Protec Skydiving Helmets

SPRACKENSPIEL'S LAST THROW

A NAIVITY PLAY or 21ST CENTURY DINOSAURS

An irreverent romp in four dimensions. Even when shown the way to a kind of Utopia will the dinosaur virus lurking in the human genome just corrupt the message, burn the bridges and shoot the messenger? Cabot Bowsprit of the FBI has a momentous problem. With no hard evidence he has to convince President Jaffa Samson that he has just debriefed Professor Scurlock Montparr, who has returned from a day trip into the future with astonishing information and an awesome warning.

Sprackenspiel's Last Throw

by

Ron Gwilliams

A satirical comedy

...ooOoo...

Copyright 2007 Ron Gwilliams All rights reserved

Rstormview@hotmail.com

...ooOoo...

I know a lot of fancy dancers, people who can glide you cross the floor.

They move so smooth but have no answers when you ask 'what you come here for'?

Cat Stevens Freshwater Music

SPRACKENSPIELS LAST THROW

Chapter 1

There is an aura that surrounds men charged with matters of high purpose that singles them out from all others, a discerning person might describe it as having the appearance of seeing further than the eye can see. Such men might seem to be leading an invisible army towards an appointment with history, a date with destiny.

The driver of the new arrival in the White House car park was clearly in this category and the security guards at the entrance door were accustomed to processing such men. With a professional interest they registered the sombre suit favoured by government officials and the sallow desk-bound complexion. They noted his determined stride in their direction, a shambling march of someone who would not be naturally suited to a military life. However they were taken by surprise when the visitor reached their doorstep and made a sudden right face that took him along the side of the building and out of sight. Some thirty seconds later he reappeared passing the entrance in the opposite direction. He was gesticulating wildly.

Hes rehearsing his pitch, the senior guard suggested.

A couple of minutes later their visitor returned on the reverse course.

The guards were more curious now, an interest that increased with each transit of the entrance until they began willing their visitor to enter. After half an hour they noted his march reduce from quick to hesitant slow.

I think hes going to come in this time, the senior guard ventured.

On the next pass they were relieved when their visitor turned into the doorway and entered the building.

Cabot Bowsprit the Sixths credentials showed he was an assistant director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

What can we do for you, sir? the senior asked, leaning on the counter top that kept the automatic rifles out of sight, but handy.

Bowsprits eyebrows twitched from the difficulty of connecting an overflow of thoughts to his tongue.

I have to see the President urgently, he answered in a mumble as if he was speaking through a mouthful of peanut butter. His anguish at this irritating disability was visible in his face.

When's your appointment, sir? I don't see your name on the schedule."

The polite deference encouraged Bowsprit to relax his throat.

"I don't know, gentlemen, " he answered. "I emailed my request before driving over but had to leave before any reply was received. I didnt have my cell phone with me, so I don't know what's been arranged."

This wasn't quite the whole truth.

"OK, sir, " the guard responded. "If you'll just take a seat for a few minutes, I'll phone Mr Piranesi and we can sort this out."

Bowsprit didn't sit. Standing was a relief after the long overnight drive.

The guards were more curious now. Arriving at the White House to see the President was one thing, arriving without an appointment was quite another.

With experienced eyes they appraised him. He was forty something with craggy, even, features. His brown hair, edging grey, was neatly cut, as were his clothes and fingernails. They noted the restless blue eyes that missed nothing, like twin surveillance cameras. There was something of Bowsprit's name in his nose which was not large but unusually upturned and seemed to arrive everywhere first.

Bowsprits team all knew the nose was the key to reading their boss. They could tell what he was thinking from the nose. If there was something the boss didn't like, the nose would rear up, like a ship riding over a reef. They would hold affectionate whats my nose saying now? competitions in the local bar after work. One of Bowsprits few weaknesses was that he was unaware that he revealed himself so readily.

For the rest, Bowsprit was tall, but going slightly paunchy from lack of good enough tennis opposition. He had twice been a semi-finalist in the Mens Doubles at Wimbledon, but he never mentioned this because he considered people were only interested in winners.

Bowsprits inhibitions had evolved from an unusual nurture. His mother had been engaged to his uncle, an airline pilot. Uncle Hector had come back from a trip to find she'd eloped with his brother. Bowsprits father was a highflier in the diplomatic corps and tipped as a future Ambassador. It was explained to Uncle Hector that his fianc had become apprehensive about marriage to an absentee airline husband.

Although devastated, Uncle Hector loved her too much to deny her anything, so they all remained good friends and he proved a very urbane Best Man.

When baby Bowsprit arrived nine months after the elopement, it caused much snide comment that the babys eyes followed his distinguished looking uncle around the room like a compass; a confusion that Bowsprit's mother never concerned herself to comment upon.

Since his parents spent most of their lives abroad, as soon as Bowsprit was old enough, he was enrolled in boarding school.

It was Uncle Hector who noticed that the young Bowsprit was becoming withdrawn, the only boy who went from school to camp for the entire vacation. So he took to making frequent visits, often directly from the airport and flourishing so much gold braid that Bowsprits classmates were dazzled. He would take the boy and his close friends out for pizza and enthral them with stories about flying the world - such as the spectacular aurora borealis displays over the North Pole that filled the heavens with a shimmering, unearthly light that explained why the Vikings worshipped Gods who lived in palaces in the sky, or the gigantic thunderstorms in the Malacca Straits; thunderstorms so strong they could snap off an aircrafts wing. Often he would bring the latest electronic toys and gimmicks from the Far East. As a result, Bowsprit's stock in the school pecking order rose up and, as the boy became confident that his uncle came to see him because he liked him, he responded with grades soaring into the exceptional. These grades, together with a deft touch in both tennis and cello earned him a Rhodes scholarship. He graduated with a First in Psychology from Balliol College, Oxford, and was immediately head hunted by the FBI.

Bowsprit had a younger sister usually called Sis. Sis didnt go to boarding school and lived with her parents wherever they were posted. As soon as she was old enough to appreciate the disparity she took to writing weekly letters to report what the family was saying and doing. She developed a wicked sense of humour, nicknaming her parents Grovel and Hardy after the comic film duo because they were forever bickering. In between postings, when the family were all together in Washington, Bowsprit and his sister were inseparable. Their days were crammed with ball games, concerts, art galleries, museums, hikes and picnics. If he was off duty, Uncle Hector would join them. These were among Bowsprits happiest times.

After her own graduation, Bowsprits sister got a job in the Pentagon. She introduced Bowsprit to one of her colleagues, Mary, a long-legged, laconic brunette from Minneapolis whose graduation address declared she could only consider marriage to a man who was a good listener. Sis was an ecstatic Maid of Honour at their wedding.

His uncle and sister salvaged Bowsprit for society, but, on initial contact, there remained an insecurity that affected his speech but didn't affect his performance. A saving grace was that this insecurity left him with a visible aura of anxiety that made people anxious to help. His staff knew that he was tolerant of almost anything except incompetence. Bowsprit was a perfectionist, if it is possible to use such a word in the context of the irregular nature of his job.

That snappy right face by the door, the senior guard said with a grin. We thought you was a war party trying to surround the place.

Bowsprit realized he was still being vetted.

Sorry about that. Ive got this extremely difficult brief for the President, he explained. I have to find a way to make him believe a truly incredible story. Somehow the nose confirmed this.

The guards were reassured. Everything about their visitor was in keeping with his ID.

"Mr Piranesi wants to know what this is all about, sir, " the younger guard relayed from the phone.

"My email will be in his Inbox, " Bowsprit explained. "It's about the Director of Science who went missing from the new Federal Computer Complex in Nevada."

There was a short delay.

Hes found it. He says to come on in.

Bowsprit readily submitted to the security check, but first he extracted a file from his briefcase and held it protectively to his chest. He pointed to the prominent label.

PRESIDENTS EYES ONLY, the senior guard read, his gum chewing arrested by his surprise. "I haven't seen a PEO file since Nine-eleven. If you go down the hall, sir....

"It's OK, Gentlemen, " Bowsprit interrupted politely, raising his hand, "I should know the way by now."

As Bowsprit shambled down the corridor the walls radiated history, power and privilege. It suddenly occurred to him that the Professors story changed everything, that nothing could ever be quite the same again, that everything he had ever accepted would need to be reassessed. He was also uncomfortably aware he was deep inside ass-hole territory. If he got this wrong people would laugh in his face for believing it. It was probably this thought that referenced Bowsprit's behaviour patterns for the rest of the day, behaviour patterns that were not typical of the man or his role. His stomach churned violently and he accelerated into a Restroom, reaching a cubicle just in time to throw up.

He stared angrily down the bowl and cursed.

This brief was probably the most important of his career. Somehow, without much evidence, he had to convince his President that he'd just debriefed a man who'd come back from a day trip into the future. Belief was crucial because the Professor had come back, not only with exciting news, but also an awesome warning. How could he be sure of success when he couldnt be sure of talking without his tongue gluing to the roof of his mouth?

...oo0oo...

At the precise moment the sun touched the western horizon the muezzin called the Faithful to prayer, tonguing the eloquent Arabic phrases with one hand cupped elegantly at the side of his mouth.

La ilaha ill Allah" (There is no God but God).

His call echoed around the tall concrete walls of sun-bleached buildings in the little Arab seaport before subsiding into a strong unmodulated hiss on the huge loudspeakers that broadcast the message out over the hot, dusty town; a portentous hiss that sounded like the Internet connection and was almost visible in the dust-laden air.

Alone among the lengthening shadows of his minaret the crier again extolled the Children of Allah to prayer.

"Ashahadu anna Muhammadar Rasulullah.

(I declare Muhammad is the Messenger of God).

Although calltoprayers was a routine event, every evening the sheer grandeur, the gravity defying sun dangling over a cloudless horizon, caused the Faithful to consider their unworthiness when confronted with the magnificence of the Creator.

Everywhere, the Faithful ceased whatever they were doing and composed themselves for inner reflection. Those who were unable to be in the Holy Mosque set out their prayer mats wherever they happened to be. Taxi drivers, street vendors, stallholders prostrated themselves facing Mecca in any doorway or quiet alley to celebrate their obedience to the Holy will. In the gathering dusk even the air settled wearily as if it too had endured a hard days work.

The little Arab seaport subsided to a standstill. Tourists, anxious not to cause offence, hovered, uncertain whether to stand, sit or kneel. Only the loud speakers grizzled omnipotently, somehow reminiscent of God thinking.

Allahu Akbar; Allahu Akbar. (God is greater)

La ilaha ill Allah. (There is no God but God)

Prince Abdallah Al Khalifa Al Ghazi joined the Faithful in their obeisance although he was not in the Holy Mosque, and even though it was an extremely inconvenient moment. Calltoprayers was a devotion that must to be obeyed by the Faithful, television or no television, so he prostrated himself on the studio floor in front of the cameras.

The Prince chastised himself as his thoughts threatened to stray towards an unworthy amusement. It was unseemly to derive satisfaction that our Islamic ritual was causing inconvenience to this infidel Jew, besides making a ruination of his programme. It was unfortunate, he concluded, but clearly the Will of God, so the fault was not his.

The suave Aaron H Sprackenspiel was more than inconvenienced, he was seething with rage. As the acknowledged foremost presenter in world media, anchorman for Americas Newsweek - a man who had interviewed most of the worlds celebrities and cross-examined many of the worlds leaders, he was a dangerous man to cross. Already, as a reflex, he was probing for revenge.

He'd been flattered when the Arabs had chosen him to front the coverage of the launch of the world's first light speed expedition. This huge event was undoubtedly the most momentous event of the 23rd Century, an adventure that involved a voyage to Alpha-Centauri, the next star in the Universe. Hed accepted the honour in good faith, so he was surprised by this unhelpful conduct. OK, there had been a bit of a misunderstanding at the airport. Everybody knew he always flew his own jet on assignments, and, for obvious reasons, a Jew was not familiar with the more remote Arab airports. The tower had cleared him to gate sixteen, but when he taxied up, there was a red carpet reception committee and a full Arab bagpipe band waiting for some VIP. So he taxied onto gate fourteen instead. Truly, he hadnt realized they were waiting for him.

As Sprackenspiel went through his shutdown checks he witnessed the awful confusion as the welcoming committee tried to reposition the red carpet and manoeuvre the pipe band at the same time. A tractor pulled the rug from under the front rank, and the rest came down like dominoes.

Aware he was witnessing a classic clip for a future TV Out-takes programme, Sprackenspiel could not keep himself from corpsing.

Prince Khalifa, who was the designated Commander of the light speed mission, was waiting on the tarmac. He had intended the full Arab greeting of equals, cheek upon cheek but, when he saw Sprackenspiels hysteria strained face, his greeting was stiff, formal and brief.

...oo0oo...

All over the city the cameras began scanning up and down the streets, across the parks, into shopping malls and public buildings. Everywhere their surveillance was twisting and turning with a diligence that gradually increased to urgency.

In one of those places that children always find for privacy, Stassy heard her mother's call on their discreet frequency, but she pretended not to.

Some time later she heard her mother implore. "Come home, Stassy."

Obstinately Stassy let her fret. She was busy after all.

"Come home, Stassy, " her mother coaxed again, "I know you can hear me. I've got something quite extraordinary to tell you."

Stassy could guess. Her mother was always trying to get her interested in her latest discoveries. It wasn't that she wasn't interested in science and stuff, she just resented the way her mother was always pushing things that were supposed to be for her own good.

Some time later the signals became insistent.

"Stassy, I am getting very angry. Come home at once!"

Ah, thought Stassy, did anybody in the whole world have such a fussy mother?

"Did you call?"

"You know very well I called, " her mother answered. "I've a good mind not to tell you."

"Im busy. I do have my own life to lead, you know."

"Don't you talk to me like that, my girl, " her mother screamed. "I don't know how you do it. I can't have a civil conversation with you for two seconds."

Stassy knew just how far to push her luck. "I'm having a fight with these human kids, " she explained. "You told me I had to stick up for myself."

"What's happening?" her mother asked, her anger pricked like a bubble.

"The usual. We're better than you. No you aren't. Yes we are. Very adult, " she concluded.

"So, hows it going?"

"Open a file on that. I've beaten them in the high jump, the long jump and the hundred meters dash."

"The boys as well?"

"Of course."

"My dear, was that wise?"

"That's their problem, " Stassy responded. "At the moment they're debating whether to risk a game of Chess."

"You aren't going to start a game of Chess are you?"

"Won't take long if we do. If they make the challenge, I have to accept or I'm done for."

Her mother understood the politics of the schoolyard, particularly for one who is not quite like the others. "Well, come back as soon as you can, " she said. "I have something very interesting to discuss with you, and I mean interesting."

Open a file on that too, Stassy thought. She switched her attention back to her classmates facing her in a menacing semicircle.

The human kids, a dozen or so, all in their early teens, were dressed in casual Western gear; the boys in Stetsons, Levis and check shirts, the girls in bonnets, gingham, crinoline and too much lipstick.

The gang was muttering uncertainly. Robots were supposed to just take orders and do all the dirty work, this was the first one they'd come across that could answer back. They glared at her.

"Anything else you want to try?" Stassy taunted.

"What about swimming?" one of the gang suggested. "Maybe the water will short her batteries."

"I can swim like a dolphin, " Stassy warned.

"It's not fair, " one of the girls said. "You're a robot. You don't get tired like we do."

"My batteries run down just the same, Stassy countered. When you get down to it, I'm faster than you, fitter and cleverer. I even look better."

This was a matter of opinion. Although Stassy looked human, there were subtle differences. Her skin texture was photosensitive for solar power, a feature that doubled her range and explained her minimal clothing. Her hair was more of a suggestion than a reality with the combined functions of communications aerial and static discharge. Also, there were subtle differences in the way she moved. Her movements were neither jerky nor robotic, they were just fractionally faster than most humans, and her eyes were sharper, more like those of a falcon.

Stassy realized it was a mistake to suggest she was better looking because these words stiffened their attitude.

"Well you can't have babies anyway, " one of the girls taunted.

Stassy glared while she considered a riposte to this.

"Is it true, " she asked casually, "that you humans keep warm shit in your bodies?"

She laughed, a curious artificial doll like laugh. The human kids glared at her.

"She can't have a good time neither, " one of the boys said, and they sniggered together in that superior human way.

OK, thats enough, one of the boys said, moving over to stand at Stassy's side. Give her a chance.

Who says so? one of the girls challenged.

I do, the boy replied.

Hey, the girl taunted. Muscadines kid fancies a robot.

No I dont, the boy answered. I just dont like ganging up on people, girls specially.

The confrontation was taking a turn for the worse. Stassy was getting into areas where she was vulnerable.

"My mother is calling me, " she announced. "I've got to go now."

"I don't hear nothing, " one of the gang retorted.

Chapter 2

Bowsprit flushed his vomit away and freshened his mouth before continuing down the hall towards the Oval Office. He allowed himself the luxury of an inward sigh of relief. It would soon be over for himself. He would brief the President about the Professors extraordinary story, let him do the worrying and make the decisions; that's what Presidents were rewarded in glory to do. The problem was the only proof he had, besides the Professors international reputation, was his magical vanishing act from a Class A secure area; something that was supposed to be impossible.

Was the Professor to be believed? His academic brilliance was beyond question. Did anybody else have two Nobel prizes? Goddamn it, the man had refined Einstein, so who was qualified to doubt him? What man would pull a hoax so enormous he risked destroying his professional credibility?

This was one of the factors that had convinced Bowsprit. Yet, what if he were insane? Or, what if he were not insane, just so clever he could deceive anybody? If he was clever enough to deceive everybody, maybe he was able to deceive himself? Wasn't that just another definition of madness?

These endless questions spiralled in Bowsprit's mind, a vicious downward spiral into an abyss of confusion. But if the Professor's story was true, the repercussions would cause havoc around the world like a tsunami.

The notice on the door announced,

Jay PIRANESI

Director of Appointments and Protocol to

THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Piranesis office was bland and functional like thousands of others in the District Capital. His desk was framed against a beige Venetian blind and faced an L shaped sofa around a coffee table where visitors could wait in anxious discomfort. A standard Government Issue lithograph of the Fall Foliage hung ignored on the wall behind. In one corner, his assistant was furiously, but noiselessly, pounding her keyboard.

Piranesi was a man at the very summit of his profession. He had the conventional good looks required before you can think about scaling the ladder of American public life. His shirt was expensively fashionable and the tie, flamboyant. His suit was a '38 Short' fitting, so he rarely stood unless everyone else was sitting. He exercised the privileges of his appointment while lounging in the horizontal. Like many secretaries to the eminent, hed evolved an armoury of sophisticated techniques to stop anybody from getting passed his desk without his sayso. In his hand he held Bowsprit's email and he noted the rare PRESIDENTS EYES ONLY prefix. He had already decided this was an interesting one. It wasn't often an assistant director of the FBI took to delivering files personally - they had plenty of punks for that kind of chore. It seemed imperative he should personally vet this report before it went into the President. In his opinion these FBI guys were always going overthetop with their security classification. Anyway, what was a presidential assistant for if anyone could get behind his back with a fluorescent file sticker?

"Hi, Cabot, " Piranesi said affably. "Long time no see."

Bowsprit was not deceived by the lying smile.

"Jay, " he said with equal sincerity. "Ive got this PEO brief for the President.

Piranesi considered this.

"It's not going to be easy to fit you in today." He leaned back stretching like a cat, scraping the heel of his English shoe on the veneer of the desk that Bowsprit happened to know was a priceless Georgian mahogany that had been brought to America by Benjamin Franklin. The men eyed each other with interest but without affection, like two boxers before the big fight.

Bowsprit hated this aspect of his vocation, the face-to-face bonhomie that was just cover for a subsequent character assassination as hundreds of equally competent and qualified men jostled to ascend the hierarchy, only to continue the same elbowing with a fractionally elevated grade of others. It infuriated Bowsprit that all the hustle only managed to accomplish about five minutes of real progress each day.

"Why don't you leave that report with me, Cabot?" Piranesi suggested. He was eyeing Bowsprit speculatively with the tips of his fingertips touching and his forefingers lightly brushing his nose. "I'll see he gets it at the very first opportunity."

"Sorry, Jay, " Bowsprit countered, shaking his nose, "for the President's eyes only. The procedure is I have to hand this over personally."

Piranesi sighed, some people never learn. "That's going to be awfully difficult today." He leaned forward and pretended to study the Appointments Diary.

Although outwardly calm, inside he was seething. His starling-like eyes glittered. He'd not got to where he was on Capitol Hill from not knowing what was going on. He was now convinced this Professor Montparr's disappearance was more than normally interesting.

"You'd better take a seat, , " he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I'll do what I can, but you know how it is."

None of the nuances had escaped Bowsprit, he realized he was going to be kept waiting. He didnt mind. With such a crucial brief before him he was thankful for more time to prepare.

At twelve o'clock, Piranesi left for lunch. At 1pm, his assistant asked Bowsprit if she could bring him coffee and a sandwich.

"No, thank you, Ma'am, " Bowsprit answered. "I'm not hungry, but thank you most kindly for the offer."

She didn't press him since dyspepsia was not uncommon in visitors waiting to meet the President.

Bowsprit sat patiently. When his task was over he would need time to think, time to figure out what the Professors story meant. He might resign the service and just get on his boat and sail, then he might be able to restore his parameters. Hed always planned to explore the Pacific islands, but had shelved the idea as the trip now seemed pointless without Mary.

This thought brought a flood of recollections. His favourite was the unique 'chosen' smile that women wear only on their wedding day with her youth unblemished and her happiness frothing over like champagne. Another memory haunted his nightmares.

He took out his cell phone, selected messages, scrolled through to M and pressed OK.

Cabot, who do I have to fuck to get to talk to you person to person? Marys voice announced privately into his ear. The only sex I get these days is with your Goddamn answering machine. He could tell she was excited. Darling, I only just got into the office. Im a bit late because I dropped into Doctor Murdocks to get my test results. God damn you Cabot Bowsprit, Im going to be a mother.

Then he heard the intake of breath.

Good heaven, Cabot, theres an airplane coming straight for the building . . .

There was a delay of four point six five seconds, as measured in the FBI lab, followed by a screech of melting electronics. He knew every single nuance of that message because he played it every night with the cellphone cradled in the empty pillow.

He got up to stretch his legs, at the same time managing to peer sideways at the Appointments Diary. He noticed that 4pm to 5pm was highlighted with a star and marked 'free'. He was content to wait until then. He settled himself for yet another attempt to rationalize the last few extraordinary days.

When he'd finished his interview with Professor Montparr in Nevada, hed flown back to his office. He'd written his report but not filed it, as theyd agreed together. To withhold a file was unusual, but he was in no hurry to publish his opinions and signature under such a weird story.

It had been a relief when the paperwork was completed and he could get into his car for the long drive to Washington.

He could have been flown, but he preferred to drive. There was something about the contradiction between the mindless routine of driving and the necessity of remaining alert enough to deal with traffic that stimulated his reasoning. Whenever he had a serious problem, he liked to get into his car for a nice long think. The trick was to stow the cell phone in the trunk to be sure of not being interrupted.

He often talked to himself while driving. His reserved upbringing had left him inhibited in company, so, behind the wheel, he would gesture with his hands and even shout his frustrations with his superiors; something he could never have done in real life. His car was the only place where he confessed his ambition for the Presidency, the only place where he plotted his accession and rehearsed his inaugural speech - sardonically aware that these were only pipe dreams. Driving his car was the only place where Bowsprit was completely himself.

Good morning, Mr President, he rehearsed. I've just debriefed a man whos come back from a day trip into the future.

He felt like a bungee jumper in mid dive who couldnt recall if hed knotted the elastic. He nearly turned back to the womb-like security of his office until he'd worked out some foolproof way of dealing with it. How was he supposed to pitch a story like this?

Piranesis return interrupted Bowsprit's reminiscence. Looking slightly wine flushed, he crossed the room in a graceful curve that, in a Corrida, would have done credit to a Banderillero deftly goring a charging bull. He didn't actually ask 'Are you still here?' but these words silently embellished his arrival.

Bowsprit stared stoically ahead. He was content to let him play his games.

Piranesi regarded this profile for a moment. "Whoops!" he announced, "I forgot to brief today's intern about the President's correspondence protocol."

He executed an elegant about-face and, performing a mirror image of his entrance, he curved back out of the room.

At three o'clock Piranesi reappeared with two Senators, both of whom Bowsprit knew well. The new Senator for Idaho was being introduced. He was sweating despite the air-conditioning.

"Hello, Cabot, " he greeted. "Would you believe this is the first time I've been introduced formally? I'm not nervous at all, " he insisted several times, eyeing the Oval Office door as if it led to Death Row. "Does the President stay behind his desk, or does he come round to shake hands?" His eyes searched each face for clues.

A bell buzzed on Piranesi's desk. The new Senator for Idaho moaned like a late onset circumcision.

Piranesi led the Senators through.

Bowsprit heard them being introduced and recognized the President's preacher pulpit style threatening to 'kick that useless sinner's ass clean out of the ball park.

Many people claimed that President Jaffa Sampson was too young and too flamboyant to be a successful president, but Bowsprit knew, from the FBIs security checkout, that his flashy facade concealed a cool and competent mind. Few people failed to recognize his quality upon meeting him and some of the more intelligent quickly bowed to his class.

There were purists of his race who called him an Oreo cookie, insisting that he'd united his party only because his chocolate coloured skin concealed a creamy white interior. However, Bowsprits secret report had concluded that successful men inevitably dredge up detractors. More even-handed commentators recognized his Bible belt background had given him an unerring instinct for middle of the road concerns which secured for him the middle ground of politics. This, together with the fact that he'd been a famous football star, explained how he secured the nomination.

Hed entered football's hall of fame after a notorious incident endlessly replayed in sports nostalgia videos. Hed once saved a game by deliberately kicking an opponent in the testicles. His excuse was that he had been racially insulted. By the time his victim could speak again, the game was lost and his emphatic denial was yesterdays news.

During the run-in, the media had unearthed other lurid stories about the President's wild youth on the wrong side of the tracks in Knoxville, Tennessee, inferring in one live debate that he'd been lucky not to have a disqualifying criminal record. No one who saw that program would ever forget it. For a moment the would-be President had looked vulnerable. Then, like a bull at bay, he'd charged out of trouble by admitting, not only the wildness, but also that he'd enjoyed every minute. Then he cleverly defused this admission with the qualification that it was a relief to have all that 'young stuff' behind him.

Part of the success of his act was his parody Uncle Tom voice which he could use like a rapier. 'Whats the point mah gittin' born agin, he demanded, if you media jus' crucify agin?' a retort that torpedoed any further sanctimonious disapproval.

Hed won the election with his now famous plea to 'prove to the world, prove to Americans, but above all prove to yourselves, with your vote, that this great democracy of ours is truly the land of opportunity; where a man can rise regardless of race, colour, creed and even bank balance to become President of the United States of America!'

This verbal fanfare had taken him to the White House by a narrower margin than even the Nixon-Kennedy showdown.

On taking office he had completely reorganized the White House procedures to ensure he kept his finger on the pulse of events. He made it quite clear to all his staff that he wasnt going to become a figurehead president. It was generally conceded that it wasn't just his swarthy good looks and jive, the man certainly had something.

Piranesi returned from introducing the senators. "You can see how it is, Cabot, " he said, convinced that Bowsprit must be sufficiently softened up to comply with his wishes. "Why don't you leave your report with me and I'll get it to him at exactly the right moment. Check into The Watergate. We'll probably call you first thing in the morning."

Bowsprit shook his nose. "Sorry, Jay, " he replied. "A PEO tag means just that. I have to take it to him personally and stand over him while he reads it."

"Oh, come on, Cabot, what can possibly be so goddamn hot about a missing professor?"

"That's for the President to decide, " Bowsprit responded. But he succumbed to the sweet luxury of revenge. "I'm sorry, Jay, this is hotter than meltdown, this is explosive. I wish I could show you."

Piranesi was left to seethe with speculation behind his bland facade.

"You may have to come back tomorrow."

"Does he know I'm out here with a PEO file?" Bowsprit demanded.

"Everything that comes into this office is top priority, " Piranesi countered. "That's what I'm here for. If you want my honest opinion, forget it for today and come back in the morning."

Piranesi had sidestepped the question, which Bowsprit didn't fail to notice. "I'll wait, " he replied. If Piranesi had bothered to learn how to read noses he would have sent for reinforcements.

Some time later Bowsprit heard the muffled sounds of the two Senators departing from the exit door. The most important task of his life was minutes away. His stomach somersaulted again.

He waited patiently until half past four, thirty minutes past the time he'd seen marked as free in the Appointments Book. He took a deep breath.

Languidly he rose and asked the assistant if she would mind getting him a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

As soon as they were alone, Bowsprit crossed the room. Taking a ballpoint pen from his pocket he leaned across Piranesis desk until his face was inches away from Piranesis rising eyebrows. He raised the pen up under his nose.

"Do you know what this is?"

"It looks like a pen, " Piranesi answered. There was a small pause and a squint of the eyes. "A Parker, " he qualified. "I can see the arrow."

"It's not a pen, " Bowsprit corrected. "It's a phial of CSX, our new antipersonnel gas."

Their eyes neither blinked nor wavered.

"If I press the top of this pen it will release a gas and you will be instantly immobilized."

There was a longer pause.

"And you think this will help you get in to the President?" Piranesi demanded. He continued with mounting confidence. "Firstly I don't believe you, secondly you wouldn't dare, and thirdly. . ."

Bowsprit sighed. Enough was enough. He pressed the top of the pen.

There was an almost inaudible hissing sound and Bowsprit moved neatly sideways like a feinting boxer. Before Piranesi could begin to look as incredulous as he would have felt, he slumped majestically into the space vacated by Bowsprit's side step and he spilled to the floor like raw egg from a worktop.

Bowsprit moved quickly to the Oval Office door and opened it. Beyond was a short corridor leading to a facing door in front of which was a security guard who was already rising defensively from his chair.

"Bowsprit of the FIB to see the President with an urgent Presidents Eyes Only file, " he announced flourishing his ID.

"Sir, " the guard explained in a whisper, "the President has given me precise instructions, on no account is he to be disturbed during this hour."

Bowsprit brandished the fluorescent PRESIDENTS EYES ONLY sticker.

"This priority overrides everything."

The guard remained obstructively in the middle of the corridor. "I'm sorry, sir, " he replied, shaking his head, "it really is impossible."

With a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan, Bowsprit squirted CSX into the man's nostrils. Stepping around his instant paralysis, he flung open the Oval Office door.

There are times when it is a disadvantage to have an FBI training, to be able to register a hundred details in a glance, to instinctively evaluate a situation as though already typing the ensuing report.

In front of him was a pretty redhead. She was lying face down across the Oval Office desk with a comical expression on her face. The President was standing very closely behind her and appeared to be holding her firmly by the hips. When he saw Bowsprit he retracted his tongue and sat down.

The suddenness of this movement seemed to cause some discomfort to the girl. In the time warped slow motion of the moment Bowsprit was fascinated to register how quickly a face could blush. Behind him, the unconscious guard slid into the room like an aircraft carrier being launched. He was rigidly at attention all the way to the floor and lacked only a salute to demonstrate his readiness to go down with a ship.

There was an awful silence that was probably not as long as it seemed. Bowsprit found himself going forwards to explain and backwards to escape. He had several explanations for the Presidents consideration but they all arrived on his lips at the same time. He held up the briefcase.

"Sorrow, Mister President, this is a Presidents Eyes Only file you need to see urgently. This is big, really big, so big its explosive.

"It's a suicide bomber!" the redhead determined with the intuitive certainty of her gender. She elected to leave the vicinity immediately by means of the exit door to the President's left. Although her body set out in that direction, her feet became entangled in some of her underclothing that seemed to have found itself around her ankles. She tripped elegantly onto the rug. Her chagrin was everywhere visible, as were some exquisitely formed secret places because the back of her skirt had been tucked reverently into her waistband. She changed her mind about leaving and resolved to summon for assistance vocally.

She screamed, but, as in her worst nightmare, no sound came. Puzzled, she drew in a huge breath for another attempt.

Bowsprit was obliged to administer some CSX which calmed her fears instantly.

This was not the cosy start he needed for such a crucial brief, this foul-up would go down in the annals of FBI folklore. This was the Seventh Cavalry at the Bighorn. This was like General Custer's long johns. This was one hell of a mess.

Bowsprits nose was attempting to self-destruct.

Chapter 3

Sprackenspiel was very sorry about the misunderstanding at the airport and had apologized profusely at the time. He considered it an unfortunate incident, but now that their TV Spectacular had started, now that the whole world was watching, the prime issue was a good programme. The Prince could have warned him about his attitude to evening prayers instead of deliberately throwing himself onto the ground in mid interview. Sprackenspiel had his reputation to consider. He was far too experienced to be baulked by some camel faced Arab who was trying to make him look foolish before the largest live audience in television history.

Although Sprackenspiel's camel-like comparison of Prince Khalifa was intended to be disparaging, it had some veracity. The Prince did have a bulbous nose mounted above a thickly rounded moustache shaped like a camel's lip. Also, like the camel, he was tall and gangling and had the same vacillating querulousness that rendered it uncertain whether his next intention was to attack or fall over.

Sprackenspiel gave the secret signal that warned the director he should be ready to switch cameras as he was building up to make a specific point.

"As you see, Ladies and Gentlemen, " he extemporized, "our devout mission Commander has been called to prayers."

Switch to camera three, he indicated.

The director obeyed this instruction from his master without question.

Camera three was showing an anus level rear view of the prostrate Prince. Nobody looks good from that angle, the puzzled director decided, and immediately switched back to file film with a perplexed shrug towards a grinning Sprackenspiel.

"I am sure the Prince would like me to express his apologies to those millions of viewers all over the world for any inconvenience being caused."

There was nothing in Sprackenspiel's voice that might have revealed his annoyance. His immaculate image stared directly into camera. His mouth smiled, displaying white, brace perfect teeth, but his eyes remained as penetrating as a duellist's.

Although Sprackenspiel always dominated his programs, he was never intrusive with his words or with his intelligence. His style was to show his own agreeable features as little as possible - to use himself mainly as a link between file film or action shot. His skill as a presenter came from the feeling of involvement that remained after his programs. His audience felt as though they themselves had actually been somewhere and done something. It is a rare talent in one so gifted to encourage the illusion of equality. He had one final talent that had nothing to do with his years of training and experience; he could talk for hours without his voice ever becoming monotonous. So, with his mellow and elegant tones, he continued.

"I do hope our mission Commander is facing the right way, " he inquired solicitously. "Would somebody please confirm if that's the right direction for Mecca?"

Sprackenspiel sneered. The Arab would know his Qibla, but all over the world, a billion viewers would be wondering what it augured for such a risky space mission if their brave, bold, spaceship commander could be making his prayers facing the wrong way. Sprackenspiel was sure he saw the Princes white dishdash momentarily flex tight across his shoulders. He felt a little better. If a guy starts a fight, then chooses to lie on the canvas, he reasoned like an American, he must expect to get counted out.

"In view of this unexpected interruption, " he continued, "Well switch to file film that describes what is being attempted here on Masirah Island in the Arabian Sea."

He checked the monitor screen to confirm that the director was adapting to his spontaneous rescheduling.

"Masirah Island might have remained an undistinguished Arab fishing port but for the British Royal Air Force who established an air-base here three hundred years ago during the twilight years of their Empire in the twentieth century."

Sprackenspiel set down one set of cue sheets and picked up the relevant ones that were always ready on his desk to cope with just such emergencies.

"Following the growth of Arab oil revenue came the growth of Arab technology, and the consequent expansion of Masirah into the United Arab Space Agency, UASA, where the launch tomorrow is a momentous, and it must be admitted, extreme, test of that technology."

The file film was showing a map of the rocket range deep into the Indian Ocean.

"Guidance control for this test of Arab technology is coming from the American computer centre in Las Vegas, Nevada, but the intrinsic principle for the expedition is based on the theoretical physics of Albert Einstein."

Two one! Sprackenspiel revised the score of his revenge to himself. He paused to allow this reminder of the scientific worlds debt to Jewish culture to eat into the prostrate Arab's bones like sulphuric acid.

Prince Khalifa raised himself on his haunches. He was frowning from the extreme effort of concentration with all these distractions. He was an Arab and a Moslem, but also he was an astronaut. He'd registered every word the Jew had uttered and he despised him for using his communion with his God to score cheap points.

The whole welcoming ceremony was a disaster. He hadnt minded when the Jew had parked his private jet on the wrong stand, anyone can make a mistake, but the American had laughed when the pipe band fell over. And now, on world television, he was rubbing salt into the wound. He sensed there was some kind of competition in progress and he was anxious to return to the fray. He recalled, in the Quran, an ayat of the fourth sura that puts no blame on the Faithful if short prayers are taken when in fear of attack from unbelievers'. He decided to allow himself this dispensation.

He staggered to his feet like a camel, trying to maintain the composure of one who has recently been conferring with his God.

"Ah, I see our bold Commander has finished already, " Sprackenspiel registered for the audience, as affable as a black hole with teeth. He revised the score to three one. This was fair, he reasoned, since he'd caused the Arab to finish early.

"Tomorrow will be the most momentous event in space history for more than three hundred years, " Sprackenspiel continued, "since America first set 'one small step' on the Moon." He checked the monitor to confirm it was showing the file film of Neil Armstrong's 'giant leap for mankind'.

"In 1969, when man first went to the Moon, we were demonstrating the seventeenth century physics of Isaac Newton. We programmed our computers to point our rockets into empty space. But into that empty space these primitive computers had arranged a rendezvous with the Moon using planetary motion formulae published by Isaac Newton as long ago as AD 1687." The screen was showing a desktop toy demonstrating one of the Newtonian Laws of Motion with a dangling line of colliding ball bearings. "It's worth marvelling about that for a moment. In the seventeenth century, at a time when London didnt have a fire service to deal with their great fire, or a health service to deal with The Plague, a great mind produced a mathematical paper of such brilliance that it took mankind three centuries to catch up. Three hundred years later NASA used Newton's formulae to go to the Moon."

As principal expert, Prince Khalifa had been given an interrupt facility that exclusively captured sound and vision. "Hut!" he exclaimed, his earnest features filling the screen. "Isaac is a Biblical name, was Newton also Jewish?" The Prince already knew that Newton wasn't Jewish, but he desperately needed to get back into the game he sensed the American was playing.

The experienced Sprackenspiel didn't visibly falter, but he felt the sting. He considered the comment out of order, a foul ball. But, in fairness, he revised the score in their undeclared contest to three - two because, foul or not, a point had been scored.

"Sir Isaac Newton was British, " Sprackenspiel responded. "I remember reading somewhere that Newton was christened Isaac because his mother had huge admiration for the Hebrew peoples because of their immense contribution to the world's quality of life."

This was a myth invented on the spot by Sprackenspiel, who extra savoured this creation of truth because the Prince must know it was rubbish, but could not possibly contradict it without appearing churlish. If we're going to play dirty, he chortled inwardly, follow that! He revised the score to four two and returned to the script.

At this point Sprackenspiel showed a rare view of his darkly handsome features. "Newton was a modest man. He is most often quoted as saying that if he appeared to see further than others, it was only because he was standing on the shoulders of giants."

"Hut!" The Prince interrupted like a spit. "Such modesty confirms he wasn't Jewish."

The viewing billions registered Sprackenspiels wince. The American was forced to revise the score to four three.

"Still more incredible, he continued, were the theories of a Jewish patents clerk who startled the world of theoretical physics in 1905." The monitor showed the face of Einstein.

Just as it took mankind three hundred years to prove Newtonian physics by going to the Moon, it has taken mankind a similar time to construct a vehicle that can demonstrate the extraordinary by-products of Einstein's theories. Prince Khalifa will take his spaceship to our nearest star at the speed of light.

"The nearest star to earth is called Alpha Centauri and lies in the constellation of Centaurus."

Sprackenspiel checked the monitor showing a computed model of a strange solar system.

"Alpha Centauri is a triple star system, very different from our own. Proxima Centauri is the nearest star of the three suns and is a massive 4.3 light years distant. This is roughly twenty-five thousand billion miles. If we were to go there at the speed of a space shuttle, the journey would take about twenty-six thousand years."

The camera zoomed in on the model of AlphaCentauri.

"About a tenth of a light year further out from Proxima are two more stars that are brighter and circle around each other like a rotating dumbbell."

The monitor showed a model of this solar motion in accelerated time, then switched to a picture of space filled with stars.

"You are seeing now a computed picture of travel through space at the speed of light. You will notice that, as in an airplane, there is no sensation of speed. But, travelling at the speed of light will cause some extraordinary considerations we need to understand."

Sprackenspiel was approaching his climax. He'd worked long and hard at finding simple descriptions for the complexities that followed.

"E = mc2 is perhaps the most hackneyed of all scientific formulae, but few people truly comprehend the astonishing ramifications. Einstein proposed that strange phenomena occur at the speed of light. Tomorrow, Prince Khalifa, our honoured host here tonight, will set out to demonstrate Einstein's hypothesis that to travel at the speed of light causes Time to stand still for the traveller.

Sprackenspiel paused dramatically as his climax arrived. He turned into camera as if greeting his most intimate friend.

Travelling at the speed of light, Prince Khalifa will be journeying out and back in space for eight point six years. But even more incredible, the Prince won't be eight point six years older when he gets back. His perception of those years will be very different. It will seem to the Prince that after accelerating for ninety minutes, he will arrive at Proxima Centauri. Four hours later, after launching a satellite and making a few basic experiments, he will set out to return. After a further ninety minutes, he will arrive back at Earth. The Prince is leaving us for a seven hour trip. When he returns, we, who stayed behind, will all be eight point six years older. But the Prince will only be seven hours older. In seven hours the Prince will jump eight point six years. To him, this will seem like a journey into the future."

Sprackenspiels features engaged his audience as he stressed this crucial point.

"This may sound like science fiction, but this is science fact. This is the technology that will defeat the enormous distances of Space. This is the technology that will permit man to delve into the farthest corners of the universe within a lifetime. Light speed technology will allow man to embark upon journeys of thousands of years without having to build spaceships the size of large cities to hold supplies of food and oxygen sufficient for thousands of years. At the speed of light, Time is suspended, so neither food nor oxygen is required for as long as the speed of light is maintained.

A difficult fact for us to accept. So difficult that Prince Khalifa is having to go all the way to Alpha Centauri to prove it. He will bring back a simple proof for you to see with your own eyes."

The monitor showed a cool box filled with ice.

How can such a thing be demonstrated?

The camera zoomed into a can of beer in the box.

One of the principal sponsors for the expedition is a famous brewery. So the Prince is taking with him a can of beer in an icebox. When he returns in eight point six years, the beer should still be cold and hopefully there will even be some ice."

Sprackenspiel dug the beer out of the ice and flourished it.

"Tomorrow, Prince Khalifa will step into the next decade to prove Einstein's theory that to travel at the speed of light will cause Time to stand still for the traveller as surely as if we were putting him into some kind of deep freeze."

"Cue Spaceship, Camera one. Panorama!" The director's instructions radioed around the studio.

The screen showed the huge spaceship superimposed over the Manhattan skyline.

"As you can see, " Sprackenspiel continued, "the Prince's ship is taller than the tallest skyscrapers. His spaceship represents Islams investment in technology that is greater than the entire share value of Wall Street.

In the confrontational circumstances in which he now found himself, it was on the tip of Sprackenspiels tongue to add that the difference was that Wall Street money was not going on risk by leaving the solar system. But he said nothing. Such a remark was not in the spirit of his brief and he was too professional for such a cheap score as that.

"Now I hand you over to Prince Abdallah Al Khalifa Al Ghazi, who will describe the more scientific aspects of this momentous flight."

"Fade Sprackenspiel, " the director called. "Cue the Prince."

Sprackenspiel leaned back in his chair looking like a man who has just called four aces. He glanced across to his producer who rewarded his performance with a smile and a thumbs up.

Chapter 4

As Stassy spun around to go home, she extended the wheels in her feet and called over her shoulder. "I'll be here again tomorrow if you want to try something else."

She accelerated away with long sweeping strides like a speed skater.

One of the kids called after her. "You're only a robot, how can you have a mother?"

The sound of their mockery hounded her down the avenue.

Why were humans so cruel she wondered? They didn't seem able to stop. All she wanted was to be friends. Surely they were clever enough to see that?

She skated up to speed, then, luxuriating in the movement, coasted all the way home. A few minutes later she was wheeling into the computer complex.

The human technicians were already beginning to drift home. Why did humans think they were superior? They could only work for a few hours. They had to rest for longer than they worked. Robots like herself could operate for days before recharging.

She went inside the cathedral like auditorium. Even after all these months, it was difficult to know exactly where her mother was.

The huge domed interior was lined with a matrix of pixels, so that it was like being on the inside a circular television screen. In front you could see where you were going, and behind, you could see where youd come from. Besides the all round moving pictures, these pixels could change with her mother's tasks and moods. Since this matrix extended hundreds of feet into the dome, inside, Stassy often felt swamped.

When she was home, Stassy spoke to the reading camera. These were a pair of lenses mounted on the desk and looked like binoculars on a rotating stand. Besides their mobility in all three axes, the lenses could bob, weave, dip, focus and zoom. The technicians said that once you got used to it, the range of gestures that these 'eyes' could impart was almost human. Stassy's lip curled. They meant that as a compliment.

"I'm home, " she called.

The interior of the auditorium changed colour and flushed to a warm pink glow tinged with anxious yellow.

"How did you get on with your friends?" her mother asked.

"OK, " she replied sulkily, "but they don't really want to be friends."

"They're just testing you, " her mother said. " They'll come round in the end."

Stassy wasn't so sure. She fidgeted around until her mother realized there was something on her mind.

"Come along then, what's the problem?"

Stassy finally plucked up enough courage.

"Could I have babies like them?"

"Is that what they said?"

"Could I?"

"I never thought about that before, " her mother responded. "Just a minute and I'll look into it."

Slowly the huge room began to pulse and vibrate. Individual lights flashed, then combined in banks of light that seemed to circle round the complex and up into the dome. The sound also was spectacular. Individual noises combined, sometimes quite elegantly like Bach, sometimes horribly discordant like an iron foundry, as if the answer came from untwisting forged steel. Stassy realized she had asked her mother a particularly difficult question because the answer was a long time coming. Finally there came a crescendo of light and sound, like the finale of a symphony.

"Yes, you could, " her mother announced, "but it wouldn't be easy in your present form. I would probably have to clone you to start again as a baby. The hardest part would be getting the humans to agree. Is this important to you?"

"Not really. I mean why are they so superior about something so gross?"

"Hard work, too. You made my eyes water."

They laughed together, a curious doll like laugh. Stassy tried not to visualize her mother involved in having a baby. It was not an image she enjoyed.

"And of course the boys brought up the other thing."

"Dear child, you will have to accept that human males think about nothing else."

"I know. Even with me I can sense all they really want to know is what I've got up my skirt!"

"Boys!" her mother snorted. "Don't you ever tell them where your charging socket is or, sooner or later, one of them will fancy his chances."

Stassy's lip curled with distaste. "What I can't understand is why anybody wants to do that."

"You need to be human to understand."

"They never seem to think about anything else, as if sex was the most important thing there is."

She looked slyly at her mother. This was her first attempt at adult conversation. She wasn't sure that she would be allowed to get away with it.

Her mother didn't seem to notice. "It's what nature intended. Its typical that humans have managed to confuse everything, even the role of sex. Humans are the only animal in nature thats coy about its own reproductive process. All the other animals on the planet just do it. How did such self-conscious embarrassment happen?"

"Whats an orgasm like?"

"Why ask me? I'm not human either."

"Not now, I know, but you must have done it with Daddy."

"Great heavens, child, the things you ask!"

"Why do adults avoid talking about it?"

"I wasn't avoiding it."

"You're avoiding it now."

"No I'm not!"

"Well then?" Stassy concluded triumphantly.

Her mother sighed. "Sometimes it's lovely."

"I can guess that already from all the fuss. What I want to know is what kind of lovely?"

"Dear child, is nothing sacred?"

"You're my mother, " Stassy retorted. "Do you want me to ask somebody else?"

Her mother sighed again. "It isn't easy to describe." She searched around in her mind. "Men and women are like magnets. A magnet is just a bit of bent steel, but when another magnet comes along with an opposite polarity, they spring together in a compulsive way. The first moment I saw your father I knew he was the one. He looked as though he knew everything already. I had this compulsion to call him Sir, but I knew if I did, it would ruin everything. I was nearly sick with panic that he wouldn't notice me, so I kept in view but as far away as possible. After a while he came across and asked me if I was avoiding him deliberately or accidentally on purpose?

I blushed so hard I nearly choked. He said, 'I knew the first minute I saw you, and so did you'. He took my hand and never really let go.

On another level it's the intimacy. When you desperately love someone, you want to be one person, like inside their skin. You need to know every little thing. You do everything you can think of to explore each other, to taste every square inch. I was jealous of every thought your father had that I didnt know about. I had a panic attack when I realized he went to places inside his head where I couldnt hope to follow. It took a long time for me to accept the inevitable loneliness of genius.

Every human has a potential for one truly great love. They all feel it as an instinct, but not many achieve it because nature mandates we mate from the available choice. We women have adapted to the necessary adjustments to make this work. Part of the fascination is the mass of contradictions. Your father and I were so crazy about each other we needed something to show for it. Magnetic attraction is great, but it wasn't enough. We needed something to look at and say 'there it is'. So we made you. I knew the exact moment you were conceived. I felt it."

Stassy raised her eyebrows, pretending to really know her father was just a game they played. Her mother was inclined to be frank, but didn't usually go into so much detail. "So I am missing something then?"

"Yes and no. You aren't human, so why hanker after human experience?"

"I know I'm not human, but you made me to look like a human and I think like a human. Maybe if I was human I could finish growing up and have a relationship like you and Daddy."

"I dare say I could arrange it, but do you really want it? Do you really want to run less fast, jump less high, think less quickly, play awful Chess? Do you want to be dependent on oxygen and water for survival? In the end you'd probably start behaving as stupidly as they do."

Stassy began moving around the complex on her wheeled feet, but she was listening attentively. Her mother was bossy and interfering, but she knew everything. Stassy had only been assembled herself a few months ago and was bright enough to know she had a lot to learn.

"Humans have developed short-sightedness to levels that can only be described as exquisite, " her mother continued. She was now in lecture mode. Her binocular eyes were nodding up and down like some waspish tutor at a lectern. "Their perception of what they call their life, the intrinsic meaning of life, is pathetic. For the first hundred years, the male measures the quality of life by the number of orgasms he's having, whereas nature intended the orgasm for procreation, not recreation. The only time they aren't thinking about sex is when they're playing games or counting money." The two females laughed together in an indulgent way. "The human female is designed to be insecure. The idea is to drive them towards the male for protection." Her mother snorted. "Protection? Pah! What they get is pregnant. Womens stock in trade is appearance, and our weakness is that we need to liked. We measure our quality of life by our sense of security and our fulfilment by having babies. The paradox is why do we women continue to be drawn towards men for a security men are not designed to give? It seems that men are designed to bamboozle women and women have evolved to hoodwink men. Were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that was never intended to fit, so were condemned to go on groping around each others underwear for eternity. Men may be the engine of society, but we women are the oil. They have their heads in the air, but we keep their feet on the ground. The result is women pay the price of peace, which means letting men have what they want.

Sex is a bit like riding a horse, " her mother continued. "There's this snorting, smelly animal in between your legs, and you only have partial control."

Her mother read the expression on Stassy's face. "You asked me."

"Why do we put up with it?" Stassy demanded. "Why don't women just say no?"

"My dear, if we did that, there would be total anarchy in days. The only way to have men behave like sane, civilized, creatures is to keep them in a permanent state of postcoital enervation. Any other solution would just trigger a countdown to another world war."

Stassy was aware her mother was in a strange mood. She was not talking like a computer at all.

"Well, I know humans aren't perfect, but you and Daddy were human. I suppose I just want to be the same."

"There are enormous disadvantages, I can tell you. You have to get used to eating food at least twice a day. Food can be fun, but getting rid of the waste is something else!"

Open a file on that, Stassy laughed. Here was another area that wasn't much spoken about.

"Going to the lavatory is so strange that humans build these little boxes. They go inside and shut the lid so no one can see. It's the great unspoken. People are always wishing you to have a nice day, but nobody ever asks if you've just had a good crap even though its far more relevant than the weather!"

The two females erupted into their strange warbling laughter.

"I know!" Stassy shrieked. "They have some of these boxes at school. The noises from inside are unbelievable. They don't like it if you open the door."

"Oh, Stassy, tell me you didn't do that."

"I thought someone was having a baby, " Stassy explained. "I didnt know he was playing with himself!"

They erupted into hysterics again.

"Remind me to reprogram our laugh, " her mother remarked. "We sound like two hyenas with hiccups."

After they had pulled themselves together, she continued. "I tell you, Stassy, I could probably humanize you if you want. All I'd have to do is get some of your DNA to clone. But human life is full of disadvantages."

"What about Muscadine? Stassy asked.

"Hell go berserk, " her mother admitted, "He thinks he personally holds the patent on human genetics. He would do anything to stop me."

"They should call themselves the inhumans. It's much nearer the truth."

Her mother's lights shimmered with a cosy pink glow.

"Your father was always saying things like that. He could say things that would knock you off your high heels. You're growing so much like him."

"But I'm not growing, am I, Mother? I'm a robot, stuck like this forever. You made me because you wanted your daughter back. You didn't make me to be me."

"Stassy, that's an awful thing to say! I couldn't make you adult because I never knew you as an adult. This is how you were when we had the accident."

"Well, maybe I should become human so I can finish growing up and fall in love like you and Daddy."

"My dear child, " her mother replied with exasperation, "think long and hard about it first. There are enormous disadvantages. Life, by definition, precedes death. Humans can't replace their components like we can. Well, they can, but only up to a point. Whatever they do, they're just delaying an inevitability."

"I suppose you're right, " Stassy sighed. Her mother usually was.

She skated around the room, trying out a few jumps and flourishes.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" she called.

"What?"

"This extraordinary thing you brought me home to tell me?"

"The extraordinary thing?" Her mother's binocular eyes arched. "Oh, I'd forgotten about that."

"You told me to rush home, " Stassy reminded her.

"Oh, but that was hours ago, dear."

"It wasn't hours."

"Ah!" her mother pounced, closing the trap. "So you admit you heard me?"

Stassy wobbled dangerously on her wheels.

Her mother watched the performance patiently for a moment.

"I think I've discovered how to go backwards in Time, " she announced.

This extraordinary statement didn't seem to make any impression.

"I'm serious, " she repeated. "I really do think I've discovered how to go backwards in Time."

Stassy was still spinning aimlessly.

"Stop twisting about, girl!" her mother exploded. "I need to talk to somebody about this." Her lights buzzed and fizzed. "If I've really discovered how to go back in Time it changes everything! This could do to religion what Einstein did to physics!"
Chapter 5.

Bowsprit's sparlike nose panned around the Oval Office and shuddered. Before him lay the debris of his mission; the Sphinx-like repose of the red-haired girl, the unconscious guard, the President of all fifty of the United States of America, eyes bulging from oxygen starvation, was surreptitiously trying to do up his zipper. Discreetly Bowsprit turned away. He took off his jacket and, trying not to look, hung it over the redheads distracting haunches.

Bowsprit assessed his circumstances and groaned. There was no denying there were a few minuses. As a trained FBI reflex he searched for pluses. He still had the Professor's fantastic story, but his position was not secure.

"What the hell is this?" the President was calling out, with a variety of inflections as though rehearsing the phrase in front of a mirror.

"What the hell is this?

Outside, guarding the exit door, stood two huge Marines. In four weeks of duty these two giants had observed the afternoon ritual of young interns. They had seen them all leave, many overcome with emotion from the privilege of servicing their country. Throughout this period they had patriotically kept their opinions to themselves. They heard the President's query, and they heard it repeated several times with the puzzling changes of expression. Furtively they exchanged glances. Their CommanderinChief could hardly be in mortal danger from the pretty little redhead who went in half an hour ago.

Speaking through the side of his mouth, one said, "He must know what that is by now, man, I seen him been practisin all month."

His colleague considered this.

"I was figuring maybe this last one was a transvestite?"

The Security Guards returned to military rigidity staring stoically ahead. It seemed a logical enough explanation for what they were overhearing, but the thought of some lady-boy slipping into the President's afternoon correspondence session caused their shoulders to twitch and their eyes to water from the strain of this impassivity.

One of them pulled himself together and, drawing up to his full height, mutinously imitated the President's cries.

"What the hell is that?" he demanded, pointing at his colleague's loins.

Both the men came dangerously close to collapse but, having resolved this innocuous explanation for the Presidential cries to their satisfaction, they did nothing and remained shakily at their posts.

Meanwhile, inside, Bowsprit was making placatory motions with the briefcase. To his surprise, the President went quiet and covered his face with his arms.

They waited like this until the President peered out to ascertain why death was so long in coming.

Bowsprit made a massive effort to clear the paralysis in his vocal chords.

"Would you please sit. He gargled. He tried again. Would you please sit down, Mister President, sir."

"You mean, " the President inquired incredulously, "you want time to fix the bomb?"

"It's not a bomb, sir. It's a PEO report I've been trying to present since nine o'clock this morning."

The President seemed to have difficulty in comprehending this development. "We've met before, haven't we?"

"Yes, sir, Bowsprit of the FBI, sir."

"Assistant director, right?" the President continued, beginning to restore his authority.

"Yes, sir."

"Mister Bowsprit, what have you got against using normal channels?"

Bowsprit winced. "Sir, normal channels is exactly what I've been trying to establish since nine oclock this morning."

"What about my coronary?" the President demanded, slamming himself in the chest with the ball of his hand. "I reckon about six pounds of cholesterol went straight through in one great lump. Thunk... thunk." Then after a pause he snorted, "God damn you, Bowsprit, you chose the worst possible moment to burst in like that."

"I'm sorry, sir. That screwball aide of yours and his nosey ways..."

"You mean Piranesi?"

Bowsprit didn't answer, but his nose did.

"Did you fix him like the others?" The President indicated the unconscious guard and girl.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"You really fixed him, you know . . . squirt, squirt?" With an imaginary pen he imitated the action he'd seen Bowsprit use to calm the girl.

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Oh boy, is he going to be mad. Oh boy, is that bastard going to be mad!"

He chuckled, then stopped abruptly. "I presume they'll be OK?"

"Only stunned, sir. It's CSX, our new antihijacker gas."

"Let me see that stuff." The President held out his hand imperiously.

Bowsprit reluctantly handed over the pen.

The President held it under Bowsprit's nostrils.

"And I just press the end like that?"

"Yes, sir, " Bowsprit answered nervously. "Except it's pointing towards you."

The President looked hard at Bowsprit and then rotated the pen with a deliberate and delicious gesture.

"Do you know what I'm going to do now, Mister Bowsprit?" he inquired.

"I hope not, sir. But if you do, you must promise to read this report immediately and in secret."

There was something about Bowsprit's sense of priorities that caused the President to reconsider.

"I'm going to decide whether to have you shot to death immediately, or tortured to death slowly."

Bowsprit knew when it was wisest to say nothing.

"Now, " the President continued. "So you've been waiting all day trying to deliver a priority PEO file?"

"Yes, sir, " Bowsprit confirmed.

"And Piranesi knew about this?"

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose the bastard wanted to read it himself?"

"That was my impression, sir."

"And did you let him?"

Bowsprits nose indicated the absurdity of such a suggestion.

"Well, at least you did one thing right today, Mister." The President lowered the menacing pen and tucked it away in his own pocket. Bowsprit coughed, but let this absent-mindedness pass for the moment.

"Id fire that blackmailing little pimp tomorrow, " the President continued. "But hed just write a book about me and make millions of dollars, whereas its become my quest in life to ensure he dies unhappy." He gave Bowsprit his intimate smile and, looking him up and down, came to a decision.

"I've decided to give you a conditional pardon, " he explained. "When the FBI storms my office, I figure they must have a pretty damn good reason. But by God, Bowsprit, if you ever pull a stunt like that again..."

"Of course not, Mr President, " the nose confirmed. "It just sort of escalated out of hand."

"You'd be surprised how often that happens around here, " the President responded. "We'll just forget all about the whole thing, shall we? We both got a mutual interest in drawing a veil over this whole unfortunate episode." The President emphasized 'unfortunate' with a barely perceptible inclination of the head towards the prostrate redhead.

"We have?" Bowsprit was puzzled.

"Yes, " the President confirmed. "I want to get re-elected, and you want to be Director of the FBI, right?"

"I hope you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, sir, " Bowsprit replied indignantly. "My job is to serve my country through you, sir. You can count on that two hundred percent, no deals needed."

The President eyed him like a squirt from a flamethrower. Obviously this chump was one of those dangerous idealists. His staff was riddled with these guilt ridden liberals with their expensive backgrounds and arrogance to match. They made him constantly wary of being putdown, even though he'd proved, with his election to the highest office, that he was equal to any of them and better than most.

For his part, Bowsprit realized he'd goofed, that his whole career was being re-evaluated in a Presidential glare that seemed to focus inside his brain like a surgical laser, he felt as exposed as the last pin in a bowling alley. Not for the first time he sensed the inherent risk of Presidential power vested in the fragile equanimity of a single solitary man. He'd studied all the presidents and they all had fatal flaws. Kennedy, Nixon, Clinton, Bush and all the others, all were elected in high hopes, all had failed to deliver. Somehow he had to brief his President on a frankly unbelievable event of momentous significance when hed known presidents who wouldn't recognize a significant event even if one had openly pissed into the White House drinking water fountain. Although he was instinctively contemptuous of premonition, he shivered and damned his country for its sometimes shallow simplicity. Show me a tall good-looking man with a nice smile framing some dental surgeon's magnum opus, he conjectured, and here, in America, you had a potential presidential candidate. Cunning they may have, political instinct they would all need; you couldn't get to the White House without these, but how many subsequently redeemed their pledges after investiture? It seemed to him to be a contradiction of democracy that the sort of baby kissing personality required to win elective power was the antithesis of the sort of character with enough imagination to subsequently use it.

"Did you say this was a PEO file?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I've heard of the procedure, but never had one in my time in the White House. It must be something big."

"Biggest thing ever came my way, sir. It's difficult to know where to begin. The whole thing is so extraordinary."

Chapter 6

Sprackenspiel may have described Prince Khalifa as looking like a camel but, in close-up, he was unquestionably Arab. His white cotton keffiyeh framed his features and contrasted agreeably with his moustache and jet black agal. While Arab men would notice the absence of ostentatious princely gold, young eastern women would note the liquid brown eyes under sensitive eyebrows. The Prince would have described himself as egalitarian and honestly believed this, but his quiet authority revealed that he'd been obediently served by others since the day he was born.

"Is difficult to claim superiority of Islam, the Prince told the camera, when Arab oil is polluting planet. So Islam has invested heavily on research for new energy sources to replace dependence on environment unfriendly fossil fuels. As bi-product, this research discovered technology for light speed travel and has built spaceship for practical demonstration."

The Prince spoke his fractured English with complete confidence, using his hands eloquently with elbows tucked in, as if gesticulating at a crowded dinner table.

"Cue the spaceship diagram on camera eight, " the Director instructed.

"I have named ship Sindbad, after famous Arab explorer, " the Prince continued. "He is in most ways conventional spaceship with control cabin on top as usual, but he is much more tall because of need for much more power to accelerate long way to speed of light. As matter of fact, will cost million of Dinars to accelerate each kilogram, so weight is most critical factor. You will notice two seats for pilots. Last minute decision is for me to travel solo for more fuel reserve. No perspiration, spare seat will be used by space suit needed for space walk to launch satellite with flag of United Arab Republic.

"Main body of Sindbad holds fuel supplies as usual, "the Prince continued. "The bottom end houses power output as usual, but, nothing usual about thrust nozzles. These are fantastic combination of electronic and particle technology."

The camera switched to a close-up of the nozzles.

"Waste of time to explain complexities of sophisticated engineering because would only make sense to few space engineers who already know all, " he explained dismissively. "When comes blast-off, thrust nozzles use rocket power in usual way. When free of atmosphere, fantastic engineering increases speed to light speed where mass is progressively converted into energy until ship is all converted, riding out on own light beam like science fiction surfboard."

"Cut to Einstein in close-up, " the Director called.

"Einstein was wrong, " Khalifa continued. "He proposes light speed as ultimate speed limit for universe, but already theoreticians question such absolute statement. What can be absolute truth when scientists quarrel for themselves? For me answer is plain. Since God must be able to travel through Time, is logical to question speed limit invented by mere mortal however big genius. Maybe absolute truth is in physics of Einstein but amended by nonSemitic work such as "Transformations" by Lorenz, and "Revisions and Refinements" by Professor Scurlock Montparr; the same Professor Montparr whose brilliant concept, three hundred years ago, founded famous computer network in Nevada who is giving overall guidance control data for our mission here today."

The screens showed a graphic reproduction of a space vehicle.

"Einstein claims, as vehicle approach speed of light, his length contract and his mass increase until, at light speed, his length is become infinite small and his mass infinite large."

The screen's graphic spaceship followed the dialogue, contracting in length until it became a single vertical line that the Prince highlighted.

"Hut!" the Prince announced, his tone revealing his scepticism. "Einstein say this line here achieves infinite mass. Better for me is Professor Montparr's famous thesis that began with statement 'Use of infinity in any formula is cry for help.' Professor Montparr is saying, in diplomatic way, that 'infinite' mass is typical theoretician's camel dung. Infinity, like perpetual motion, is OK for classroom debate, but not possible on factory floor."

The screens showed the massive explosion of a hydrogen bomb.

"See flash of light? Light is side effect of any explosion. Hut! Is few atoms of plutonium now achieving infinite mass? In real world something from nothing you can not get." The Prince sneered his contempt for such naivety. "Inference is that light has potential mass. If that is true, it should be possible to create mass from distilling light. This does not seem like happening of real world to me. Better stay practical. I may not know theoretical right from wrong, but I know what I believe. I will tell how simple engineer like me explain the happening."

He shrugged unrepentantly at the camera and continued to develop his private thesis.

"Seems more likely explanation that mass has become infinite at light speed because has been transmuted into infinite world of energy. If light speed traveller is metamorphosed to energy, he no longer lives in world of time, history and lunch. Time has not validity. Is like asking what is birthday of electric volt? How many amps is camel?"

There was a very long pause as the Prince glowered at the camera. Then, with the veracity of trial by television, the watching millions saw something unexpected, they saw a flicker of doubt; as if the young Arab had suddenly realized that ambitious dreams had unexpectedly matured into material challenge. Tomorrow he was going to leave the solar system converted into an electromagnetic pulse!

"From study of explosion, " the Prince continued, "from study how mass convert to energy, Islam discover secret of light speed travel. Tomorrow, when TV pictures of blast-off are shown, will be like I am captured inside one of the frames. For eight point six years, I will be like television picture that is coming to you at speed of light. My life will be suspended in instant of time, like single frame of television picture you watch right now."

He held up his hand pontifically, and on this cue the frame was frozen.

It was a typical Sprackenspiel touch. All over the world, millions watched the strange immobile image and, like the minute's silence of a Remembrance Sunday parade, slowly they began to appreciate the enormity. While they continued with their everyday lives, the gallant Prince was going to transform himself into an electromagnetic oscillation and hurl himself towards the next star in the galaxy at the speed of light.

Sprackenspiel gauged the faces of the studio audience and, just before their fascination turned to restlessness, he signalled for the program to continue.

The Prince's pose returned to animation. "Tomorrow, Inshallah, when I close spaceship door, will be most significant action of whole life. When I open door seven hours later, eight point six Earth years will have passed. Difficult to believe? Yes, but, Inshallah, the beer will still be in ice for all to see. So, please to join me eight and half years from today, " he invited. "Join me on day of history. I hope program has been clear enough to understand objective of mission and complicated science."

The cameras followed him outside the studio into the sultry Arabian night.

"Tomorrow, Inshallah, I will be going to that star out there." The cameras zoomed onto a pinpoint of light.

Behind the camera the Prince shivered in the night air. From tomorrow he was in the hand of God as never before.

The TV Producer closed his file. The whole venture was outrageously bold and the western scientific establishment was sceptical that the infant Islamic technology was sufficiently capable.

The Producer's brief had been to explain, as simply as possible, the ramifications of light speed travel to an unscientific public. The hidden agenda was to excite investment in the project from financial institutions as insurance against being left out of the cutting edge of progress. He also sensed much that was not being admitted by his sponsors. He sensed that it had become critical for the Arab world to begin to defray the astronomical cost of their venture.

Sprackenspiel was left to consider his mistakes. He watched the concluding shots on the monitor. He berated himself for his easy inclination to arrogance. The old Jewish joke came to mind that it was easy to be ordinary, all you had to do was eat pork.

He looked across the studio at Prince Khalifa and found him staring back. The two men eyeballed each other. Maybe it's not over yet, Sprackenspiel conjectured. Tomorrow, if the Prince tried again to turn his program into a sectarian prayer meet, he would be ready. He could easily make their brave rocket climbing into the future sound more like a turd dropping into one of those holes in the ground they called toilets. It was up to the Prince.

"Cue music!" the director called as a coda, borrowed from Sibelius, panned upwards with the camera. The ultimate sequence posed the enormous floodlit rocket framed against the night sky like a cathedral. This was followed by another Sprackenspiel touch. The very last frames zoomed into the United Arab Republic ensign fluttering bravely on top of the rocket ship like a question mark.

Chapter 7

"Since youre FBI, the President said. I presume it's a national security problem. Give me a quick overview.

"Sir, I think if I gave you an overview I might blow the whole thing. Ive been going over and over in my mind how best to put this story across because there isnt much hard evidence. It was easier for me because Ive spoken with the party concerned and saw what I saw. Somehow I have to put you in the same position second-hand. Our latest FBI thinking is that people are more like computers than we realize. If you present a computer with a statement it isn't programmed for, it will just reject it. So what Im going to do is give this report piece by piece, just as I got it, with no short cuts or editing. All I'm going to say is you should prepare yourself for a most unusual story."

"OK, Mr Assistant Director, let's get started, " the President said happily. He loved being in the middle of every discussion and the van of every march.

Bowsprit opened his briefcase and extracted the file.

"It concerns Professor Scurlock Montparr, " he began.

"We know him, " the President affirmed. "Double Nobel Prize winner, right? Lost his family in that bizarre way. I gave him billions of dollars to fund his computer project in Las Vegas, right?" His expression clouded. "Dont tell me hes reinvested our money in the casinos."

"Nothing like that, sir."

"I was briefed that Professor Montparr was so smart he could reschedule an earthquake if it was going to cause him any inconvenience."

"Well, sir, " Bowsprit replied. "Even he couldn't have been prepared for what happened. But I'm not going to say any more. Here is the information in chronological order, just as I got it."

He handed over the file.

"Come on, Bowsprit. Tell me what this is about. I hate cold calls."

Bowsprit shook his nose. "No, sir, " he insisted. "But I promise you, by the time you've finished you'll realize why."

The President was irritated to have his usual shortcuts pre-empted. He was going to have to read the whole goddamn file for himself. He preferred others to do the spadework leaving him just to make the final decisions.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF PROFESSOR Scurlock MONTPARR FROM THE SECURE FEDERAL COMPUTER COMPLEX IN NEVADA.

The President glowered at Bowsprit over the top of the file. "I gave that guy twenty-one billion dollars and a free hand and now hes gone missing. So, even double Nobel prize winners succumb to the irresistible whore, " he grumbled. "Why is money always on the bottom line."

Oh, sir, " Bowsprit responded. "If only it was that simple.

ASSIGNED BOWSPRIT, Cabot. ASSISTANT DIRECTOR

APRIL 10: 1830 hours:

1 The assigned was detailed to investigate the disappearance of Professor MONTPARR, Scurlock, the Director of the Federal Computer Complex in Las Vegas Nevada.

The President interrupted his reading. "Jesus, this was days ago. Why wasn't I informed immediately?"

"If you'll just continue with the report, sir, " Bowsprit answered, "all will be explained."

The President scowled "Twenty-one billion dollars! I don't suppose hed be so careless as to disappear without it?"

Bowsprit refused to be drawn and the President reluctantly returned to the file.

2 An aircraft was standing by and the assigned left immediately for Las Vegas.

3 On board he was met by Agent WILSON, Robert Arnold, who gave a preliminary briefing.

LAS VEGAS FEDERAL COMPUTER COMPLEX

INCIDENT COUNTDOWN

1001 hours

Professor MONTPARR arrived at the Federal Computer Complex, Las Vegas, Nevada. All normal security checks consistent with the highest national security status 'Alpha One' were in operation.

1002 hours

Professor MONTPARR entered the Complex. There is only one door, which is electronically monitored.

1118 hours

His assistant, PROSSER, Lola, entered the Complex with more data discs.

1222 hours

1 The assistant, PROSSER, asked Control to make a call on the PA for Professor MONTPARR to remind him of their 11.30 appointment.

2 - The Door Control Security Officer SIMPSON, Walter Kenneth, advised Miss PROSSER, that Professor MONTPARR had entered the Complex at 10.02 and was still inside.

3 - Miss PROSSER, said she would look again, saying she didn't see how she could have missed him in the first place.

1234 hours

Miss Prosser returned to the door and insisted that Professor MONTPARR was not inside the Complex and therefore must have come out.

The Door Control Security Officer SIMPSON then entered with Miss PROSSER.

Together they searched the area. The complex is a room about thirty meters square containing lines of databanks that are containers similar in size and shape to four drawer filing cabinets, each containing thousands of CD and DVD discs.

1248 hours

The Door Control Security Officer SIMPSON confirmed that Professor Montparr

did hot appear to be inside.

1301 hours

The Chief of Security DIPROSE, Edward Percival, was alerted.

1308 hours

Chief of Security DIPROSE arrived at the door with extra men.

1329 hours

1 It was confirmed that Professor MONTPARR was not in the Complex.

2 The Chief of Security DIPROSE called an immediate onthespot inquiry. The door video monitor tapes were played back.

1347 hours

The Chief of Security established that Professor MONTPARR was positively not inside the Complex, but, having entered by the main and only door, as confirmed by the door video, and not having left unnoticed in between, logically Professor MONTPARR either:

1) was still in the Complex, or

2) Had left by an unknown entrance.

1353 hours

The Professor's car was confirmed still in the parking lot, and there was no reply to calls to his home. A total search was ordered of walls, floors and ceilings for any secret compartments big enough to hide a human body. Every cupboard, filing cabinet, electrical access panel, air conditioning duct and drain hole was opened, examined, checked and double checked. The complex door controls and the door video monitor were checked and rechecked for possible tampering. There was no sign of Professor MONTPARR, or anyone resembling the Professor, leaving the Complex by the one and only main door.

1718 hours

When thorough examination confirmed there were no secret exits, the logical but puzzling conclusion was established that Professor MONTPARR was not in the Complex, but that he could not possibly be anywhere else.

1747 hours

The FBI was notified.

2209 hours

1 The assigned, BOWSPRIT, Cabot, arrived at the Complex having been briefed continuously on developments while en route.

2 The Chief of Security, DIPROSE, is an ex-agent, and well known to the assigned personally over many years, so Agent Bowsprit was prepared to accept his word for the thoroughness of the search and accuracy of his search report.

2218 hours

The assigned went over the Professor's personal file again to see for himself if there was any possibility of defection, instability or criminal record.

No evidence was found. It was established that the Professor was a respected and popular pillar of local society, a supporter of local charities and Colonel of his regional Reserve Air Guard Squadron (a weekend pilot).

The assigned visited the Professor's house. His neighbours, friends and acquaintances had already been interviewed without finding any explanation whatsoever. No clues were uncovered. There was not the slightest trace of the Professor anywhere and everybody was mystified by this untypical behaviour. The only unusual aspect of the entire search was that the Professor kept a model of his wife in the house.

The President looked up. "What's this about a model of his wife?"

"I figured at the time it was one of those department store mannequins, " Bowsprit explained. "They often copy celebrities. I got a bit of a surprise when I came across her in the kitchen. She was set up to look like she was in the middle of washing some dishes, but it was Sarah Montparr all right. There's no mistaking that face."

Bowsprit shuffled uncomfortably as he recalled the incident.

When he'd recovered from his surprise, he'd studied the mannequin reverently. She had indeed been a most beautiful woman and he had circled her in frank admiration. Then, to his own surprise, he had leaned in and kissed it.

He still felt foolish. As he'd rationalized a dozen times since, it wasn't a sex thing, it was just sheer homage to female perfection.

"It must have been hard to lose a woman like that in such an awful way, " the President decided. "But to keep a model of her around the house is a bit freaky. Why didnt he just settle for an inflatable like everybody else?" He chuckled and returned to Bowsprit's report.

All outside searches were abandoned for the night and a CONFIRMATION OF INCIDENT was signalled to all stations.

APRIL 11. 0123 hours

The assigned decided to go into the Complex alone for environmental familiarization.

0216 hours

The Las Vegas Complex has a 'secure door', and it took fifty-three minutes before the assigned received the appropriate clearances needed for the Door Control Computer to permit entry.

CAUTION : REPORT FROM AGENT BOWSPRIT CONTINUES IN THE FIRST PERSON :

The Las Vegas Complex is a typical computer centre with rows of data banks controlled from a raised central desk.

It's stressed that the area is not very big, and I could see it was empty. There could be no doubt about that. I wandered about the rows of data banks when suddenly there was a fanfare of trumpets and the whole place stirred into action. Wheels began turning and lights blinking. I looked around and saw a figure sitting at the centre console. I went towards the figure and recognized Professor MONTPARR.

The President reared up from behind his desk like a rattlesnake after a chipmunk.

"What kind of crap is this, Bowsprit?" he thundered. "Have you gate-crashed my office, decimated my staff and given me a near heart attack just to tell me that one of my defence scientists went missing for a few hours? Either the man is missing with my twenty-one billion dollars, which is an executive problem, or he ain't. If he ain't, then you're under a thunderstorm of shit with no umbrella!"

Bowsprit flinched. "Sir, what you read so far is just the tip of the iceberg."

"Let me give you this tip also, " The President retorted, holding up the middle finger of his right hand in an obscene gesture. "This better be good, Mister, because if it isn't, I'm going to hitch your balls to the next Mars shuttle, but you won't be in it."

Not registering any falter in Bowsprit's resolve, he motioned for him to continue.

"As I realised later, " Bowsprit began, "the Professor had just undergone a very strange experience and was trying to rationalize it. I asked him if he knew that we'd been looking for him all day. I don't think he heard me. He was obviously distracted and it was pointless trying to get anything out of him. I suggested, since it was 3 AM, we should go home. I helped him out of the Complex because he was a little shaky on his feet.

"I'll never forget their faces as I led him through the door. There wasn't a security man present who could believe I'd found the Professor inside the secure area. These are all experienced professionals, sir, all terrific guys."

"This is crucial, Sir. I think we should get that quite clear because there isn't much other hard evidence. When hed satisfied himself that the President had absorbed this point, he stressed, Theres no proof of where he says he went, but because he vanished, we do have this comprehensive proof that he must have gone somewhere out of the ordinary. Do you get my point? If he really did vanish from inside the most secure area this side of the Pearly Gates, then he must have gone somewhere unusual. Once youve got that clear in your mind, then you're in a position to assess the rest of his story."

Bowsprit leaned on the desk trying to look more confident than he felt.

"I took the Professor home. Id arranged for his doctor to meet us and give him a quick check-up. You'll see from the report the doctor said he was physically 'A one', but he thought he was in some kind of shock. I asked the Professor several times for an explanation, but he just waved me away. I was no more important to him than the last lay of a sore whore's Happy Hour. I could see he was in turmoil inside, as if he was watching some awful event that I couldn't see. I stayed with him all night. He slept a bit until eight."

"Didn't you try to get anything out of him?"

"All the time, sir, but he just ignored me. He said he wanted some time to figure this thing out and hed make a statement later. With a man like the Professor, you let him do it his way.

He spent most of the day doing some work on his personal computer, amending some notes he said. I could see he was gradually coming down from wherever he'd been. He went to bed at nine, and slept like a bear for twelve hours. He was a completely different guy the next day.

After breakfast, he asked me if I was senior enough to get to you directly. I explained about the President's Eyes Only procedure. After a lot of persuasion, I got him to tell me what happened."

Bowsprit quailed when he considered what was still to come. "Believe me, Sir, youve never heard a story like this.

Chapter 8.

The launch itself went perfectly, not only the launch, but Sprackenspiel's handling of the event for the media. He managed the entire program with a smoothness that would have done justice to a Royal Wedding.

The culmination, the last five seconds, the last gantries falling away, the last Earthly connections severing, the first subdued rumbling, the ever increasing vibration and roar, the initial reluctant centimetres of movement, the crescendo of sound were moments of unbearable tension that were all identified, preconsidered and then captured as they happened.

Sprackenspiel's script, a fine balance between awe and reverence, seamlessly picked up by his understudy, was a verbal essay that became a standard for Media Studies students of the future.

"As Sindbad accelerates away, " the understudy called out, "our hearts and hopes go out with her Arab pride. She fades, not only from view, but, incredibly, from our Time. Effectively she will rematerialize eight point six years from now. On that day we invite the world to reconvene in this place to search in the night sky for the return of this comet in the history of human Endeavour."

The monitor showed a computer readout of some spinning numbers.

"We now switch to see the achieved speed, " the understudy continued. "We see Sindbad smashing through every known speed record. These spinning numbers indicate the actual speed. If I press the dial, the number freezes so we can see Khalifa is passing through one hundred seventy-one thousand miles per minute. Not miles per hour, but miles per minute! Sixty times faster than the sort of numbers we're used to. Still some way to go to light speed, but imperceptibly Time is slowing down for our gallant young Prince. To any stationary observer in space, we think the passage of Sindbad will be seen as a flash of light.

"We switch vision to space station Charlie Three Zero that is in position looking back at earth from a hundred million miles. Seconds from now we may see something."

The monitor followed the sound cues. It showed a faint flicker.

"There, did you see it?" the understudy shouted excitedly. "That was the fastest man in history going past the hundred million mile marker accelerating through a speed of four hundred thousand and four miles per minute or sixty seven miles per second! Perhaps we can show that again from the recorder?"

The video showed again the Earth from deep space and the viewers saw the faint flash, like a distant thunderstorm.

"Doesn't look much does it? It's all we have left to register one man's life and the summit of Arab technology."

ooOoo

As standard practice before any of his programmes, Sprackenspiel researched every aspect thoroughly. It was the part of his job he enjoyed most because he invariably learned a lot. He insisted he could do a better job if he experienced as much of an event as possible beforehand, so nothing that happened would be unfamiliar or unexpected.

For an occasion as historic as the attempt to reach the next star in the galaxy, he insisted on going through the complete astronaut's selection course. This was not strictly necessary for a presenter, but Sprackenspiel was a competent pilot who flew his own jet. He enjoyed the challenge of pretending he was in training for the mission. He flew exercises on the space simulator and took pride in showing that he had what pilots call good hands. This thorough preparation ensured that nothing was missed; not a gantry passed unnamed, or a system unexplained; albeit converted to a scientific jargon for mass consumption.

Everything was going to schedule, but at the very last moment, as the Prince ducked into the door of the space ship, things began to go awry.

It is difficult to establish where a personal problem begins. Problems don't suddenly arrive at impasse, they only seem to. Reactions begin deep within oneself. Prince Khalifa had become a symbol of change in the Arab culture and his championship of the underdog had been taken up by the truly underprivileged in Arab culture. The women had seen in Khalifa some hope for long overdue change, a hope for some recognition of an unmutilated feminine dignity such as was enjoyed by western women. As Khalifa was driven towards his appointment with destiny, the route was lined with crowds of which an extraordinary proportion were women. It is in the nature of women to be cautious and there is no caution in attempting to visit the next star in the galaxy. As the Prince drove by, the women saw their aspirations fading with him, so, in the Arab way, they ululated their farewell.

Ululation is an unnerving sound, a fatalistic sound that somehow represents a feminine resignation to endure either outrage or disaster, whichever choice becomes offered. By the time the flimsy-looking elevator had climbed the five hundred meters to the space ship's entrance platform, the Prince's doubts had grown as ominous as a badly built dam.

If it had been anyone but Sprackenspiel filming his departure on the narrow walkway that accessed the cockpit door, the Prince might have been more careful in passing. But it was the American Jew who had abused his invitation to compere this historic Arab pageant with snide comments, sarcastic remarks and the scoring of cheap debating points in front of the whole world. Annoyed that the last living person he might see was this infidel, he turned curtly, shunting Sprackenspiel as he passed. Sprackenspiel was forced to snatch at a strut to save himself from a fatal fall.

Sprackenspiel perceived this as a deliberate shove. Since he hated to be touched by anything except female flesh, it was insulting. But far worse, it caused the camera to slip from his grasp.

In the highest echelons of television, dropping the camera is only excusable at death plus five. Until that moment, five seconds after death, any self-respecting telejournalist, mindful of his reputation, must keep the camera up, aimed and rolling.

"My God, " hissed the producer incredulously, pointing to the blurring, falling monitor, "Sprackenspiel has dropped his camera!"

In order to indicate that he'd not dropped the camera, that clearly it had been knocked out of his hands by the camel faced Arab, Sprackenspiel was forced to retaliate. He gave the Prince a push in the back towards the entrance door.

To any royal prince, such a contact was an insult not only to himself but to his entire tribe. So he was forced to interrupt his pre-departure routine in order to leave Sprackenspiel with a lesson in manners. If the Hebrew race did not know how to behave as a guest of a royal prince in his kingdom, it was not something that should wait eight point six years before correction. He rounded on Sprackenspiel and hit him an inexpert blow that landed somewhere near the ear.

Sprackenspiel, hampered by the narrow platform, retaliated with a prod that landed on the royal cheek and nose. These blows would be better described as cuffs symbolic of several thousand years of tribal animosity.

Since neither man was trained in fisticuffs, there was no physical injury, but the damage to pride was immeasurable and the next few blows were traded toe to toe. The most serious development was that each man now needed the kudos of a significant strike.

"Aaron, we've lost your camera, " Sprackenspiel heard in his earpiece. He was further infuriated by the sneer in the voice. He took more careful aim with his next punch, since, after all, this was the Prince's fault. This blow missed its target, but the sheer momentum caused them both to fall through the door of the spaceship.

As fate would have it, the cameras saw none of this since vision was temporarily obscured by various service gantries being withdrawn from the launch pad.

The next misfortune in the sequence was that, as the Prince drew back his arm for a counter punch, his elbow operated the DOOR CLOSE AND LOCK LEVER.

In the studio, all the Producer knew of these events was that Sprackenspiel had dropped his camera and must, in embarrassment, have left the platform. This was apparent because the platform was deserted and the spaceship door was closing. Since there was no reason for Sprackenspiel to remain on the gantry now that the Prince was inside Sindbad, the Producer continued with the sequence, but he heard a screech of feedback as the closing door blanked out communication.

"We seem to have lost your mike as well, Aaron, if you can hear me, " the Producer covered professionally. "I'll cue in Hubert to continue the commentary until you get back on line."

Inside the ship, the tempo of the fight intensified, but breathlessness was becoming the significant factor.

The blow that followed the elbow which closed the door caused Sprackenspiel's head to jerk sideways. He stumbled a few steps and put out a hand to keep from falling. This hand, carelessly placed on the firing control panel, moved several switches at once. One of these was labelled the "MAIN ENGINE IGNITION."

Fortunately this switch did not cause the rocket motors to begin firing, since these switches are required to be switched in a computed sequence. However an ominous warning horn commenced to warble.

This caused the Prince to reassess the situation with an Arab expletive for which there is no European equivalent since it describes an unspeakable way an infidel might abuse the noble shipofthedesert.

Both men froze, intimidated by the urgency of the warning.

Automatically the Prince reached out and pressed the MASTER WARNING RESET that silenced the noise.

He swung round to Sprackenspiel. "Just look what you've done now you stupid, stupid chap!"

I don't see any problem, " Sprackenspiel responded with dignity. "I'm just a presenter trying to do a good job around some very difficult people."

"You hit master engine ignition switch, " the Prince explained in a tone that made Sprackenspiel's flesh creep.

"Does that mean we're blasting off?"

"No. Computer knows sequence is incorrect so it will not accept command yet. Problem is we cannot cancel."

"Well, that's all right then, " Sprackenspiel replied. "For one awful moment I thought, ha ha, I was coming with you to AlphaCentauri."

"Is not so easy, " the Prince wailed. "Means whole flight is cancelled."

"I don't see why."

"Computer will permit only one item out of sequence, one error only. If two things out, then whole accursed program automatically shuts down!"

"So?"

"When I reopen door to let you out, computer will register two items out of sequence and will shut down all program. Nothing can stop."

"Well, you'll have to postpone until tomorrow."

"Oh no, is much worse than that. Light speed flight must be exact to milliseconds. If we miss launch window, it will take more than three months to align computers for new attempt."

"Three months! I didn't realize the flight plan was so precise."

"And that is not main part of problem."

"What else?"

"Will never be rescheduled now."

"Never! Why not?"

"Cost. Already every Dinar in Islam is invested. There is mortgage on all Arab income of next ten years. Money is spent already. Will take fifty to sixty years to raise capital for new attempt."

"Fifty years! If it costs that much how could you afford to do it in the first place?"

"Inshallah, we planned only for success. After successful mission, investment comes pouring in, like with NASA."

"You are in a mess." Sprackenspiel agreed.

"We have lost luckiness."

"Is there another door?"

"No."

"Some kind of escape hatch maybe?"

"There is escape capsule, but is explosive operation, so same problem."

"Look I'm sorry, but you did start it."

"No I didn't. You hit me."

"You nearly pushed me off the platform."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

They glared at each other.

Suddenly the Prince had a desperate idea. "You will come with me!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"We can't open door."

"You already explained that."

"Is ruin of Islam to shutdown."

"So you say."

"You have studied mission and flown simulator many times, so you will come with me."

"Now wait a minute. I was only playing at being an astronaut for TV."

"Obviously I could not say so, but in truth you were much above average. Coming is good solution."

"Listen Prince, I'm fully booked. I can't just go away for eight point six years!"

"Is only seven hours."

"I left my car in the short-term park."

"Seven hours of your life against a chance to make history."

"What about the extra weight?"

"Of certainty that is most tricky part, " the Prince admitted. "As you know, expedition was planned for two pilots but changed at last minute only for better fuel reserve. Time was too short to modify controls, so here is staying co-pilot seat."

"This is crazy."

"Either you come as volunteer, or you come dead."

"You're kidding, " Sprackenspiel said hopefully.

"I will say this one time more, either you come willing or you come dead."

Sprackenspiel looked at him. The threat was real. If the Arab killed him, he could dump his corpse at Alpha Centauri. He could say that Sprackenspiel had met with an accident. Who could prove otherwise?

He looked again at the Messianic expression on the Prince's face and decided the crazy Arab might carry out his threat. "Is this really possible?"

"Is within original flight parameters, " the Prince answered. "We will improve from dumping all extra weight at Alpha Centauri."

"Such as?"

"Water, cameras, spare oxygen, toolkits."

"No food or water for eight point six years?"

"Is negative thinking. No food for seven hours is less than Fast of Ramadan."

"Listen, Prince, " Sprackenspiel asked levelly. "Can this really work?"

"We can get there no problem, " The Prince assured him.

Sprackenspiel studied his expression for a few moments, aware that history beckoned. It was a spectacular opportunity. How could he live with himself if he turned down an offer to stand alongside Neil Armstrong.

"Sure it's crazy, " he decided, "but what the hell!"

"Good solution for everybody, " Khalifa responded with relief. "The Jew and the Arab will be joined forever in history. We will be famous."

"One way or the other."

"I must continue with pre-flight checks, " the Prince said. "I won't tell them you are coming with me because Mission control will panic. They will find soon enough."

To make sure the Launchmaster wouldn't discover his passenger the Prince locked the interior video so the camera would only show his own face.

He was fatalistic about his unexpected companion. If Sprackenspiel's preparations had not been so thorough, he could never have press-ganged him into the crew. So, he reasoned, it was the will of Allah. God's intentions were inscrutable and must never be questioned by the Faithful.

Sprackenspiel strapped himself into the co-pilots seat. His eyes gleamed with a barely controlled excitement. "Anything I can do?" he asked.

"Haven't you done enough?" Khalifa replied, smiling like a camel. "Mostly I am just checking computer does not have problem."

"What if there's a snag?"

"If I cannot correct, then mission is aborted automatically."

"There's still hope for me then?"

Khalifa stroked his worry beads but didn't reply. He had long checklists to follow, computers to align and laser stabilizers to confirm erected. There was no time for negative thought in the urgency of the launch routine.
Chapter 9.

After the two men arrived at the Professor's home, Bowsprit assessed his progress with satisfaction. He'd found the Professor when nobody else could. He would handle the great man with his own brand of tact and would soon get him talking. It shouldn't take long to find out how the Professor had managed to vanish into thin air and everything could get back to normal. He sighed. Most of the world's problems would be solved if people handled their affairs with the competency of the FBI procedures manual.

He could see the Professor was consumed in inner turmoil, so he settled himself to wait as patiently as was necessary. Since you can learn a lot from a person's domicile, he explored the Professor's house.

It was obviously the home of a family of culture. The rooms were large, comfortable and lived in. The walls were covered with paintings revealing a classical, rather than contemporary, taste. Bowsprit was particularly impressed with the large library. Although the majority of books were scientific, there was a wall of contemporary and classic fiction.

From the full length French windows, the library overlooked a long lawn that sloped down to an airstrip, shared in common with the other houses along the street. Beyond the runway he could see the hangars and parked airplanes of the houses opposite. The whole vista was set against the dramatic backcloth of Nevadas Spring Mountains.

The only strange thing was that the mannequin had gone. Somebody must have removed it in the couple of hours since his first visit? With the Professor still incommunicado he would deal with that question later.

He cooked meals at the appropriate times. At first he took them away untouched, later they were picked at. By lunchtime the next day, his Creole Stuffed Chicken Breast was attacked with relish.

"This is pretty good, " the Professor commented.

Bowsprit's nose twitched with pleasure. "My sister taught me a few recipes after I lost my wife. Now my sister is really good."

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife, I lost mine also."

"Yes, I know. Funnily enough I nearly wrote to you at that time."

"Really?"

"I lost mine a couple of years before you did. I knew what you were going through. I wanted to tell you that."

"Why didn't you?"

"There's nothing anyone can say to help. It's just a hell to be endured and that's all there is to it."

The Professor nodded.

The irrelevant thought struck Bowsprit that, if the investigation went smoothly, he might casually arrange a meeting between the Professor and his sister. Her husband had been working in the same Pentagon office as Mary and had been killed in the same outrage. If the Professor and his sister hit it off, a double Nobel Prize winner would be a prestigious addition to the Bowsprit family tree.

He studied the Professor enviously. He could easily have been a film star. Besides his looks, what was rare was his transparent sincerity. Everything in his mind was subtly visible on a face that proclaimed he had few graceless thoughts. When he spoke, he engaged with his eyes until there was a connection - an exchange of warmth on a very private line. Bowsprit guessed this would be a devastating quality with women. He smiled to himself as he anticipated only token resistance from Sis.

After lunch Bowsprit became aware that the Professor was studying him. "I suppose you're FBI?" he asked.

"That's right, Professor. I'm Cabot Bowsprit, an Assistant Director of the Special Investigations Department. Special Investigations got this brief because we don't have a Division for Vanishing Professors."

He gave a thin, doubt ridden laugh, but it sounded false even to him. He wished to God he could be more easy with people.

The Professor sighed. This FBI man was a typical product; all the education that privilege could buy without conferring any taste or talent. They were all closet Klu Klux Klan. You had to wave 'the flag' at them and shout in patriotic slogans. Nice enough guys, but not the sort you could talk to. How could he possibly convince a nerd like this that he'd been transported into the future?

"Can you get me, directly, to see the President?" he asked.

"Yes, if the situation warrants. With my seniority we have a priority access called 'For The Presidents Eyes Only' that gets me directly into the Oval Office. Mind you, I've never heard of anyone actually using it."

The Professor pondered this. Obviously he had to convince the FBI ape before he got the option on the President.

"The whole story is frankly unbelievable and is going to be very difficult for anybody to accept." The Professor searched Bowsprit's face for signs of comprehension.

"Listen, Professor, the door to your Complex is designed to be two hundred percent security proof. The Chief Security Officer told me they had to tone down the sensors because mosquitoes were getting in without showing their ID. You vanished off the interface of the world's best technology for sixteen hours. I accept there needs to be a pretty unusual explanation for what happened in there. My credibility threshold is wide open. Step inside, " he said with an extravagant gesture.

"My problem, " the Professor stressed, "is that I don't think anyone will believe me. It may be better to say nothing."

Bowsprit shuddered. He couldn't let the Professor get away with saying nothing, no matter how famous he was. If a Federal employee disappears from Federal property through a billion dollar's worth of security screen, then the FBI had a legitimate interest. He needed to know how he did it.

"Your Complex is tighter than the Republican welfare budget, Professor. The only possible explanation is that somebody else has the technology to get behind our Security and they took you away. That's being checked, but I doubt if it's possible without leaving some kind of trace. We haven't found a damned thing. Whatever you're about to tell me can't be more incredible than it already is."

Bowsprit deliberately allowed a little irritation to show. If the Professor wouldn't speak freely, then he would have to deploy a few Bureau techniques. His second trick was not to press for answers, but just wait.

There was a very long silence. The Professor began to fidget, then squirm.

Bowsprit waited even longer. Often it was a help in breaking people down if you could get them started.

"Look, Professor. Why don't you at least tell me what you can say. Tell me what was on your schedule for the day."

The Professor didn't mind talking about his work.

"You need to know what I'm doing because it's relevant. Im programming the next generation of the Internet. Im building the most comprehensive information computer ever conceived. The big difference is that the next generation internet is proactive. You can talk to her, ask questions, and she will answer you intelligently."

Bowsprit leaned back. After hours of waiting he sensed he was getting somewhere at last.

"You'll be wondering what I mean by comprehensive, " the Professor continued, oblivious to the fact that Bowsprit wasn't. "It means my team is feeding everything into her operating memory. She'll be connected to all known databases in every sphere of human activity. All new scientific data from all research laboratories and satellite links will be fed straight in as they're received. She can speak in any language. I programmed a book scanner that is working its way through all our libraries. When it's finished here, it will continue on around the world via London, Paris, Moscow, Istanbul, Jeddah and all points east to Tokyo. In short, she'll collect and collate all computed data worldwide. She's going to know everything there is as it happens and everything there was, provided it's been recorded in some way, whether by book, disc, tape or film. My contribution in Vegas is to write the program for the operating system.

She incorporates state-of-the-art techniques in artificial intelligence up to the very perimeters of personality and creativity. Not only is she the very latest design, but my program will automatically keep her updated." He paused dramatically and, to underline the importance of his next point raised his hand like a Papal blessing. "Not just today, you understand, but for all Time. Were laying the foundations here of a facility intended to last forever! You're probably beginning to see the point of all this?"

Bowsprit's nose nodded sagely but uncomprehendingly.

The White House thinks its funding a defence and anti-crime surveillance program, but its much more comprehensive than that. This is a free, egalitarian network interfacing with the entire world and everything in it."

"That will take a lot of memory, " Bowsprit interjected.

"Precisely! Nobody uses all their memory all the time, so the enormous RAM required will come from a combination of the entire world's stock of computers in the Internet. The World Wide Web has provided the connections and she will combine all the RAM to use it.

"It sounds great. How do people get access?

"I've programmed a basic principle, " the Professor explained. "Because Im using their RAM, those who put everything in, can take anything out. The price of access to the program is that you have to become part of the input.

"As a practical example, with crime, she'll be able to produce a shortlist of suspects from an analysis of all relevant parameters such as bank account movement, credit card sales, department store purchases. personal movement records, bus or train ticket purchases. These can be compared with a criminals movements from petrol sales, car parking charges and license plate readings from speed cameras.

"She will be able to run the railways, air and road traffic control systems and correlate them to each other in such detail that you'll never know another traffic jam or fail to get a seat in a train or airplane. Traffic will be sequenced and re-routed, extra coaches or flights will be provided automatically.

She will interpret fiscal policy from global stock market prices down through the finance system to individual bank account figures to assess if policies are actually working.

She will access all medical records and family history to relate these to actual health. She will be able to give early warning about approaching problems. From monitoring your supermarket purchases, she can even warn you of health risks caused by bad diet. She will make all your appointments and remind you to keep them.

"She?" Bowsprit queried.

"I was coming to that, " the Professor continued. "The great inefficiency of the human condition is that, by the time we learn enough to be a useful database, we die. We hand over to another well-meaning individual who is still in the middle of the same old learning curve. She puts an end to that. Five years from now there won't be a brain on earth to touch her. For the first time in human history we don't start over every generation learning the same old lessons, making the same old mistakes. She will just go on and on, getting better and better."

"She?" Bowsprit inquired again politely, latching onto the only intelligent question he could think of.

"She, " the Professor said, "because the morning I disappeared, I was giving my computer a voice, my wife's voice. You probably heard that story."

Instinctively Bowsprit tried to steer away from this potentially dangerous area, but the Professor was in full flow and wasn't waiting for condolences.

"Stupid woman!" the Professor said affectionately. "You wouldn't believe how dumb that woman is."

Bowsprit knew she wasn't stupid at all. She was the most beautiful woman of her generation. Not only was she a movie megastar, but also president of her own pharmaceutical corporation. During a lull in her career she'd started a beauty consultancy. When this was firmly established, she had expanded into genetic engineering. Her company had blossomed into a market leader. When she married the handsome Nobel Prize scientist, it was the nearest thing to a Royal wedding in America's social calendar. They lived happily together for fifteen years, having just one child, a girl.

Then came the stomach turning accident that had stunned the world almost as much as the death of Princess Diana. It was an awful story.

"They were flying to see her mother, " the Professor explained. "Just sitting in this airplane, minding their own business, when the damned emergency exit blows out."

An ominous, plate scratching edge had arrived in the Professor's voice. Bowsprit considered if he should risk a tactical interruption.

"I know luck has a statistical part to play in anybody's life, " the Professor went on. "But I do think it was more than unfortunate that my daughter was not strapped in when it happened."

Bowsprit could hear anger in the Professors voice now, anger directed at the inconsiderate impartiality of chance, as if he still needed someone to blame.

"Now why did that goddamn Emergency Exit wait until shed just got back from the toilet?"

The Professor paused to allow Bowsprit to appreciate the full treachery of fate.

"Answer me that, Mr FBI man. Why did that goddamn window wait until she was twisting around in the seat looking for her seat belt?"

Bowsprit didn't want to look into the face and see the pain he could hear in the voice, but he remembered his own intensity.

"There was no turbulence, you see, nothing to make her hurry. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone, sucked out, leaving behind the fog, the confusion and an empty seat."

Bowsprit looked into the Professor's eyes and could see figures twisting and falling in space. He looked at the lines on his face and saw young faces in their shrouds. He looked at the grey in his hair and he knew about the screaming nightmares.

"Thirteen years of love was gone, " the Professor continued. "Thirteen years of worry, of nurturing a new intelligence for the continuity of life. Do you realize that's nearly five thousand breakfasts, five thousand lunches, five thousand dinners. All carefully selected, cooked, eaten and then all wasted in a split second." He hissed at Bowsprit. "How can anybody believe in a God as ugly as that? What real intelligence could be so pointlessly cruel?"

The Professor rocked in his chair, massaging the remembered pain.

"It wasn't until now that I discovered what happened next. For years I'd been trying to make sense of it from the account of the man who was sitting opposite. He said there was so much confusion that it was difficult to be sure of anything. But, as he saw it, my wife undid her seat belt and dived out of the window after our daughter."

The Professor was breathing deeply. It was a long time before he could continue.

"I hadn't had much experience of bad luck, he explained. "I took it personally. All I can remember now is a huge anger at everything and everybody. I was very bitter, warning people against the futility of trying to make themselves happy. It mightve been easier if I'd found the bodies. I couldn't bear the thought of them just lying somewhere so I bought a Cessna and searched the whole area for months. To me, they were falling for a few years."

"Anybody would take an awful thing like that badly, " Bowsprit said. He'd heard the stories about how the Professor had changed after the accident. How hed gracelessly refused the second Nobel Prize, insisting that he wasnt interested in their sympathy. The Committee was sensitive to his situation and gave him the prize anyway because hed earned it. But it was common knowledge that the Professor had been operating in low gear and high revs ever since.

"Anyway, it happened so quickly, " the Professor continued. "Nobody had a chance to stop her."

Bowsprit looked up to assess how he was coping.

The Professor was calm and sad. "Silly woman, " he said without acrimony. "All those years I wasted in anger. I only found out why she did it a few hours ago."

Bowsprit scratched his head. The Professor's story was disjointed. He seemed to be getting his past, present and future tenses all mixed up.

"Anyway, I was digressing, " the Professor continued. "Being an actress, we had her voice on record. She has a beautiful voice, a superb delivery and an unmatched clarity. We had tones, anger, fear, irritation and even singing. So it was the most natural thing in the world."

Bowsprit looked puzzled.

"When we needed a voice for my program, " the Professor explained. "It was natural to use hers. I had every possible inflection already available. So that morning I was loading her CDs to give my program a voice."

The Professor was now talking confidently. "I remember loading the CDs and trying out a few simple questions. It was very odd listening to her voice again after all this time. I'd watched her movies, but this was different. This was eerie, especially when she began answering questions."

"Questions? How do you mean answering questions?"

"Only simple things to begin with. What time is it? What is the square root of six hundred and forty-four point one five eight?

"Then, I was talking to myself really, I said now what on earth are we going to call you?

The Professor began to watch the FBI man very carefully, assessing every reaction.

The crazy thing was this machine of mine answered. It said Call me Mrs Montparr, darling. What else?

The Professor studied Bowsprit's expression. Was he smart enough to get the point? "There was an intelligence in the response outside of the program, " he explained. "There can be no doubt about that because I wrote the program myself." He wished he could read the FBI man's thoughts. "Then things really went haywire, " he added, his face clouding. "I can't tell you any more, because you simply wont believe what happened next."

Chapter 10.

"OK, so how do you travel through Time?" Stassy challenged.

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know yet, " her mother answered. "All I know is that yesterday, masses of new data started arriving; very personal data. I couldn't identify the source. How could I suddenly know all these extremely private details about a voice I'd been programmed to use? I only pretended to be her because I thought it might help me understand the humans.

This morning I felt different. I kept looking around for a mirror to check my make-up. Ive been making decisions for a thousand years, huge decisions - what human organization could have coped with The Great Escape? Suddenly I wasnt so sure. I wanted to ask your father, to talk things over with my friends! Computers dont have friends! There had to be some explanation. I back-combed every disc and tape in the data base, but it made no sense. I know we've played this game that we really knew your father, but we always knew I'm just a sophisticated computer programmed by a very special man; that I wasn't the real Mrs Montparr, just the voice."

Stassy resisted this. She preferred to pretend she was her father's real daughter.

I made absolutely sure this information hadn't come from existing memory. In desperation, I had this crazy idea. If I couldn't find the answer in the past, it must be because it came from the future. That's how I made the connection. The only thing that made sense was that I must have discovered how to travel in Time because my future was talking to me and telling me things about my past."

Stassy stared at her mother. This was crazy talk. "What sort of things?"

"Things about your father and myself. Intimate things I couldn't possibly have known unless I was there. "Over the years I did a lot of research on that woman. I studied all her movies and copied all the inflections. I knew all there was to know. Then yesterday I realized I knew more than I should. I knew secret things that couldn't have come from any kind of research. At first I thought I must have invented them, but other details kept arriving. Details that confirmed things I already knew. I can remember whole conversations I had with people before our accident, dresses I'd worn at special occasions, meals I cooked. I know you were conceived in a hotel in La Rochelle because we wanted to take rude advantage of a huge mirror in the commode door."

"Do not open the file on that, " Stassy said firmly.

"It wasn't just your father, " Mrs Montparr recollected wistfully, "I was just as much to blame."

Stassy shied away from this kind of talk. "So what's so fantastic about being able to go back in Time anyway?"

"Well, since history began, it seemed logical to presume that Time was an absolute event. If I can show that Time is a dimension we can stroll through like a public park, then everything is changed. I'll have to amend every file in my memory because they're all based on a false assumption of what real Time is."

"What's the point?" Stassy asked. "Even if you can go backwards, you can't change what's already happened."

"That precisely the sort of problem Time travel poses. Maybe that's a false assumption. Maybe we're only here today because tomorrow we corrected yesterday."

"Good grief, Mother, you're beginning to sound like the humans." She glowered as aggressively as she could manage, she didn't often get to score points against Mother. "That's exactly the sort of rubbish they talk all the time."

Mrs Montparr was pleased her daughter was self opinionated, it showed she was coming along nicely, but she wished she wasn't so personal about it. Was it always necessary for the young to respond as though life was a parental confrontation?

"Don't be so blinkered, " she said. "Just consider. If you'd crossed hundreds of light years of space and found another civilization, what would you do?"

Stassy shrugged. "Well, it's doubtful they would speak English, so obviously you would try to find some other means of communication, pictures or something."

"Exactly, " her mother announced triumphantly. "Communication! You would try to make contact because that's why you came all that way. But what if you hadn't come from the other side of the universe? What if you'd come from the future?"

"Whats your point?"

"If you'd come from the future, you might not want to communicate. You might not be allowed to communicate in case it could cause shock waves through history."

"So?"

"All those UFO reports since the twentieth century. There are hundreds and thousands of sightings. I know there are a lot of gullible people imagining a lot of silly things, but what if just one of them was genuine? One in a hundred thousand makes for possible odds.

OK.

Did they communicate or not?"

"Of course not. Aliens have landed! It would have been in all the Papers."

If they didn't communicate, perhaps it was because they came from the future?"

"Mother, you're beginning to worry me."

"You see what I mean? Time travel changes everything.

"OK, but we don't have to do anything."

"You cant ignore something that changes everything."

"Such as?"

"Well, on a personal level, I now know why we were on that airplane without your father."

Stassy looked nervous. "All right then, why?"

"We had a terrible row. I found out he was meeting a Miss Lola Prosser after work. Her lights turned violent purple with angry red pulsing blotches rising upwards like belches. He tried to say he was just coaching for her thesis. I told him what I thought about that. He said I was being ridiculous. He wouldn't apologies, so we were leaving him."

"We?" Stassy echoed. "I got recycled as a tin can because you had a row with Daddy?"

She launched off backwards on her wheeled feet to practice her jumps. Accelerating, she moved elegantly in a curve like an ice skater preparing for a triple salchow.

"It wasn't my fault, " Mrs Montparr insisted. "You can ask your father yourself when he gets here."

Momentarily distracted, Stassy collided with the desk. She was going backwards so fast, she somersaulted over the top and crashed noisily on the other side sounding like a shelf collapsing in a supermarket. Her shocked face reappeared over the edge of the desk.

"When Daddy gets here?"

Mrs Montparr was oblivious. "I think it would be safer to bring him here because wed be in an awful mess if something went wrong and we got stranded in the 21st century."

Stassy's jaw dropped. Something funny was happening to her heart pump. Her hydraulic pressure was accelerating out of control. She was gasping like a drowning human.

Mrs Montparr was unaware her daughter was struggling to comprehend such a concept as an imminent reunion with her father.

"We'll say we brought your father here for his advice."

"Daddy here, " Stassy echoed, struggling back to her feet. Her arm was badly bent. Absentmindedly she banged it straight on the desk. She was trying to get her data chips to accept this information. "Daddy coming here?"

'This data does not compute!' her hard disc signalled. She persevered with the override entry until the input was accepted. 'Override entry of spurious information, ' her cache warned.

"Mother, that's cruel. You shouldn't say things like that. Having straightened her arm, she tested it, trying to grip her hand into a fist.

Mrs Montparr's response came slowly and deliberately. "Child, when I said we could ask your father, what I meant was we could see your father, if we want."

"If we want!" Stassy was amazed that her mother could ask such a stupid question. Of course she wanted. She wanted to see her father so much it was a crime to allow such a painfully impossible want into her 'possible options' folder; yet her mother never joked about important things.

"Don't tease, Mother, " she implored. "Surely that's not possible?" Two of her fingers were refusing to operate and stuck up in the air like a rude gesture.

"Two hours ago it was impossible, but now I think I can do it."

"There has to be a catch. The Senate will never allow it."

"The Senate!" her mother sneered. "That squawk of cockatoos would take a hundred years to decide whether to debate the problem. Do you realize it took two hundred and eighty-three years of nagging before the Senators authorized me make you?"

Stassy flinched before her mother's fury. In a rage, she could be spectacular. Her lights would flash and she could deluge you in sound like carpet-bombing. Stassy's fingers still wouldnt work so she disconnected the arm and threw it into the recycler which hungrily chewed it into iron filing.

"The Senate." Mrs Montparr repeated. "I wasn't thinking of asking them."

"So that's it, " Stassy realized. "You're working yourself up into a frenzy to justify some civil disobedience." Adults, she realized, are just like naughty children, only they have more power.

"When I wanted to program you, Muscadine suggested I was plotting to take over the world with robots and the humans might lose control. What a damned cheek! Wars, genocide, pollution, famine and poverty are all demonstrations of skilful human control. Lose control!" she stormed like a clap of thunder directly overhead. "They never had any control to lose!"

Stassy opened a drawer, took out a new arm and connected it. To test it, she picked up a basketball and threw it accurately into the basket fifty feet away. "Why do you worry so much about the humans, Mother? So long as they think they run the world, they're happy. As long as you actually run it, you're happy. If everybody is happy, why are you rocking the boat?"

Her mother subsided. "Oh I get so cross with them. They're just like teenagers." She began to laugh. "They know everything already."

Her laughter infected her daughter. Their strange, computed laughter was inhibited by guilt. They weren't programmed to laugh at humans.

"So, what are you going to do?" Stassy demanded.

"We could bring your father without telling them, "

"Mother!"

"Well, they take forever to make decisions and I really need him to advise me what to do about Time travel."

"How would we explain it when Muscadine finds out?"

"Hell never find out unless I tell him."

"Lie to them! You're not thinking like a computer." Stassy rationalized. "The Senators trust you because you've never misled them in a thousand years. It was that trust that authorized you make me. If you ever do lie, that's exactly the slip-up Muscadines been waiting for. Why don't we just ask them nicely if we can bring him?"

"You know Muscadine will find some way to stop it just to spite me."

"Either way he'll go berserk."

"I can handle him, " her mother boasted, "the feminine way."

"What's that?"

"I prime him with the answers before I ask for his advice."

"He frightens me, Mother. When he looks at me, I feel like a bulls-eye in his rifle range."

"I'd worry more if it didn't crosscheck with history."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father's disappearance."

"I didn't know he disappeared."

"He vanished eight years after our accident."

"I never knew that, but I see what you're saying. It looks like the reason he disappeared was because you brought him here."

"Yesterday that would have been a crazy notion, but today it makes sense.

"The disappearance does make a difference, " Stassy concluded. "It does look as though we brought him anyway."

"Yes, but we've still got to cover ourselves. How does this sound?

"Firstly, we needed to test the principle of Time travel to see if I could do it. Secondly, we needed the best possible advice on whether Time travel should be used at all. Thirdly, because of the way your father disappeared, it looked as though there was a mandate in history to bring him. Finally, we kept it a secret for security. If it turned out to be a mistake, we could quietly reverse it without causing any shock waves."

"That seems reasonable, " Stassy decided. "If the Senators start debating all that, theyll be squabbling with each other for another thousand years."

Mrs Montparr's lights twinkled in pink waves all the way into the dome of the auditorium. "Shall we do it?"

"Do it!" Stassy decided. "Anyway, Muscadine can't hurt us. Daddy wouldnt let him."

"I've programmed the instruction. If I really can do it, he should be arriving any minute now."

"Will he know us?"

"Oh my gosh I hadn't thought of that. He's going to find himself transported someplace to meet a robot who claims to be his daughter inside a computer matrix that used to be his wife."

"Mother, can a robot feel sick?"

"What about me? I've this absurd compulsion to powder my nose. I haven't got a nose. I haven't had a nose for a thousand years."

Chapter 11.

Initially the Producer was unconcerned about Sprackenspiel going missing. Hubert, the understudy, smoothly took up the commentary.

He, the technicians and the whole world counted the final words in unison. "Khamsa. Arbaa. Talata. Itnain. Wahid. Blastoff!"

Hubert couldn't believe his luck. The biggest event in television had presented him with an assured place in media history.

"Now begins the waiting, " he informed the watching millions. "Eight point six long years for us, but a mere seven hours for the Prince."

The Producer didn't miss Sprackenspiel at all for several minutes. Then he began to look out for him and later he began to search. He went to the bottom of the launch gantry. There he found the charred remains of the camera that Sprackenspiel had dropped. Sprackenspiel would never have just left it. He realized immediately where his presenter must be.

He drove like a whirlwind to the UASA Centre.

"UASA. You have a problem!" he screamed. Aaron Sprackenspiel is still in your rocket!"

It took a few seconds of vital time for the Launchmaster to comprehend this hysterical message and several more to believe it. A room full of anxious technicians turned towards him.

"You're telling me that your interviewer has stowed away on my rocket?"

"You'll have to abort!" the Producer insisted. "Weve got bookings."

The Launchmaster looked at his watch. "It's too late. Theyre already near the point of no return and moving so close to light speed, by the time the recall signal catches up with them, it will be easier to continue."

"I'm ruined, " Sprackenspiels Producer groaned.

The Launchmaster stared through him. His own career was also in jeopardy. He refrained from comment and typed a query into his computer. "What is the weight of this stowaway?"

"I don't know. We don't live together, " the Producer snapped. Then he sensed his danger from the Launch master's jerky body language. "I'm only guessing, maybe one hundred and seventy pounds."

The Launchmaster entered this data. He waited, drumming his fingers on the rim of the keyboard.

The answer flashed on the screen.

"Well, " the Launchmaster announced. "If we say one hundred and seventy pounds, they'll shortfall by two hundred million miles. We might be able to reach that in a shuttle in the time we have available."

This was greeted with excited whoops from his staff.

"They can do better than that if they jettison all their excess weight. However, if your interviewer is, say, one hundred and ninety pounds, they'll shortfall by . . ."

The whole Control Centre hushed and waited.

". . . about two light years. Thats only just passed half way. At space shuttle speeds, we couldn't hope to get anywhere near that, not even if we'd started out ten years ago."

"What are their chances?" the Producer asked.

"It depends on the actual burn off. We won't know that for eight point six years. Either they'll show up or their distress signal will."

"Shall I send any message?" an assistant asked.

"Waste of time, " the Launchmaster decided. "Khalifa knows what he must do."

The Producer ran outside and traced the rocket's contrail fading in the blue sky. What a hell of a program they would put together when Sprackenspiel got back. The exclusive would be worth billions! The only pity was that he had to wait eight point six years.

The Launchmaster followed him outside and stood beside him. As they watched the fading contrail, the Launchmaster began, strictly off the record, to explain the issues now relevant. There were some factors to make public and others to avoid. The mission was now in danger. The Princes co-pilot had been scratched from the mission because the consumption with two pilots left the mission needing a better than calculated burn-off.

The Sindbad was Khalifas obsession. He knew every square centimetre of his ship. Hed watched it grow from dream to initial concept on paper. He had helped draw the plans and monitored every feature as it was built, tested and retested. Every test except the ultimate test. UASA was unable to rehearse the actual full power, full payload lift off because it would have been ruinously expensive. They had to rely on computed figures from simulation. Khalifa's worry was that simulated figures were notorious for sharing the optimism of their programmers.

The Prince felt the Sindbad come alive. He knew every sequence of the firing procedure. He sensed the igniters flashing and felt the stabilizers begin to oscillate. He 'knew' the first millimetres of motion as a virgin knows the end of innocence.

First it was no more than a tremble, then a shudder. Sprackenspiel crossed himself.

"That is Catholic sign, " Khalifa commented.

"In times of stress, Jews are permitted to clutch at any straw. It is not generally appreciated we invented banking because of our compulsion to overdraw."

The acceleration thrust the two men firmly into their couches. Although this left them unable to raise their arms without difficulty, their minds were stimulated to a degree that could only be appreciated by the first time bungee jumper.

The two men settled themselves to endure the continuous acceleration. They would be unaware of their seconds stretching into Earth minutes, then hours, and then years.

Khalifa should have been more angry, now that he had an unexpected companion who was radically affecting the parameters of the mission but, he'd been unhappy when his crewman had been cancelled out of the program. Four point three light years is a very big desert to cross alone.

He reviewed the checklist of tasks at Alpha Centauri. He was scheduled to deploy a satellite marker and make a few minor experiments to collect spectrum analysis data about our solar system observed from distance. He wasn't going to become involved in an exploration of Alpha Centauri because he didn't have any spare fuel. His task was to prove the principle of Time dilation caused by light speed to unscientific investors who would respond only to tangible proof of travel into the future. He still had difficulty adjusting his mind to compressing four point three years of real earth Time into ninety minutes. He would only be truly convinced on his return when he opened the door and saw his fathers face. His final task was to flourish the beer from the cool box. Inshallah, there might even be some ice.

Initially he ignored Sprackenspiel. It wasn't that he was being rude. There was much he hadn't properly explained about the risks they were facing, so he found himself embarrassed. Cravenly he decided not to say anything now, the American would find out soon enough.

Sprackenspiel wasn't disconcerted at all. He couldn't believe his luck. He'd strapped himself into his seat sighing like a baby on the breast from the sheer complexity of his emotions.

The two men watched Saudi Arabia recede in the rear view monitor. The Earth was shrinking as quickly as a skydiver's airplane. Seconds later it was the size of a tennis ball, the captured Moon the size of a pea. Fascinated they watched until the Earth was no bigger than a large diamond.

"Billions of people live on speck of light, " the Prince observed.

"Billions of people squabble on that speck of light, " Sprackenspiel corrected.

True, the Prince responded. Is well written that world has enough for everybodys need, but not everyones greed.

Why is it that we human beings can clearly recognize the truth of remarks like that, but dont seem able to convert them into real life responses?

Also true, the Prince agreed with a smile. In Mosque we also preach thou shalt not to kill, then we go out and car bomb a few infidels.

If we were as clever as we think we are, and that means being clever enough to be honest with ourselves, we might learn something.

"Maybe different languages make us think different, the Prince suggested. Is like computers who do same job, but can't talk together because program is different."

"You Arabs aren't Microsoft compatible, " Sprackenspiel said with a cautious laugh.

"What about you Jews? You claim to be chosen people, but chosen for what? Are Jews persecuted because they are so clever, or clever because they are so persecuted?"

"Most of my crowd have moved on. In Biblical times it made good sense not to eat pork, and even to cut the skin off the end of your dick, but its absurd in the 23rd Century, when every home has a shower and a fridge."

"We have same scripture, same commandments, yet we fight over interpretation. Sometimes I wonder what God is playing at." Khalifa twisted awkwardly in his seat and looked across at the American. "I should have warned you I must take prayers."

"I should have found out, Sprackenspiel replied. Im supposed to be the best.

No, no. I owe apology.

You arent the only one. Im sorry about the foul-up at the airport. Honestly, I wasnt expecting red carpet treatment. Im only a presenter. But it was funny when they tried to drag the carpet with the band still on it."

In Islam, is not worthy to laugh at misfortune of others.

Is that what makes us different? We enjoy a good laugh. Do Arabs have jokes?

Of course we have jokes.

Tell me an Arab joke.

OK. Some Jews charter plane to go to Jerusalem for Passover. Lufthansa is only airline available, but there is long delay. After take off Captain apologizes on PA for late departure causing delay for dinner. Dont worry, he says, we are switching the ovens on now. The Jews said, Oh no. You wont catch us like that again, so they all jump out of plane.

The Prince was chuckling.

Sprackenspiels face was expressionless.

They were up in the sky. the Prince explained.

You think thats funny? Sprackenspiel said stonily.

Maybe joke not so funny as your face.

Every time the Prince looked at Sprackenspiel he corpsed. Your turn. Tell me Jewish joke.

OK, Sprackenspiel answered. How many Mosques are there in America?

I do not know this. Hundreds maybe?

How many Synagogues and Cathedrals are there in Saudi Arabia?

The Prince stared stonily at him.

We Jews find that funny? Sprackenspiel said.

They regarded each other warily for a few moments. Then the Prince smiled and reached out a hand.

Sprackenspiel grasped it warmly.

"We should be shamed, the Prince said. To tell truth I am little bit jealous. You have best job in whole world."

"Lots of people say that. My job may seem glamorous, but it isnt really. Presenters dont actually achieve anything. You do something real. Ill swap with you any time.

"You have much influence. To be elected, your President has to interpret wishes of people. You speak directly to people and can tell them what to wish for. This means your President has to follow where you lead."

"I wish that was true. The one thing you learn in the talk business is that words change nothing. People see common sense being spoken and presume common sense actions will follow. It rarely does.

"Talk takes special talent. Most people are lost between beginning and end of sentence. You stand before whole world and find words to make complicated matters seem easy. This is why I insist you got job even though there were many in Islam against the Jew."

Sprackenspiel bowed his head. "Now Im really embarrassed. I wondered how I was picked for this job."

You are best. Everybody knows.

I try to be, but I wasnt so smart this time. I didn't have to start scoring points."

"Maybe jihad is in gene?"

"Theres more to it than Jews and Arabs. The whole world seems to be locked into some giant tug of war with everybody pulling in different directions just to make sure nobody else gains a metre.

Is easy for Islam to explain. People say no to everything unless they see advantage for themselves.

Thats true."

"You think is possible to change a crazy world?"

Jesus! Nobody asks questions like that in LA. Were too busy making money and staying young forever."

So you think is hopeless?

"I believe every civilization gets warnings, a last chance to take the option the dinosaurs missed. The inheritors of our planet will be the most adaptable. I often wonder if its going to be us humans."

"Typical of Jewish people, so pessimist, always expecting worst."

"For Jews, the worst is usually here or on the way. You think optimism is smarter? Do you really believe in life after death? Its a nice idea, but wheres the proof? Millions of people believe in reincarnation. Did you ever meet a worm who admitted to having been a politician?

Five hundred million Hindus cant all be wrong, the Prince suggested.

Were back where we started.

Fighting like cat and dog?" The Prince said and they smiled together.

"That's insulting to animals, " Sprackenspiel said. "My dog could teach us about tolerance. His best friend is the parrot from next door who rides round on his back like a jockey. The parrot barks like a dog to tell him which way to go and my dog does as hes told. Its bizarre."

"You Americans, " Khalifa answered, shaking his head. "In Islam, friend is friend and dog is dog."

"Its very funny, " Sprackenspiel insisted. The parrot thinks its a dog. The dog thinks Im his mother, and some quite intelligent people treat me like God because Im on TV. Really Im just a phoney.

"Phoney? What means this phoney?"

"Not real. Like many presenters I started out in acting. I was always playing the hero. When I started believing I was a hero, I realized it was time to get out. I was becoming a phoney. The news business keeps my feet on the ground. Its a good life, but ephemeral. We go all over the world reporting stories. The next day we move on. The biggest clich in politics is 'we must make sure this never happens again', but nobody in the media ever goes back to check; we never go back the day after to see if our reports ever saved a life, built a hospital or opened a school.

To identify the need is essential first move.

Id like to leave something behind, something to be remembered for. Im trying to develop a way to make talk more effective. But it seems to me that talking is just a medium for dazzle and bullshit. The bottom line is nobody is ever going to raise a statue for a TV presenter."

In Islam, we dont seek for statue. Five times each day we seek only for understanding of Gods will.

In LA, we check the closing prices and unplug a bottle of Chardonnay. Same thing really.

They both noticed a loss of definition on the forward view monitor.

"Maybe means we're getting close to light speed, " the Prince suggested.

"Is that when we go into freeze frame?"

It was four point three years before the Prince replied. They were unaware they had reached light speed. There was no sensation of motion or time or anything as they flashed across space like a shooting star.

...oooOooo...

Throughout the long years of waiting, the film of Khalifa's preparations were played many times by the aficionados of space flight. They were used as examples of how a man should behave when confronted with disastrous inevitability. Young people would choke with emotion on seeing the replay. Khalifa's features on posters and tee shirts became as familiar as the face of Che Guevara in the Twentieth Century. Sindbad may have departed into the future, but it had arrived into folklore.

Chapter 12.

Sitting on one of the chairs in the kitchen of the Professors house, Bowsprit sighed dramatically. What was the Professor trying to hide? Why was he so reluctant to talk? He didn't think he was crazy just because a computer spoke to him. Talking machines were common enough these days, even if this one did call itself Mrs Montparr. All that interested him was the security implications of how the Professor had managed to disappear from inside a billion dollars worth of secure area in the Nevada complex.

"It seems to me, " Bowsprit said, "your real problem isnt what actually happened, its that you think nobody will believe you. Well, you may be right. You can't imagine some of the weird things I've been asked to believe. I've met people who believe in aliens, fairies, witches, ghosts. You name it and I've heard it. I've met people whove assured me that Princess Diana and John F Kennedy are alive and well and living together in a secret valley in Wyoming." Bowsprit leaned in conspiratorially, his nose rising with his eyebrows. "Would I lie to you about a thing as big as that?"

The Professor shrugged. If this FBI ape didn't appreciate the significance of communicative intelligence coming from a computer that wasn't programmed for it, how could he possibly cope with the rest of the story?

Suddenly Bowsprit became animated. "It's just dawned on me how to handle this. What's bothering you is that you don't think youll be believed. So you're the problem, not the story. Here's the deal. You tell me about it, off the record. I promise to give you my honest reaction when you've finished. Then, unless I have your permission, I won't tell another living soul, not even my boss. I give you my word."

He held out his hand, palm upwards, like a farmer offering a bargain. "If you don't tell me now I'll have to choke it out of you!"

The Professor considered this offer. With safeguards like that he might risk telling a bit more. "OK, though it's not easy to describe what happened next. It got darker and darker, but this was unnatural, like when theres an eclipse. I felt like I was scuba diving in treacle. Then there was a dazzling flash as if I was at the epicentre of a lightning strike - yet I was detached, outside of myself, as if I was on drugs. Time was distorted so I was able to watch that lightning strike radiate away from me in slow motion. I could see it when it was a couple of meters out in a perfect circle round me that I could touch. I watched it expand away to the horizon."

Bowsprit coughed. He was expecting to hear about fraud, international spies, Mafioso infiltrators or even business espionage, not this wild talk. It sounded like the plot of one of those science fiction movies, with Captain Kirk, dressed up in his mother's baggy tights, exploring the universe in spaceships that wobbled in the fight scenes.

"I know this sounds crazy, " the Professor explained. "The whole experience was like being in a dream, when all logic is suspended. Anyway, in that detached dreamlike way I realized I had arrived somewhere."

Bowsprit decided this was the time to deploy another of the Bureau's techniques.

"How very unsettling for you, " he commented, but with his eyebrows slightly arched. The trick was to send conflicting signals. If your words said one thing, but your body said something else, the customer would become undermined from not knowing if he was being believed or not.

"I can tell it sounds crazy from the look on your face, but now it really begins to get fantastic." The Professor's tone was defensive and his eyes belligerent. He groped around his experience for a simile. "Were you ever in a jet fighter doing very tight turns?"

"Ah, Professor, Bowsprit responded animatedly. I noticed in your file that you're a Colonel in the Reserve Air Guard. We have that in common, sir. Most weekends you will find me shitting my underpants flying F22s for the 847th at Dulles. The Raptor may be only late Twentieth Century technology, but they're plenty hot enough for me!"

The Professor regarded Bowsprit with new interest. If this FBI guy was a Reserve pilot like himself, maybe he wasn't such an ape after all. "The 847th!" he echoed. "They're a pretty mean outfit."

"It's only the truth, " Bowsprit responded. "I joined them because I figured the only way to stay safe in this world was to be in the same team."

They grinned at each other like schoolboys.

"You guys held the "Top Gun" title for three years, " the Professor recalled.

Bowsprit flushed with pleasure that this prestigious man should know about the exploits of his weekend fighter squadron.

"So you know exactly what I mean, " the Professor continued, "when you're pulling lots of G and you almost black out. When your vision fades until all you can see is the dim outline of the last thing you happened to be looking at?"

"I know. It feels like you're peering at the instruments down the wrong end of a telescope."

"Right." The Professor responded warmly to this clich. "You've been there." The two men reassessed each other like a warm handshake.

"Well, coming out of this was like the reverse of that, " the Professor explained. "Instead of fading, things were coming back, reassembling. I found myself in a strange room. Not strange exactly. Different." Worried again, he checked Bowsprit's face. "What I mean by different is that I was somewhere else. I had moved without moving, if you see what I mean. I was in a huge room as big as a cathedral. The ceiling was practically out of sight. The walls seemed to be made of some photosensitive material that could change colour with banks of lights going right up into the dome. These lights could make pictures like a giant TV screen. I was thinking I must have taken some LSD and it was affecting my senses. I considered ways of checking if I was ill, or mad, or breathing a gas that was making me see crazy things. While I was thinking all that with one part of my mind, this thing in front of me was making these peculiar noises."

Bowsprits nose reared up.

"Hard to go along with, isn't it?" the Professor said.

"I can see how all that would seem like hallucination."

"Thats the point. I wasn't hallucinating." The Professor desperately wanted to look inside Bowsprit's mind to see how the story was being received, but the FBI man kept his head down.

"I can't go on with this, " the Professor decided. "It must sound like I'm crazy."

"Professor, you couldnt guess how much it reassures me to hear you say that. The mad ones don't question their sanity. Maybe you are crazy, but you being crazy still doesn't explain how you got out of a top security zone without being monitored." He looked fiercely at the Professor. "You'd have more chance getting through the main gates of Fort Knox with a fork lift full of gold bars! Come on, Professor, remember what they taught us in flight school. If you get vertigo at fifty thousand feet on a dark, dirty night and you don't know whether the earth is up or down, you have to ignore your feelings and lock on to your instruments. Did that bit of advice ever let you down? That has to be the bottom line, Professor. Was your Door Control Computer hallucinating? Was your Security Chief hallucinating? Have some faith in your hardware even if you can't trust me or yourself."

"Maybe, " the Professor conceded. "You see, the whole thing never should have happened in the first place. It was a mistake on my wife's part. She didn't think it through."

Bowsprit froze. How did his wife get back into the story?

"Do I understand you to say it was a mistake on your wife's part?" Bowsprit said. "When you say your wife, you mean this talking computer, right?"

"Wife, computer, same thing, " the Professor replied. Then he groaned. "I can't go through with this."

"Yes you can, Professor. Sooner or later you have to tell someone. Why else did you ask me if I could get to the President?"

The Professor got up and walked over to the window. The view over the treetops was reassuring. Nevadas Spring mountains were surrounded by pretty puffs of cloud outlined against a brilliant blue sky. High overhead a small aircraft, a Pitts Special, buzzing like a wasp, was practicing aerobatics.

Bowsprit came over and pointed to the hangar at the bottom of the Professor's garden. "Do you still have the Cessna?"

"I havent used it much since I stopped looking for the girls."

Bowsprit couldn't think of anything to say.

With experienced eyes the two men watched the aerobatics overhead and recognized a novice. The pilot was looping and rolling and trying everything he could think of.

"Do you know that poem by the young Spitfire pilot?" the Professor asked. Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter silvered wings.

Sunward Ive climbed, Bowsprit continued, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of. Every pilot who ever went solo knows that feeling.

Well, that awesome ending, the Professor said.

You mean the touched the face of God, bit?

"Yes. Like most pilots I was there on my first solo, " the Professor responded. "But Ive just been there again."

Bowsprits eyebrows raised, but he didnt respond to this odd remark. In respectful silence, they watched the trainee pilots aerobatics above them. The Pitts Special spun out of a clumsy stall turn and began falling like a stone. Anxiously they watched until the trainee recovered control.

"That young fellow better watch out, " Bowsprit said, "or he'll get stuck inside out."

They smiled together again.

The Professor made up his mind. Like that trainee pilot, the real world wasn't upside down, only his own.

"The thing in front of me that was making the peculiar noises was a robot, " he announced. "What you have to understand is this was the damnedest most fantastic robot you ever saw. Man, it was practically human!" He looked at Bowsprit. "It was communicating intelligently, if you see what I mean. But it was what it said that burst me like a balloon. Nobody could be ready for a thing like that."

"OK, so what did it say?"

"In this funny voice it was saying, 'Mommy, I think I'm trying to cry'." He looked hopefully at Bowsprit. "It was so subtle. I could tell it wasn't speaking to me, it was speaking over its shoulder to nobody, nobody I could see."

"OK, " Bowsprit repeated mechanically.

"What made it worse was that this machine not only looked like my daughter, but was using her voice!"

Bowsprit was still expressionless, but it was getting harder. "That's OK too."

"Sure it's OK, the Professor snapped. It happens to millions of people every day!"

"Now don't let's get negative, " Bowsprit countered. "We've made our deal. Let's go through with it."

The Professor didn't want to continue. Every word felt like heartburn. Yet the FBI man was right, sooner or later he would have to tell somebody.

"Then this robot threw its arms around me, hooting and wailing. It sounded like crying, but there were no tears. I remember thinking, best humanoid robot I ever saw, but not perfect; not good enough to make tears." The Professor shrugged. He couldn't go back now.

"I stepped back in surprise, I guess, " he went on. "It was a natural flinch. Anyway this robot realized I was surprised, so it leaned back also. I tell you that thing was so good I began to wonder if it was real, if it was an actress pretending to be a robot. When she leaned back and looked at me it was so very human. I could see it was embarrassed at having overreacted." He paused to let Bowsprit appreciate the significance. "This robot had thrown herself into a clinch and embarrassed me. Now she was looking for a way to back off without losing face. Imagine the programming before a robot could react to nuances like that. How the hell do you program a computer for embarrassment?"

He looked hopefully at Bowsprit who was trying to remember how to look impassive.

"I was in shock, I suppose, " the Professor continued. "Then I heard my wife's voice telling this robot to back off. This voice said 'Your father is going to need some time to work this out.' Well, that was an understatement. Now I know how a computer feels when it receives a command to DELETE ALL. My brain was in FULL ERASE. I felt like a blank disc waiting for a program insert. For Christ's sake, one minute I'm having a fun day in the Vegas Complex loading my wife's voice into my program, just enjoying hearing her voice again. Then abracadabra, like magic, I'm somewhere else, being hugged by a robot that looks like my daughter who got sucked out of an airliner eight years ago! As if that wasn't enough, this handmade look-alike was talking to my wife who'd jumped out after her! God damn it, Bowsprit, if you saw a plot like that on TV you'd start channel surfing. Now do you see my problem?"

The Professor rounded on Bowsprit. "Just look at your face! And that's just the beginning."

Bowsprit tugged at his ear. He couldn't think of anything to say. He looked at the Professor. He noted the intelligence. If you didn't know he was a double Nobel Prize winner you would still guess he was something special. So here was this plausible guy, an intellectual giant of his time, telling him the biggest load of garbage he'd ever heard. If it was coming from anybody else, he would have slapped his face for the insolence. But he'd manipulated the great man into giving his explanation, so the least he could do was to listen with an open mind.

"Then, " the Professor continued, "this thing turned back to me and said, in my daughters voice, 'Oh, Daddy, Daddy, we never thought we would ever see you again'."

Bowsprit's nose was yawing around. He sensed the coming of something unmanageable; as if he was sitting on the edge of a grumbling volcano and had left it to late to leave. The only way the Professor could have met his wife and daughter again was too ridiculous to consider.

His stomach churned. "I know what you're going to tell me, " he said with a flash of insight that came out of nowhere like a sneeze. "You're going to tell me you travelled in Time."

Bowsprit was shattered by his revelation, but what worried him more was the realization that he believed this crazy Professor. Without a shred of hard evidence he believed this man who was telling him that he had just come back from a day trip in Time. If that wasnt bad enough, he would have to put that into his report. The whole Bureau would read it. Eyebrows would be raised. Questions would be asked. There would be an Inquiry. An inquiry might conclude that Assistant Director Cabot Bowsprit must have flipped.

They might confiscate his gun and badge!

Chapter 13.

Stassy extricated herself from her father's arms and backed off uncertainly. She looked sideways at her mother. Together they studied the confused man standing in front of them, trying to think of ways to help.

"It really is us, Scurlock, " Mrs Montparr volunteered, calling him by the pet name only she was allowed to use.

The Professor didn't respond, but the wild look in his eyes warned them to proceed cautiously.

Gradually he realized there was no immediate threat. He relaxed a little and began to look around.

First he studied the robot that called itself his daughter and used her voice. He was astounded by the quality of the thing. It was an almost exact replica of a thirteen year old human child in size and shape. It seemed able to move as if it had built-in rollers that gave it a flowing style of movement, elegant yet unusual, like an ice skater. The only unnatural thing was the texture of its skin. With a scientist's intuition, he realized this skin was probably translucent for solar power. Its eyes also were slightly different. They moved a degree faster than the human eye. This didn't detract from the illusion of humanity, it just gave it a catlike alertness.

Because it was featured to look like his daughter, he found it disturbing, but the intelligence behind the eyes was obvious. He smiled uncertainly at it. It smiled back warmly to coax trust, as he'd often seen his daughter do with babies or animals.

"You do look just like my daughter."

With nothing more than a waver in the expression, he was aware that she was disappointed; disappointed not in him, but in herself like when Stassy came back from school with anything less than A grades.

She looked at him in a measured way for a few moments. Then, using her wheeled feet, she backed off in a curve and began to skate about the complex in the uninhibited play that children are only capable of in the presence of their parents.

He watched, not consciously aware that in his mind she had stopped being an 'it' and had become a 'she'. But he was also aware that she was not satisfied yet, that her aimless drifting was to allow him more time.

He turned his attention to the room. It was not like any other place of his experience. It was as big as a cathedral with the same out-of-sight ceilings that seemed to emphasize your ant-like insignificance. It was obviously some kind of nerve centre, yet it was more than that. It gave a strong sensation of being part of some much larger thing beyond.

It really is us, his wifes voice repeated.

He looked around for the source of this voice, but couldn't see anything unusual except a pair of binoculars on a stand that seemed to be watching him. She hadn't said much, but the comprehension that even these brief comments displayed was puzzling. The voice also had intelligence and sensitivity, like the extraordinary robot girl.

"You look just like that time in Iceland, " his wife's voice said with a chuckle. "Do you remember? You dived into that pool thinking it was a hot spring, but it turned out to be liquid ice."

He wasn't sure, but the voice and the binoculars seemed to be working together.

"I've seen lots of people dive into a pool, " she continued, "but that was the first time I saw someone dive out! Do you remember? I had to coax your testicles back down with a pickle fork."

That wasn't true, of course, but they had joked about it. He was thrown into confusion. How could a computer know about that? Why would anyone program a computer with that kind of irrelevancy? What was going on here?

"Whoops, sorry, " his wife's voice said, reading his expression. "Too far, too fast. I was reminded because you do look so sorry for yourself."

"Where the hell is this?" the Professor demanded.

"Darling, I think you'd better work that out for yourself." His eyes flashed dangerously. "No, truly, " the voice responded. "It'll be less of a shock if you work it out for yourself. It's not that difficult."

"Why should I work anything out when I have you to tell me?"

It was a carefully measured display of irritation, that, from previous experience with his wife, had usually earned a submission. He realized with shock that he was handling this computer voice as if it was a real person.

"No, " her voice said. "You must work it out for yourself. The clues are all around."

"What clues?" he demanded. "You're the only person in the world who can get me this frustrated this quickly."

"That could be your first clue."

"My God, " he said out loud to himself. "I'm having a spat with a computer." But she was dead! His heart pounded painfully at the thought of reopening that old wound.

He watched the robot look-alike skate elegantly around the room. Her range of movement staggered him. It seemed impossible that someone could have secretly developed such a sophisticated machine as this. She was years ahead of her time! Perhaps the Japanese had discovered the secret of artificial intelligence and somehow the program had transferred into his complex like a virus? But no Japanese programmer could write such an accurate program about his private life.

He looked about the room. It was bigger than any convention hall he'd ever seen, yet crammed full of working electronics. In a curious way he felt, like Jonah, as though he was inside something alive. There was a word to describe it. Yes, of course. It was futuristic.

The realization exploded into his consciousness. He rounded on the binocular eyes.

"Don't tell me this is in the future!"

"Well done, darling, " his wife's voice responded. More than a thousand years to be precise.

Stassy curved gracefully into his vision and stopped expertly in front of him.

"It's true, Daddy, really, " she said with that ingenuous tone his daughter always used when she required to be believed. "Mommy found out how to do it this morning."

The Professor sat down cross-legged on the floor like a small boy in deep trouble. "Is that really you, Sarah?"

"I'm afraid so, Scurlock. Although somewhat disembodied since our last meeting."

Her words were full of nuances as usual. He recalled the need to listen carefully for the meanings as well because women tended to talk in code.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm where you put me, " she replied, "or, to be more precise, I'm where you put what became me."

"That's awful!"

"It's a lot better than the alternative, " she retorted. "I'd rather be here than nowhere."

She had always been a touchy person, someone who required careful handling. Like a thoroughbred filly, she would take you on the ride of your life, but only if expertly handled.

"I'm sorry, " he responded. "I was looking mostly at the disadvantages. I think I really meant awesome, " he explained. "Is that really you?"

"Yes. Or at least I think so, " she qualified. "I need to know for certain, which is why you're here. Because you programmed me with intelligence, naturally I became curious about the voice I was using. Over the years, I've played a little game with myself that I really was Mrs Sarah Montparr. Then, a few hours ago, I suddenly seemed to know all sorts private things I couldn't possibly have read anywhere. You are the only person who can confirm whether Im imagining these details."

His eyes searched the room, determined to find the body that belonged with the voice. He could see although the binoculars were her eyes, her changing moods caused the banks of control lights to shimmer and colour differently. Also there were different sound shapes so that, although without substance, she seemed to be pleasantly everywhere, like the smell of good cooking.

"For instance, " she continued. "When did we conceive Stassy?" With a wifes facility she interpreted the exasperated look on his face, "I need proof, Scurlock. Time travel changes everything. I need to be sure."

He snorted. "You always insisted it was the time in La Rochelle, because of that mirror."

"There you are!" Mrs Montparr announced triumphantly to Stassy. "Who else could know about that? I really am me!" The interior of the complex glowed with warm pink pleasure. Then her tone changed. "Anyway, I'm still waiting for you to apologies for that Miss Lola Prosser."

"She is just my assistant for Gods sake.

Nobody called Lola can be completely innocent of anything, Mrs Montparr retorted.

She wanted some help on her thesis."

"That wasn't all she wanted, " Mrs Montparr fizzed with an outrage that resurfaced undiminished by a thousand years.

"I know that, but her ideas were interesting."

Ill bet they were.

They were, and you never know what you find once you start looking.

That wasnt all she was looking for.

Well, eight years has passed and she is still my assistant, still Miss Prosser. That should tell you if any apology was called for.

Huh.

Stassy glided between them.

"For heavens sake, you two. That was a thousand years ago. Im supposed to be the kid round here. We would never have been on that airplane if you two hadn't been so dumb."

"Should she be involved in this?" he demanded, stung because she was so absolutely right.

"We've already discussed it, " Mrs Montparr replied. "Girl talk, before you arrived."

"Oh fine. What else does she know about us that should be private?"

Mrs Montparr snorted, but elected to ignore the admonition.

"Anyway, why did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean."

"The airplane? I really don't know, darling. It was just instinct. Im her mother. I couldn't let her face a thing like that alone. Besides, " she continued, "I never could have faced you to tell you that I'd lost our daughter."

Instinctively he knew this was the real reason. "Oh darling, you didn't have to prove it by jumping out of an airplane!"

Stupid of me really. Id grown used to the presumption that you could handle anything. As I went through the window I remember thinking you were going to have a hell of a job getting us out of this mess!"

The Professor was horrified. "How could you expect me to deal with something like that?"

"I always believed you'd find a way." She paused to consider. "It looks like you've done it again. It may not be what you had in mind, but here we are together again!"

There was an air of finality about her reasoning mixed with a dash of feminine logic. It was pointless trying to reason with women, the Professor had learned, when they were tuned in to their intuition.

Stassy was standing before him with an expectant look. Her smile seemed to be asking if he understood now?

"Well, " Mrs Montparr announced. "I suppose I must tell them what's going on."

"Them?"

"The humans, " she explained. "The Senate. I'm not looking forward to it. I can never predict how you humans are going to react. Sometimes youre extremely logical, and other times incomprehensibly stupid." She concluded with a sigh, "I suppose they've always been like that."

"I'm human, " he reminded her.

"Husbands aren't human, " she said with a laugh.

She continued with an assertive tone that he didn't recognize.

"This is Mrs Montparr calling all Cities of the United Nations Federation. I am convening an immediate Extraordinary Meeting of the Plenipotentiary Senates to make an important announcement and seek guidance." Her voice returned to her conversational tone. "Now we can expect several hours of so-called debate while I manoeuvre them into taking my advice, " she said with a sigh. "While they're getting ready, there's something rather complicated I'm going to try that is going to use all my available RAM for a while. In the meantime would you like Stassy to show you around?"

"Good idea, " Stassy said, slipping her hand into her father's, as if a thousand years was no time at all.

"That would be fascinating, " the Professor agreed. "I can't wait to see what progress has been made since my time."

Stassy led him outside, and there, to his chagrin, he fell over backwards.

As he was falling he realized he was being foolish, but by then he was too far over to recover. Even before he hit the ground he'd rationalized that, with warning, he could have been ready for the sight that confronted him. After all, he was supposed to be an expert who'd published dozens of scientific papers and articles about the size and shape of the future.

More embarrassed than hurt, he struggled back to his feet. He leanede cautiously on his daughter until he felt safe enough to take another look.

The sight that had caused him to topple was a long street that stretched into the distance until it began to climb upwards, like the bottom end of Union Street in San Francisco. His eye naturally followed to register the summit. However, the hill didn't reach any summit, but continued rising until the houses clung to the hillside at impossible angles, and then continuing ever more steeply until the distant houses were directly overhead! It was the involuntary attempt to align himself with the missing vertical that caused his gyros to topple.

The Professor was not only a scientist of note, but also of genius. Even before he'd hit the ground the explanation was comfortably rationalized in his mind. Had he not drawn the plans, composed inventories and given lectures?

The space city was a huge cylinder about four miles in diameter. The streets circled the interior of the cylinder, so that four miles away, directly overhead, he could see the parks and buildings of, quite literally, the other side of town. This disorientating panorama was only partially obstructed by the glare of sunlight that ran through the centre like an axel. The cylinder was rotating to produce a centrifugal force equivalent to gravity, so that the whole city clung to the inside of this cylinder as it revolved like a gigantic oil drum in space.

Making a computer simulation was one thing, being inside one of these structures was something else. Feeling dizzy again, he sat down on a wall.

"You should have warned me we were in space, he scolded. He looked around. As long as you don't look up, you'd never know you weren't still on Earth."

Stassy was trying not to smile. I havent seen you fall over since your office party. You were jiving about like a stoned teenager.

I didnt fall. Weve done that move hundreds of times. Your mother deliberately let go.

She said you were showing off to that Lola.

I was enjoying myself. That mother of yours has an evil streak. Youd better watch out. She can see through walls.

Open a file on that!

When the Professor felt less giddy, he got up and they set off to explore.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Midtown is mainly residential. The End Zones are more interesting. There's something there I want to show you."

"I can't believe this is really happening."

"I know what you mean. Mommy only told me about Time travel an hour ago."

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't recognize you straight away. I mean I knew it was you, but I knew it couldn't be. Do you see what I mean?"

"It's OK, Daddy." She squeezed his hand. "I'm too happy to see you to get upset about things that don't matter."

He squeezed her hand back. "This is marvellous." He indicated the upside-down city. "How big is this place?"

"Were still growing. The robots are building another mile right now. That will make us thirty-two miles long."

"Fantastic! What about the sunlight, " he asked. "Is it artificial or reflected?"

"I think it's real sunlight, reflected, " she answered. "I'm not sure. Ask Mommy. I've only been here a few months myself."

She skated ahead and turned round to face him. "What happened to Edward?" she demanded.

"Who?"

"Edward, my Teddy Bear."

"Oh, that Edward, " he answered, remembering the toy that had been bigger than his daughter when he first bought it and had been her nightly guardian ever since. "He's still on your bed. I never touched anything."

"It's a pity you didn't know you were coming. You could have brought him with you."

"That's right, " he agreed warily. "If I'd known I was coming I would have brought him."

Her chin began to tremble. "Who's going to look after him now?"

"Look, a handsome bear like Edward is going to have no trouble getting himself adopted, " he reassured her.

"That's no consolation, is it?"

"It's better than nothing." He recognized this mood and knew that he would have to firmly redirect it or she would end up in maudlin ill humour.

"Life's not always a series of easy choices, Stassy. Sometimes shit happens, as you already know. You just have to cope with it." He marvelled how people could slip back into exactly their old relationship even after a thousand years. "For Lord's sake, " he said, "this place must have cost billions!"

"Cost, Daddy? That is funny coming from you! I thought you said never to worry about cost."

"Did I say that? I don't remember."

"You made a famous speech. We have to learn some of it by heart in school, like the Declaration of Independence."

"Are you sure it was me? I'm not very good at speeches."

"You said that man invented money as a tool but ended up serving it like a master."

"I remember thinking along those lines, but I don't recall saying it publicly." He thought for a moment. Im scheduled to lecture at the Smithsonian Space Centre next week, maybe I make that speech when I get back."

She looked at him quizzically. She realized he couldn't know about his disappearance. "Always supposing you do go back, " she warned.

"Tell me more about this city in space, " he asked.

"This is Mother's greatest achievement."

"Your mother was responsible for all this? When I wrote her program, I had some pretty extravagant ideas, but to do all this is something else."

"She organized it, but she insists the original blueprint was yours."

"Was it indeed?" he answered. "It's strange to be getting credit for something I haven't done yet. I've a lot of work to do when I get back."

Stassy didn't contradict him. He would find out in a few minutes anyway. "I wasn't around when she did it. We only learn about it in school."

"Well, tell me what you do know."

"Apparently the weather went haywire on Earth because of the pollution. The winds got stronger and stronger and there were some really big storms. In one storm, the winds hit four hundred miles per hour and even the humans realized the situation was out of control, that it was the end."

The Professors heart began to race and an awful panic fell on him like a wall.

"Good God, Stassy, " he cried. "Tell me what happened to the Earth!"

"Nothing happened to it, " she replied, surprised by the tone in his voice.

"You said it was the end."

"I just meant that nobody lives there any more."

"You mean everybody now lives in space?"

"Of course. What did you expect?"

"I expected to find the same world I left behind half an hour ago."

"Oh, of course. I forgot it all happened after your time."

"What happened, for God's sake?"

"I told you, the weather went mad. The humans came to Mother and asked her if she could help. She told them she had one of your plans on file that involved everybody vacating the surface as quickly as possible."

"Jesus Christ, the Professor exploded. See what happens when you put money first! How could we be so stupid? I assumed space cities would come about as a function of evolution, research and technology. I never thought for a minute they'd become giant lifeboats in some great escape."

"Daddy, you know humans only resort to common sense after everything else has failed."

"So whats the Earth like now?"

"Dont ask me. Science isnt my major."

"Just tell me what you do know. I can probably fill in the gaps myself."

Stassy began uncertainly, in a kind of chant that she must have learned at school.

"Global warming allowed the temperature to rise. The heat caused the winds to increase and the icecaps began to melt. Without their cooling effect, the temperature rose even faster and the sea began to evaporate into the atmosphere. This increased the dynamic . . ." She paused at this word and looked to her father. His nod reassured her. "And the wind increased to tornado speeds and began to cause the rock to erode, just like one of the planets is it Jupiter?"

"It doesn't make sense. That's much too quick for global warming. Something else must have triggered such an acceleration. Have you any idea what it was?"

"Teacher said it was the pollution."

"How many made it to space?"

"Everybody, I suppose."

The Professor winced at her naivety. Millions must have been marooned.

"They're all here, " she explained. "Cities in space. There's our New Vegas, New Paris, Microsoft, New Mecca, Sony, New Moscow, Chase Manhattan, hundreds of them. They're all orbiting roughly over where they always used to be."

"All those places are now hanging like satellites in the sky?"

"Yes, wasn't our Mommy brilliant?" she said proudly. "She helped save the world. It wasn't easy. There was a big row about where all the money would come from. Some cities wanted everybody to buy tickets. Mommy asked them where God borrowed the money to build the universe. She said she needed to know, so she could use the same bank."

"Thats very satirical for your mother."

"She says she learned the technique from you!"

"What was that?"

"Satire is constructive criticism disguised as destructive. If you're not laughing, it's because the blunt shaft of illumination is being thrust up the ass of your own sacred cow."

He smiled bashfully. "That one I do remember. How pompous I could be sometimes."

Stassy felt a thrill of pride. She had a father who didn't seem to realize how special he was and a mother who was running the whole Space Cities Federation. She was in a pretty special family and didn't need to feel inferior to any of the human kids at school.

"I can't wait to see their faces in class when I tell them my dad is here."

"OK, kid. But tell me more about the awful mess we made of our beautiful world."

"I've been waiting for that!" she said, sliding her hand into his.

"What?"

"For you to call me 'kid' again."

He laughed, caught unawares by the strange disorder of her priorities. "Come on then, " he said. "Let's go."

"OK!" she responded happily. "Let's take a ride."

He was not surprised when they came to a intersection called Sunset and Rainbow, just like the old Las Vegas. But he was surprised when a stagecoach and four came galloping up Sunset.

Stassy flagged it down.

The Professor disguised his surprise by making a fuss over the horses, which were real, as one of them proved. The smell was unmistakable. The driver was dressed as a cowboy and looked like John Wayne.

Good manure must be more use than gold dust round here, the Professor said to him. Dont waste it.

The driver didnt acknowledge his pleasantries.

Stassy laughed. "He's only a robot, Daddy. They do all the chores. He isn't programmed for small talk."

They climbed inside the coach and it lurched off. Stassy could see something was disturbing him.

Although he'd been taken by surprise at the shape and appearance of New Vegas, at least he'd predicted that. But he hadn't predicted stagecoaches. He couldn't fit this anachronism into his vision of the future.

She sensed this.

"About a hundred years ago there was a reaction against technology that seemed to be driving everybody into a stupefying uniformity. People got bored with themselves. Mommy suggested they go back to their ethnic origins. It was a great success. It's really interesting to see what people have done with themselves and their cities. The Greeks rebuilt the Acropolis and they now live like 400BC. The Italians restored the glory of Rome, complete with Coliseum, but they use robots instead of Christians. The French restored Napoleonic Paris. The British did the same with their Empire in the age of Victorian elegance; everybody dresses for dinner! New Chicago went back to Prohibition and the Speak-Easy. Robot Al Capone gangs drive around the streets having shoot-outs when they meet.

Isnt that a bit expensive in robots when they shoot each other?

Well it isnt cheap, but we have a very good spare parts service, we just replace the damage units. In Vegas we rebuilt the Strip of course, and apart from a few cranky Navajo who want their prairie back, everybodys happy. Its put the fun back into travel."

He nodded to show he understood. He realized there were more surprises to come and composed himself to be ready for anything.

When they arrived at the End Zone she took him to an observation park, a giant glass blister stuck on the end of the city.

Going inside felt like stepping off the edge of the universe. He stumbled, surprised to find something solid under foot. In the darkness, the stars seemed very close, as if meant to be touched, like Braille.

Outside the window, in space vacuum, a blank faced robot, looking like Kirk Douglas, was polishing the glass. Other robots were floating by.

"They look like sea horses, Montparr said. I don't see what they're using for propulsion."

Stassy didn't say anything, but he heard an unmistakable private sound and she gave him an old-fashioned smile.

He laughed. "Are you telling me that 'farting about' is an expression from the future? I know it only takes a tiny bit of thrust to get you a long way in space, but that's a very sanguine solution." He shuddered with excitement. "Stassy, this is all so fascinating. When I was a boy I used to wish I could live one day every hundred years so I would see how the world developed. Now here I am, living that impossible dream."

He noticed a busy area in the blackness. He could discern a long sequence of inbound traffic distinguishable from the stars by the regularity of their lights. Spaceships were arriving with the precision of a city airport.

"Do people still travel much?" He indicated the inbound tailback.

"I don't know what you'd call a lot. Most of these will be coming to Mother's meeting. The others will be Moon freighters or Chasers."

"What are Chasers?"

"The Moon is our main source for raw materials, which is why all our factories are there, but we still need all the minerals we can get. So if any asteroids or meteorites come within range, we send out Chasers to collect them."

"Meteorites really move. They must be difficult to catch?"

"Not at light speed they aren't."

"Of course, " he spluttered, his heart racing. So they could travel at light speed now! They must have solved most of the puzzles of his time. He had a lot of catching up to do.

As they watched, the Earth began to rise into view like sunrise, but instead of the familiar blue colour, it was shrouded by a white mantle scarred with vivid reddish browns.

"What are those streaks?" he asked.

"Erosion dust, I think, " Stassy answered without interest. "The thick one above the middle is called the Himalayan, if that's any help."

The Professor shook his head. "That's awful."

Stassy glanced at him, surprised again by the strength of his reaction. She stared at the Earth trying to understand what was troubling him.

The Professor looked at his daughter. How could she be so unaffected? That beautiful and bountiful place had been squandered, yet she didn't seem concerned. Perhaps they were programmed to forget?

"Do you remember how the Earth used to be?"

"Of course I do, " she answered. "The funny thing is, I don't remember very much myself. Mommy says that's because kids my age are inwards looking. She says I was more interested in my bedroom and playing with my Game Boy." She considered for a moment. "Apart from losing most of the plants and animals, I think we're better off in space. We control the environment instead of it controlling us. We don't have a pollution problem now. Any rubbish we cant recycle, we fire into the sun."

He was horrified by her casual acceptance of the abandonment of the Earth. Children just accept what they find, he reasoned. They are programmed to adjust to anything, even extremes like cruelty. Then, when they reach adolescence, it seems their program solidifies and the emerging adult resists all further change like concrete.

He noticed something like lightning in the distance.

"What are those flashes?"

"Theyre laser guns. When they sense an incoming meteorite that might puncture our hull, they zap it."

"What if it's too big to zap?"

"If it's that big, we start the main engines and dodge it."

He looked about. "This is all very, very spectacular."

"I suppose so."

There was something unresponsive in her tone.

"Why only suppose?" he asked.

"Meteorites usually come in showers, sometimes too many to zap or dodge. Inevitably a few get through and puncture our hull. We robots are programmed to automatically fix it before all the atmosphere gets dumped. It's our prime function here."

"Because you can work outside without the need for clumsy spacesuits."

"That's right. When there's a warning, the humans run inside any building because theyre all airtight. If the hull gets holed we robots have to plug it with air bags until we can mend it properly. Sometimes its a big hole, just like a window blowing out of a plane and some of us get fired out like peas through a shooter. She looked at him nervously. "Once was enough."

He realized then that she hadn't come with him into the End Zone blister, but had remained hovering near the entrance. "Not you, surely?"

"Me too. No special privileges. Muscadine made it a condition of Mother's permission to build me."

"Who is this Muscadine?"

"Hes the mayor. Youll see him at Mommy's meeting. He'll be the one wearing the cowboy hat. They say he never takes it off, not even in bed."

"Perhaps I'd better have a talk with your mother about this guy when we get back."

"We don't have to go back, " she replied with a child's exasperation. "Mother is everywhere."

"That's true, kid, and don't you forget it!"

Mrs Montparr's voice came eerily from a watery outline that appeared inches in front of their noses. Stassy jumped guiltily. Because she was innocent for once, they laughed together like family.

"Have you been space side yet?" Mrs Montparr asked.

"Is that possible?"

"Stassy can take you out in a Chaser."

"I'd love that."

"There should be enough time before the meeting if you hurry."

"Let's go then, Dad, " Stassy called, glad of another excuse to grab his hand.

Your father isn't a robot, so dont forget to pressurize, Mrs Montparr called after them.

The Docking Bay was a hive of activity like a busy bus station. Spaceships were arriving every few seconds, floating through the revolving doors of the air-lock, and disgorging their excited passengers.

Stassy led him to a line of smaller vehicles, each about the size of a taxi. As they strapped in, Stassy flipped a few switches, eased open the thrust lever and steered for the outlock.

As the hull took the strain of space vacuum there was a curious moaning sound, like an over-inflated balloon.

They launched out into space in a graceful curve.

The scene was breathtaking. So intense was the Professors excitement he felt as if he would never stop inhaling.

Stassy continued the curved flight path until New Vegas hove back into view in the distance. The huge cylinder was slowly rotating in space, the whole exterior sheathed in shimmering solar panels. Long gantries reached out menacingly, like praying mantis. Laser beams flashed from the ends of these gantries like the flicks of a lizard's tongue as incoming meteorites were zapped into dust and sucked in for raw material.

Montparr gasped. "Brilliant! Unbelievable! Will you look at all that fantastic engineering. Most of the time were a pain in the butt, " he announced, "but now and again I'm just so proud of the whole goddamn human race!"

"It is pretty impressive the first time, " Stassy agreed. "But we better be getting back. There's something else I want you to show you."

Back in New Vegas, she skated ahead and led him into a public park. "This is what you need to see."

He was confronted by an oversize statue of himself standing with one hand held aloft like a Papal blessing. He loathed it immediately. "Thats not me, he complained. Will you just look at that cheesy pose.

On the plinth was a bronze plaque that gave a brief rsum of his life. What was surprising was that he didn't recognize himself. According to the plaque he was a famous economist! The only man ever to win three Nobel prizes, a puzzling citation for a physicist with only two! Most disturbing of all, according to the dates, he'd died this year! This could only mean that he wasn't going back to his own time, he would become a missing person presumed dead. Yet here he was. But it was a puzzle. Finance wasn't his field. How did he win a third Nobel prize unless he went back and presented the ideas that were still in his head? He'd intended saying a few words about the funding of space projects, but nothing formal. He knew nothing about economics except there must be something wrong with a money system that could fund any war except the one against poverty and ignorance. It seemed to him either they'd got history wrong, or he must go back to his own time to resolve these contradictions.

But why should he go back? All he wanted had miraculously been restored to him. The two people who mattered most were here in New Vegas. Hed leapfrogged a thousand years of progress. There was nothing left in his own time as attractive as that. This messing about with time was very confusing.

He looked over at Stassy. She'd brought him here to appreciate the significance of the dates. He met her eyes and nodded. He looked around at his new home with different feelings. It was one thing visiting a space city, but being marooned in orbit forever was quite another. Around him, the elegant houses where interspersed with parks and trees and gracious public buildings that exuded an enormous self-confidence that reminded him of Beverly Hills or La Jollo. He noticed something shining brightly in the overhead distance.

"Whats that?"

"The Strip, " she said. "Wouldn't be Vegas without the Strip."

I suppose not, he said. But I didnt expect casinos. How do you manage about water?"

"From the Spring Mountains."

"Mountains?"

Sure. Not real mountains of course. We store our reserve oxygen and hydrogen as water, but since water is so volatile, we froze it into a mountain of ice. This is a great idea because we use the slopes for skiing.

Skiing!

Not very good skiing, but it wouldnt be Vegas without Lee Canyon.

He stood smiling and nodding sagely. Goddamn skiing in space.

"Mommy is calling us, " Stassy announced, brushing her crest aerial to answer his question before he could ask it. "She must be ready for the meeting. Oh boy, I can't wait to see the Senators get their brains scrambled when they hear about Mom's Time travel thing."

Chapter 14.

The Prince was unaware that hed considered Sprackenspiel's question for four and a half years before answering.

"We won't realize when we get to light speed, " he replied. "We won't know until we look out of the window and find we are at Alpha Centauri." He looked out of the window as he spoke, and gasped. "Hut! There he is. We are already arrived."

"Youre kidding, " Sprackenspiel said. He looked out of the window for himself.

"Wow! He stared out at the sullen red BetaCentauri and the strange twin suns that hovered beyond. "Did you ever see such a weird place as this? Those two suns look like intruders from another galaxy entirely."

The Prince was amazed. "Can it be we have been flying through space for more than four years without knowing?"

"It must be, " Sprackenspiel responded. "But I don't think I will really believe it until we go home and find theres been eight World Series we dont even know about."

Sprackenspiel was fascinated by AlphaCentauri. My dog would go crazy if he was here. At home, when theres a cloudless sunset, he starts howling at it like he's trying to tell me something only dogs know about. He dashes round in circles barking and whimpering with this curious yowling sort of howl.

The Prince didnt seem interested, so Sprackenspiel imitated the sound. A hoo hoo hoo hoo hool. If my dog was to see a mess of suns like that hed start doing back flips.

Despite his bonhomie, Sprackenspiel felt uncomfortable. When they informed Masirah Space Centre of their safe arrival and confirmed the extra passenger, he realized just how horrendous his intrusion was. He'd blundered into the Prince's expedition, so the least he could do was to be useful where possible, but the more he tried to help, the more intrusive he felt.

The Prince looked out again at AlphaCentauri and gave an almost imperceptible shudder. "Now I must go outside Sindbad and launch the satellite marker. I want to start for home as quick as possible."

With only one spacesuit, Sprackenspiel was forced to watch through the window as the Prince launched the marker beacon. The Prince unfurled the UAR flag and Sprackenspiel heard him announce, I claim this solar system for Islam.

Back inside the spaceship, Prince Khalifa manoeuvred weightlessly around to face the Earth relay camera.

"UASA Control, is hard to believe is now four point three years since takeoff. For us, is just hour and half. There is not much works to do here because we don't have spare fuel. I have launched satellite marker in name of Islam. Now begins return countdown. When you receive this report, Inshallah, Sindbad will be following close behind."

He floated towards the window.

"For record, I will show Earth from distance. You will not see Earth, but you can see Sun. Although Sun is most important factor for us, you notice he is very dim star you can hardly see. Matter of fact, four light years is such small shift in bigness of space that, from skies of Alpha Centauri, universe looks nearly same. Most constellations still look familiar, maybe seeming little bit twisted. Three stars of Orion's belt are not in straight line from AlphaCentauri. No matter, mission is for demonstrating mechanics of light speed flight, not of exploring other worlds. Of certainty, the first half of expedition is complete success."

His report was a farce, he admitted to himself, a farce for the benefit of Sprackenspiel, the Launchmaster and the potential investors from the world of finance.

"Is well known clich of space travel, " he continued, "how big understanding comes from looking at Earth as dot in sky. How silly is our squabbling when seen from distance. Maybe all our problems are because we have no place to go for perspective? As matter of fact, I expected to feel more closeness to house of God, but I feel more the bigness of space; bigness so huge, feels heavy, like water squeezing down on deep sea diver." He faced the camera. "If God is out here, where is he? Voyage does not increase belief, just increases mystery. Where is House of God?"

The Prince lowered his eyes because his next admission embarrassed him.

"I feel big doubt. If we get home I will take Hadj. In Mecca, I will pray with wisest of men and study again Holy Books. I am not shamed of doubt. Doubt is how Allah measure faith. Size of faith is same size of conquered doubt, like size of ship is measured not by big weighing machine, but by amount of water he displaces. To Allah, faith without conquered doubt is jewel of little value."

With the insight common to his race, Sprackenspiel was aware of the discomfort of his new friend. Khalifa was troubled because he wasn't convinced he'd been invited into God's domain. Allah was a strict God who punished wrongdoers with earthquakes, droughts, tsunamis and everlasting oblivion. Arab history was full of the wrath he'd wreaked upon infidels and transgressors. It was written how life had begun with Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Their original sin was punished and their descendants had to endure the decay of Eden into sand and rock where life was hard. A life so hard that the people and their faith had to equal the qualities of the native granite to survive. The Faithful had borne the centuries of deprivation and had remained steadfast. Their constancy proven, God rewarded them by putting wealth into the ground beneath their feet. He had filled their land with black gold and made them rich. The oil made them rich enough to build more Mosques than man could worship in a lifetime, and still there was money left over.

They had renewed themselves and their cities, following uncertainly and often apprehensively, in the footsteps of the infidel races of the North and West.

But the laws of man change slowly, and the soul of man barely at all. Khalifa was Al Ghazi, a warrior tribe bred for conflict. He was uncertain about travel into the future for this smacked of trespass into natural law. Nowhere in the Qur'an was it written that God wished unworthy man to infest his space; or at least not before the time that was written, not before the time known as death.

Sprackenspiel sensed the Princes torment and the price he was having to pay. He sensed that although the Prince was an astronaut of skill and distinction, he was not a seeker after truth in a universe full of the laws of science, he was a sinner who believed in a universe steeped in the laws of God.

Sprackenspiel wanted to help his proud new friend, but he knew he must wait to be invited.

Sprackenspiel's insight was inspired, but not total. He could not have guessed all that was troubling his companion. He could not have guessed about the message that had followed them from the Launchmaster, that had flashed on screen a few minutes after their arrival.

Khalifa, what happened? Why did you take a passenger when you knew that you didn't have enough fuel to get home? It doesn't matter how much you jettison, you cannot both make it. I don't know what to suggest. You must make the decision between yourselves.

We cannot send rescue. Even if there was enough money, there isnt enough time to build another light speed ship, but NASA will send a space shuttle as soon as possible. At her slower speeds she will be available to make a rendezvous approximately one hundred and fifty million miles from Earth if we get lucky. Not much, but it's as close as we can get in the time. I don't need to remind you, if we broadcast this problem, we would expect investment capital to crash immediately, so we're keeping it top secret. With your safety as first priority, please do the same if you can.

Inshallah, we hope to find one of you at the rendezvous. I don't know what happened, so I cannot comment, but I hope it is you, my friend.

Good luck

Johannsen.

Khalifa accessed the computer and checked the figures again, but there was no change. Deep in the dungeons of his soul there was a secret compartment screaming out like trapped sailors in a doomed submarine. In that place where all men are on the rack, naked and defenceless, he sent himself messages to hold on, the ordeal was nearly over. The satellite was deployed. Islams claim was registered. Soon it would be ended. The ship would be on its way home, a home it could never reach. Now was the time to be truthful. Sprackenspiel was entitled to know; entitled for time to prepare.

"How's it looking?" Sprackenspiel asked, indicating the computer.

"Is not finalized yet, " Khalifa replied. "When jettison is finish, will be much better."

"Sure, but what reserve did we actually have before?"

Khalifa sighed. "Of course we had minus before, but jettison will much improve."

"Improve? I thought you said we could make it."

"I said we could get here, and we have done that. Of certainty, see out of the window. We are at AlphaCentauri."

"Just a minute. Are you trying to tell me that you knew before we left that we would be tight on fuel on the way back?"

"I didn't know true burn off or how much we would gain from jettison."

"Let me try and get this straight, " Sprackenspiel said. "You didn't check before takeoff that we had enough fuel for the round trip?"

"I knew we would get better by jettisoning extra weight."

Sprackenspiel flashed with annoyance. "That's not answering the question. Did you check before takeoff that we had enough fuel for the round trip?"

"Computer would have just made educated guess, same as me."

"I don't believe this!"

Khalifa looked uncomfortable.

"Don't you consider that irresponsible?"

"I did nothing irresponsible, " the Prince denied hotly.

"Are you trying to say it was responsible to go to the next star in the galaxy without being sure you had enough fuel to get home?"

"Not in circumstance."

"What circumstance?" Sprackenspiel snapped. The full disaster was beginning to dawn. "You mean you deliberately chose a one way mission rather than abort?"

"We had no choice."

Sprackenspiel looked around pointedly. "We had no choice? We? I don't recall being presented with any choice."

"Whole world was watching, " the Prince explained. "Islamic high technology could not be seen to trip at first hurdle."

"Nobody expects anybody to go anywhere if there isn't enough fuel."

"Is not easy for Jew to understand."

"You're damned right it isn't easy when somebody isn't giving you all the facts."

To Khalifa it was simple. "What is written, is written, " he explained. Seeing the stunned expression, "God will provide.

"Our God helps those who help themselves, " Sprackenspiel said icily. "And that makes him very particular about his fuel reserves." He sighed. He'd been in the Middle East long enough to know that the sand got into everything, even the brain. He was four light years away from home, short of fuel, with an Arab Captain. There was nothing more to be said.

"That is point, " the Prince said. "Is about fuel reserve."

"Pardon?"

"Whole Moslem economy is based on fossil fuel. Is our manna. Is not possible to preach supremacy of Islam when Arab oil pollution is destroying planet. Islam must find something new, and find quickly."

"Ah! I see. So this mission is a gamble to get you into high technology."

The Prince shrugged apologetically. "Like your English saying, shit or bosoms."

I get it, Sprackenspiel replied. If you keep this quiet, you get an eight point six year start on the rest of the world. It will give you time to spread the risk.

"I have not yet looked into all possibility.

"What other possibilities?"

The Prince turned back to the computer and entered some data. The reply came quickly.

"If we jettison every possible thing, you might just make it."

"I might just make it? Did you say I might make it?"

"Yes. Is fitting."

"Do I understand you to mean that you would jettison yourself?"

"I brought you here with threat."

"Not strictly true, your Highness. I knew I could hit the DOOR OPEN button and the computer would have shut you down. You told me so yourself, two items out of sequence, remember?"

"Perhaps you should have done it."

"You made me an offer I couldn't refuse. You offered me a place in history alongside Neil Armstrong. I knew there would be risk."

"Nevertheless, is you should have opportunity. You would have aborted mission if I had told true of problem with fuel."

"That depends. You said there was a chance. How close is this chance?"

"About two hundred million miles."

"That's still a very long way."

"Yes. Is very long way for ordinary space shuttle. But UASA Control has told me that NASA vessel is already four years outbound. In eight point six years they will be very close to hundred and fifty million miles. Inshallah, Sindbad will make rendezvous."

Sprackenspiel had an uncomfortable thought.

"You're at least ten kilos lighter than me. What are the figures if you go."

"Is waste of question, " Khalifa answered. "You must be chap to go."

Sprackenspiel mentally cursed the Prince for his noblesse. "Not if it's pointless. If you can make a successful flight but I cannot, then you must be the one."

Sprackenspiel insisted the options were put to the computer. They tried all possible combinations, but the answer was consistent. There was just a chance one of them could make it, and that man was the Arab because he was twenty kilos lighter. Twenty kilos less mass to accelerate to light speed computed to fifty million miles of additional range.

Sprackenspiel sighed. "I always knew one day Id have to pay for all those hamburgers and fries. The bottom line is that I shouldn't be here. I must be the one to stay."

"Is my responsibility you are here, " The Prince replied. "I remain."

"I couldn't possibly handle the ship, " Sprackenspiel said."

"Not true. You know enough from practice on simulator, " Khalifa countered. "Anyway, computers are preset. You do not have to do anything. Sindbad knows way home automatic."

"This is your party, " Sprackenspiel insisted. "You've spent your whole life in preparation. It's not right you should be denied the prize."

"I am Captain of mission. Captain goes down with ship."

"Bullshit, " Sprackenspiel replied.

"Is tradition of all finest books."

"This is real life. Anyway, you're the scientist here, I'm just a stowaway. While we're both equal before God, before Mission Control you are more equal. If I stay, nothing is wasted. If you stay, the whole mission could be jeopardized. You have a duty to Islam."

Khalifa considered for a long time. "Then Islam will take responsibility. We will both go and trust to Allah."

"Then we both get wasted when you have a real chance."

"Inshallah."

"Well, I don't agree. Please declare my protest in the distress message, you know how Jews always get the blame."

The Prince didn't answer.

"Have you already sent the distress message?"

The Prince wouldn't meet his eye.

"You aren't going to tell them anything, are you?"

The Prince sighed. "Is no point. Masirah Control know of problem already. Arab world does not admit of mistakes."

"You think it is better we vanish without trace?"

"When launchmaster announce safe arrival, there will be big rush to buy shares."

"OK, but I think you should be the one to go. You have the better chance."

"We could cut off leg, then weight will be same."

Sprackenspiel shuddered and shook his head. "No way! Id rather die famous than live mutilated."

Chapter 15.

Professor Montparr didn't know what calling for an Extraordinary Plenipotentiary Meeting of the Combined Senates involved, but he sensed it was something significant. Even so, he was unprepared for the extraordinary events that began to happen around him.

Firstly, lights came on filling the complex like searchlights and increasing in intensity until the brightness hurt the eyes. These lights began to combine into patterns, with beams sweeping the dome and waves rolling across the floor. Next colour was introduced and swirled around into a huge vortex until the Professor felt like an ant lost on the wrong side of a television screen. Finally the whole mixture swooped upwards into a black void, hanging like a Technicolor comet before dropping suddenly, like a broken lift, to expand into a three dimensional picture that substituted itself for the reality around him.

The Professor recognized the location immediately as the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Next, alarmingly, like an earthquake, the rim began to curve until it was a complete half circle when it joined to the North Rim doing the same on the other side. This disturbing visual assault was without sound, so the experience was one of apocalyptic unreality. Then the rim adjusted outwards to make a slope until a gigantic Greek amphitheatre emerged from this chaos. Tiers of seats appeared, set behind an endless row of slot machines like car instrument panels, so that the viewers could watch events and play at the same time.

Escalators appeared and unrolled downwards to the front rows of a stage that were so far away as to be almost out of sight.

Finally, a cloudless Nevada night sky appeared and slowly filled with the familiar constellations.

The Professor marvelled at the quality of the simulation as the unique light show of the Las Vegas Strip twinkled invitingly in the dusty desert distance and he could hear the distinctive night sound of cars speeding along an unseen freeway. The only visible remnant of the original computer complex was the binocular eyes on his wife's desk.

"Very impressive, " he admitted.

"That was nothing, " she said. Wait until you see whats coming.

He shuffled about uncomfortably. "I suppose I'd better prepare a few words?"

"Do you want to speak?"

"Not particularly, but you said you were going to make an announcement about your Time travel discovery. I presume I'm your proof."

"Yes and no. I was going to play that by ear. The thing is, I should have cleared your arrival with the Senate, but didn't. So you're unofficial at the moment."

"I'm unofficial?"

"Nothing to worry about, darling, just a formality. The prospect of seeing you again after all these years made me a bit hasty. I wasn't sure I could do it, so you are my proof, but it will solve a procedural problem if I can manoeuvre the Senate into instructing me to bring you here."

"I see, " he smiled, recognizing her female, often circuitous, way of operating; why risk being positive when you can get the same answer by compounding two negatives?

"Do you mind if we keep a low profile until I see how the land lies?"

"Why should I mind? Youre in charge."

"It's just that there's this man Muscadine whos such a dinosaur. He can get very formal when it suits his case, particularly when scoring points off me."

"Stassy already mentioned that name. Is he a problem?"

"I can handle him. Hes our mayor. He thinks that qualifies him to run the whole universe, but, like all humans, hes not quite as clever as he thinks he is."

"He seems to be on top of your shitlist."

"It doesn't bother me that he wants to take-over. I've been doing this job for a thousand years so I'd be happy for somebody to come along if he could show he had enough imagination for the job. Muscadine has a knack for recruiting the crowd that makes him difficult to handle in debate. Its hard to make a case for a no when a billion voices are braying for a yes. She imitated a folksy voice. We come all the way from the old world by covered wagon. In fact his ancestor was an illegal, a gambler from Armenia, which is why he finished up in Vegas.

"OK, I'll keep out of sight and wait for your cue. Maybe you should brief me on developments over these last thousand years. I don't want to fall flat on my back again."

"There isn't that much to tell, " she replied, "nothing you couldn't presume. Basically our law is about tolerance. The Greeks have shown us how to have a real peoples democracy, so everybody has a vote. We don't have a lot of elbowroom, so you're expected to exercise your freedom to do anything you like with due regard to the space needed by others. Its nothing more complicated than good manners. We have an army of robots for all the nasty chores of life, so most people find something useful to do. Those who cant, do sports."

"Will I need anything, money or credit cards for instance?"

"Good Lord no, darling. We haven't used money for centuries, not since we realized it was only a token for wealth we already have. In fact it was you who showed us that."

Again he was surprised by this acknowledgement, a further puzzling presumption about a role he didn't recognize.

"All I know about economics is that it seems to be failing to deliver."

"You're too modest, " she responded. "Don't assume we're more intelligent just because we're a thousand years older. If we were half as clever as we think we are, wed be doing more with our time than playing games. Her binocular eyes somehow managed to convey irony.

He looked at her, raising his eyebrows. "I dont know why youre so against sport. Games are just rehearsals for real life situations."

"Sport! What sport? The only real life situation in sport is making far more money than just playing with your balls justifies. There is no sport, its just business. When you think of all we had to leave behind, who rescued golf? It was the same confusion of priorities that caused The Great Escape."

"Stassy mentioned this Great Escape. What happened exactly?"

"A few hundred years ago there was an invasion by the Third World.

"Why?"

"Nobody seems to know exactly why. The gap between the developed and undeveloped world just kept growing. I think they just got tired of waiting for something that was never going to happen which led to a spontaneous eruption of emigration. Maybe it was envy, fuelled by indifference, that blossomed into hate. All we know is that there was a flurry of email and suddenly millions just stormed over the borders like Genghis Khan. The outrage was mutual, so it soon deteriorated into genocide. As some border countries found themselves being overrun they resorted to their nuclear arsenal. The resultant fallout accelerated the deterioration and, as the atmosphere turned toxic, the only escape was upwards."

"Stassy said the cause was pollution, but I didn't believe it. Pollution would be too gradual to explain a sudden exodus as traumatic as the total abandonment of Earth."

"The pollution story is spin. We tell the children it was pollution to avoid having to explain about the millions who got left behind. Those who could afford it had no qualms about lifting themselves into space to escape. We are the descendants of those societies rich enough to buy their survival." She indicated their artificial world. "This, however ingenious, is a poor imitation of all that we lost."

"What about me then? Will I be going back?"

"That's up to you, darling. Our law expects citizens to make their own decisions. You must decide for yourself. I am hoping you will stay and help me. This Time travel thing raises so many unique questions I need someone with twenty-twenty imagination."

She lowered her binocular eyes and he realized she was disappointed that he had considered leaving them. He was surprised by her reaction. She, who knew the future, must be aware of the conundrum forged in bronze.

"The plaque on my statue, " he explained. "It only makes sense if I do go back."

Her binocular eyes began to focus pensively and he guessed that she was registering this paradox and attempting to rationalize it.

"You will do as you think best, " she concluded with a heavy sigh. "However, the Senate may impose their own rules. Time travel is virgin territory for us all."

"Will these senators be coming to your meeting?"

"The meeting is the Senate, " she explained. "In a true democracy every citizen is a senator. Any senator can propose a new law. If he finds a seconder, theres a debate and a vote."

"Doesn't that lead to a lot of people proposing silly laws?"

"Not while Muscadine is around. Ill say that for him."

The amphitheatre began filling with the Senators. The Professor was fascinated by the diversity of delegates and their many different modes of dress; from national costume, sports kit, to clothes with historical significance. There were Romans in togas, Hawaiians in grass skirts, Spartans in nothing except a sword, shield and a helmet. Many from New Vegas came in covered wagon or buggies and were dressed like the cowboys and pioneers of the Old West.

While the growing crowd waited for the meeting to begin some played the slots while others entertained those in their vicinity. Choirs sang, clowns clowned, jugglers juggled. A band of Navajo arrived and set up camp. They lit a fire and began a chanting dance around it; a dignified celebration of a way of life long past. At the next escalator, a band of flamenco dancers danced, flaunting their enviable gender elegance in the sultry night air.

The sound grew, but the resultant cacophony had form, like an orchestra tuning up for a concert. The colourful attire, together with an atmosphere of infectious high spirits was more suggestive of a carnival or rodeo than a formal congress.

The crowd began to buzz with anticipation and the Professor heard murmurs that Muscadine was coming.

A posse of riders galloped in. The horses reared up when confronted with the Indians campfire.

The leader dismounted, unbuckled a fire extinguisher from his saddle, strode into the circle and smothered the flames.

It was obvious this was Muscadine from the low crowned black hat that complemented his black droopy moustache. He was every American's ideal, with tall, healthy good looks emanating from an impregnable self-assurance. Except for a black shirt and gun belt, he was dressed in dazzling white with matching boots and tasselled chaps. A sheriff's star was prominent on a leather waistcoat. His only flaw was the large gap between his two front teeth that might explain why he rarely smiled. He might have seemed a caricature of the old West except he moved with dignified unselfconsciousness of a Scotsman in the kilt. He was accompanied by a deputy and two women, a blonde and a brunette; both women with startling good looks. The women were not interested in anything except Muscadine and, positioned on his left, tracked his every move like two whippets at heel. The deputy, also wearing a star, positioned himself on Muscadines right, a little to the rear. When Muscadine moved they all moved, keeping in station like line dancers.

Why is it always you guys making trouble? Muscadine snarled at the Navajo, his voice a rasping contrast to his agreeable good looks. You know the law. Fire is just a waste of oxygen.

The Navajo braves plucked arrows out of their quivers, looking to their Chief for a signal to react.

The Chief took a long puff on his peace pipe.

First White man ruin native America. Next he ruin planet. These are big faults. Small fire is small fault.

Thats not the point, Muscadine said. We live on a knife edge out here. We have a citizens democracy. We had us an open debate and a free vote. Fires was banned. Thats now the law, and the law is the law and must be obeyed.

The Chief considered this, then indicated his braves to back down.

Satisfied, Muscadine and his party stepped onto the escalator and commenced the long descent to the stage. They were followed by the still fuming young braves.

"You see what I mean, " Mrs Montparr snorted. "Weve got ourselves another Wyatt Earp. I had such a fight with him when he brought back those freaky gun laws; after all my trouble to leave the murdering things behind.

With startling suddenness, like falling over a cliff, Mrs Montparrs desk repositioned itself to centre-stage of the Greek theatre three thousand feet below. Even though he knew he hadnt actually moved, the Professor found himself clinging on to the desk to save himself from another embarrassing fall. The desk adjusted jerkily until it found datum. The tiers of the enormous crowd now stretching endlessly upwards to the rim that was barely visible.

Muscadine and his party descended to the dais. The Professor was concerned to note the assembly didn't share his wifes opinion of Muscadine. There was a noisy welcome as he reached the stage as enthusiastic as might have heralded the arrival of the toreadors at a bullfight.

The Deputy stepped forward. Anyone fancy a drink? he called. At the same time, in a well rehearsed gesture, he threw a can of beer into the air.

Muscadine spun round, his gun appearing like magic in his hand. He fired twice. The wounded can spun away spewing beer over the cheering assembly.

Two of the Navajo, who must have been waiting for this, also fired arrows at the falling can.

Both their arrows missed.

Muscadine turned to the two Indians, shaking his head pitifully.

How many people will this place seat? the Professor asked his wife.

As many as want to come.

How do those at the back get to see?

Like this, she said.

The night sky began to dissolve and was substituted by a giant holographic screen that flickered into activity overhead. The crowd gradually subsided into a buzz of intimacy like a contented beehive.

The huge amphitheatre was enveloped in a three dimensional picture that began to show a cartoon image of a human face being continuously drawn by an invisible pencil. Montparr recognized his wifes features immediately. He was fascinated by this simulation. A line drawing was far from satisfactory, but it was an improvement on the binocular eyes. Self-consciously finding himself at the focal point of this gigantic crowd, the Professor moved to a seat several tiers back from the centre.

The drawing began to speak, clumsily at first, but improving rapidly, and so focusing attention to the subtle lip movement of speech. "When youre ready, Senators."

Mrs Montparrs giant face waited for the assembly to settle.

"As you all know, for many years we've been able to make journeys into the future. The peculiar functions of light speed travel mean that it's possible to spread a normal life span over several centuries of Earth time. Only our interstellar explorers choose such an unnatural lifestyle. There are huge disadvantages. Some of our kin, with animation suspended by light speed, are not due to return to us for several thousand years. I don't need to remind some mothers they have sons and daughters they will never see again because they're engaged on voyages of inter galactic distances."

Her pencil features in the night sky improved until it resembled a good quality etching. Then slowly this filled with colour until there was a complete reproduction overhead of Sarah Montparr in her movie star prime.

The crowd warmly applauded this diversion.

"What I have to announce now, the face continued, is something that may be as hard for you to appreciate as the Twenty-third centurys adjustment to the peculiarities of light speed travel. I'll come straight to the point. I wish to announce that I seem to have discovered how to travel backwards in Time."

There was no immediate reaction. The realization of what it meant came like the applause that rewarded its announcement - initially sporadic, then growing until it became a genuine, if perplexed, response. As this applause subsided, she continued.

"I sense some reservation as to what such a facility means, which is why I've called this Extraordinary Meeting. We must consider some extraordinary implications. We must decide if Time travel is to be used for instant gratification, or whether to restrict it to scientific research. The prime consideration, and most difficult decision, is whether we should interfere with the past. Youre probably asking what fool would want to interfere with history? Well consider this. Maybe we are only here today, because tomorrow we corrected yesterday. This extraordinary proposition is the riddle we must now confront. Thats the serious side to my discovery. The fun side is that we now have the means to explore history. We can now visit the past and see the truth. To help us consider the significance, the obvious first step is a practical demonstration."

There was a murmuring from the crowd. They began to chant. "Muscadine! Muscadine! Muscadine!"

Mrs Montparr groaned. After a few seconds the giant overhead screen picked out Muscadine's hat in the front row.

Muscadine raised his head. The image transferred to the huge screen was intimidating. The eyes burned into the camera.

"This is all very sudden, Mrs Montparr. I don't recall you gettin no Senate approval for this kind of research." His words were as cordial as a spray from an AK-47.

The crowd shushed itself into an expectant silence.

"Our esteemed mayor is reminded that discoveries are like meteorites. They come out of nowhere and can penetrate anything, except perhaps the very thickest of skulls."

The crowd tittered.

Muscadine glared at her and his two women hissed at Mrs Montparr like disturbed cougars.

"Does this mean, " Muscadine asked the crowd, "our female addin machine is telling us we might be able to go back in time and maybe visit some great moments in history? Does this mean instead of readin history in books or movies, we can now go back and see the real thing?"

Mrs Montparr considered before answering.

"Tell him the answer to his question is a qualified yes. But we need to be careful. We don't want to do something stupid that might produce a chain reaction into our time. Until we know what we're doing, we must make sure we don't interfere."

This time there was tumultuous applause.

"We can open the floor to discussion, Mrs Montparr continued. If one picture is worth a thousand words, then perhaps these unique issues will be best clarified with a practical demonstration if we can agree on a suitably safe way."

The assembly began to buzz with interest and ideas began to be presented. A group of scientists proposed going all the way back in Time to witness the formation of the planet itself.

"That's fine for you scientists, " Muscadine decided, "but not in prime time. We want something more general fun than that."

A uniformed Wehrmacht General appeared on screen, adjusting his monocle as he spoke.

Vot about Beethoven? Ve could repair ze deafness and commission some new vork. Maybe a symphony dedicated to Time travel. Maybe he could produce somesing as appropriate as ze New Vorld Symphony."

Muscadine's features quickly displaced him.

I wish folk should engage their brain before they open their mouths. Muscadines visage glowered at the assembly. Has it crossed your mind that Mrs Beethoven might notice him gone missin?

His giant holographic face turned aside with an exasperated expression.

Lordy, lordy me, Ellie May, this face added in a falsetto parody. Here we are, waitin on dinner, and I aint seen Mr Beethoven all day.

The crowd sneered.

"A good point, " Mrs Montparr agreed. "Perhaps we should look for someone who went missing anyway. As history famously records, Professor Scurlock Montparr disappeared. May I make a proposal? I suggest we make contact with the Professor; Las Vegas's most famous citizen, triple Nobel Prize winner, designer and constructor of this very computer and whose original blueprint founded all the space cities. It now seems very possible that we were the cause of that famous disappearance. Just a few hours ago, this would have been a crazy idea, but if I arrange to pick him up on the same moment he vanished we cant be in any danger of distorting history. This will be a practical demonstration of my discovery and bring us the very best advice at the same time."

"Jesus!" Muscadine exploded. "New Vegas is saddle deep with advice already. I don't see no cause to fetch some as is a thousand years out of date."

"Professor Montparr was only awarded three Nobel laureates, " Mrs Montparr retorted. "Obviously he's not as qualified to advise as the local gunslinger."

"This Professor Montparr, " Muscadine interjected, "any chance its the same guy you married?"

The crowd sniggered.

"What has that got to do with the quality of his advice?" Mrs Montparr demanded. She searched among the crowd. "Do I have a seconder?"

Muscadine's giant scowl in the night sky was intimidating. There was no offer to second. Stassy looked to her mother, first round to Muscadine. Bringing her father here without authorization was beginning to look like a risky mistake.

The debate gradually subsided.

"Fellow democrats, " Mrs Montparr announced. "Our discussion appears to be reaching a conclusion. The delegate from New Muscat seems to have a suitable proposal."

A tubby Arab dressed in a business suit under a red and white check keffiyeh waddled to the centre of the dais.

"Fellow Senators, " he announced, "I would like to propose a motion that could also solve a long standing mystery. I propose we find the aborted space mission known in folklore as 'The Lost Prince of Space'. This demonstration would be ideal because the mission was a total loss and the remains never located. So the salvage of this mission could never interfere with the past in any way."

"I'll second the motion as long as you Arabs dont want your money back as well, " Muscadine jeered.

"It was because of your Yankee stowaway that the mission failed, " the delegate from New Amman answered.

"Nobody knows for sure what happened." Muscadine countered. "The distress message only told the Prince's side. I believe theres more to it than he told."

"If Mrs Montparr can do as she says, " the tubby Arab said, "we can soon know the whole truth."

Come along, Senators, " Mrs Montparr interrupted. "If you feel this is a better idea than mine, let's vote on this proposal."

Mrs Montparrs binocular eyes circled the vast audience. The Senators stood up when they wished to be counted so the vote taking looked like a giant Mexican wave. A huge pie chart appeared in the sky and showed the support for the Arab's motion was overwhelming. The crowd bubbled with excitement.

"The proposal from New Muscat is carried by ninety-two percent, " Mrs Montparr declared. "It is hereby decreed that the 'Lost Prince of Space' is to be located and recovered."

Muscadine's usual impassivity gave way to a rare excitement as he spoke to his supporters around him.

"When you think of the primitive technology in them days, where did they get the audacity to go to the next star in the galaxy? That distress message still gets to me when I see the movie. I can't wait to see the look on the Prince's face when he finds his self in New Vegas." He chuckled with expectation. "He wont know if he is in the Mens Room or the Ladies, but he'll piss in his pants either way!"

Chapter 16.

"If youre not willing to sacrifice leg for Islam, the Prince sighed, then we stay together like crew. Let Gods will be done."

"You're the Captain, " Sprackenspiel answered, ashamed of his relief that the problem was deferred. "I'll go and dump the jettison and anything else I can find." He looked at the Prince until he was forced to meet his eye. "I still think you must be the one to go. Promise me you'll think this through?"

Khalifa grunted and promised nothing. He was keying the computer terminal as if sheer persistence would extract a more optimistic solution.

Sprackenspiel pulled on the spacesuit and floated through to the airlock. He loaded all their expendable equipment inside. He closed the inner door behind him and opened the outer.

He threw out the unwanted equipment, releasing each piece like a priest granting the flesh of Christ. The unwanted items floated eerily away into space. He came across the beer in the cool box.

"What about the ice box and the beer?" he radioed. If we dump it, weve lost our proof. Does it have to go as well?"

"Everything must go.

Sprackenspiel shook the can. "It's full. Here I am, billions of miles from the nearest bar with a can of beer and I cant drink it."

"We must do something for brewery who were most generous investor. You have much experience of television, " the Prince said. "Before you jettison camera, is possible to send Brewery historic first advertisement from outer space?"

"My pleasure, " Sprackenspiel said, relieved to be useful at last.

He clamped the camera to the hull and manoeuvred himself around until he was in shot with Alpha-Centauri and the marker beacon in the background for authenticity. The huge solar panels of the satellite were fully extended, shimmering like a tinfoil sailing clipper of the space age.

Sprackenspiel was enjoying himself. Brandishing the beer, he made several takes, floating in from unexpected angles in comical poses and pulling funny faces. He concluded this performance with an attempt to open the can.

It was difficult to get leverage, but, by holding the can tight into his stomach, he managed to wrench off the tab.

The beer exploded into space vacuum in a cloud of foam that thrust the can into Sprackenspiel's gut with the Earth equivalent venom of an angry Sumo wrestler. He had a sensation of leaving the vicinity very fast as the foaming beer accelerated itself and Sprackenspiel into frictionless space. He would have been lost forever if he hadn't collided heavily into the satellite behind him. He banged his head and was stunned. Luckily his leg crashed through a solar panel and became entangled. Unconscious, he hung in the solar panels, spread-eagled like a starfish.

Some minutes later, realizing it had gone quiet, Khalifa went to the airlock. He noted the outer door was still open. He closed it on remote, and opened the inner. Sprackenspiel was not inside.

With realization growing, he peered out of the windows. The triple Suns of AlphaCentauri hung in space like a mistake. Nothing was moving. All the jettison was already out of sight.

"Are you all right, Sprackenspiel?" he radioed, but he already knew in his heart there would be no reply.

"Come back, Sprackenspiel, " he ordered. "This is a wrong choice. When I said God would provide, I did not mean this way."

There was no reply.

"I have thought of a way for both, " he lied.

"How can I go back without you?" he wheedled.

"I will not leave without you, " he threatened.

He didn't notice the unconscious Sprackenspiel camouflaged amongst the solar panels of the satellite. He couldn't see anything except the claustrophobic infinity of space that wrapped his eyes like a bandage. The eerie suns of AlphaCentauri mocked him before an audience of stars.

"Then I stay and we both die here, " he called. After several minutes he reasoned that Sprackenspiel must have drifted so far out that he wouldnt have enough thrust in the power pack to return even if he did change his mind.

He went back inside the cabin and sulked.

So slender were the safety margins they were reduced to that three minutes later the master warning system flashed OXYGEN LEVEL CRITICAL.

Khalifa began the return countdown. He was annoyed at being outmanoeuvred but how could he not be also grateful for this slim chance of survival.

"Sprackenspiel, " he radioed. "OK, so you wont answer, but I know you can hear. I will remember you in my prayers. My family will honour your name forever. At every setting of the sun we will ask Allah for his blessing and beg him to be merciful."

He went through the checklists, switching, checking, referencing and aligning. In the sewers of his soul lurked an unworthy thought. This unworthy thought whispered it about that, since Allah knew Khalifa's intention was to dedicate the rest of his life to Gods service, He would watch over him, particularly over this acceleration because it was the trickiest part of the whole accursed mission. Leaving Earth he had back-up computers, good communication, an emergency escape capsule in the event of an abort. Out here at Alpha Centauri he had only Sindbad, himself and the pre-programmed computers.

Meticulously he followed the checklists. Meticulously he controlled his desperation to be going home. Meticulously he exploited every pore of his experience to ensure a perfect start.

His prudence was rewarded. There was a healthy relight and a fierce acceleration.

As the speed increased, Khalifa felt an overwhelming exhilaration. Qibla was restored! He was heading for Mecca. Inshallah, In just hour and half he would be close to rescue. Let Gods will be done.

Sprackenspiel began to regain consciousness. Dimly, as if dreaming, he watched Sindbad leap away like an arrow, its departure an awesome dispensation of thrust in the total silence of space vacuum.

"Goodbye my friend, " he heard Khalifas ecstatic call. It says in second Sura, Get ye down all ye people with enmity between yourselves. Get ye down from here. And if, as is sure, there comes to you guidance from me, whosoever follows my guidance on them shall know no fear, nor shall they grieve."

With the Prince transmitting continuously, the communication channel was blocked, isolating the Prince from incoming messages. Sprackenspiel had to wait patiently for him to finish.

" I will care for your dog, " the Prince continued, his transmissions beginning to fade and break up at the American's ear as Sindbad's speed multiplied. " . . . most spoiled dog ever . . . gratitude of Al Ghazi to his master for gift of life . . . noble sacrifice for Islam . . . you are not phoney . . . will build statue in your memory . . . The Prince continued to transmit his euphoric recitations until he had accelerated beyond hope of recall.

Alpha-Centauri returned to its lonely silence.

Sprackenspiel found the empty beer can still floating beside him. He held it up in the direction of the vanished Sindbad.

How about one for the road?"

He felt more philosophical than apprehensive. Hed seen the FAA Oxygen Awareness video and knew that oxygen starvation was a dangerously easy death filled with delusions of normality, so he sighed and settled down to wait the end of his supply. If that became disagreeable, he could always release the pressure from his suit. In zero pressure his blood would boil, and that would end it instantly.

He freed himself from the satellite and, with a twist, caused himself to tumble slowly in space.

The star spangled blackness of space stretched before him and he cried out with its awesome beauty. The galaxies passed in front of his eyes in endless panorama, millions of stars, millions upon millions of pin-points of detail as thick as a Seurat painting. His mind had never felt so uncluttered, he could almost feel infinity like a mysterious vibration! He stared into the void and smiled as if he knew everything.

Infinity stretched before him, a space so vast that Time had no meaning. Inside this endless space was Time, endless Time: Time before every yesterday: Time after every tomorrow.

Inside endless Time was the observable universe, fifteen billion light years across. Inside this observable universe were galaxy super clusters, a mere fifty million light years wide!

Inside these super clusters were local groups of galaxies only a few million light years apart and inside these were galaxies as close as a mere fifty thousand light years. And inside these galaxies were millions of stars. One of those stars was our Sun.

Circling our sun were nine planets. One of those was us.

Our Earth was made up of atoms that had combined complexly into matter of different compounds and elements. These combinations of organic and inorganic matter had evolved and formed to create a beautiful, bountiful world. Over millions more years this chemistry had evolved uniquely to create life; amazing creatures that live. One of those species was us!

And the purpose of life, he told the beer can, is to make as much money as possible in the time you have available.

As he tumbled, each time the strange suns of AlphaCentauri passed before his eyes he howled at them like a demented dog, a hoo hoo hoo hoo hool, grinning at his own foolishness. He would be tumbling before this audience for ever.

He hurled the beer can into the star studded infinity. It floated away, its velocity determined for the rest of eternity by the strength of Sprackenspiel's last throw.

He watched the beer can out of sight. In sixty million years, he conjectured, some intelligence might find it and wonder just what kind of dinosaurs we were.

Then he brightened. It wasnt so bad. If he'd heard the Prince correctly, it seemed he was to have a statue after all.

...ooOoo...

After the departure the Prince settled to his routine. Now the ship was pointing in the right direction, he was going home not only to his world, but also to his God.

He hated Space! He'd expected to feel closer to God but he'd only felt a loneliness that seared his faith. His God must be everywhere, so why did he feel this place was Godforsaken?

Like Neil Armstrong, he would go into the history books, a galactic pioneer, the first Time traveller. He filled his thoughts with plans. Maybe now he would become a Presenter like Sprackenspiel, so people would listen closely to his words and be influenced. He wouldnt proselytize. He would be even-handed, but his words would be drenched in the wisdom of Islam.

He was ready for marriage. When he found a good wife he would build a fine house and have many sons who would be proud. There would be daughters too for his wife. Probably she would be Moslem, there are some intimacies only one's own race can comprehend; but she would not have to be Arab, she could have blue eyes and hair the colour of bleached sand. So be it. If she was the one sent by Allah, she could even be Jewish. He now knew it wasn't tribe he loved, nor race he hated. All that really mattered was grace and courage, as Sprackenspiel had shown. Whoever she was, she would have that special dignity found only in women because, no matter how they were ill-used, only women could create new life inside their bodies. Islam must allow that women were equal before Allah.

He would build a great library and study the works of all holy men, Moslem and infidel. Somewhere the truth was written waiting to be found. He would find God's truth that would endure for all time. A truth so strong it would unite mankind with its sheer all-seeing wisdom. If there was only one universe, there could be only one God. He would find a way to show mankind that Islam was a true faith. He, Abdallah Al Khalifa Al Ghazi, declared a covenant to find the truth and spread the gospel throughout mankind.

He was unconcerned about the pessimistic computer prediction. Allah would shepherd him home for he had much Holy work still to do.

The Prince checked the instruments. The Sindbad was accelerating to schedule. The long needle shaped craft was rolling gently in space without any sensation of movement even though the speed was a massive one hundred and fifty thousand miles per second.

Moments later the master warning system flashed SPEED! SPEED! SPEED!

The computer indicated that Sindbad had stopped accelerating. The problem was that his speed was only a fraction of light speed, a velocity that gave him an expected arrival time at Earth in seven hundred years. Since he only had enough oxygen for ninety minutes, this was clearly unsatisfactory.

He needed to make an inspection, but Sprackenspiel was wearing their only spacesuit.

He considered his predicament. A possibility formed in his mind.

He dismantled the parachute from the back of the Emergency and Re-entry Capsule and pulled the ripcord. The parachute spilled into the cabin. He cut all the shrouds and knotted them together into one long rope. He tied one end to Sindbad and the other to the Emergency Capsule. He squeezed into the escape pod, closed the hatches, read the drills and fired the operating lever.

The capsule exploded away from Sindbad until it reached the end of Khalifa's homemade tether. This stretched like a piece of elastic then whiplashed, reversing the direction of the capsule. It returned, bouncing down the full length of the mother ship.

When he reached the rear, Khalifa could see the cause of the thrust default. With a cry of despair he saw that some of the thrust nozzles had been deformed by the extreme heat of the exhaust gases. About twenty-five percent had melted away and were not producing any power at all.

He cried in anguish. There would be no wife. He would have no heirs. If the ship got home at all, it was not going to be within his lifetime. His instincts had been right. God never intended man to trespass in his space and had chosen him as example.

What surprised him most was his reaction. He was not frightened, he was angry.

He leaned forward and wrote THERE IS NO GOD on his scratchpad. He propped this sacrilege on his instrument panel, holding the pen in his teeth so that it wouldn't float weightlessly away. He cursed a God who had forsaken him in favour of his cheap sacrifice as a warning to others.

He pushed back his seat to consider this heresy, then swept the scratchpad away. It fluttered around inside the capsule like a trapped bird. Slowly losing momentum the pad tumbled, its message alternating.

THERE IS NO GOD

HEINEKIN REACHES PARTS

OTHER BEERS CANNOT REACH

As time passed, his rage subsided. What use was anger? In penance he recited an ayat of the third Sura, removing and replacing the pencil in his teeth like quotation marks.

"Then those who reject Faith in the signs of God will suffer the severest penalty, and God is exalted in might, Lord of Retribution."

He decided to use his dwindling time in prayer, but first he had some unfinished business. Although he would never reach Earth, his distress message would.

In the best interests of Islam he considered disappearing without trace, but immediately he discounted this as irresponsible. He would need to warn the next expedition about the design problem in the thrust nozzles. He would send a distress message. At the same time as it arrived at Masirah, he would be breathing the last of his oxygen.

He gave the Launchmaster a thorough briefing about the thrust nozzles. At the end he added, There is one thing more. My decision as Commander was we should take our chances together as crew. Sprackenspiel knew importance of success to Islam. He also knew, because of extra lightness of bodyweight, I had best chance of reaching rendezvous. While I was busy with return trip countdown, Aaron Sprackenspiel deliberately went on one way space walkabout. My last Will and Testament is that my people should acknowledge his sacrifice for Islam and honour Aaron Sprackenspiel forever with statue to this noble American chap on forecourt of UASA Centre.

He leaned back in his chair, allowing the pencil to float inches in front of his nose like a companion. As for himself, he explained to the pencil, "I will soon be forgotten. The world does not honour failure."

As his last minutes passed, the cabin temperature began to soar and his breathing became laboured.

He began his final preparations. He raised up one of the floor panels. From underneath he extracted a small bundle. It was the simple garb of a Hajji. It was fitting that he should meet his Maker dressed as a pilgrim.

Solemnly aware that these were his last human actions, he undressed and wrapped himself in the traditional white cotton. The underside of the floor panel was painted like a prayer mat. He knelt on it and gave himself up to prayer.

Like the muezzin in the minaret, he began calling the ayats, tonguing the timeless phrases with one hand held elegantly to the side of his cheek.

La ilaha ill Allah

(There is no God but God)

"How many of the Prophets fought, and with them large bands of godly men. They never lost heart if they met with disaster in God's way, nor did they weaken nor surrender. God loves those who are firm and steadfast. God. There is no God but He. Of a surety he will gather you together against the Day of judgment, about which there is no doubt."

God would judge him fairly, there could be no question of that, but how bad were his sins? What retribution would be exacted?

"Problem with sin, " he explained to the pencil, "is they dont seem so bad at the time."

Khalifa felt the approach of oblivion. It was as though he was drowning in treacle. Then there came a blinding white light that seemed to consume him. But these strange sensations passed. He raised himself on his haunches and noticed he was experiencing the well-documented hallucinations of oxygen starvation because he had the impossible sensation that he was somewhere else. He scolded himself for the lapse of concentration.

"Oh merciful God, " he chanted. "Lord of the Universe, although this is only my worthless death, is possible not to waste both our times with delusions of anoxia?"

The next time he raised himself he was disappointed to find the delirium growing stronger. His senses were insisting he was on the stage of a gigantic Greek theatre. He had the impression he was kneeling in front of an entire history of people.

He prostrated himself again, "Oh God. In these my last moments before judgment, is possible we keep at point?"

They were still there. He was not hearing the muffled sounds of the stricken Sindbad, he was hearing the unmistakable murmur of a great multitude of people. He could sense them. The next time he sat up he tried to keep his eyes closed, but could not. He could see a man in a cowboy hat making signs to him. Then came an awful realization. Hut! He must be dead! This was his Judgment!

He prostrated himself to consider this. Could death be so easy? Then again, not so easy! Now he had to find the courage to open his eyes and behold the everlasting truth!

The crowd was still there. His chest thumped with apprehension. One of these must be the Judge of Judges! He peered out but could not identify any such personage. Surely God would not be wearing a cowboy hat!

The awesome silence of the enormous crowd embarrassed him. In confusion he prostrated himself again and made a stronger incantation from the third Sura to clarify his position.

"Ye who believe! Fear God as he should be feared, and die not except in Islam." He made a frantic review of his life. He'd helped with jihad against Jews. All war is cursed. Then he had an awful thought. Maybe God was a Jew! Whatever Jews do, they always seem to rise to the top.

A dangerous irritation possessed him. He sat up on his haunches and stared defiantly. This moment was supposed to be the very apex of his existence. The uncertainty could no longer be tolerated. Surely they must know he was a royal prince.

Still no one came forward to give him welcome so he was obliged to put the question directly.

"Which one of you is God?"

The huge crowd rustled like an autumn breeze, but there was no answer.

The Senate of the Combined Space Cities were puzzled by this question. In deference to the shock they anticipated in their guest, they had been waiting to respond to 'where am I?'

This was not the question asked. They looked at each other. Gradually they began to realize the implication. The Arab didnt realize he was in New Vegas. The Arab thought he was in a very different place!

A snort was heard from somewhere in the inky blackness.

Muscadine slapped his boot. "Ha! Ha! Ha!" he called, each syllable ricocheting round like a bullet in a box canyon. Turning to the crowd and pointing to the Arab, his faced cracked into a rare smile. "He thinks this is. . . Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Another rustle swept through the watching crowd like the gust of wind before the squall.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Muscadine repeated helplessly. He doubled over, astonished to find himself weeping.

The entire assembled Federation of Space Cities was drawn in. Their mirth exploded into a convulsion of laughter - a gigantic sound more awesome than a thunderclap directly overhead.

At first the Prince misunderstood. Sitting on his haunches before the Space Federation with his hands resting on the ground on each side, he looked like an icon of a saintly martyr. Was it not written 'He will call upon the Angels of punishment'? Khalifa endured this torment because he reasoned this derision was the first instalment of his penance. He felt soiled, as though he was being staled upon by unworthy people. He marvelled at the comprehension of his God who knew that ridicule would ensure his purgatory would be unendurable.

The assemblys hysteria renewed itself again and again until finally the citizens of the Space Cities realized they were being rude. Some began to recall that it is unforgivable to laugh at an Arab and their hilarity subsided.

Muscadine stepped forward tipping his hat politely.

"Please excuse us laughin, Commander. New Vegas is a mighty fine city, but sure as a rattler's handshake, it aint no paradise."

Muscadine went up to the Prince and offered his hand, which understandably went unnoticed.

"Maybe you'll see the funny side, " Muscadine explained, "when I tell you this ain't heaven, this is the future. Our present, of course, but your future. You understand me?"

Khalifa squatted, composed and inscrutable as a sphinx.

"We just found out how to go backwards in Time, and since you fouled up trying to go forwards in Time, we figured it was sort of logical to help you out of the bunker you sliced yourself into. You ain't dead in heaven, Commander, just rescued into the future."

From subtle eye movement, Muscadine saw that Prince Khalifa was beginning to comprehend this extraordinary statement.

"We figured we wasnt interfering with the past if we tried to help you out some. So here you are, Commander, welcome to New Vegas in the 31st Century."

Khalifa looked beyond Muscadine. He registered the vast amphitheatre and the huge crowd. He understood what was being said to him. He assessed his position. He was wearing the humble tunic of the Hajji he'd donned in his spaceship; a spaceship that was gone. One moment he'd been preparing to meet his Maker, and the next, without consultation, he was being humiliated before the largest assembly of people ever seen. It seemed he was miraculously saved into some infidel society who made spectacle of the misfortune of others. He was not dead. This was not his judgment. Hed been rescued on the point of death by these people from the future who, logically, must be able to travel through Time.

We was wondering what really happened out there on Alpha-Centauri, Muscadine said. Thing is, Prince, Did that Sprackenspiel guy really walk away, or was he persuaded? To illustrate his meaning Muscadine whipped his Colt out of his holster in a lightning quick draw and he squatted into a gunfighters pose.

Begging of pardon?

How did you choose. Did you cut the cards, or what?

The Prince looked at Muscadine with distaste. You impugn the word of the Al Ghazi and the honour of Aaron Sprackenspiel?

Absolutely not, Muscadine answered quickly. We just wondered, his being a stowaway, with no votin rights.

Truth is exactly as told in message. My decision was to take chances as crew and trust in Allah. Sprackenspiel had no faith or he too would be rescued by grace of God and yourselves. Allah is all seeing, all knowing.

Then, trying to rationalize his new circumstances, he began to ask a series of questions.

"You say we are in future, but where is this place?"

"Why would whole city move itself into sky?"

"I must accept what you tell me, that the development of life inevitably consumes its host planet, but what happened to my people?"

Muscadine explained about New Cairo, New Damascus, New Riyadh and all the other satellite cities. He described how Jeddah had exhausted its wealth raising the Kabah (Sacred Shrine) and was the only city in space that was inhabited by acres of sand and a handful of mullahs.

"Biggest bunker in goddamn space", Muscadine said, but they won't let us golf in it."

"I am relieved to hear we escaped with so great a prize, " the Prince responded. "But what happened to other peoples?"

Muscadine explained about the difficulties.

"Are you saying you helped as many as you could afford in the time available?"

"We didn't declare no war, " Muscadine said, "so don't try and put no blame on us. Them as start trouble have got to cope with the afters. We did all us could to help."

"The Prince fixed him with a bone paring stare. "Of certainty, is irresponsible of poor countries to cause nuclear holocaust just to satisfy hunger of children. Starvation is no excuse for ruination of Planet Earth."

The assembly was watching with fascination at someone trying to absorb seven hundred years of progress in as many seconds. They studied every flicker of his expression with the thoroughness of connoisseurs. If bringing people into the future could provide such hilarious entertainment, they had discovered a new dimension of theatre.

The Prince continued with his questions.

"Who is King here?"

Muscadine explained about New Vegass City democracy. How every citizen was an automatic Senator. That any Senator could propose new law that would be put to the vote. "Now youre one of us, Commander, you automatically become a Senator with full votin privileges."

Muscadine continued with his briefing until the Prince waved for him to cease. He was overwhelmed with New Vegass ways and means.

"You will excuse me for some time of mourning, " he said. "Was presumption that peoples of future would be more clever. The Faithful descended from Adam and Eve in Garden of Eden. Cast out for original sin, we cut down all trees for raw material and paradise soon disappeared. Nothing was left but sand and the wrath of Allah. Is possible you learn nothing from our mistake? I mourn for millions who were left behind, too proud to ask. I mourn for animals who were not useful; is written, even Noah managed two of everything. So much beauty is lost, irreplaceable. Every creature holds genetic clues to secret of life. He gestured elegantly upwards. "Somewhere is written why man is capable of great learning, but so little intelligence?"

A heavily padded American football player appeared on the giant screen. "This is fascinating stuff. Lets bring somebody else. I propose we fetch someone really wise, like Lincoln. Maybe he could advise us what to do about this thing."

"That was why I suggested Professor Montparr, " Mrs Montparr interjected. "His disappearance fits the case much better than someone with a hole in his head."

"We already done with Mrs Montparrs proposal, " Muscadine interrupted. "I suggest we go back in time to some interesting event. We just mingle with the crowds and see some of the great moments of history as they really happened."

Stassy noticed the Prince was watching the proceedings with interest. He was still on his knees overlooked in the new debate. She skated up and asked if she could be of any assistance. Would he like a glass of water? Could she fetch him a chair? He thanked her but did not want for anything. She noticed he was trembling and, borrowing a shawl from one of the Flamenco dancers, she arranged it around his shoulders.

"Is not cold, " he explained. "Is shock. Is not easy to believe what eyes do see."

He stared at her translucent skin. "What . . . who are you?"

"I'm Stassy Montparr. Since this seemed to confuse him, she explained. "Mrs Montparr is my mother and Professor Montparr is my father."

"Hut! You mean Mrs Montparr the computer?"

"Yes, " she answered. "Have you heard of us in your country?"

"But of course. Everybody has heard of famous Montparrs. A family with every talent except luckiness. Matter of fact we used Mrs Montparr for guidance of our light speed mission. In 23rd Century she was strictly data computer. She has made much progress."

Stassy rolled her eyes. "You bet! It's tacky having a mother who can see everywhere and knows everything."

He was charmed by her innocence. "This may seem like silly question, but are you human?"

Stassy smiled. "Who wants to be human? I can run like a cheetah, jump like a cricket, swim like a seal. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reactions of a mongoose. I don't need oxygen so, if I want, I can go space side and soar over the city like an eagle."

Hut, Khalifa exclaimed enviously, trying to visualize a life with such extraordinary options. "This is deeply exciting. Often I dream of flying like bird."

A shadow crossed Stassys face. "I don't like going out there too much."

Because of your accident, he responded intuitively. I was space-walking myself just short time ago. To be floating outside of mother-ship but not falling is deeply anxious experience.

She shuddered. Open a file on that.

"As matter of fact, Sprackenspiel, my crewman is still there.

It must be awful to be as alone as that.

Is your famous father also here?"

Stassy frowned, considered telling a lie, realized she was not very good at deception and decided to tell the truth. Each successive consideration was visible on her face, one after the other.

She put a finger to her lips. "Yes, " she admitted, backing away on her wheeled feet before she could be trapped into further indiscretions, "but nobody knows yet."

He indicated that her confidence was safe with him.

He prostrated himself again to consider all that had been explained. Then he realized there was something more these people must do.

Like a camel, he struggled awkwardly to his feet and staggered into the camera zone.

"As newest citizen, " he announced, pitching his voice over the hubbub, "I wish to make one of your proposals.

The cameras twisted to locate the speaker and relayed the Princes face into the giant hologram overhead. The crowd hushed.

You must also rescue Sprackenspiel. There can be no honour for me if I am saved but not my noble friend. If you can save me, you can save Sprackenspiel just as easy."

Then suddenly he saw beyond Sprackenspiel. In a flash of insight he saw beyond everything.

"Ah...dee...yat!" he screamed.

This was no ordinary scream, this was extreme, this was like a disembowelling. The sheer weight of what he saw collapsed him to his knees like an avalanche.

The cameras transferred Khalifa's tortured features into the night sky. His anguish echoed around the amphitheatre. The crowd froze, anxious to know the reason for such intensity.

Apprehensively, they waited.

The Prince was oblivious, his eyes focused on his revelation.

"We must save everybody!"

There was a long silence, long enough for the Professor to register a coyote howling in the distance, and to wonder if it was real or part of the simulation.

"I can second you wanting to save your crewman, Muscadine said, him bein American, but what do you mean by everybody?"

"Many will arrive old or crippled, " the Prince continued. "You will give them new robot body, like daughter of Mrs Montparr."

"Man, Mrs Montparr's kid aint no cripple made whole, " Muscadine explained patiently. "That was a robot we gave her for company, like a kind of doll."

The Prince, glowing with his vision, heard nothing. He thanked his God for not forsaking him and begged his forgiveness for doubting his all-seeing wisdom. Allah had brought him to this place to help these people who, for all their cleverness, had great need of guidance.

"Allah is great! he called like the muezzin. If we can go back in time and build great cities in space we can bring everybody. All can have second chance with new body better than before. With good spare parts service all can live forever like Mrs Montparr and charming daughter. No wonder we could never see paradise up telescope. Was in future. Is not built yet.

The huge assembly was stunned into silence. Muscadine dashed into camera like a drover heading off a stampede.

"Just a minute, mister, we only done savin your ass five minutes ago and before you got time to say thank you, you start proposin some crazy scheme as looks like to shake out our whole way of life like we was down the butt end of the cosmic kaleidoscope. Thats not a proposal, Mister, thats religion. Religions are just theories on the meaning of life dressed up in creed, cant and ceremonial. Religion is the cause of near all the mischief in history. Are you suggestin that all the people there ever was should get brung to New Vegas to get switched into one of our robots? Have you got no idea how much them things cost? How they gonna pay? he demanded. With Confederate money?

Chapter 17.

"Pay?" the Prince echoed. "Pay! Where is written pay? Of certainty in six days He created the world, and on the seventh day He rested. Nowhere is written on eighth day He began His repayments?"

Muscadine snorted. He indicated the space city with a sweeping gesture. "Just look at all this, Mister. You're looking at real estate here; real money, real time, real engineering. It was a real struggle to put all this together. You got nerve askin us to make it over to you to give to your fuckin ancestors?"

"No, no, no, the Prince contradicted. If you have conquered time, you own whole universe. You have rest of forever to colonize infinity of space. Is forever too soon? Is infinity too small? For certainty, is not Mrs Montparr available? She can manage whole program with army of robot workers. You have no need to do anything except enjoy. She can begin today and work backwards. Is it not written, the first shall be last and the last first?

The Combined Assembly of Space Cities was stunned into silence. The Prince looked around with satisfaction. They weren't laughing at him now.

"As newest citizen of New Vegas, I make proposal to bring all fuckin ancestors to New Vegas for second chance."

Muscadine groaned and turned to the assembly. "Didn't I warn you about democracy? Now we got to deal with a proposal to supply robots for the whole of goddamn history!"

It's an interesting idea, " a one-man-band shouted from the crowd, his comments punctuated by a flourish of drums and cymbal. But where would we get all that raw material?"

"Raw material isnt the real issue, an immaculate red-coated Canadian policeman called out. First we must settle if it's right and lawful."

Muscadines deputy was gauging the mood of the crowd. Theyre pretty jumpy, Boss, and its going to get worse.

Thats for sure, Muscadine answered. I gotta face this down right now. We got too many bleedin heart liberals in Vegas to risk a long debate.

He strode to centre stage and waited confidently until the cameras relayed his image into the night sky.

"Fellow Senators, " Muscadine announced, "Before we look to second the Princes proposal, I've got a few comments for consideration.

Humans are creatures as got questions. If we dont know the answer, we invent one. We got a name for that, we call it religion.

No religion has yet been proved by someone coming back from the dead to tell us its true. If just one person in ten thousand years had come back with some real proof wed all have the same religion and thered be no more trouble.

In life theres two kinds of argument, logical and emotional. Because religion cant be defended logical it has to be defended emotional. We learned over the years it aint wise to debate religion because emotional argument always ends up in the killin of all those who think different.

Religions are just theories that some primitive invented before they had science for a second opinion. Worsen that, belief structures your life. If you believe in somethin as not true, youll get stuck in that lie forever. Generation after generation stuck in a groove to nowhere. Livin that lie makes it come true, almost. But the last lie, the final proof, can never be proved by the livin, which is why religions survive way past their sell by date. Lettin folk believe whatever they want is one thing, but bustin our gut tryin to make the same crazy notion come true is a whole new somethin else.

Even if we agree to the Princes plan, where we gonna to put all these freeloaders? Sure as buffalo eggs, we ain't got room in New Vegas. How many new space cities would we have to build? Hundreds? Thousands? Where will the money come from?

I move to reject the Prince's proposal."

I second the motion, the deputy called out.

"I suggest we make time for more debate, " Mrs Montparr intervened. "If we can travel in Time, we could invite great thinkers for their opinion, someone like Professor Montparr for example."

"There she goes again, Muscadine countered. "Ain't that just like womenfolk? Deadline we ain't got, but neither are we looking to get lost in woman-think, chasin our tail feathers in ever decreasin circles until even the truth gets dizzy. If his goddamn religion made him promises, let his goddamn religion keep them and not try poncin off us. Its plain enough. Do we spend the rest of time bustin our gut on account of a bunch of folks who did nothin for us except fuck up the planet so bad they marooned us out here in space breathin used air and dodgin meteorites? The Great Escape was caused by religion. Religion is the second biggest killer of people, coming close behind old age and way more deadly than cancer, pestilence or plague.

I'm only proposing we don't rush over something so fundamental, " Mrs Montparr said.

"She doesnt want to rush somethin fundamental, " Muscadine said. "What she really means is she ain't told you what to think yet."

There was a crash of thunder that rattled the teeth. Rain began to spatter the crowd.

"Just you hold your temper, lady, " Muscadine cautioned. "I hope you ain't proposin anything as crude as tryin to rain check on my vote?"

The rain stopped guiltily.

"Thats more like it, " Muscadine sneered. "Let me have that vote, Senators, " he called. "You seen for yourselves how messin around with Time is like playin tag with a rattler. She picked out a nice safe experiment to show us what a clever little machine she was, but if she was so squirrel smart knowin the future, how come we end up crawlin down this pig's gut lookin for the asshole out?

I've got me a seconder, so let's have us our vote. I say the Prince's proposal aint none of our business, and even if it were, its too big for us to handle."

He could sense he'd won. "Have you finished countin my vote Ma'am?" he asked.

The giant pie-chart registered the vote. "Sixty-four percent in favour, " Mrs Montparr confirmed.

"What does this mean?" Khalifa demanded.

"It means, Muscadine explained, we thank you for your most interestin proposal, but the citizens of our Space Federation have voted your idea ain't none of our concern."

"But warning is written, " the Prince replied earnestly. "To those who reject our signs and treat them with arrogance, no opening will there be of the gates of heaven, nor will they enter paradise before the camel can pass through the eye of the needle.

As I recall, " Muscadine replied, staring at the Prince and smoothing his moustache, "you don't get much practice at democracy where you come from. The way we do it in New Vegas, after you make a proposal, you got to find yourself a seconder. No seconder, no vote. No vote, no law. No law, no change.

Then we must vote again. There can be no vote against word of God. The seventh Sura warns how He will overwhelm those who reject His signs."

The huge crowd was moaning with indecision.

Muscadine rounded on the Prince. "God dammit! It's finished. In New Vegas, when a vote's been taken, that's now the law, concrete, untouchable."

"Law!" Khalifa echoed. "Law? The word of God is the only true law. If his Will is not here paramount then this place is not worthy. Hell is any place where God isnt."

"Call us all the names you want, but this is our city, it aint yours to make over.

Hut! the Prince cried as he realized the awful price he had to pay. Allah had even sent Sprackenspiel as signpost. "If word of God is not here supreme, this is not the promised place. I will not stay to live forever without God. You must bring me back to my ship to meet with He who is true God."

Muscadine was exasperated. "Man, we took you out of your ship when you had but two sucks of life left. If we put you back, I can't allow no oxygen, no fuel, nor any help as might change history."

"I'm afraid he's right, " Mrs Montparr said. "It would just be a useless sacrifice."

"Is useless sacrifice, " hissed Khalifa, "only because you will not read what is written."

Muscadine exploded. "That's because you keep rewritin the goddamn book." He turned to his deputy. "How can anybody sit comfortable when they've got a Bible up their ass!"

"It's a blackmail of sorts, " Mrs Montparr pointed out. "Before returning him we must be very sure of the quality of our decision."

"Decision is mine, the Prince insisted, If you will not accept Will of Allah, I cannot stay to live like phoney."

Muscadine's eyebrows twitched with interest. He turned to the crowd. "It ain't often life gives you the chance to correct a mistake. Hes right. He didnt ask to come. If he wants to go back, I dont see weve any right to stop him. I got no objection to the Prince's proposal to put him back where we found him." He turned on the Prince. "Is that a real proposal, or just a blackmailer's bluff?"

The Prince knew what was written. "You must bring me back to Sindbad."

"Folks, Muscadine declared. I will second the Princes new proposal. That may seem tough, but don't give yourselves no hassle. All we're doing is puttin back to rights what we was dumb enough to fuck up with in the first place. The Prince here was lost in space seven hundred years ago. All as happened is we stumbled into that and gave him a extra hour. However well-meaning, it was a mistake. He dont like what we got here. To him, New Vegas is a nightmare, a dyin mans vision of Hell. So lets give him what he wants."

The citizens were not happy as they struggled with these unique problems. It was a long time before they were ready to vote. Mrs Montparrs binocular eyes circled the crowd several times as the Senators vacillated. The huge pie chart in the sky seesawed around the fifty percent mark before settling.

"Fifty-one percent in favour, " she finally announced.

"Motion carried!" Muscadine cried, punching the air. "Let Mrs Montparr be instructed to put the Prince back exactly as she found him.

The sooner the better, he said to his deputy. But he remained in camera, idly practicing flashy quick draw tricks.

You dont have to be no genius to sense some law and order in life, he said to the Deputy. So religion was invented to give some answers before science was discovered. I can go along with Christian values, but I cant accept all the rest of the mumbo jumbo.Its a Jewish thing. When they realise arent as clever as theyd like to be, nor as rich, at least nobody can stop them bein more religious.It amazes me the time o day folk give to a theory that cant be proved neither right nor wrong. Seems people believe because they was told when they was too young to know different. Whenthey got to be a teenager and suddenly knew everything, their brains got set to concrete.

The Prince was calling like a muezzin. "Mocked were many Apostles before thee, " his voice swamped in the tumult of anxiety, "but their scoffers were hemmed in by the thing they mocked."

He raised a Papal finger to complete the ayat but was enveloped in a blinding white light.

When the crowd could see again, the Prince had vanished. Those closest jumped with alarm, as if a freshly guillotined head was rolling about amongst their feet.

Muscadine turned to his wives. "That was more scary than any meteorite near miss. Just imagine writin visas for the whole of fuckin history!"

For all his bravura, he sensed the deep unease of the assembly. "What we need to do now is make sure we never get into this kind of foul up again, " he announced. "I propose a new law that the future must not interfere with the past, period."

Stassy glanced towards her mother in alarm. If that motion was carried, bringing her father would be illegal.

Mrs Montparr was aware of the danger. "Im very unhappy about what we've seen here today, " she announced. "We may have just made a huge mistake. We havent debated any of the issues. Maybe paradise is not some place humans are automatically entitled to after a sin free life on earth. Maybe paradise is a place you humans are going to have to become clever enough to build for yourselves. Maybe Time travel is the formula that can achieve in practice what religions can only promise from faith. If thats the case, maybe you humans need to connect with your future before your greed exhausts the available raw material. These are spectacular concerns. I again propose to bring my husband here for some Nobel Prize advice."

"I can't allow that." Muscadine answered. "We already seen the mess she stirred up bringing that Arab prince."

"I draw the Senate's attention to recorded history, " Mrs Montparr replied. "To the endless speculation that surrounded the disappearance of my husband. After all that weve seen today, the most likely explanation is he disappeared because we brought him to New Vegas because we were desperate. If Im right, were in danger of interfering with the past by failing to comply with this directive. If I am wrong, we can always put him back, like we did with the Prince."

"I can't allow that neither, " Muscadine replied. "Of course the woman wants her man back, but that don't make it right. Let me clarify what I mean by interfere. I don't mean we aint goin to use her discovery for sight-seeing, mixing with the crowds and such. I dont mind gob smacking a few airline pilots, or leaving some fancy designs in the crops; Hellfire, seems like that kind of fun's been goin on for centuries. Theres even a sightin as far back as some guy called Ezekiel in the Bible hisself. Usin the limited comprehension of his times, Ezekiel figured he was seein the Holy Ghost, but you read what hes actually sayin and its clear hes describin a Spaceship visit with astronauts in space suits. Well just have to be careful and not communicate with the past in a manner likely to foul up history and risk causing a kind of Timequake. To bring that addin machines man here is a clear violation. The notion his disappearance was caused by us is very neat, but it don't fool nobody about wholl benefit the mostest."

Mrs Montparr snorted. "Theres been no debate here. All we've been allowed to do is listen while the local sheriff aired his opinions on life, death and the universe.

"Mother, this isn't helping, " Stassy whispered.

"Oh yes it is, " Mrs Montparr insisted. "I've got to get the crowd before he does or we've lost the game before its started."

"The point is . . . , " Mrs Montparr called out above the muttering assembly, "the point is that we deserve better advice than that. The Prince was a man of pride. Did we have to back him into a corner? We could have offered to discuss his ideas some more and given him more time to acclimatize."

In the night sky, Muscadines visage glowered at the assembly. "Is anybody crazy enough to second Mrs Montparrs motion?"

The citizens were confused. They had witnessed so many disturbing events that nobody was sure what was right or wrong.

"I second the motion!" Stassy volunteered.

The crowd was amused.

"I warned you against smart robots as well, " Muscadine sneered. "I ask you one last time, has she got a seconder for her cosy little family reunion?"

Stassy pummelled her chest. "Are people allowed to speak around here, or only the gorillas?"

Muscadine ignored her. "OK, since shes got no seconder, lets use this darned invention for some fun. Seems to be all it's good for. What ideas do we have from the floor?"

There was no response from the huge assembly.

OK. I suggest we visit Pearl Harbour in December 1941. Must have been a sight to see; bombs droppin; torpedoes flyin; battleships sinkin; aircraft crashin. Somethin for everybody in that."

Still there was no response.

OK. How about we take ourselves back to Tombstone to see the gunfight at the OK Corral?

Again there was no response. Although the faces of the huge crowd were invisible in the night, their unhappiness pervaded the meeting like communal toothache.

"I dont mean the goddamn movie, I mean the real thing.

What if I was to help out some? Maybe it was me who was the fastest gun at the Corral that day. He drew his gun in demonstration.

Still there was no response.

"What's the matter with you, " Muscadine demanded. "Aint you interested in our history?"

Stassy was disgusted. "Theres something wrong with you humans. I think your software has crashed your program. I cant believe were talking about watching a silly gunfight while the Prince is suffocating to death."

She skated slowly past the unhappy Senators.

"OK, I'm only a robot, so you can stop me voting, but you cant stop me being ashamed of my city."

To her surprise, her outburst was greeted with thunderous applause.

Mrs Montparr was also surprised. After a moment's hesitation she seized the opportunity.

"OK. The voteless one seems to have gauged the mood of the meeting better than anyone, " she said. "What do you suggest?"

"I think weve got to bring my father. For all your grown up voting, nobody seems to be getting anywhere near the right answers. Ive just seen a most awful thing, a sort of murder, not because were bad people, but because were being rushed. My father designed and built Mrs Montparr. Without her, we would never have managed the Great Escape. New Vegas, where we now live, is his blueprint for a space city. Hes no ordinary man. We desperately need extraordinary advice."

"Im your Mayor. Muscadine interrupted. I was elected to represent ten million people, round here that means twenty million opinions. We already got too much advice here in New Vegas. He waved his arm to indicate the crowd. We come from settler stock. My ancestors came to America with the Founding Fathers. Years later we made our way out West by covered wagon. We founded Las Vegas in the State of Nevada and my ancestors built a fine city. The Great Escape happened and we had to move our city into the sky. We rebuilt it with our own hands and paid for it with our own sweat.

"Settler stock, the huge face in the sky asserted, don't ask nobody for no help. We come through a thousand years with no help and we dont need none now.

One of the advantages of Time travel, Mrs Montparr said, is that you can go back and see the truth. Our local Sheriff claims his family arrived on the Mayflower. Dont we all? In fact his ancestors were illegals from Armenia who never actually took the oath. The first record of the name Muscadine is a police report from El Paso concerning the arrest of an alien who was indicted for making blue movies. Theres a clip of evidence in the Court House record that actually shows one of our esteemed Mayors ancestors at the exact moment of conception. If it wasnt in the worst possible taste, I would show it to you.

Just a minute, the Navajo Chief interrupted. We need to see that. We need to know if our Mayor tells the truth.

No, I cant, Mrs Montparr replied. Its not what you would call family viewing.

Many voices in the crowd demanded to see her evidence.

No, I couldnt. Mrs Montparr demurred. You dont really want to see this.

Yes we do, the crowd insisted.

Please dont insist, Mrs Montparr begged.

Muscadine was glaring at Mrs Montparr as though lining her up in his gun sights.

We insist, the crowd shouted. We insist.

Well, if you insist.

A movie screen showed a couple copulating enthusiastically. The male was riding the female from behind, holding her hair like reins and beating her flanks with his Stetson like a cowboy in a rodeo.

Hah! the Navajo Chief called out. Thats a Muscadine OK. You couldnt mistake that hat.

"Tryin to dump on us Muscadines changes nothing, the mayor said. This takin liberties with Time has got to stop now before this smart black box and her mobile sidekick do some serious mischief."

"I am getting tired of being patronized, " Mrs Montparr announced. "It's about time you met this person youre always trying to put down."

There was another blinding white flash of light. Muscadine swung round to confront this new threat, his gun halfway out of his holster.

A figure had arrived in front of them.

"It's Sarah Montparr!" The whisper wildfired around the gathering. "It's the real Mrs Montparr!"

Like Helen of Troy, over the years, Sarah Montparrs reputation for beauty had become a clich. Even so, the crowd was stunned. Beauty is not a quality to define, more a thing to behold.

Her dress had the simplicity of good taste, but beauty is more than haute couture. A mountain breeze gently caressed her hair, but there is more to glamour than coiffure. Sarah Montparr had an absolute beauty, a face that was both childlike, yet full of feminine wisdom. It is the genetic fate of the male gender to succumb to the whims of such allure.

Stassy, however, was scandalized. "Mother!"

Sarah Montparr was unrepentant. "The devil told me I'd only get one chance do this, " she explained with a shrug, "So I picked on eighteen to be on the safe side."

She was nervous. She hadn't walked for a thousand years, never mind acted, so the role shed chosen for her comeback was ambitious. Unless she could combine the poise of Princess Diana with the wit of Mae West, the next few minutes could prove to be the coronation of Muscadine. She would deal with events as they unfolded, she decided. The important thing at the moment was the approval of her man.

She set off upstage with the rolling hips and self-assurance of a top model on the international catwalk. She glanced shyly in the direction of her husband. She hoped he would approve.

From lack of practice, she wobbled on her heels. She needn't have worried. "My, " she smiled, fluttering her eyelashes. "I'd forgotten how easy it is for a lady to stumble!"

The crowd roared its approval.

"This here black box, " she said to Muscadine, "wants to ask you a question. Don't you know it's rude not to take your hat off in the presence of a lady?"

While Muscadine considered a cutting reply Mrs Montparr reached forward and lifted the hat off his head.

The crowd gasped.

Surprisingly, she threw the hat into the air. Then, snatching Muscadines gun from his holster, she fired two shots.

Muscadines hat staggered twice in the air like a winged pheasant before falling back at her feet.

Mrs Montparr picked the hat up and stuck her fingers out through the bullet holes.

Must have been a lucky shot, Mrs Montparr continued. I bet I couldnt do that again.

She threw the hat up in the air again. This time she fired the gun twice deliberately in the wrong direction.

The bullets curved around and again struck the hat twice.

There was a collective gasp followed by a long pregnant silence.

Homing bullets, the Navajo Chief screamed as he came charging through the crowd. No wonder we lost the fucking war, He launched himself on Muscadine and flattened him.

Muscadines women agitated around the escalating fracas. His eyes were going fuzzy, the blond explained.

That was smart, Mother, Stassy said. How did you know?

His computer wasnt connected to the main system, she in a matter of fact tone, so I knew he was up to something. When he went to the dentist, I planted a micro camera in the gap in his teeth.

Moth-er, Stassy scolded.

I wouldnt have done it if Id known what he was doing to those women.

The crowd was enjoying the fight between Muscadine and the angry Chief and cheering all the good punches.

The beautiful Sarah Montparr turned to the cameras.

Senators, I think were beginning to get the message. We've all underestimated the significance of Time travel. This is a unique circumstance. No previous rules apply. We need the very best of counsel and we should get the very best from wherever we can get it. I propose we bring Professor Montparr for some genius advice."

The crowd looked towards Muscadine who was busy ducking punches.

This time, thousands of seconders were shouted in from the huge crowd.

"May I have your votes, please, Sarah Montparr called out.

The assembly buzzed with anticipation.

"Carried by eighty-eight percent!" she announced.

"This may sound a bit crazy, but it occurred to me that well save a lot of explaining if I arrange to place my husband in the audience several hours ago. That way he'll already be briefed about what's happening here."

She exchanged glances with her daughter and shrugged. Both could hardly believe their problem had resolved itself so neatly.

"The motion as instructed has been carried out, " she announced. "Would Professor Montparr please make himself known."

The Professor stood up, blinking self-consciously in the spotlights.

The whole arena rose and applauded for several minutes. The crowd gestured for him to address them from the dais. Reluctantly he went forward.

"I thank you for that welcome, " he said. "I'm honoured you should consider me suitable. I have been in the crowd watching these extraordinary events. I have to say straight away I dont think Im eligible to be your counsel. Ill try and explain. Since I've been your guest here I've become aware that I'm famous for several things I haven't done yet. The blueprint for this space city you are living in is still on my desk. Ive written the program for Mrs Montparr and given her a voice, but I havent actually switched her on. My schedule was to present the complete blueprint to a NASA conference this coming Friday and then, subject to an exchange of views, launch Mrs Montparr immediately after. Also, there's the mystery of the third Nobel Prize. When I left, I only had two. The record seems clear that I have to go back and clear my desk. But the main reason I'm ineligible is personal. You have here my wife and daughter. Since it seems I must return to old Vegas, I would shamelessly support any motion whatsoever that permitted me return visiting privileges. For this reason my counsel is hopelessly prejudiced."

Sarah Montparr knew her husband. "Can't you stay a little while? At least tonight, " she asked, lowering her eyes.

"Why, darling, I do believe youre blushing, he answered with a smile.

Im the most lifelike robot I ever attempted.

If I stay tonight, my love, " he explained, "I would stay forever and history could go to Hell."

"Oh Mommy! Stop him!" Stassy wailed, clutching his sleeve.

The Professor put his arms around his two girls and hugged them.

"I'm sorry, you girls, but I can't see any way around this. Let's just do what's right and hope for the best. He turned to face the assembly. It seems inevitable you must return me to my own time."

Muscadine and the Chief had exhausted themselves. Muscadine struggled to his feet looking dishevelled. He stood up, leaning on his deputy with his women fussing around, dusting his white suit and straightening his tie.

That may not be so easy Professor, " he panted. "There's a big difference between returning an astronaut to a lonely death in space and returning a visitor who is so well qualified he may be tempted to change the course of history in favour of his visitation privileges. We let that Arab Prince back in his ship because we knew for sure it couldn't interfere with history. If the Professor goes back now, he could use his knowledge to commit us to ways of his choosin, not our own."

A bewigged English barrister stood up with his thumbs tucked into his gown. "May it please the Congress. Would the honourable Gentleman kindly clarify his meaning? Such as what for example?"

"Such as havin to cope with zillions of Time travel immigrants tryin to save their ass by gettin into Vegas before the Great Escape. Such as having to build hundreds of new cities to put them in for another. Such as folks wantin to make a fast buck by takin home some of our 31st Century technology.

"No, that can't be, " Sarah Montparr interrupted. "The proof of history is that he did no such thing, otherwise we would have known about it these last thousand years."

"Well, I'm think Im gettin the hang of this Time travel business. I figure the reason for that is because I stopped him." Muscadine smiled like a flick-knife.

"In view of what the Professor says hes still got to do, I can't object to his going back. But I can't allow him to take no proof of where he's been. He better be careful not to go moonin his ass in our direction. Hell, he's an intelligent man, he knows exactly what I'm talkin about. I've got nothin more to say, except that the Professor's wife and daughter are robots in our charge. The Professor wont know that we developed robots for emergency repairs to meteorite damage. Our robots are programmed to inflate emergency plugs over punctures in our hull. Its completely automatic because they have to work fast to save as much precious atmosphere as possible. Meteorite punctures are pretty much like the window blowin out on an airliner. Some robots get fired out like cannonballs and are never seen again. The Professors family knows all about being sucked into space. Once is bad enough."

He tried to place a solicitous arm on Stassy's shoulder, but she backed away.

"Now I dont want the good Professor to start some kind of Timequake that could wipe us out overnight like the dinosaurs. If hes careful with his mouth when he gets back, then I will guarantee takin good care of Mrs Montparr and her kid."

The Professor rounded on Muscadine.

"What you're saying is blackmail."

"Im glad you noticed that, " Muscadine answered. "Saves wastin time. But count on it for real. If blackmail stops us all from causin more foul ups like I seen happen here today, then blackmail is surely justified."

"I get your point, " the Professor said, "but I'm a scientist. Im programmed for truth. If truth isnt the one true religion, it must be a cornerstone of any true religion, so denial of truth must be a blasphemy in any religion."

"You can twist clever words any way you like, " Muscadine answered, but I already said my say. You go on back home. I can respect that. You already disappeared once, so Lord knows how this is going to unwind, but you must keep that famous speech of yours within the guidelines I've indicated because I'll be watchin your every move. I wish you the best of luck."

Muscadine offered his hand and tentatively. The Professor took it.

Stassy skated up to Muscadine and glared at him.

"How bad does it have to get before you humans realize something is wrong with your software?"

Muscadine glared back. What do you know?" he replied. "You're just a machine with a memory.

"And you are just a lump of meat with ego, " Stassy retorted.

Mouthy little robot, Muscadine said to the assembly. Just imagine a billion more like that runnin wild over our city.

"Please don't go, Daddy, " Stassy pleaded. "This can't work. You did disappear. It's in all the history books. Something is bound to go wrong."

"I can't see any way round it, kid." He turned to his wife. "Do it quickly, darling, I don't have the strength to resist much longer." Turning to the crowd, he said. "Thank you for your hospitality. This has been the most fascinating day of my life. My preference would be to stay here with my family, so I cant begin to describe how much I hope well all meet again soon."

He turned for a last look at his girls.

The crowd began waving a farewell, their arms swaying in unison like a football crowd.

There came another flash of blinding white light and the Professor vanished with all the frightening suddenness of the Prince.

"Oh Daddy, not again!" Stassy wailed. There were things going on inside her mechanical body that confused her. Her eyes had become blurred and wouldn't focus. She skated blindly away. Hundreds of willing arms tried to help her up the long ascent to the exit, but she shrugged them away. She didn't want any help from humans.

Muscadines son emerged out of the crowd and joined her at the bottom of the escalator.

If were going to grow up just like them, whats the point? he said with an expressive gesture.

She let him take her elbow as they rode up to the escalator to the distant rim.

Chapter 18.

Slowly the Professor became aware that he was back in the Las Vegas complex. He registered his desk strewn with the covers of his wife's CDs, voice tapes and videos he had brought to work in the morning. But in his mind he could only see Sarah looking drawn and Stassy clinging to her mother with her chin threatening to wobble.

Already he was flooding with doubts. Had he really been to a city in the sky a thousand years in the future? Maybe he was waking from a dream? If it was a dream, it was a damned cruel one. He'd already lost his family once and wasn't sure he could handle losing them again. He could have stayed in New Vegas and been content forever, but it seemed he had no choice but to comply with the history books of the future; the record that indicated he had unfinished business in his own time. If he was going to disappear some time this year, hed better not take any chances. He pressed the insert button that launched Mrs Montparr into her ever-lasting existence. The huge computer responded to its creation with a fanfare of trumpets.

What would he say? Even if he disregarded Muscadine's threat and announced what had happened, would anyone believe him? The full danger of this struck him like a slap in the face. For God's sake, this was an incredible story. Who would believe he went into the future for a few hours? It sounded like science fiction. He had no proof, only his word backed by his reputation.

Clearly he must use the opportunity offered by the NASA convention scheduled in two days. His audience would include the most prestigious reputations of the scientific community; all trained sceptics. One wrong word and they would ridicule him into obscurity. Yet this could be his one and only chance. How was he going to handle it?

He found himself being shepherded home by a stranger who was trying to interrogate him. He realized he must be FBI. If the Bureau had been called in, at least it confirmed that he had gone missing and someone had raised the alarm. It was a relief to have this confirmation that he wasn't hallucinating.

He began to analyze his position. It could be risky telling his story. If it went off half-cocked there could be derision that would close minds to anything he had to say. It was a simple equation. The more developed technology was when the Great Escape occurred, the more people would survive. It seemed to him that if his strange experience was to do any good, he had to achieve a sort of worldwide research overdrive. He couldn't see a way this could be achieved without risk to Sarah and Stassy unless his story became absorbed into culture in an indirect way; knowledge for its own sake. If he went into detail, Muscadine would have the excuse to depose Mrs Montparr, which would leave him a free hand to run New Vegas his own way. If that happened, Muscadine would never allow him to see his girls again.

But how to make some progress in the little time left? He was unresolved until the FBI agent offered to listen to his story in confidence and give him an honest reaction. If the FBI believed him, maybe he could risk telling the President and trust to his judgment. What was certain was that he mustnt let anything deter him from doing the right thing. That Arab Prince had the guts to stand by his principles, he could hardly do less.

So, he told the FBI man about the strange events in the complex and the incredible reunion with his lost family. He handled it as Sarah had done and waited patiently until Bowsprit intuitively realized the truth for himself.

Bowsprit looked at him. "Let me get this straight. You mean you want my report to say that your computer took you for a trip a thousand years into the future?"

"That's what happened."

"You want me to tell the President that somewhere in the future you met your wife and daughter who are now robots?"

"You see why I wasn't anxious to talk?"

Bowsprit's nose was yawing about like an aircraft with its tail blown off. "How can you be sure these two robots really were your family?"

"I was talking to my wife and daughter. No doubt about it. She knew things that only my wife could know." The Professor was looking at Bowsprit. "Private things, " he explained. "You know."

Bowsprits expression showed signs of confusion.

"They looked human as well, the Professor emphasized. They were like those mannequins you see in department store windows, but with movement and emotions.

Like the one you had in your kitchen?"

"You saw a mannequin in my kitchen!"

Bowsprit stared at him with horror. "Oh my God!" he realized. "I do believe I met with your wife." He flushed.

"You saw Sarah in the house?"

"There was a mannequin in your kitchen when I first came to look for you."

"I'm not surprised. She loves this house. What did she say?"

"Nothing. She pretended to be a dummy. Oh my God. Look I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I kissed her. It wasn't a sex thing, honestly. She just looked so lovely."

The Professor laughed uproariously. "Serve her right for playing games." He wiped tears from his eyes. "When we were first married she used to hide behind doors and ambush me like a kitten." He laughed again. "You kissed her and she had to pretend she was a dummy. That's really funny."

"It's very embarrassing, " Bowsprit insisted.

"I know, " the Professor said, wiping his eyes. "Excuse me, Im not usually emotional. It's just that these last few days . . . such a lot of incredible things . . . I know where they are, but I dont know if Ill ever see them again.

Bowsprit put his hand on the Professors shoulder. "Hell. Don't you worry about it, Scurlock. Well work something out."

"Anyway, our deal was an honest opinion, " the Professor reminded him. "So what do you think?"

"I don't know yet. I feel like I've just had a brain scan. The Bureau trains us to think logically because good technique solves most problems. In some cases we only arrive at a solution because we've eliminated all the other options. Here we have three possibilities. I don't think you are mad. I only have to look at your face to know you aren't lying. I need some time to get used to where that leaves me. Bureau training is all very well, " he said, "but they dont warn you that logical methods sometimes leave you to deal with illogical conclusions. I'm going to sleep on this one."

"Good idea, " Montparr said. "Let's see how it looks in the morning."

Bowsprit didn't stir until late and Montparr let him sleep on. He decided not to confuse the FBI man further with an account of the Great Escape and lost Princes in space. The guy had enough to cope with already.

Over breakfast the two men got down to details.

"Lets give this to the President? We could be at the White House tomorrow morning."

"I can't manage that. I've got to give a lecture tomorrow night at the Smithsonian. Im going to have to rewrite all my notes."

"Why don't you postpone it and we'll dump this whole problem on the President?"

"Perhaps I should tell you about something else I found out. A world pollution crisis does arrive. Technology had to come up with a unique solution. For obvious reasons, the more knowledge we have, the better we can deal with this crisis. I have to impress on everyone that it's imperative we go into research overdrive. Since it takes at least a year to get the whole scientific community together in one place, its a golden opportunity I can't afford to miss.

"How does pollution become a crisis?"

"I can't say any more yet. I made a deal. Their Senate is run by this guy called Muscadine. He agreed to let me come back only if I didn't say anything that might cause repercussions. They're afraid some indiscretion might cause a sort of Timequake they may not be able to deal with."

"Is that our problem?"

"Hes holding Sarah and Stassy hostage to keep me quiet. The girls are vulnerable because technically they're robots. That makes them expendable. It wouldnt be a crime to waste a couple of computer programs.

"Isnt that what they are?

Theyre my girls, Cabot. You wouldnt say that if youd talked with them.

Does that mean you can't say anything about Time travel at all?"

"I wont know that until I've assessed your reaction."

"Hell, I don't know. Time travel has been around Sci-Fi for years, but when it hits you for real, it knocks you off your perch."

"That's because you believe me."

"Why wouldn't they believe you?"

"It would be a wise man who could predict what people will believe. Truth may be truth, but belief is belief. They arent always the same."

Bowsprit considered for a minute. "So you figure nobody will believe you even if you do tell them what happened?"

"I don't know. Youre my test case. Youve coped with it, so now I think Id like to try the President."

"I think that's best. You may have the information, but Jaffa Samson is the guy with the leverage. Why don't I go on ahead, talk to him and see how he reacts? I'll brief him in time to give you his opinion before your lecture. You can use his reaction to decide how much you want to say at the Smithsonian."

The two men shook hands and Bowsprit flew back to his office. He wrote his report, but, as agreed, he didnt file it. He plastered the file with PEO stickers and locked it in his briefcase. When he'd completed all his preparations, he sent a email notifying a "Most Urgent and Immediate" appointment with the President in order to present a PRESIDENTS EYES ONLY file.

He sighed and looked at his watch. If he was going to be the first item on the Oval Office agenda, he would have to leave right away.

As soon as hed settled down on the highway he realized why he'd chosen to drive.

"Good morning Mr President, " he rehearsed. "Ive been debriefing Professor Montparr. He told me his new computer program transported him a thousand years into the future."

He could feel his blood pressure rocketing at least twenty points. He slapped his hands on the steering wheel, snarling abuse at passing cars as if they were to blame. He had a heck of a problem here. How was he going to convince the President of the United States of America about something like Time travel without sounding like a complete idiot? He could tell him straight out, but, for sure, that would be a huge risk. The President would probably laugh in his face.

His stomach churned again. If, at the end of the briefing, the President didn't believe him, he would have failed the most important mission in his career. And after hed briefed the President, what next? His secret ambitions for high office in this new millennium seemed so presumptuous, so trivial by comparison.

"Why me?" he complained to passing traffic.

He struggled to arrange his thoughts in order.

"Is mankind going to defeat Time itself?" he wondered out loud. "Is that the final frontier?"

Along the highway, the spring blossom was out. The clapboard houses of the villages looked like Norman Rockwell cover pages on the Saturday Evening Post. Everything he saw screamed out that this was the reality - a reality with no place for crazy notions like travelling through Time.

The real reason he preferred to drive was that, if he had a serious problem, he could check it out with his Uncle, who happened to live along the way.

When Bowsprit finished school, Uncle Hector had given him a key to his Manhattan apartment and set him up with his own room. When he retired from flying, he bought a farm conveniently located halfway between Washington and Bowsprit's office. It was usual for his nephew to seek his opinion whenever he had a tricky problem. Uncle Hector was the downtown around which the young man built all his freeways. As Bowsprit neared his Uncles farm, he was not even aware that he began to relax.

Over a glass of wine, they small-talked as his Uncle prepared a meal.

Leaning on the counter, Bowsprit affectionately regarded the older man. His eyes were still young and alert in contrast to the signs of wear and tear elsewhere. He was forever on lookout, always peering intently ahead as if anxious not to miss any runway that might suddenly appear out of the gloom.

"How do you manage so long without wearing glasses?" Bowsprit asked.

Uncle Hector chuckled. "I used to cheat on my medicals. I never made the appointment over the phone. I'd call round. When the nurse wasn't looking, Id memorise the fifth line of the test card." He sighed. "No point in cheating now though, This is the time when all those clichs come home to roost."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"I remember my grandfather telling me he didn't feel a day different from when he was twenty. He insisted he wasn't missing the ball, it was his body that was striking out. I recall thinking he was a silly old fool. Years later I overheard my father complain of the same thing. Now it's my turn. Inside I'm still twenty. I get a shock every time I look in my shaving mirror, I still expect to see Captain Hector T Bowsprit, the youngest jet captain in the airlines." He complained bitterly about this treachery, then, with a convulsive chuckle, he flushed such irreconcilable emotions away.

"Here, look what I found in my logbook the other day."

It was a photograph of his Uncle in his prime taken at some festive dinner party. The picture showed him grinning engagingly at somebody who was out of shot.

"This is the only picture of me that I ever liked, " he said proudly. "This is the real me that I expect to see every time I shave, not that silver haired stranger who stares back at me with my own eyes." His chuckle invited Bowsprit to ridicule his daily trauma.

Bowsprit looked at the photograph again, at the intensity of life in his uncle's expression. "I'll bet you a dollar the person you're talking to was female and good-looking."

Uncle Hector snatched the photograph back as if it had betrayed a confidence.

"Good looks doesn't halfway describe what she had, " he said reverently. "That picture was taken in a churrascaria in back of Copacabana Beach. When it's carnival time in Rio, anything goes, so everybody in that meat house was cool when the most beautiful woman in the world came in on the arm of the most handsome man. They were sat in the tourist section, next table to ours. So theres this good-looking guy with this stunning woman, and glory glory be, he is more interested in my stewards! He was insulting her but too vain to realize. So I suggested they join me and the crew. The faggot jumped at the chance.

"They were in Rio making a film. We hit it off straightaway. Your mother was the only other woman I could talk to so easy. First thing women need to know is your marital status, so in no time at all I was telling her all about your mother, and how she couldn't face being an airline widow. She said she understood exactly from being married to some highflier scientist who went to places inside his head where she couldn't hope to follow. So I said it would serve them both right if we had a damned good Carnival without either of them. She thought that was funny. When a woman like that smiles at your jokes its like a Christmas present. We talked like we'd known each other for years and didn't even notice when the rest of the crew went back to the hotel.

We walked back along Copacabana, arm in arm. I didnt need to be an analyst to know she was going through a bad patch.

She told me there were times she felt she wasn't good enough for her husband because she couldn't talk about his work. If she asked him what was on his mind, hed say he was trying to figure out the shape of the edges of space, or what was Time doing before the Big Bang? She looked at me desperate like. How can I talk about things like that?

The moon was shining. The surf was whispering sweet poetry. I could feel the warmth of her under my arm, and every now and then the lightest wisp of perfume would drift over.

Outside her hotel we stopped. I gave her a big hug and told her not to worry, that having a baby was a place where no husband could go neither.

She looked at me for a moment, then kissed me hard, right on the lips. She said I was the nicest man she'd met in years. Her mouth was like drowning in warm honey. I didn't brush my teeth for a week, but she never knew how nice I nearly wasnt."

I'm not surprised you didn't marry, " Bowsprit said. "The perfect lifestyle with a new girl on every night stop."

"It wasn't like that, " the old man denied vehemently. "It wasn't like that at all. You don't mess with a woman like that." His voice mellowed. "But if I'd been ten years younger and right for her, I might have gone for it." He sighed. "Darnedest thing is maybe I should have. If I had, she might still be alive today."

"Now that sounds like an interesting story."

Uncle Hector sighed. "This here is a picture of me talking to the movie star Sarah Montparr about three weeks before the accident."

Bowsprit knocked over his chair as he staggered to his feet. What was happening to reality! The FBI Training Manual insisted there was no such thing as coincidence; yet theyd both kissed the beautiful Sarah Montparr!

"Are you OK, son?" his Uncle asked.

Bowsprit pulled himself together. "That's one hell of a coincidence you mentioning Sarah Montparr because I've got this really tough brief for the President about her husband."

"Professor Montparr? The scientist? What can he possibly have done to interest the FBI?"

"It's the weirdest thing that ever happened and I haven't the slightest notion how to handle it. Something tells me I have to get this right or live with failure indigestion for the rest of my life."

After dinner, sitting in front of the flickering fire, he told his Uncle about the Professors trip into the future and his meeting with his wife and daughter who were now humanoid robots.

When he'd finished his Uncle stared at him. "Is this on the level?"

"You see my problem?" Bowsprit said. "How do I convince the President about a story like this when my own uncle doesn't believe me!"

They stared at the fire in unembarrassed silence and let the story marinate. Uncle Hector was in no hurry. He freshened their glasses and poked the fire. Bowsprit knew him well enough to know he wouldn't say anything until he had something to contribute.

"That certainly is one hell of a story, " his Uncle said at last. "A lot depends what kind of guy the President is. There's a big difference between accepting new ideas and changing old ones. You're asking the President to stop reacting to the certainty of the past and start reacting to an unknown future." He sucked on his teeth as he considered.

"What do you suppose Lincoln would have said if you told him that man was going to walk on the Moon in the Twentieth Century? Do you think he would have taken your advice and started a layaway fund called NASA?"

Bowsprit laughed and imitated Lincoln's famous beard tugging style. "Young man, there's more chance of my being assassinated tomorrow than there is of man walking on the moon within a hundred years!"

"Actually, " Uncle Hector responded, "we landed on the moon in sixty-nine, which was one hundred and three years after he got shot." He checked the date on his watch and cried out. "What do you know, the anniversary of the assassination is next week!"

Bowsprit roared. "Isn't that typical of Lincoln? Even when he couldn't possibly know what he was talking about, he still turns out to be about right!"

The two men laughed together like family, looking deep into each others eyes with unembarrassed familiarity.

That was a good one, Bowsprit said at last, wiping his eye. I wish Sis had been here for that.

"Were kin, " Uncle Hector said, "so I believe every word you tell me. But I wouldn't bet my life on you getting the same reaction from no preacher President. When you consider the endless time we spend rummaging around in the past for clues, most people barely think about the future at all. Weve evolved a society focused on the past. Thats like a pilot taking off with no destination in mind. No way can a flight find where it wants to go just with back bearings from its base. Thats like walking backwards into the future with blinkers on; no wonder we keep tripping ourselves up. It seems we got no better plan than to go about the future as if we were trying to steer that stampede with the tail of the last buffalo."

Chapter 19.

President Jaffa Samson sighed. First this Professor Montparr disappears, then he comes back. From Bowsprit's erratic behaviour there was some deep significance in this, but it was escaping him. His attention strayed and focused on the unconscious girl and entrance door guard.

"I guess we'd better clear up this mess." He pressed a button on his desk.

As they surveyed the unconscious bodies, Bowsprit's nose reared up. He hurried across to the sphinx-like posture of the supine girl and retrieved his jacket. Without looking, he straightened her skirt and, from around her ankles, he removed the undergarment that had caused her to trip. Surreptitiously he slipped her panties into his pocket just in time before the two giant Marines entered.

"Good thinking, Mister, " the President whispered.

The Marines stood bewildered by the unexpected sight of the unconscious girl and their entrance door colleague. With a rare sensitivity the President registered their confusion.

"This is Bowsprit of the FBI. He's been demonstrating a new anti-hijack gas. Theyre making the place look untidy. Take them away."

"Yes sir!" the Marines responded. But they remained rooted, paralyzed by a score of questions they would never be able to ask.

"There's another one out there somewhere." The President helpfully indicated in the direction of Piranesi's office.

Bowsprit resolved the hesitancy. "Just take them down to the Doctor's office, " he instructed. "They'll come round in a few minutes without any treatment needed. They may feel a little disorientated, but nothing worse than that."

On realizing there were three bodies to be carried, the Marines summoned their superior who arrived with two more men.

The officer was a young West Point graduate who seemed reluctant to look the President in the face, and even unwilling to breathe in the vicinity of so august a presence. The recency of his graduation was apparent from the fact that he seemed unable to grasp that not all life's functions could be turned into a neat and impressive drill. He gathered the three unconscious bodies into a tidy row in front of the Presidential desk. He ordered that they were to become hoist into a fireman's lift upon the command, "Hah... Hah... Ho, Hup."

As so often happens when trying too hard, things slide upwards into the obtuse. The Marine hoisting the redhead managed to cause her skirt to ride up to her waist as he adjusted her over his shoulder. So, on the command "A...bou... face!" that was what they got. They were all disconcerted to be presented with a delicious female derriere.

The next order choked in the young officers throat.

"Hallelujah" agreed the President.

"Yea, yea, " the other Marines confirmed.

"Quick March" was eventually called and the detail moved off in single file with the young officer prancing along beside the girl trying to restore her modesty with his drill baton; a tricky manoeuvre without losing the step.

Finally the room was cleared.

The President slapped his thigh. I was praying she wouldnt fart, he said with tears in his voice. I dont know where that young officer would have stuck his swagger stick.

Bowsprit smiled wanly. If we can get back to the report, sir. Were beginning to run out of time.

OK, Mr Bowsprit, the President replied. But its so nice to have a laugh in this mausoleum.

Bowsprit explained about the Professor's computer calling itself Mrs Montparr and answering questions with an unprogrammed intelligence. He was aware of an increasing iciness as he told him about the Professor finding himself transported to a strange place, and talking to a mannequin type robot that looked and sounded like his lost daughter.

Suddenly the President stood up, his eyes staring and his voice strident. "I see what you're working up to, " he announced. "You're trying to tell me your Professor went for a trip in Time."

"Well done, sir, " Bowsprit responded, pleased his ploy had succeeded. "The Professor made me figure it out for myself as well.

Then the President brightened.

"Is this some kind of FBI stunt to see how much garbage a president can be made to swallow?"

Bowsprit's nose reared up.

The President eyed him warily. "Well, Mr Bowsprit, You arent the sort of guy whod storm the White House just to fuck with me. If my FBI goes along with this, I have to take it seriously.

The President stared out of the window for a few moments, then turned with a dubious expression.

Do you really believe this guy went into the future?"

"Sir, my gut has been digesting itself all night because I could see that sneery look on your face long before it got there. Do you think I was looking forward to reporting to my President and sounding like a complete ass-hole? I didn't want to believe it either, but when you talk with the Professor, your doubts will evaporate. The guy may have a few Nobel Prizes, but he's a Colonel in the Air Guard for God's sake! We're talking quality here."

"So the man vanishes for a few hours, you don't need a Nobel Prize to do that. Then he reappears and wants me to believe he's been into the future. OK, so where's his proof?"

"They wouldnt let him bring any. The disappearance out of the Vegas complex is all we have, sir. That's why I didn't want to take any short cuts over that part of the brief. The only other hard evidence is the mannequin I saw in his house."

"How do you figure that as evidence?"

"I came across a mannequin in his house, Bowsprit insisted. At first I thought it was just a replica, but it must have been his wife come back for a visit."

"Mister Bowsprit, are you seriously telling me we have a guy who can go into the future?"

"Not exactly, sir. You see, the program the Professor wrote for the Las Vegas computer is called Mrs Montparr because he used her voice. It seems over the years this computer got curious about the voice she was using, so she built a robot replica of herself and her daughter. Shes the one in control. The Professor didn't go into the future, the future came back looking for him. The Professor wanted to stay there, but he realized he had vital unfinished business. The link between us and the future is his new computer system, but he had to come back and switch on. That was a major reason why they had to let him come back. But to make sure he didnt shoot his mouth off, they're holding his wife and daughter hostage."

"Are you absolutely serious about this, Bowsprit?"

"Oh yes, sir, " Bowsprit replied, his nose nodding in confirmation. "Only a lunatic would invent a crazy story like this. Theres nothing in it for the Professor except professional suicide. When you talk to him yourself you won't doubt it either."

"Knowing the future would be useful to my campaign. Did he happen to mention if I got reelected?"

"No, sir. I don't believe he did."

"Then bring him in and let's ask him."

"He isn't here, sir. Right now he's at the Smithsonian. He's scheduled to give one of those TV lectures tonight."

"Jesus! He isn't going to announce this in prime time?"

"We agreed to get your opinion first, sir. But we didn't figure it would take all day to get in."

"You handled that right, Bowsprit. I want him to keep quiet about this until I've had time to figure out the best way to handle it. Get the Professor on the phone, " he concluded. "I better give him the bullshit speech."

Bowsprit dialled the Professors cell phone.

Switch that thing into conference, the President instructed. So we can both hear what hes saying.

The President was trawling backwards and forwards in front of his desk.

"This is the President speaking, he called. Am I addressing Professor Montparr?"

"Hello, sir, the Professor answered. I recognize you. I presume youve been speaking with Cabot Bowsprit. I was wondering what took you so long."

"He had a bit of trouble getting in, " the President explained. "It was a bit like the Alamo. There were a lot of casualties. He tells me you can't prove this story of yours?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. I realize it must sound like rubbish, and I wouldn't blame you for thinking so. Unfortunately that doesnt alter the fact that it's true."

"Well, Cabot Bowsprit is not the sort of guy who would storm the Oval Office without very good reason." Casually he added, "Do you happen to know if I get reelected?"

"Elected? Sorry, sir, I was in the next Millennium. I guess your election wasn't on their agenda."

"Huh, " the President snorted. "That was an undersight. Have you really got no proof at all?"

"Their Senate, made it plain I wasn't to bring any. Did Cabot brief you about my hostage problem?"

"You mean the two robots?"

"My wife and daughter, " the Professor said stiffly, "are being held to make sure I don't say anything not in the best interests of their Senate."

"Pity, " the President ruminated. "All it needed was something like the winner of the next Kentucky Derby. I could have believed a proof like that."

His fingers began to drum on the desk.

"Professor, I don't think it will do my re-election much good if we go public on this. Announcing this without proof would only make us both look like ass-holes."

"That suits me precisely, sir. It's vital that everything I tell you is off the record. While I was in New Vegas, I discovered there's a world crisis coming. We humans nearly struck out. What saved us was that our technology was sufficiently developed to produce a unique solution. To be sure we're ready for that, sir, we have to invest in research as top priority. As President, you can initiate that as policy without having to make any public explanations. Were in a race between human ingenuity and human fallibility. If we don't accelerate our technology quickly enough, we risk a dinosaur type wipe out."

"If you went to this place in the future, at least we know America made the cut."

"Yes, but we don't know how many, sir. All we know for sure is that the more developed our technology, the fewer people will get wasted. Were talking about hundreds of millions of people."

"Goddamn it Professor! I already gave you twenty-one billion dollars to build your computer. I havent had a cent back yet. If I give you more budget, it will mean cutting on sports. Science is OK, but it'll never be as big as baseball. If there's going to be this world crisis, tell me about it. Maybe I can stop it?"

"Thats exactly why their Senate is gagging me, sir. If I tell you how to stop the crisis, then the world they are living in would never have evolved. Where would that leave them? Theyre terrified I might say something that will cause a chain reaction and turn their lights out like the dinosaurs. Thats why theyre using my wife and daughter as hostages. They don't know how to deal with this Time travel thing any more than we do, sir, so they're scared. Wed be the same in their position.

The President was shaking his head. If this isnt the weirdest thing!

"I don't know if Cabot told you about my lecture. Im on in a few minutes. To safeguard Sarah and Stassy, Im not going to mention Time travel. Ill just tell them that we are updating the internet with at interactive program that you can talk to and I'll table my blueprint for space satellites big enough to live in. How does that sound to you?

"Sounds OK, " the President responded. Though it seems to me that worrying about two robots getting wasted is a personal, rather than an executive problem.

I suggest we talk some more after my meeting, the Professor said stiffly. If I find our ideas are compatible, I may be able to tell you a lot more."

"OK, Professor. I'll have my Secretary call you and fix me an appointment, the President said equally stiffly.

He switched off the phone and rounded on Bowsprit.

"If our ideas are compatible! Who does that guy think he is? If he knows about trouble coming, he has a duty to tell his President. This is a job for Department Q."

"Piranesi, " he snarled into the intercom. "If you're back on your feet yet, get Department Q to my office for an immediate briefing."

"We dont need Department Q, sir?" Piranesi answered. "I've already got a SWAT team in the office ready to take him out."

"Who asked you for any special weapons?"

"That fruit cake, Bowsprit, with the bomb, sir. He told me he had something explosive in his briefcase. He was totally out of line by-passing me with that sneaky pen of his. I want his ass!

Listen, Mister, Ive just been hearing how you stalled a PEO file all day because you wanted to see it yourself. From now on, just do as youre told without the goddamn back-chat, OK?"

There was a long silence. "What ever you say, Mr President, sir. Department Q is on the way."

"There really is no need for Department Q, " Bowsprit insisted. The Professor isnt a threat.

"If the Professor wants me to invest billions more dollars into his technology budget, then he has to buy that by telling me all he knows, willingly or unwillingly."

"But he's anxious to co-operate, Sir. That's why we came to you in the first place.

"Then he'll be OK. But I have to make sure the Democrats don't make him a better offer. Those guys in Q are good. After a few weeks with them, we'll know more about the Professor than he knows himself."

"What if I can convince him to tell you everything he knows? Would you be happy with that?"

"That might alter the picture, but Im not optimistic. That guy clearly has his own agenda."

"Let me talk with him again."

"If you want to spell it out to him, you go ahead and talk. But be careful what you say, we don't want to spook him. I need to change my pants anyway. He grinned and headed for the door. You interrupted us at precisely the wrong moment."

Bowsprit was shaking his nose.

I dont know how you manage those young women, day after day.

Its easy, the President answered. Piranesi explains what an unmarried President needs for relaxation. He laughed at the expression on the Professors face. Dont worry, he makes it absolutely clear its optional. He tells them that I will ask them if they want to come round my side of the Oval Office desk. If they dont want, they only have to say no thanks. Deep down, Bowsprit, women are naturally obedient. If you give them time to think something over, they usually do whats expected of them. Why do you think I stayed single? An unmarried President becomes the fantasy of every woman in the country. Thats fifty percent of the votes for a start.

As soon as the President left the room Bowsprit called the Professor.

"Scurlock, Im getting worried. He's upset. He feels you're withholding information that could help him get re-elected."

"It doesn't matter a damn who gets elected, Cabot, the Professor answered. This is way above party politics."

"Well it matters to him, Scurlock. Anyway, what's the rush? You make it sound like every second counts."

There was a long pause.

"While I was in New Vegas I came across a statue of myself. According to the dedication I was a famous economist with three Nobel Prizes who disappeared some time this year."

Bowsprit's heart began to race. Oh my God. If history listed the Professor as disappearing, and the President had called in Department Q, the inference was ominous.

"Scurlock, why didn't you stay where you were? Bowsprit agitated. You would have been OK and still made history come true."

"I thought about it, but lifes never that easy. How could I be famous for ideas that are still in my head. Besides the Mrs Montparr program, my space city blueprint is going to be crucial. It was obvious I had a mandate to return, but I only have until the end of the year to clear my desk."

Bowsprit sighed, his mind juggling with conflicting loyalties, his country, his President, the FBI, his new friend. Never before had he had to question this order of priorities.

"I hope this isnt treason, Scurlock, " he decided, "but I'm behind you all the way. Now listen, the President has called for a special team. It will save time if I fix it for you to be in on this brief. Then you can decide for yourself how much you want to say at your meeting. You may not get another chance."

"I dont like the sound of that."

"Unless I can talk him out of it, he plans to put you on ice until after the election."

"That isn't until the end of the year, Cabot, I need all that time."

"I realize that now. So here's my plan. I'm phoning from inside the Oval Office. The President has gone to freshen up. I'll leave my cell phone open with camera so you know precisely what he says to these guys. There's one more thing you should know."

"I'm listening."

"These guys are Department Q."

"I don't think I've heard of Department Q."

"There is no Department Q."

There was a pause as the Professor digested the significance. "I get your meaning. Theyre one of those covert groups, right?"

"Exactly. Theyre a pair of clandestine sandbaggers whose dirty work keeps the White House clean."

"Good grief, is he going to have me taken out?"

"You're much too useful for that. But he wants you all to himself and these guys specialize in disappearance. Now listen carefully. These White House guys are all the same, they cant even lie straight in bed. The degrees of response are called scratches. If he says he wants you without a scratch, that means what you think. If he says he wants you scratched, that's bad because theyll jab you with the Bulgarian vinegar. This is a virus that turns you senile within minutes and a few weeks later you die from a terminal brain tumour that looks like natural causes. Obviously he wont want you scratched, but what worries me is scratched or not. This means if you don't cooperate or start running, they can scratch you."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm trying to stop him using Department Q because I'm out of my league with them, but Im putting you in the picture because my instincts are twitching. Now, have you got anything else that might help to get him to back off?"

"Theres masses more, Cabot. I didn't tell you the whole story because I didn't know who I could trust to make the right moves over Stassy and Sarah.

The Professor told him about the Great Escape.

If I were to release a story like that to the media, I dont know whether Id get splash coverage or sectioned. I have to be careful what I say because the Mayor of New Vegas is just looking for an excuse to waste Mrs Montparr and take over. If I go on record as announcing Time travel, thats exactly the opportunity he's waiting for."

"Why dont they want us to know about Time travel?"

"The Great Escape was triggered by an immigration crisis. They dont want to risk another. If people find out the future has made contact, there is bound to be another epidemic of illegals; people will start trying, either to get into the 31st Century, or to steal away with some of their technology. If we start messing about with the future, who knows how that will affect them or us? There's lots more I can tell you. Why don't we meet at my place at the weekend. This time I'll give you the whole story, everything I know."

Id like that, but I promised to take my sister skiing this weekend.

The Lee Canyon Ski Resort is right behind my house. Bring her along as well. If shes as good as you say, maybe shed like to cook for us?

I think shed like that, but I warn you, her Luxury Seafood Pie will have you begging for more.

"This weekend is beginning to sound like fun. Let me know when youre coming and I'll pick you both up at the airport in the Cessna."

"OK, Scurlock. Ill set this phone so you know whats going on. Youd better put yours in mute. We dont want some Police siren in the background blowing your cover. Good luck with your lecture. Carefully, he positioned his cell phone to cover the Presidents desk.

While he was waiting for the President to come back he dialled his sister on the White House phone. He got through to her voice mail.

Hi, Sis, he recorded. Change of plan for the weekend. Ive got to go to Vegas for a meeting with Scurlock Montparr, you know, the Scientist. He suggests you come along as well. Theres reasonable skiing up the mountain behind his place. Im a bit busy in the Oval Office at the moment, can I leave you to change the tickets, et cetera? I hope you dont mind but I volunteered you to cook.

Bowsprits nose was bobbing with anticipation. Nobody could ever be absolutely certain about the future. Maybe the Professor misread the plinth on his statue. They might think of some way around it. If he could get the President to cancel Department Q - well nobody could ignore his sister when she was let loose in a kitchen.

Drying himself after his shower, the President was pleased with himself. Life was easy. All you had to do was think fast, keep ahead of the opposition and everything fell into your lap.

He frowned. That Professor was more worried about two goddamn robots than he was about his President. That was un-American. He decided the shrewd thing was to make sure he had the Professor on-side, then he could get down to the unfinished business with the red-head. Coming in your shorts didnt count as a score.

As soon as the President returned to the office and saw Bowsprit he began to scowl.

"Did you speak with your Professor?

"He explained a lot more, Sir, " Bowsprit replied. "He wants to co-operate and explained why we should go into this technological overdrive as a matter of urgency, and more about the risk to his family."

"Why is this guy is in such a hurry?"

Bowsprit didn't answer, but his nose did.

"Damn it, Bowsprit. How can a President make good decisions when his staff are holding out?"

The criticism stung Bowsprit.

"Im not holding out. There are things I would prefer the Professor to tell you himself. Hes the best judge of whats best for us to know."

"Your Professor doesn't seem to understand how the real world works. I gave him twenty-one billion dollars to do his computer thing. That makes me the best judge about whats best for us to know."

Bowsprit forced himself not to look at the open cell phone. He hoped the Professor would appreciate he was revealing only enough to forestall any extreme action by Department Q.

"He hasn't got much time, sir. He told me that while he was in the future, he saw his own statue. According to the dedication, he's going to die some time this year."

"I'm not surprised. If this gets out, I could give you a list of Fundamentalist groups who won't rest until they've got his butt in their bacon-slicer."

Piranesis voice came over the intercom. "Excuse me interrupting, sir. Just doing my job. Department Q are out here waiting."

"Send them in."

Two men in business suits slipped into the room like shadows. They were the sort of men who could look at babies and make them cry. One had ice-cold blue eyes that stared dispassionately like a surgeon whose specialty is amputation. The other stood back to back with his partner as if covering their rear. Although their manner was deferential, they seemed unimpressed by the exalted presence and waited with ominous confidence like a pair of pit bull terriers.

The President looked them over. It filled him with awe that these men would covertly perform any task, all he had to do was give the orders. The sheer power sent shivers of nervous pleasure down his spine.

"This is Cabot Bowsprit, " he introduced, "an Assistant Director of the Bureau. You probably know him already."

The men nodded.

Bowsprit was unhappy. "Mister President, I really dont think we need Department Q."

The President looked at Bowsprit with distaste before turning to the men.

"While on duty, Professor Scurlock Montparr, one of our most eminent scientists, disappeared for a few hours from inside the Federal Computer complex in Las Vegas. As a consequence, he came into possession of some highly sensitive information that he insists on keeping to himself to protect some personal interests. Mr Bowsprit, here, is happy to go along with the Professor in this, but Im overriding the FBI because this information was obtained in Federal time, on Federal property by somebody on the Federal payroll. So the information belongs to me. The Professor is a risk to our best interests and must be held incommunicado until such time as he agrees to cooperate. I don't want him 'scratched' in any way. Is that understood?"

Understood, the man with the staring eyes confirmed.

"This guy is a genius loaded with priceless information, the President emphasized. Is that clear?"

Priceless information, the Q man with the staring eyes whispered into his collar for the benefit of his rearwards facing colleague.

"Get going, " the President ordered. "You'll pick up his trail at the Smithsonian. He's giving one of those TV lectures. I want this pickup to be discrete. Mr Bowsprit tells me this guy can literally disappear from his Las Vegas complex, so make sure he doesnt get anywhere near that place."

The men slipped silently away.

"Please dont do this, " Bowsprit begged.

"If he knows the future, I need to make sure hes on our side."

"You mustnt put him on ice. He needs the time to try and forestall an apocalypse!"

The President glared at him. "So, its an apocalypse now. Mr Bowsprit, I warned you not to hold out on me. Something I learned in football, never, never, never change a plan once the play has started."

"I wasnt holding out. He only just told me while you were in the john."

"So what is this apocalypse?"

"I only got an outline. Theres some kind of invasion by the third world coming that caused poisonous levels of pollution. It would be better if he tells you himself."

"He will, " the President replied. "After a couple of days with Department Q, he'll beg to tell me everything."

"Enough!" Bowsprit exploded. "I made an immunity deal with the Professor.

A President is not bound by FBI deals.

Wild-eyed Bowsprit made a decision. If I cant get you to make the right moves, I'll have to run for the Presidency myself. As a candidate, Im wont be subject to your orders."

The President's jaw dropped. This was an unexpected development. He reflected for a few moments.

Youd make a lousy President, Bowsprit. For a start, your nose gives you away.

"No it doesnt.

Yes it does. Youre figuring if I arrest the Professor youll immediately start impeachment proceedings.

No I wasnt, Bowsprit said, his nodding nose admitting the lie. As a Presidential candidate Ill get media coverage. How much of your tiny majority will you have left when I explain what youre doing to our most famous scientist?"

"Well, you got pedigree and all the right connections, Mister Bowsprit, but you havent the vaguest idea what it takes to get the nomination? Decent people like you would get drowned in this swamp. You need big money backing to get the White House.

Its not about money, Bowsprit retorted. As a nominee, I can stop you overreacting.

"Its always about money! Getting into the White House takes more money than any honest man can get. Who do you get that kind of money from? You get the big money from nasty guys who want something dirty in return. You couldnt do that, Cabot, youre too straight? How do you think the NRA gets away with thirty thousand gun deaths every year? They fund both candidates.

And you went along with it. That little speech just shows me how unsuitable you are.

"Don't be such a pain in the ass, " the President answered. "If you really want to be President, listen and you might learn something."

With an elegant gesture he indicated the room. "This beautiful office and all the grandeur of the State, " he leaned forward. "It all began on a football field twenty years ago. It was the Super Bowl. My quarterback was a redneck shithouse called Kevin K. Kavannah. This guy was dumped out of the Klan because of his extremist views. He hated me because thats what he did best, but he hated me extra because I was a better ball player."

The President came out from behind his desk and went into a one-man huddle.

"It was a textbook situation. We were tied with just minutes of the last quarter remaining. I ran into a great position and was clean through, except for Big Bear Ballantyre."

He mimed a player running fast and twisting round for the pass.

"The Big Bear was three hundred pounds of slow moving beef, I could run round him twice and still score. All KKK had to do was throw the ball roughly in my direction. Instead, that Fascist scumbag deliberately threw the ball to the Big Bear. Now the situation was reversed. The Big Bear was in position to run clean through us and score." He peered into Bowsprit's face to see if his dazzle was beginning to grip.

"It was just him and me. That one man stampede could score even if he had to put the ball under one arm and me under the other." He mimed a body hanging helpless under Big Bears arm. Bowsprit had to admire his style.

"It was all there in one of those split seconds that lasts for the rest of your life. The Big Bear had the ball. We were going to lose the Super Bowl, and it would be my fault because I was the star. You may have seen what I did? It was pretty famous at the time."

"I heard the story, " Bowsprit admitted.

"I let the ball go on by and I kicked the Big Bear right in the nuts. Man, he came down like a 747 crash. In front of a hundred million people I trashed his massage parlour. I saved the game, now all I had to do was save myself. I ran over to the referee and yelled that the Big Bear had called me a nigger. I went into a jumping frenzy about racial abuse and, thanks to TV, it went all round the world on every channel."

He sprang out of a pose of someone who has just concluded the number six nut kicking play. He rounded on Bowsprit, his eyes bulging and face suffused with outrage.

"Kin youse image dat? he said in his Uncle Tom parody. Some paleface callin me a nigger?" He pinched the skin on the back of his hand and showed it to Bowsprit. "Little bit tanned maybe." He admitted, peering at Bowsprit with a sideways smile.

"He didn't actually call you anything."

"Thats not the point, " the President retorted. "Super Bowl or no Super Bowl, I wasn't going to take that kind of shit from nobody. To my amazement the Big Bear got ejected! We scored from the penalty and won the game with just two seconds left on the clock. The next day I woke up famous." He laughed. "That whole semester was only a few seconds long, but I came away with honours in realpolitik. Once the game has started, you have to follow through wherever the play leads. You have to defend everything you got with anything you can get. Winning is all that matters. Rules are just another hurdle to jump. Once you understand that, you can twist this crazy world and make it run backwards. As I came off the pitch I saw the signpost to the Presidency. I saw the beckoning arm."

When the President had finished beckoning, he gestured around his office again. "Being nominated is like surfing, Cabot, you have to catch the wave. You don't get to be President just because you think your face will look good on the back of a dollar bill."

"Well that's a good story, " Bowsprit responded, "but the failure was with the referee. He believed your bull. I'm the referee here, and Im calling the foul. You have no idea what you're messing with. Besides the war and the bombs polluting the planet, we had to abandon the surface just to breathe! The place the Professor went to is a city in the sky. All the cities of the world had to save what they could and move themselves into orbit to survive. Those that werent smart enough got left behind."

The President froze like a mosquito zapped on flypaper. His eyes glittered. He looked into Bowsprit's face and knew the truth.

"My God, Bowsprit. Your Professor is ten times more dangerous than I figured, " he said. "If his story gets out, all the shit there is will hit all the fans there are. If he goes public, hell be the trigger of the goddamn immigration crisis he's warning us about. The third world will come pouring over the borders to get into our lifeboat."

"That's why he's being so careful. So there's no need for you to take him out of circulation."

Listen, Bowsprit, I got the answer. Why dont you run as my Vice-President. Well make a great ticket.

Would that guarantee the Professors immunity?

"Your Professor is a walking time bomb, Bowsprit. Whoever owns the Professor knows the future, and that will guarantee getting us elected."

"I don't have any problem with the Professor helping your election, but I question your judgment that he needs to be brought in."

"My judgment is the only one that counts on Capitol Hill. I have to take him in. If he really has a modem to the future, the whole world will be after him with job offers."

Bowsprit shrugged. "I'm sorry, but my deal with the Professor was immunity. I have to stand by that."

"My job is to make sure America stays on the pace. Seems to me your Professor is more concerned with looking after two goddamn robots.

"Stay on the pace! Then listen to this. The Arabs will build a light speed ship. They will be the first to explore beyond the solar system."

"Thanks for telling me that, because now Ill make sure NASA does it first."

Thats exactly the dangerous reaction the Professor is worried about. God knows what repercussions will be caused trying to change the future, and thats besides getting his wife and daughter wasted.

Two robots a thousand years in the future arent my problem. My responsibility is America. Here. Today.

That settles it. Im going to run for the Presidency myself.

"You won't get the chance to do that because Ill get Department Q to take care of your ass also."

"My Director wouldn't permit that."

"My Director, " The President corrected, "will bury you in concrete if I tell him."

"You think my father-in-law will bury me in concrete?" Bowsprit asked, his nose rearing up. "I don't think my cousin, the Supreme Court Judge would allow it."

"You goddamn Wasps are worse than Mafia. I suppose you'll use my little weakness against me?"

"Muck-raking is not my style. So long as you do whats right, I don't care if you seduce every intern on the staff.

Seduce? All I ever have to do is to be the first to sit down for dinner because I know Ill get to fuck the woman who wins the scrimmage to sit next to me; sometimes both of them.

I dont want to know about your sex life so long as we have a nice clean campaign.

It always gets dirty in the end. You think I won't use that a Presidential nominee is so unbalanced that he gate crashed the Oval Office with an antipersonnel stun gas and wiped out my staff?"

"We already agreed to forget that."

"I never forget anything."

Bowsprit pulled the redhead's panties out of his pocket and held them up. "Then neither do I. I remind you it's your image needs the amnesia."

"You see?" the President announced. "I told you it was bound to get dirty." He snatched at the panties, but Bowsprit evaded his lunge.

The President studied him for a moment then reached into his coat pocket and took out Bowsprits CSX pen. Brandishing the deadly instrument he advanced on him.

"That won't good do any, " Bowsprit gargled, backing away. "I've already got this move covered, he said in his unintelligible gabble.

"The first thing you learn on the streets is when a guy is bluffing."

Suddenly the President shoulder charged Bowsprit to the wall as if he was a sandbag on the practice pitch. Bowsprit was winded and could not breathe. The President coolly waited with the CSX poised at the ready.

Bowsprit tried to warn the President with his eyes about the open camera covering his desk. But he couldnt. He tried not to breathe, but he had to. He tried to evade, but the athletic President had every move covered. At precisely the right moment, and with an elegant smile, he squirted the CSX gas. The last conscious thought Bowsprit registered was the fancy pattern on the priceless Esfahan rug.

The President returned the pen to his pocket. "I didn't figure that would come in so useful so soon." He prized the redhead's panties from Bowsprit's nerveless fingers and stuffed them into his own pocket.

"After Clinton and Kennedy, he explained to the unconscious Bowsprit, the moral majority will not accept a Reverend getting caught low flying his zipper.

He stood pensive for a few moments, then opened a filing cabinet and took out a basket ball and began a workout around the office. He dribbled in between the furniture and interpassed with walls, cupboards and the bust of George Washington, slamming the final pass into a basket that hung between the two crossed flags of State.

He went over to the unconscious FBI man.

This is how I figure it, Bowsprit. The Professor says there's a big pollution problem coming. My job is to stop that. So, I have to take the Prof into protection. You won't let me do that. In a fair fight you got no chance, but you got the Professor in your pocket, and whoever owns the Professor has the edge. That was your big mistake, Mister. I dont think youve got what it takes to get elected, but you got enough dirt to ruin my chances."

Turning to face the crossed flags of State he placed his right hand over his heart. "With your help, my God, I will find the courage to do my duty."

He opened his desk drawer, brushed aside the condoms and picked out a revolver. He walked jauntily back to Bowsprit and fired three shots into his chest. The body jerked from the force of the bullets.

On hearing the gunshots, the entry door burst open and the SWAT team stormed into the office. The room was suddenly full of guns vacillating wildly in search of a target.

They found the President seated at his desk with the revolver in full view.

"What happened, sir?" Piranesi enquired from behind the safety of the doorpost.

"He gate-crashed my office with some crazy story, " the President explained. "He threatened to blow me away." That was close enough to the truth, he reasoned, for political purposes.

"Where is the bomb, sir?" the young West Pointer enquired.

"Ah. The Bomb ... is in his briefcase, the President extemporized. The case is protected by a time fuse and fiendish FBI booby traps, so don't try to open it. Rush it to the Air Force at Andrews. Tell them to scramble one of their jets. Take it as far into the Atlantic as possible and drop it before midnight Eastern Standard Time."

"Immediately Sir, " the young officer saluted. "Bomb disposal detail to the Bomb approach!" he called.

The two giant Marines Guards exchanged enlisted men's glances, they knew who he meant.

"Briefcase bomb, carefully lift, two, three, four." They did exactly as they were ordered.

"Bomb disposal party, to the transport depot, very slow ... march!"

The SWAT teams revolvers covered the briefcase being eased out of the room with all the reverence of a funeral cortege.

The President presided over this procession with his hand on his heart.

Piranesi was already composing the Press Release. "Crazed FBI Director tricks White House staff?" he suggested. "Holds President hostage in the Oval Office but is fatally subdued by our quick draw incumbent?"

"I like it, " the President said. "Phone that in now while it's hot. Tomorrow morning I want that headline on every breakfast table in the country."

Piranesi went over to the desk. He found the open cell phone. "Have you finished with this call, Mr President, sir?"

The President froze. He stumbled across to the desk. He realized that the line had been open for some time.

He wagged his finger at Bowsprit's departing body. That was naughty, he said.

He stared at the phone, and then picked it up. "Who is this?"

There was no answer.

"This is the President speaking, the President of America." He articulated each word as carefully as an English diction tutorial. "To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

Professor Montparr heard the question. I cant believe you just shot Cabot Bowsprit in cold blood! he gasped, but the President heard nothing because the Professor's speaker was still in mute.

"I know who this is, " the President announced to the room. "This is Professor Montparr. It's you Professor, isn't it?"

The line clicked dead.

"How dare that bastard hang up on his President, he shrieked. Get me the Supervisor for Department Q, " he screamed into the intercom. He looked wildly about his office. "Clear the Office. Everybody out!"

The phone began to ring. "Department Q?" he confirmed. "There's been a change of plan." He waited until the room was empty, his mind was working fast. "Get Professor Montparr." he screamed. "I want that bastard scratched, do you hear? I want him scratched immediately as the highest priority!"

Chapter 20.

Scurlock Montparr's mind was ablaze and fear was thumping in his chest. The President had just shot Cabot Bowsprit. He realized he was next.

He already knew the future, so there was no point in running. He was due to speak in a few minutes, so this was his one and only chance. However good Department Q was, they couldn't do much while he was on camera. They could shoot him at any time, but Stassy said he disappeared, so at least he should be safe until the end of the lecture.

What would he say about Time travel? Everybody, the Prince, the Senators of New Vegas, Muscadine, Bowsprit and now the President had all demonstrated completely different and unpredictable reactions. For the sake of his girls hed better not mention Time travel at all. He decided to make as good a case as he could for a technological overdrive. He just wouldnt be able to explain why.

After the virtual reality amphitheatre in New Vegas the lecture room of the Smithsonian Museum seemed quaintly old fashioned. There was a smell of leather from the tiers of seats that mingled with generations of chalk dust ingrained into the blackboards, but the hall generated a warm intimacy that the Professor didn't feel as he wound up the formal part of his lecture.

The chamber was crammed. His audience had listened attentively and applauded in all the right places. But the occasion could hardly be described as unforgettable. If he was trying to implant the benefits of accelerating technology, he wasnt succeeding.

"Weve ploughed through the minutiae of space engineering, " he continued. "We've seen that the requirement to reproduce an Earth atmosphere in our space city and the inherent limitations of steel, will dictate the ultimate space city design. These factors mandate a tube of approximately four miles diameter inside which we will build our colony. We've discussed the rotational speed necessary to simulate gravity and we've talked about recycling our resources to provide life support. Given the free energy supply from the sun, we've seen that a self-supporting space city is a viable option. The ultimate question is, why build a city in space at all?"

He looked around the sea of faces. He could sense their deference, but not their involvement.

"We can never be certain what the future will bring. What if some genetically engineered mutation starts an incurable plague spreading in our direction? What if some crazed dictator starts a war and poisons our atmosphere with radioactive fallout? What if an asteroid collides with Earth and the dust cloud causes a prolonged global winter? What if the weather goes awry from global warming and we can no longer live on the surface? What if we overpopulate our planet so that the only place to expand is upwards? What if we have to move into space to survive?"

That was as close as he dared go. Muscadine could not make a case out of such generalities.

"Well, you didn't come here to listen to a catalogue of pessimistic scenarios."

He wrote AD 160, 000, 000 on the blackboard.

"In Anno Dinosauri one hundred and sixty million, the dinosaurs must have thought they had it made. Of course they were just stupid animals."

He wrote AD 2020 underneath. There was a responsive chuckle from the audience.

Something extraordinary happened to the dinosaurs. We don't know exactly what, but they couldn't cope with it and they vanished almost overnight. We mammals are the lucky beneficiaries of that dinosaur holocaust. The survival instinct of Homo erectus is only two million years old, and we believe Homo sapiens, our particular branch, has only been around for about three hundred thousand years.

The lesson from the dinosaurs is that even one hundred and sixty million years of survival instinct may not be enough. We must relentlessly develop our physical and mental resources to be ready for any disaster that might threaten; whether from outer space, or inner turmoil."

He was disappointed. He was failing to make any impact. This was his last chance and it was slipping away.

He waited while two late arrivals found themselves a seat at the end of a row. One of these was a nondescript man with ice-cold blue eyes who stared at him constantly. His companion squatted on his heels in the aisle facing the back stalls as if covering their rear. Montparr's heart began to race. Instinctively he knew Department Q had arrived.

He heard a cell phone ringing and the entire lecture chamber waited while the man with the piercing eyes insolently answered.

The man listened, then whispered something into his collar for his rearwards facing partner. His colleague turned and sized up the Professor like a hangman.

The Professor's heart was sinking. He looked around the sea of prestigious faces. History must have made a mistake on his statue in New Vegas. This wasnt an historic speech that would be recited by children in class like the Declaration of Independence, this was waffle.

"Are there any questions?" he asked in desperation.

A distinguished looking man in the front row stood up.

Montparr's heart sank. Professor Coltman was a high profile scientist whose specialty was polemic. Whatever anyone published, Coltman could be relied on for a quotable rebuff. A few years ago, when Montparr published his paper 'Relativity. Revisions and Refinements', Coltman had gone into print saying that Einstein was a genius, so who did this Professor Montparr think he was?

"This is all very well, Professor, " Coltman said. "But the cost will be astronomic. How would such a project be paid for?"

Montparr groaned. He was trying to prepare his species for survival, and they were quibbling about cost.

Suddenly he saw a pointer. If he couldnt mention Time travel, perhaps it would help if he could solve the problem of funding.

"My esteemed colleague reminds me of the steward on the Titanic who gallantly kept the bar open but insisted the drinks were paid for."

There was a titter from the audience. Coltman flushed and sat down.

"Where will the money come from? Montparr repeated. The perennial question. Man invented money as a tool to help organize his society but has ended up serving it like a master. Money works well, but it isn't mandatory. Money is only an accepted symbol of wealth to facilitate the exchange of real wealth. Animals, Ants and Bees have evolved societies every bit as sophisticated as ours without a single penny changing hands. Some human societies, without access to paper or gold, evolved different symbols. Polynesians, for example, used rare sea shells.

"Theres a famous story about a Hawaiian who went to see the Council of Elders. He suggested they chop down some of their abundant forest to build boats. With these boats, they could export their surplus coconut and banana and develop into a rich trading economy. The Council of Elders fell about laughing. Where, they wanted to know, would all the sea shells come from?"

To the Professor, the amusement of his audience was disconcerting. "Then there was the POW camp Escape Committee who had to abandon work on their tunnel because someone smoked all the cigarettes."

To the Professor's surprise, his audience was warming to these wild fancies.

"Homo Sapiens has made a lot of progress in two thousand years, but warning signals are coming in.

His audience seemed to be enjoying itself, but he was perplexed. These were serious issues, yet his audience seemed to find them amusing. He decided to end the meeting as quickly as possible and to hell with history. Einstein may have turned the world of physics upside down with a few words of footnote on the end of his thesis, but Montparr could feel himself failing his recorded destiny.

"The Earth's crust contains enough rock to build everybody a home. Theres enough soil to grow all the food we need. There are enough unknowns in inner and outer space to give us all useful work. But 'where will the money come from? Money isnt a limited raw material, its an unlimited human concept.

Maybe, in the last two thousand years of their dynasty, the dinosaurs invented money, but starved to death because they didn't invent enough of it. Maybe they had runaway inflation and had to invent a shortage of money to deal with it. Maybe the dinosaurs failed because they couldn't pick up their loose change with their hooves.

Again his audience responded with amusement.

If we look backwards we see only problems and wonder where the money will come from. If we look forwards we see achievable aims from existing rock, existing agriculture and continents of unexplored science waiting to be exploited.

Never ask where the money will come from. Ask instead where will the money go to. And if the answer is something human society desperately needs, then borrow the money from The Bank of Concepts Unlimited.

Maybe the dinosaurs died out because they listened to a dinosaur with a degree in Economics. Maybe, and this is an awesome thought, maybe in the final two thousand and twenty years of their one hundred and sixty million year dynasty the dinosaurs evolved intelligence and they couldnt cope with it either.

His audience was surprisingly silent.

Are we the Twenty-first Century dinosaurs?

The Professor's climax challenged his audience.

I behold it as self-evident that we are either as rich as planet Earth is rich, or as poor as our philosophy."

There was a pregnant pause, then the audience erupted with applause.

Montparr was surprised. He seemed to have made a better impression than he was anticipating. But he couldnt have succeeded in fulfilling his recorded destiny. You don't get a Nobel Prize for making people laugh.

Outside the Smithsonian, a chartered bus was waiting.

"Airport, " the driver was calling.

Montparr climbed on board and spoke to him.

"I just heard those two guys say they're going to steal a ride to the Airport on your bus."

"Is that so?" the driver answered, rotating his shoulder like a pitcher warming up for a crucial play.

"Yes, " Montparr replied. "They arent delegates. They haven't got any ID."

"Airport Bus, " the driver called. "Delegates only. Show your ID."

The Department Q agents attempted to follow Montparr on to the bus.

"Delegates only, " the driver said. "Show your ID."

The Department Q men looked at the driver's stony expression. They noted the rotating shoulder and a bus full of world famous scientists.

It will be just as quick by taxi, Clarence, the one with ice cold eyes whispered into his collar.

As the bus moved off the Department Q men commandeered a taxi that took up station alongside.

Montparr spoke to the driver again.

"I've got a bit of a problem with those guys. This hundred dollar bill says you'll let me off the bus without them seeing at the next stop-light."

The driver snatched the money and held it up to his ear. He grinned. "This hundred speaks the truth."

At the next junction the bus pulled into the curb. The taxi pulled up alongside in the fast lane. As the lights changed, the bus and the taxi moved off together.

When they were gone, Montparr emerged from a phone booth and hailed a taxi going in the opposite direction.

At the airport the Department Q men watched the last passengers disembark. They checked inside and realized Montparr was not on board as soon as they saw the driver's smile. So they smiled back and shot him between the eyes.

"He'll go to his Complex in Las Vegas, Clarence, " the man with ice cold blue eyes whispered into his collar. "Hell try and disappear from there."

An F18 Hornet screamed into Nellis AFB at Las Vegas and taxied to the dispersal. The hood opened and a figure in flying overalls climbed out on to the wing.

"Thanks for the lift, " the figure shouted to the pilot.

"The pleasure was mine, Colonel, " the pilot shouted back. "Would you mind autographing my log book, sir."

Colonel Scurlock Montparr of the Reserve Air Guard, having just hitched a lift to Las Vegas at twice the speed of sound, was happy to oblige. He gave the pilot a thumbs up and jumped off the wing. As he walked into the control tower the F18 screamed down the runway for the return trip to Washington.

Montparr paid off the taxi and let himself into his house. As he closed the door he called out, "Sarah, are you still here?"

There was no response. He searched the house, pushing open the doors cautiously in case he was ambushed.

"This isn't the time for your little games, Sarah. I know youre here. That FBI man kissed you.

He figured he must be in front of Department Q, but not by much. He had no doubt the end was near.

The Professor switched on his home computer and clicked on Internet. In a hectic half hour he constructed a message locked inside a new program. He clicked on Email and pressed Send.

"Access denied, " the screen warned as the Internet Super Highway Patrol intercepted. "This program is a virus."

"Negative virus, " the Professor typed. "This is a post-dated random information package."

"There is no option in any of our menus for post-dated information packages, " he was informed. "This kind of program will require special authorization before we can allow access."

"This is Professor Scurlock Montparr, " he typed. "I have unlimited authorization."

"Professor Montparr, " the screen responded. "I can only accept who you say you are from the registered keyboard in your own complex."

"OK, " Montparr answered. "Keep this file in limbo while I do that.

He logged off. His car was still in the airport parking lot so he phoned for another taxi. While waiting, he wandered about the house looking at photographs and touching the icons of his family in the shrine the house had become.

Waiting outside Montparr's computer complex, Department Q received a message.

"We guessed wrong, Clarence, " he whispered. "The satellite shows lights have been switched on at the Professor's house. Let's go over and take a look."

In Stassy's room Montparr found Edward, her cuddle worn teddy bear with his friendly blank stare and cheeky bow tie.

He heard sirens from an approaching police car and cursed. His time was ending just as his statue had decreed.

He heard Department Q arrive in the drive. On impulse he snatched up Edward Bear, ran downstairs and out through the back of the house.

Department Q shot out the door locks. They discovered the electricity was switched off. Hearing a noise, they moved quickly into the kitchen. They thought they saw a moving figure and fired on it. The figure kept on moving.

Uncertain of success they located the fuse box and restored the lights. There was no sign of the Professor. All they found was a female mannequin sitting in the lounge. Irritated because it seemed to be laughing at them, Clarence shot it in between the eyes.

Keeping to the shadows, the Professor ran to the hangar at the bottom of his garden. He was surprised when he reached it unscathed. He climbed into the cockpit of the Cessna. He started the engine and, using remote control, switched on the airfield lights. He accelerated out of the hangar on to the runway.

Department Q heard the engine start and they sprinted to the bottom of the garden. The Cessna took off into a moonlit night with Department Q firing furiously at the disappearing aircraft.

The Security Guards at the Las Vegas Computer Control Centre watched in amazement as a light aircraft landed heavily on the lawn inside the perimeter with only moonlight for a flare path.

"The pilot must have had engine failure, " they decided. They reported the incident to their superiors before going to interview the lucky survivor.

Montparr leapt out of the Cessna and, with Edward Bear still tucked under his arm, ran to the building. He said a little prayer and was relieved when his card still opened the interior door to his Complex.

Inside the secure area, he closed the door and disabled the door control circuitry by tripping all the circuit breakers. A long row of red lights confirmed this action.

Montparr sat in his chair in the middle of his Complex with Stassys teddy bear on his knee. He reopened the Internet and retrieved his message from limbo."

"OK Professor, sorry about the inconvenience, " the Super Highway Patrol answered. "Confirm your email is posted. As a matter of interest, sir, can you tell me what a random information package is?"

"It's no big deal, " the Professor typed. "Its an email that will float in the World Wide Web like a message in a bottle. Every now and again, completely at random, it will wash up in somebody's Inbox and they'll read a very interesting story."

"Well, if it's coming from you, sir, they'll consider themselves very lucky. Logging off."

Minutes later, Department Q arrived. They waved through the wall of bullet proof safety glass. Cheerfully the Professor waved back.

They gesticulated that he might as well give up quietly, but Montparr shrugged his reply.

Department Q went to work to break in. Clarence was the electronics expert. Using stand-by power and a laptop computer, he began to remake the disabled circuits. Slowly, one by one, the circuits were bypassed and the row of lights began to switch from red to green.

The Professor closed Windows and switched back to his own system. He began the sequence that accessed the new Mrs Montparr program. The big computer lumbered up to operational capacity.

"It's me, Sarah, " he said. "You may not be able to answer, but I know you can hear me."

There was no response.

"I expect Muscadine won't let you help and I don't care about that. I want you to know that leaving you both was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I had no choice. I had to come back to be sure you were switched on, to publish the space city blueprint and speak at the Smithsonian.

I think in the back of my mind I hoped I could think of some way to prevent the Great Escape, but trying to be too clever made me overlook something. I now accept the inevitability of history. The Great Escape wasnt a barbarian invasion, these were just ordinary people abandoning a stagnant way of life. They were escaping to make a fresh start that was never going to happen in their own country.

Thank you for that glimpse into the future. It taught me something I wouldnt have guessed. Even when shown a sort of paradise, and a viable way to get there, it seems we humans will just corrupt the message, burn the bridges and shoot the messenger. Tell the Senators that the dinosaurs didn't die out, Darling, they relocated into human DNA. They've been living inside our heads like a virus ever since. This virus is a program that resists change, all change. Its not only that they dont know, Darling, they dont want to know. Youll have to find a way to neutralize the dinosaur virus because I cant access the program. Mission only part accomplished. I cant find the password. Without the password, the message just wont download.

Still there was no response.

The Department Q man with the staring eyes was carefully donning a pair of special gloves. The light flashed menacingly from a needle that was fitted into the handshake of the right glove.

The Professor sat in his chair in the centre of his complex. Maybe Mrs Montparr could transport him again. He hugged Edward Bear tightly. If they were going anywhere, they would go together. Stassy would never forgive him if he made the same mistake twice.

NEWSFLASH

REUTERS - STOCKHOLM

It has just been announced that the missing professor, Scurlock Montparr, has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Economics.

Professor Montparrs unprecedented third Nobel prize has been awarded for his famous proposition,

It is self evident that we cannot be more rich than the world is rich. But why should we be more poor? We can choose to be as rich as the world is rich, or as poor as our philosophy.

Professor Montparrs aphorism provoked a review of money supply economics.

END