use her own feelings against him.  Gradually the memory of her intense anger and frustration faded.  There, that was better, but why would Stoffer do such a stupid thing?  To embarrass him?  Make things unpleasant?  It simply made no sense.  Why, just wait till he got out of here.  With the evidence he had, he'd ruin the man!

     Wyndom straightened his clothes.  Turned to leave.

     But when he did, he found a large black woman standing before the door.  She held a small boy in her arms.

     "Can you help me, Mister?"

     "Excuse me, lady," he said.  "You're standing in front of the door."

     Tears puddled in her eyes, and she shuffled forward with the boy.  "He needs an operation bad, but we don't have no insurance.  Please -- can't you help?"

     He straightened his vest, aware of his good clothes, his diamond watch. Strange, he felt a bit guilty.  But what did he have to feel guilty about?  He had nothing to do with her, did he?  Still, she and the kid did look familiar.  Hadn't there been a cleaning woman in one of his buildings who had resembled her and practically stuck her brat right in his face?  Yes, he recalled her asking him to help with her sick son.  He had given her the brushoff.

     "Sorry, lady," he said, "can't help you."  He started to move around her.

     As he did, he saw the boy more clearly.  He couldn't be more than five, and his skin looked like ash.  The kid felt light too, light as a feather as he swayed back and forth.  Back and forth in his arms . . .

     What was he doing holding the kid?

     He started to protest and give him back, but the woman was gone.  Looking around, he saw there was just him . . .

     And the child.

     Buddy . . . that's his name.  And he . . . he cries, poor baby.  Lord Jesus, first his daddy leave, now Buddy can't keep a thing down in his little stomach and all the time the pain.  His heart, the doc said.  Needs medicine and an operation bad.  But I can't give him neither with what I make washin' floors.  If there was just somethin' I could do, somethin' to ease his pain!

     Tears in his eyes.  My baby so pale . . .

     "Mama!  Mama!"

     Word-knives in my heart.  I rock him back and forth like I did when he was a baby.  'Hush'bye, little fry, sing you lull-a-bye.'  Lord, think that rich white man give a fret 'bout folks like us?  Her lips hardened, and she glanced angrily about.  Think he care 'bout a little boy who's sick?  No, not HIM.

     "Mama, I hurt . . .  Please . . ."

     Touch his forehead, his cheeks.  Lord, he's burnin' up!  Won't nobody help us please?  NOBODY?

     Somebody.  Crying.  Where?

     Wyndom sobbed and looked down, seeing a child in his arms gazing up at him.  What was he doing holding . . .

     Oh yes, the Box.  He had come in here and --

     Dizzy.  The room seemed to be shifting.  Who . . .Who's that big black woman looking down at me?  So big!

     Breath on face.  Warm.

     "Momma loves you, child.  Don't you know she'd take all your pain on herself if she could?"

     Who's she talking to . . . me?  But who am I?  Perry Wyn . . .  No, my name's . . . Buddy.  Her son.

     No, it can't be.  I . . .

     Chest hurts so bad.  Hurts.  Mama, make the pain go 'way.  Please!

     Lips come down.  Soft moist warm on my face.  Momma knows it hurt but she can't help!  'Stead the pain dig deeper and deeper inside me like Boots in the field sniffin' a rabbit down in the ground, diggin' deeper and deeper as the world goes dark and closes 'bout me like jaws.  Everything jaws and the jaws crush mama too, crush us both.

     Breath hurts.  Heart hurts.  Feel so cold.

     Wyndom cried out, opened his eyes.  He was lying on the padded floor, in the Box.  God, what had happened?

     Suddenly he remembered the woman and son.  The mother had been so loving.  They loved each other, didn't they?  The one holding, the other held.

     Easy.  Take a deep breath.  Fumbling in his pocket, he got his handkerchief and wiped his face.  Christ, look at him, he was sweating like a pig.  And the monogram . . .

     PW.

     Perry Wyndom.

     He shuddered and clutched the handkerchief.  What had he been thinking about?  How could he help them?  They were only illusions, high-tech fantasies.

     No.  He knew enough now to know that wasn't true.  Stoffer . . . he must have created them somehow, tapped and stored their memories.  And he'd used people he -- Wyndom -- had known.  People who had actually cooperated, who might even have been glad to cooperate.

     He tried to feel anger, but found himself thinking of the woman and her son again.  Such pain for them both.

     And for Judith, too.

     Mopping his face, Wyndom remembered people calling him cold and distant, obsessed with acquisition and power.  It wasn't only Judith, was it?  It had been many people over the years, business rivals he'd crushed and others like Frost he'd tried to.  Women he'd possessed and left.

     Such hurt they felt.  Judith.  The woman and her son.

     He squeezed his fists.  Damnit, he had to forget about them and keep his mind on business!  Be ready for that meeting with Frost.  Before then, though, he'd attend to Stoffer.  The bastard had set this up.  First, he had used Wyndom's wife, then the mother and son.  Somebody, probably Frost, must have talked him into it.

     Yeah, he'd ruin Stoffer's marriage and reputation, then fire him.  Bounce his devious ass.  Thought he could make him look the fool, did he?

     Turn now.  Go to door and seize the knob.  It won't turn.  Push it, shove.  Damn it, the thing's locked!

     "Let me out of here!  LET ME OUT OF HERE THIS MINUTE!"  Raising his fist, Wyndom pounded the door.

     "Please, Mr. Wyndom," a voice said behind him, "can't you give me another chance?  I just can't afford to lose this job."

     "So you see, Mr. Frost," Charles Stoffer said calmly, "you'll be dealing with me from now on.  Mr. Wyndom placed his company under my control at noon today.  He's uh, left us to dedicate his life to charity and humanitarian service."

     Nehemiah Frost's attitude had changed considerably since he'd arrived for this private meeting.  At first, he'd been rude and impatient, wondering why he was wasting his time with a nonentity.  But seeing Wyndom's signature on papers that surrendered his power to Stoffer had changed his disposition quickly.  So too had the new respect shown Stoffer by an associate.  Now they were alone, sipping eggnog mixed with brandy from delicate bone china cups, and Frost felt his view of Stoffer change still more before the man's new air of calm assurance, especially when Stoffer's gaze met his own and drilled right through him.

     Frost ran a hand through his snow-white hair and set his cup down.  "You'll uh, excuse me if I find it hard to swallow.  The Perry Wyndom I know is hardly prone to such sentiments."  He nodded at his cup and licked his lips.  "It's a pity he can't be here to enjoy these spirits with us."

     Stoffer smiled.  "Perhaps he's already met a few spirits from the past."

     "What?"

     "Such a change has happened to people before," Stoffer said.  "They spend their lives chasing certain goals, then one day, poof!  They wake up and discover their goals were vain and false, the merest of illusions."  He smiled.  "Before Perry left us to pursue his new mission, he made me personally swear that I'd be a better caretaker of this new industry than he was.  He told me that since electrostimulation involves the most precious resources of all, the human mind and soul, it must never be used as a mere toy or for crass greed.  Instead, as our new technology develops, it should be used to improve life and even transform society for our fellow man, perhaps even improve man's very nature as well.  Make him more loving, more deeply concerned about others."

     My God, Frost thought, what's he babbling about?  And what did he do to Wyndom?  How in the hell did he break him?  Suppressing a chill, he realized that in some crucial way, both he and Wyndom had badly misjudged this man.

     He cleared his throat.  "'Improve' man's 'nature'?" Frost's lips cracked in a brittle smile.  "But don't you think we've fallen a little too far for that?"  He pointed at a card on Stoffer's desk that showed a host of cherubs.  "After all," he said, "we're hardly angels anymore, you know."

     Stoffer smiled, then leaned back in his plush leather chair.  Slowly, he placed his hands together to form a precise steeple pointing up at the sky.  "Ah," he said softly.  "Wait till you hear my plan."


Making A List

by Ann-Marie Horcher

      Seven dolls sprawled on the windowsill, clear arctic morning sun lighting their featureless faces.  A stout, elderly man, white-haired and white-bearded, studied the silent line-up.  With a hefty yank of his brightly patterned red-and-green suspenders, he hitched up his denim trousers  before seating himself on a high-backed stool .  Whistling an old carol, he picked up the first doll, and smoothed blond curls back from the forehead.

      "Don't give me that  blank look," he muttered in his imitation of a hard-nosed cop.  "Chin up.  It's time to face the music."   His jolly laugh shook the round belly barely restrained by the waistband of the trousers.

      "Pug nose for you, little one," he murmured, tapping the center of the face with a short, battered  thumbnail.  One too many hammer strokes had split the nail bed, permanently denting the nail.  "And emerald eyes," he added as he spun to face the nearby workbench.

      A rainbow of paints glowed through the clear, squat, glass pots stacked on the workbench; an array of brushes hung in surgical order from the wall.  With haphazard precision, the man shuffled the pots to reveal a bright green shade.  After running a fingertip down the rack, he flicked a thin, delicately-bristled brush into his palm.

    "Kris?"   a feminine voice whispered.  The old man spun in his chair to face the doorway behind him.  His face lit up in a genuine smile of greeting for the short, white-haired woman peeking around the door.  Mrs. Kringle smiled briefly in return, then furrowed her brow.  Clucking under her breath, she crossed to the workbench.

   "Planning to paint your shirt again?"  She rolled up the sleeves of his red flannel shirt.  Kris shrugged sheepishly.

    "Come to help?"  Kris teased in return, tickling the end of her nose with the brush.  "I could use a model."

    "No, dear.  I wouldn't dream of intruding on your fun,"  his wife answered, ducking out of reach.  Kris raised his eyebrows.

    "But . . ." he prompted.  His spousal instinct warned him she had more to say.  She hesitated, straightening his collar, then smoothing the front of his shirt.  He waited with practiced patience.

    "There's something here to see you, " she finally blurted, stepping back to cross her arms defensively across her ample chest.

     "Something?"  Kris responded.

     "Yes, something!   And it's not an elf, " she added quickly, forestalling the obvious question.  "It's not a human.  It's not an animal.  It's  not a troll, leprechaun, pixie, goblin, brownie, sprite, or bogey."

     Pacing in a tiny circle, she tugged at the hem of her glitter-decked red sweatshirt, then picked at imaginary lint on the right thigh of the matching sweat pants.  Her reaction alone could have told Kris that his visitor was indeed  unusual.  A woman used to flying reindeer and magic did not upset easily.

      Kris leaned over and laid a hand on her shoulder.  She stopped immediately and turned to face him.  With the other  hand he smoothed a few errant curls back into her bouffant hairdo.  He preferred her hair with a little less stiffening, but she couldn't resist experimenting.  Yesterday it had been a Cleopatra-like bob, today it was a Marie-Antoinette-inspired concoction that made her a good six inches taller.  Inspired by his calm demeanor, she managed a relieved smile.

   "I guess I'd better stop telling you what it isn't and show you what it is," she said.  Kris nodded in agreement as she bustled out the door.

    Kris's eyes widened as the visitor came through the door.  He looked away momentarily in disbelief, then stared again at the visitor.  From the waist up, it was an exact double of his wife, from the snow-white pile of curls to the sparkling design painted on the red sweatshirt.   From the waist down, it was a bundle of rope-like appendages that might be legs.

    Two of the "legs" propelled the creature across the floor, two more poked from the sleeves of the sweatshirt, and the other twenty drifted in the semblance of a skirt from the waistband of the sweatshirt.  The face beneath the curls, like Mrs. Santa's, was smooth and round.  However, its features were so flat as to seem painted on.

   "Well, hello there, " Kris said, standing to extend a friendly hand.

   "I believe 'Greetings, earthling' is the traditional form of address I should use,"  the visitor replied in a high-pitched, vaguely mechanical voice.  It resembled the forced tones of  a baby doll squeaking "Mama" when squeezed.  "Or may I call you Santa?"  it added, returning the handshake with a tentacle.

    "You may," Kris Kringle answered, pulling out his spectacles from a breast pocket to get a better look.  "So I take it you aren't from around here?"  he asked, polishing the lenses against his sleeve before putting on the glasses.

    "No, but I might be soon," the visitor replied shuffling closer to the window to look at the dolls.  "I have come to make arrangements for a group to tour your planet."  It picked up each doll in turn, flipping it over and then back as if searching for the missing face.

    "That sounds like a nice idea,"  Kris replied.

    "But before we can visit, certain undesirable elements must be eliminated."  The alien dropped the last doll, the only brunette, into a nearby wastebasket.  "We need your help."

    "My help?"  Kris left his stool to rescue the discarded doll from the waste bin.  Gently, he patted her curls in place before plunking her defiantly in a place of honor on the workbench.  A frown erased the welcoming grin from his face.   The alien ignored his disapproval.

    "Our studies of this planet indicate you are an expert on which are the desirable inhabitants.  Known for your careful record-keeping, you make a list and check it twice.  You are certain to know who is 'naughty and nice.'"

    Kris's eyebrows rose in surprise.  He didn't like where this was heading.

    "We want to know, too,"  the visitor continued calmly.  "Before we bring our groups here, we will cull those unfavorable elements.  After the clean up, your planet will make a better impression on our tour groups."  The alien enthusiastically waved ten of tentacles like a cheerleader's pompons.  "The economic advantages to the remaining population would be tremendous."

    "I can't do that!"  Kris slapped the workbench forcefully.  "I  don't get rid of people.  I just give them presents."

   "But what about the naughty?"  The visitor was not convinced.  Pair after pair of its "legs" began entwining and unwinding in agitation.

   "The nice get presents, but the naughty I take care of, too."  He looked over at the visitor.  A disappointed pout crumpled its face.  A rather charming expression, he thought.  He'd never seen the like on Mrs. Kringle.

    "Wouldn't it be easier to get rid of the naughty?"  the alien suggested.  "It would save much time on your Christmas Eve run."  It reached a tentacle toward the rescued brunette doll.  Kris deliberately moved it out of reach.  The alien's tentacle lingered on the edge of the workbench, tapping a thoughtful rhythm.

    "You might even have time to include,"  the visitor hesitated before continuing hopefully, "tour groups?"

    Kris frowned again, gathering as much disapproval as he was capable of onto his otherwise jolly face.

    "Tour groups who eliminate half the people on this planet wouldn't be on the nice list,"  Kris pointed out.  "They would get lumps of coal."

    "Lumps of coal?"  The alien perked up. "Are they good to eat?  Like Play Clay and Goofy Putty?"

    "No!" Kris answered firmly.  The alien's head drooped in dejection.  A little sigh escaped from its once again pouting lips.

    "I guess we could use your moon as a tour site," the alien proposed in a resigned tone.  "We could still see the sights from there."  Cocking its head sideways, it clasped, then unclasped three pairs of tentacles deliberately, one after the other.  Its eyes glazed over in deep thought.  Then its head snapped suddenly erect.

    "The moon IS still uninhabited?"  Santa nodded in answer.

    "Would that get me on the nice list?" the alien asked wistfully.  "I love presents," it continued hopefully, lifting its head.  The legs stopped wriggling.

    "That's a start," Santa agreed.  "And if you could do me a favor, I think I might arrange an early Christmas present.  The alien's face lit up in a happy grin.

     "Let me see that pout again," Santa said, picking up the brunette doll.

                               #

    Mrs. Kringle peeked in the door.  A merry whistled version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" greeted her.  Once again, Santa sat alone, paintbrush in hand, delicately etching features on a doll's face.  Only six remained.  One or two of the dolls had a familiar look she couldn't quite place.

    "Come in, dear,"  Kris said, without turning around.  "I'm almost through."   Under the sure strokes of his brush, a winsome pout appeared on the last doll's face.

    "I need some new songs, dear,"  he complained wistfully.

    "More Christmas songs?"  she objected.  "They already start playing them in July.  They have you doing everything from kissing strange women to surfing the high seas."

    "A few more about the joy of giving and a few less about tracking the deserving.  I'm getting a galactic reputation as a hard-nosed bureaucrat."

    "So what happened to our visitor?"  she asked, moving the last doll back to the windowsill to dry.

    "I sent it on its way."  Kris clenched the brush in his teeth to free both hands.  Tipping the doll's head upward, he gently smudged the pink paint on the cheek with his thumbtip.  Mrs. Kringle impatiently popped the brush from her husband's mouth, like extracting a thermometer.

    "That's all?"   She tapped her foot.

    "First, it needed my standard tough talk about being naughty and nice."  Kris stretched his arms out, rotating the shoulders to ease a cramp. "It was a little confused about the purpose of my list."  Kris cleaned the last bit of paint from his brush with the mineral-spirit-soaked rag at his elbow.  "And, of course, I gave it an early Christmas present."  Kris turned to his wife. "Everyone loves presents."

    "What did it want?" she asked puzzled.

    "A dozen Slinkys for exercise," Kris answered in a bemused tone, "And a little brunette doll.  It found the face strangely appealing."  Kris closed the lids to the paint jars before adding, "Oh, and a pound of solar GUNK.  It said GUNK was its favorite snack."


Falling

by Lawrence Schimel

Something is falling.  Like a slip

of the tongue, she thinks as she stops

to listen, one hand full of lentils,

the other ashes.  Like melting snow

sliding down the throat of the chimney;

cooling the throat raw from crying,

the eyes watery from smoke.  Of course

that's why she's crying, while her step-

mother, step sisters are two-stepping

at the Christmas Ball.  The falling

something is revealed: the chimney sweep.

He's holding a pumpkin for ballast.

He's thin as the iron poker that leans

against the hearth, and as black,

though once, perhaps, his clothes were

red like an iron left too long in the fire.

He coughs from the soot, or to get her

attention.  She invites him in.  From his sack

he pulls a gift, wrapped in tissue like a piece

of candy.  It's an ornament, a ball of glass

with a tiny silk slipper nestled inside.

She runs to the tree to show him

the last thing her mother gave her.

The glass globes could be twins.  They smile

at each other.  The cat has trapped eight

rats in a corner.  She pulls the last lentils

from the ashes and writes "Goodbye"

on the hearth, as he takes the rats outside

with the pumpkin.  She wraps the two glass

ornaments in tissue again and leaves them

beneath the tree.  As she climbs into the sleigh

with him, snow is falling.


More about Moore

        The original "A Visit from Saint Nicholas" by Clement Moore was one of the first American science fiction stories revolving around the holiday season and, since it was first published before the turn of the century, was probably influenced by the other-worldly tales of Mr. Jules Verne.

        In Moore's rambling poem an omnipresent alien with alarming psychokinetic powers, including the ability to transport himself and other items through the air (telekinesis), the ability to transport enormous quantities of goods hither and yon without mechanical transport (teleportation), understand the wants and desires of children (telepathy), and alter his size at will to fit through small flues (teloprahsion).  He also seemed to suffer from hypoglycemia since he consumed an inordinate amount of sugar products during his worldwide peregrinations and this probably fueled his powers.

        "Saint Nicholas", Moore's clever transliteration of his alien's name, is obviously a member of an advanced species with enormous excess production capability, to whom the filling of stockings of ALL of Earth's children with toys and sweets is a trivial undertaking.  Typical of all such "sighting" reports, only one observer encounters this alien and there is no proof of the encounter save his word and the evidence that the alien has left.  Although this tale does not progress beyond "the visit" it is most likely that the protagonist will be seen as the supplier of the prizes, despite his fervent pleas otherwise.


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