BOOK ONE: ETCHEONDA.........................

Introduction............................................A. Valentino

Etcheonda: The Search For Home...........Rj LeBlanc

Purple Afternoons...................................Jason Redbeard

Excursion to Andromeda........................Jason Redbeard

Etcheonda or A Boy and his Troll...........Jason Redbeard

The Apple Orchard................................Jason Redbeard

Do You Remember England..................Jason Redbeard.

Voyager................................................Jason Redbeard

Travels Within the Electro-plane............Jason Redbeard

Fragment From A Broken Sea ..............Jason Redbeard

BOOK TWO: A GARDEN FOR DRAGONS............et al ...

Tony by the Sea.......................................Jason Redbeard

-photos by A. Valentino and R. White-

Forward:

Scene:
Montello Street, Provincetown. About 1979

I gazed at the morning sun burning thru the branches
of that centuries old tree.
And saw you once more, against the background of light
softly streaming through your night clothes.
Gently accenting yesterdays innocence.

                                                           A. Valentino *1.

*1.  "This thought was an image which came to me after reflecting on a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti in: "A Coney Island of The Mind” -  “Away above a harbor full of caulkless houses . . . ” by  Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

            Etcheonda: The Search For "Home, or at Least A Shop on Go By Street . . ."

Lord Dunsany, master writer extraordinaire from another century in his book "At The Edge of the World" takes us down lonely alleyways to find an escape at “The Shop On Go By Street”.

There, at The Shop, we discover a mysterious shopkeeper whose store contains the wonders of  times past including those oyster shells from which the the Gates of Paradise derive their pearls. . . Through the windows of the upper floors of the shop we can see “The Fields We Know” in one direction and “The Fields We Know Not” through a different window. If we are tactless in our conversation with the Shopkeeper he will dismiss us and send us promptly on our way, but if we provide him with the right question, properly asked, then we may be in for an interesting adventure.

I have searched numerous narrow alleyways in Europe and many backstreets and country lanes of New England for a shop like the one on “Go By Street” but I've never quite found it. In East Hampton, Ct., there is or was “Harold Bradford’s Place” which used to have a rusting, hand-welded  submarine lying in the backyard, the product of an Italian immigrant who was going to use the sub to return to Italy one day.  Harold’s unusual store has a bit of the atmosphere that one imagines “The Shop” to have had. Unfortunately the sub has turned to rust and Harold passed away several years ago.

But then there was “The Shop For Dreamers” run by shopkeepers Arnie and his wife Marilyn. There was magic  in that shop at a side alley near the Muse in Provincetown in the late 1960’s with the music of the Beatles spreading from the East Coast to the West.

We "curiousity seekers" search to discover a place -- places in the world where we feel comfortable, where we belong. I think that many of us, children of immigrant ancestors, or those of us who were displaced from our neighborhoods when we were young children, are searching for something lost long ago. So too, like many others we are on a hunt to find ourselves and our places in the universe.

Each of us are the composite genes of a lot of folks. That doesn't help much in the search to understand who each one of us is, but at least it lets us know how difficult the problem is. There are just too many details, too many turns in the road to define us satisfactorily. All we can do is collect material that relates to us, the stories of some family branches, the fragments and questions of other branches, the art and artifacts of our life. We can write them down and pass that on to the next level, the next generation of us . . .

I feel that individually we are composites of all of our families, our ancestors and their histories, including both their joys and tragedies, but added to that are our own unique experiences. I doubt that anyone could add up all the various artifacts in our lives and come up with a single answer as to who or what any one of us are.

Probably -- to the Cosmos -- it matters little that the whole of humanity exists for that matter. Yet to each of us, each part of our lives, each ancestor and story is a precious fragment of the puzzle of who we are. And, if we accept the religions of our ancestors the Universe is not cold or impersonal but a benevolent place wherein our souls and those of our ancestors go on forever. But, no one knows for sure.

And so each personal hunt continues, the maze expands, the mystery of our existence goes forth, while we search and record the events of our past, and present, perhaps to excite the imaginations of others so they too might continue the quest for knowledge and understanding.

Or is our quest simpler than that . . .  Is it the need for the Exile to return to his source. In "Basquerie" by Eleanor M. Kelly her romantic Estaban talks of the "Etcheonda" . . . "the etcheonda is our home, our abiding place, no matter how far we come to it .

In Germany it is called the Stammhause; in America - it is not called at all . . . The etcheonda is the home to which one of our families belongs from generation to generation; where all the sons may bring their wives to live when they are done with roving; to whose shelter every member of the family has his right, and to which all pay tribute . . .”

Often the artist attempts to create that special world -- his or her own “Shop On Go By Street” or “Shop For Dreamers” or the landscape of that childhood that lies just beyond their reach, and perhaps spends a lifetime creating images, trying to “get it just right. My son Antone found his "shop" in a rundown second-hand store in Meriden, Ct. Later we visited "The Shop For Dreamers" in P-town, and then he found his own places through his writings and his art.”

So we quest, for one reason or another, writing, painting, sculpting. . .  What does it matter!  We continue -- we search on and on for our own “Shop on Go By Street. . .”

On December of 1995, "Etcheonda: A Shop For Dreamers" came to life as an installation at Wesleyan University’s Campus Center. There several individual artists gathered to share their work, including kinetic sculptures, time-machines and so perhaps to reveal some of their inner visions in the search for their own Etcheonda’s . . . .
 

        Rj LeBlanc as Captain Jason Redbeard

"Vale Wanderer!"

              Purple Afternoons

Come into purple afternoons with me
 Redsands
  for solemn twilight skies.

Bleak, sluggish clouds
  soon come
   scudding overhead
Weather for the brave soul,
  some flyers too.
Beckons lightning bolts,
  beware highflyer:
For they speak sternly
  evening star.
Oh! the song of the bright skies
 Winds are dying
   as clouds drift away.

Dark ones sing
  to trees of green.
Hands lift into skies,
  fingers pointing.
Rivers,  their songs stilled forever,
  And for nothing . . .
    gentle drummers fled.
 

Wind seems to say -- stand still
 armies of men lay down your weapons
  for a better world or sleep forever,
              beneath the clear sky with dancing clouds.

Midnight snowflakes
  drift  in quiet dancing melodies.

Let bells ring afar with forboding:
  Many have died!
   Harlequins are singing --
    Mothers weep
     to the funeral band.

Attention! Oh those who yell with venom
  for the lives of the strangers at hand.

Men here and women - -
  heads held high with blind eyes,
   those waiting anxiously for the sea.
Do not hesitate to leave the sands - -
  Walk away!
   With still unanswered questions . . .
 

Speak out! Oh, wind . . .
 I yearn for quiet-times.
  We listen
   till you have sung:

Do not take
 the one I love for death . . .
  until later --
   when we both shall go . . .
 

          Jason Redbeard.

.

  For most of my life, ten years at that time, I had lived with my family in the country among rolling hills and fields. So it was great to be going on an excursion. And what an excursion! A field trip to Tau Episilon with my uncle Charles, who was not only a naval officer but a great guy as well.  Less than a month earlier I had done a report on the ancient ruins of Epsilon and Dad had suggested that a visit to the site might be in order. And as Uncle Charles made frequent trips out and back it was arranged that I should accompany him, and now we were actually going.

 Mother packed us a “picnic lunch”, enough for a week actually, and there were hugs all around. Then Uncle Charles and I were off to meet his friends in New Haven.

 We left Newington at 7AM by horse and coach, travelling down RT-10 past the miles of plowed fields, forests, streams and countryside. It took us most of the morning to reach New Haven and I was excited to be in a big town for the first time.
 I won’t go into the details of all we saw at this time but you can bet that my head kept turning from one thing to another.

 We arrived at the docks and the steamer Arcturus which to me was an enormous sea-going vessel, though I now know it was only a very small and private research ship. Climbing up the gangplank Uncle Charlie took me below and showed me where  to stow our gear and then we went out for a tour of the ship. Most of the vessel was below the waterline, huge engines to propel us through warp space and smaller engines for the movement through water. I’ve heard the theories of how the FTL drives work but I’ve never completely understood them, so I’ll leave that alone.

 About an hour later the ship’s bells sounded and we were underway. Uncle Charles put me in the hands of the steward and I and several other passengers were led to the observation platform where we strapped in and watched as the ship pulled away from the docks, people waving at us, and headed out to the channel.

 Past the breakwater the ship lifted on hydrofoils and moved out into Long Island Sound. On the tv monitor I could see the “rooster” spray we left behind. A short while later, maybe half an hour, the FTL engines came on with a throbbing pulsation, kind of relaxing. The horizon line grew wavy, shimmered, blinked and went out.

 The sky was now completely dark but for the bright fields of stars and the glowing Earth below. My mouth must have dropped open in amazement. Of course I’d seen pictures on holo but somehow knowing it was real made a difference.

 I know now that this part of the trip was only made for us passengers and was not needed for the excursion. In quick succession we moved past the moon, orbiting once, then on the Jupiter, Saturn, and Neptune. Then we blinked again and the sky was full of Andromeda, just hanging there like an enormous pinwheel in the sky. My stomach got queasy then. I mean, I didn’t get sick or anything but there was a tickle.

 Here too we bounced in, passing several large planets, and binary stars, again just for us passengers. And finally we were down on the man made lake of Tau and such a flat desolate lake with just the rim of craters in the distance.

Finally we pulled in to dockside and I could see the ancient pyramids from the quay. Wow! they looked old. But just as exciting was the modern city that had grown up around them, from the original expedition they say. It was a beautiful sight and I thought of “Emerald City” from the Wizard of Oz.

My eyes didn’t know what to look at first, the old or the new. So I satisfied my desires by bouncing back and forth looking at first one, then the next.

 It was a mystery, the old pyramids, obviously built by a people long gone, ages ago. But the bigger mystery was the absence of any artificts. This question more than anything had brought scientists and theorists from all nations to the site. For years they examined every centimeter of the place and there were hundreds of Phd theses exploring the reasons for the missing people and their vanished culture. If the “Vanished Ones” had just picked up and moved, they took everything, every tiny bit of stuff with them. But why had they been so thorough and where did they go? Of course those questions were the mysteries of our times.

 There were three cities here, the old city which had built up around the pyramid discoveries, the new city which had commerce and a flourishing culture and the ancient city. We spent much of our time in the new city since that was the place where people lived, worked and ate.

The old city was mostly for after hours and the entertainment there was strange to say the least. Certainly not the place for ten year olds, at least from the viewpoint of adults. But to a kid it was fabuluous -- a running geek show. I learned more about “adult” nature there than I had learned in the past ten years. But Uncle Charles kept a close eye on me, said that some of the Dromen workers  had a yearning for “young stuff” which at the time didn’t mean much to me.

We went out, Uncle Charles and two of his buddies and I to see the sights and we had a wonderful time in the old city, traveling from one bistro to the next. Uncle Charles said it would be good for my education and I had no objection. But there several of bistros that he wouldn’t go to even when his buddies teased him about keeping my “ears” pure. He laughed, but we didn’t go to those places.

Years later, as an adult, I went back and tried to find what I’d missed, but things had changed. The old world had merged with the new city - redevelopment - they called it, and there was nothing left but a few sleazy bars. But on that day the smoky bars, the dancing women, men too and . . . other things had my head turning so much that my neck got stiff. We all laughed a lot and Uncle Charles and the guys drank too much.

Soon it wasn’t funny anymore and they were beginning to make me nervous. Then Ben got sick and started throwing up. Uncle Charles and his friend Dick carried him off to the bathroom and I sat there at the table by myself, trying to pretend that I was older than I was and could handle this thing, but I was scared among all those strangers.

About this time a short, dark skinned Droman came by and sat down next to me.  “Like another drink kid?” he asked. Thoughts of Dromen who “liked young stuff,” pounded into my head and I began to panic. The Droman reached out and put his hand around my arm. “Don’t be nervous little one,” he said with a smile and a wink, which did just the opposite by making me twice as nervous. I looked up for Uncle Charlie but in the smoky room I didn’t even know which direction they had gone. ‘I . .. I’ve got to find my Uncle,” I blurted.
“Don’t worry,” said the Droman, “You’re safe with me.”

His hand slid from my arm and I waited until his attention wandered from me and then I slid down the chair to the floor beneath the table and scampered across the grungy floor to the next table, causing laughter from the women sitting there. Suddenly the droman appeared, squatting down. “Come on up here,” he said pointing a beckoning finger at me. At that I bolted, stood upright, banging my head on the edge of the table and diving straight into the crowded dance floor, passing by couple after couple, looking desperately for the door to the bathroom.

First door I came to I slammed it open and dove through. Stumbling on the top step I did a flip in mid air and landed on my backside in a back alley. Unfortunately I wasn’t alone. Three dromen sitting in a circle looked up from their little campfire. “Hey now! What’s we got here,” said one of them. I reached for the door but it was locked solid. As one of the dromen got up and started for me I took off down the alley.

“Hey kid! We won’t hurtch ya,” he yelled, amidst laughter, but I kept on running.

 He stood alone in the cavern. His decayed heads surrounded him on poles stuck in the damp earth, reminders of the battles he had lost to the troll. Jeremy shuddered. He relived each time the troll had driven a blade through him or severed his head with a mighty swing. He had enjoyed his share of victories, too, but the troll had quietly disposed of those trophies. Today he felt, deep within, that he would win. Luck was with him. Secure in his armor, he moved forward, sword raised. The bell rang and he was back at his seat.at school.

  Chattering children moved past him on their way out. Jeremy grabbed for his books, and shuffled them under one arm. He jostled his way into the aisle, and blended into the mob as it flowed through the halls to the outer world.
 Once outside, the boy quickly outdistanced the pack. He raced across the road to a field and onto a familiar path that led into the woods that separated the school and a church from the town center.

 But then, as he crossed the noisy brook and started down a dirt road that led to his home, the boy's steps slowed and he found frequent opportunities to explore secret places along the way. Here was an old tree trunk that served as a hideaway and further on, a small pond where he could launch a pirate ship and sail her across the world. Though, with each step he took toward the house of his birth, slow-fear kindled inside his stomach at the thought of getting there. Finally, when he could no longer avoid looking up, the boy stopped before the house on the edge of town.

 It was a faded white-stucco with great patches missing from the the walls; one corner sagged, looking like it might crumble into rubble at the least provocation. He stood at the dirt crossroads looking at the place, thinking of the warmth it had once held; but now, for him, there was only emptiness, faded memories of a life he had once known. There was a time when his mother and father were alive, people who laughed and loved him, not the strange uncle who stumbled home late at night to beat him in a drunken rage, and an apathetic aunt who didn't care. Often Jeremy felt like a stranger himself, a prisoner in a world gone sour. Now, through a side window, the boy thrilled at the amber-yellow light that afforded him a glimpse of the hominess that once was.

 Light from the kitchen, filtered through old, faded curtains, thin stringy curtains, grey with lack of care or cleaning. By switching his weight from one foot to the other, the boy's vantage point changed through enough degrees that he could rock the kitchen light in and out of vision; at one point cut off by the window's edge, then back again as he shifted.

 Each movement churned his insides as the light of past times brought him hope, only to fade as he moved to the other foot and lost the light, lost it as it narrowed to a thin sliver and vanished. Then there was only the house, with the other windows dark and grim, bringing a lurch to his stomach, a feeling like his insides wanted to curl up inside him and...

 He took a step toward the house but immediately retracted it -- wanted to move instead in the opposite direction, to take the dirt road leading away from the house, away from town into the woods. Yet, he could not move from the spot, caught as he was by the power that came from within the stucco structure, a mingled call that held both hope and despair.

 Then there was his younger brother Ned, only eight. He couldn’t leave the boy alone to face that gloomy place and that . . . man and woman who had invaded their home. Anger grew within Jeremy, anger at the forces that had taken his mother and father and anger at the people who had usurped their places. This image roused in him enough strength to take a step backward, away from the house; and that step accomplished he took another and two more and finally, turning, he ran in full-motion down the road toward the pine-wood forest.

 Here he felt a freedom,  a thrill of hope and escape as he followed the bright, scuttling. stream deeper into the density of the woods. Safety closed in around him, insulating him from harm, from “Them.”

 Breathing deeply, pains came to his chest, tingling pains that felt good as the tenseness left him, allowing cramped muscles to stretch and live. Now he became lost in the story of the stream, its movement along the mossy bank, the cascading of water from one level to another, the soothing quietness, the gentle music of the dripping from within small caverns which he stooped to explore, to imagine as miniature worlds. Here lived magical creatures, inch-high trolls and scaly dragons who did battle with each other every day. One time the troll was victor, the next day the dragon won. But the battles continued, day after day, year in and out through the centuries.

  Sometimes the boy was the dragon or at other times he was a knight, holding his enchanted sword tightly clenched as he entered the fearsome cavern. Slithering things moved across his way, threatened his life but the sword cut through them, halving the threats, which then, as two entities, slithered away in opposite directions, there to hiss their vengeance from behind piles of rock.

 The knight came to a halt and listened for the sound. He heard it in the distance, the grunts, guttural-noises and growls of the beast.

  A cold chill ran through him: the troll was home. Now the knight longed for the warmth of his cloak as cold and damp echoed his fear of the loathsome beast that spilled human flesh.

 But, with each stride measured and calculated, he moved ahead, sword uplifted, ready for the deadly battle. One foot went forward, a slithering mass moved beneath it, throwing him off balance as it twisted, squealing, from beneath him. He pulled back, tripped on mossy roots that had tangled around the other foot and he fell sideways into the darkness, hands outstretched to protect his face from sharp rocks and. . . dropped the sword. It fell from his grasp, clanking as it tumbled among the boulders.

 The edge of a stone caught him at the side of his head, stunning the knight, who was the boy who lay beside the river. The knight searched frantically for the weapon and knew it was lost. His other self, the boy, fought too, trying to break the contact between his imaginary self, to pull free from the image and move back to reality.
 Laughter roared from the troll as he sensed helplessness and came to take advantage of the knight’s misfortune. The boy-knight scraped fingers across rough stones, under boulders, searching for the sword and found nothing. Gutteral sounds filled the darkness as a monster's form raced ever closer.

 The boy-knight's hand found the handle just as light from the troll's torch lit the walls and surrounding area. It was too late; the troll stood next to him. The knight turned to face his enemy, though the weapon still lay trapped.
 He tensed in expectation of the ragged-teeth that should, quite soon, chomp into his throat, of the hands that would rip his arms from his torso and strew his remains from one section of  the cavern to the next.
 "Oh, you've lost your sword,” grinned  the troll, "Here, let me help you.”

 Eyes blinded temporarily by the torch's glow, the knight lifted one arm to ward off  attack. Another arm, furry, shadowy, reached past him and wrenched the sword-handle from his hand, straining for control, and the weapon pulled free of Jeremy’s hand.

 "Here, take it," said the voice, extending the weapon in one free hand. Cautiously the knight reached for the weapon, knowing it was a trap - bait - but having no choice. Expecting a cavernous mouth to engulf his fingers, to sever them and spit them into the air, Jeremy’s hand took the sword, as he rose slowly to move into a crouching, defense position. Gradually his eyes focused on the form of his enemy, short and stocky, wearing a sports coat and  ...   What! a sports coat.....

  "I'm sorry," said the troll: “I’m just not up to it today, haven't been feeling myself lately; didn't even have time to get into costume... I'm sorry about that, really I am..

 "But," said the knight. "You've got to be in costume and you’ve got to fight! That’s the way its done....”
 "Please excuse me," said the troll, "there's tea-water heating and I must attend to it."
 “What!” gasped the knight, “Tea-what!”

 The torch and its troll  bearer moved away from the knight to walk quietly down the tunnel; the knight, his mouth open wide, watched in amazement. Jeremy, without being aware of his actions  moved after the adversary, his hand and sword falling to his side.

 I'm sorry," said the troll. "It's really over you know. You've gotten too old for me. Time to grow up and all that. It's Puff the magic dragon and Dorothy and the Wizard and... the others...I've carried you much longer than I should have.''
 The knight raised his sword and spread his legs wide; "Stand and fight!" he yelled, though he himself, heard the wavering tone of his voice and knew that the challenge would not be taken. The sword slipped from his hand to thud against the cavern’s dirt floor. He walked toward the fire and the troll who was dipping his kettle into a vat of hot water.

 "I could offer you tea," said the troll. "Would that help some?" The boy-knight nodded his head affirmatively and stood watching as the troll set up two cups on a circular table and placed tea bags from a cardboard box into one cup after the other and added  water. "Sugar... and milk? or just sugar?"

 "Both," said the boy who had just lost his knighthood and now squatted before this enemy fire, letting the warm flames penetrate his cold skin. The troll opened a wooden door in the floor and pul1ed forth a milk carton which he carefully adjusted and poured a little milk into the boy's cup. "There!" he said, "There's sugar in that skull to your left.”
 The boy lifted the skull and shook in a small quantity of white granules,  stirring it with a thin bone. Slowly, he sipped some of the hot brew.

 "Won't we ever fight again" asked Jeremy?

 The troll fixed his own cup and then sat down crossplegged on the ground, grunting as he did so. "I'm getting old," he said, adjusting himself as comfortably as he could and then, turning his attention to the boy, asked:  "How old are you now?"
 "Fourteen," said the boy. "Is that too old... for...?"

 "Yes," answered the troll. "It's too old, time for you to be getting on to other things, finding a trade, learning about sex, having friends, getting into the more serious things of life.”

 "But what about you? You’re still playing. What's the difference?" said the boy.
 "What’s the difference! There’s a difference...  To me its a job, my vocation, my trade and.. and, my art.”
 "Then what about me?" said the boy. "Why can't I make it my art, my job?"
 The troll stroked his chin. “That’s just silly, he said. we don't need any boys here. There aren't any job openings in your category. Boys come here for our services, to be mauled or to maul someone not to meet other boys."
 "I'm not very happy with my life, and I want to come here to live -- to work. Isn't there someone you can speak to? I'll be anything they like, a troll, or dragon or... or... anything at all, an old owl or a bat or ... or ... anything. You just name it... I’ll ...
 "Calm down, said the troll, “I can see you're determined. Perhaps I could speak to a supervisor. They might need an extra or a trainee. We'll see;  Okay!”

 The boy jumped to his feet, upsetting the cup of tea which spilled onto his shirt and jeans.  "Thank you!  Thank you... Thanks . . . “ he said.

 “Just  be careful, don’t hurt yourself,” said the troll, You’re not covered by the union yet.”
  The boy began a fit of laughing and couldn’t stop.

"What! What's going on?" asked the troll.

 "Hurt myself" said the boy. “How many times have you cut off my head in combat?" He pointed a finger at one shrunken head on a stick, and there was a stray arm lying on the ground just a short distance away, and another head and a whole row of them hung on hooks on the wall, heads of the boy-knight and the battles he had lost. Slapping a thigh the troll saw the humor of the remark and soon the two were rolling on the cave floor until, their eyes flooded with tears, they both could laugh no more. Then they sat looking at each other and calmed  down, but each time one would look up, and, at a head or a dismembered organ the laughter would begin again.

 "Don't hurt yourself!" roared the boy. "Don't hurt yourself!" retored the troll and they laughed some more until their sides hurt so much they had to look away from each other, but occasional giggles escaped from one then the other.
 "Enough! Enough!" moaned the troll, getting to his feet and waddling away from the fire; still an occasional giggle escaped from his throat.."Don't hurt yourself....'' he muttered... "That's good, that's really good."
 "Come on," he said to the boy, "let's go find a supervisor "

 Struggling to his feet the boy composed himself, after discarding his armor. He straightened his shirt, and trousers and, passing by the sword, looked at it but didn't pause, took a deep breath and sighed deeply as he followed after the troll.
 “What do they call this place,” asked Jeremy. “Etcheonda, that’s the name,” said The troll.
 “Oh!”

 As they entered the deeper recess of the cave, the troll reached into a crevice and snapped a switch which illuminated a side passage. "Come on," he said. "This way to the elevator."
 "Elevator," said the boy. " I didn't know you had elevators in here."

 "Is that so?” said the troll ; you  thought it was all done with magic, did you? Sorry to disillusion you but magic's a precious resource. We don't just waste it on sundry things like operating elevators and, being lazy like your kind; we get tired of climbing stairs all the time too."

 "Oh!" said the boy. The elevator door opened and the two stepped in. "Careful!" said a voice. Looking down, the boy saw that he had almost stepped on a yellow and blue fairy with transparent wings, a figure that hardly measured to his knee.
 "Sorry," said the boy.

 "Hmmm!!" replied the fairy, nodding to The troll. The troll mumbled, “Hello Elving.”
 "You know," said the boy to the troll. "I don't even know your name. After all those years and battles, I... “
 "Never mind," said the troll. "It doesn't matter and we're not the kind who give our real names anyway, but if it means anything to you, you can call me Llort. And your name's  Jeremy 12466557."
 "That's my name,” said the boy, but the number. . ."
 "It's just an account number," said the troll.

 The elevator, which had been moving rapidly downward, came to a stop; the door opened and the fairy danced forward. "Excuse me," it said. "This is my floor. "See you later Llort." The troll waved a salutation. At the edge of the elevator, the tiny being spread its wings and took off over bright green-meadows and winding brooks, gentle shade-trees and there were centaurs moving along a high ridge.

 "But, we're moving downward," said the boy.

 "Yes," said Llort, "sideways too, if we need to and diagonal and over a position or under it or through it.
 "Just like chess," said Jeremy.
 "Or checkers or monopoly or mumbeldepegs or --or,  anything," answered Llort.
 "Where do we get out?" said the boy.
 "Not  before we get there," said Llort with a smirk. Then he seemed to soften, and to change his mind.
 “Sorry," he said. "I've forgotten, this is your first visit to the business part of this world. Perhaps we can make a few stops on the way to administration."

 He pushed the single button and the machine came to a stop.
 They were standing in a desolate, craggy place with blue-green mountains towering overhead and dark storm clouds battling in the sky. Jeremy shivered as a cold wind churned around his body. Llort had moved off, leaving the boy gawking at the strange terrain. Suddenly the boy noticed his guide had gone on and hurried forward to catch up with him.

 "Where is this?" asked Jeremy
 Llort shrugged his shoulders "How should I know. Never been here in my entire life. Come on, let’s see what it's like."
 "But I'm cold."
 "Try running,” laughed  Llort, as he skipped off down the narrow ravine. Jeremy looked around him, thought he heard a wolf crying and ran after the troll.

 "Wait up!" he yelled, running at full speed over the rocky ground.
 Side by side they moved across the uneven ground at a pace that had Jeremy gulping for breath. "Please," gasped the boy, "can we rest a moment?"
 "Cold anymore?" asked Llort.
 Coming to a halt, the boy mumbled. "No,, not any more, but now I’m ...”
 "I know, save your breath. Now you're tired, hungry too."
 "Right...." said the boy, sitting down on a slab of moss covered rock.

 Llort stopped running but continued moving forward, only, this time, at an even walk. "Come on, let’s find out what's beyond the bend. I hear sounds; and I think I know what it is.”

 Jeremy got up and followed behind the troll, skipping a few steps to catch up. Together they rounded a bend and both came to a complete stop. Jeremy sighed in amazement. Llort grunted, "I thought so."

 In the distance, filling the sky, was a wall of water, a wall that stretched up as high as they could see and as far as they could see from horizon to horizon; the mountains now being to their back. A wide grassy plain, a swampy mist-land stretched out to meet the gigantic flow of water that seemed to come out of the sky or beyond and to fall to the edge of the horizon and, as if the land came to an end there, to fall past it.

 “Hah! The Hanging Ocean of Malvena,” said Llort. "I've never  seen it before; but I know it by reputation."
 Jeremy was speechless, hypnotized by the never-ending movement of water that careened to the horizon. With open mouth he stood there spellbound by the enormity of the scene, listening  to a far-distant roar of what sounded like continuous thunder.

For a long time they watched the scene until finally Llort took the boy by an arm and led him back up the ravine.
 Jeremy was quiet all the way back to the elevator. Only when they had entered the small enclosure which, this time, was  empty, did he speak. "It...was...It was..... “  The elevator moved upward.

 “Yes, It sure was," answered Llort. He pushed the button again and once more the elevator slowed and came to a stop. They stepped out and into a long corridor. "Come," said Llort taking the boy's arm again and leading him down the hallway past closed doors, most of them darkened on the inside; no light came through their glass windows. Many steps later they came to a door where a dull-green light showed through the glass.

 "This will do,” said Llort as he knocked on the door. There was no answer so he turned the doorknob and entered with the boy in tow. Here there were rows and rows of filing cabinets, and boxes with papers piled on boxes with more papers. And there were papers strewn along aisles, in wastepaper baskets and piled high on the few desks in the room.

"Hiyo!" called Llort. "Anybody here?" His voice echoed down the narrow, paper-filled rows which threatened to collapse and avalanche on the two. Then they waited for an answer and shortly heard a shuffling sound coming from within the stacks.

 After a while an old woman came into view, her grey dress was disheveled, there were spectacles on the bridge of her nose, nylon stockings were twisted on her legs and there were numerous criss-cross runs. "I'm coming," she said. "No need to make all that noise."

  Shuffling up to a desk the grey-haired old woman sat down and, picking up a stack of papers at random, went through them, discarding one into the waste basket to the right of the desk; she opened the top drawer and slipping in a sheath. "I'll be with you in a minute,” she said, getting up and taking a pile to an overflowing file cabinet which she opened.
 Desperately the woman tried to push in some of the sheets but the files resisted.

Finally, after seeing that all the drawers were equally stuffed she gave up and piled the papers on top of the cabinet alongside a mountainous stack that was already there. Shuffling back to the desk she picked up another pile and did the same routine at another file cabinet. This time the pile on the file slid off to collapse as a heap on the floor. "Damn!" she muttered, but put the new stack on top of the now nearly empty cabinet. Again she shuffled back to her desk and sat down, then absently looked up as if noticing the visitors for the first time. "Oh! yes --yes.  Now, what is it you want?"

 "I'd like to make an appointment with a supervisor," said Llort.
 "You would? Hmm! Which one?” she asked.
 "I don't know," said Llort. I guess anyone would do."

 "I  see," said the woman, turning in her swivel chair to face the acres of paper work. "Take your pick: Every page is a list of supervisors, miles and miles of them.”

  Llort grunted. "There weren't so many last time I was here," he said.

 "Course not," said the woman. "New ones come in every day.  A body can’t  keep up. Just get rid of one pile and in comes a new stack. Morning till midnight,day in and day out. There's no end to it and I keep asking for help. Well, you know what they say about that..."

 "Ah-hmm!" said Llort, "That's too bad. Can we look around for a list?”
 Of course you can,” said the woman, “Look around all day. I haven't anything better to do than sit here while you waste my time." She thumped her fingers, drummed them on the pile of papers that covered her desk, the pile that loosened beneath her fingers to slide onto the floor, some of the lists falling into a waste basket.

 See," she said. "There's no way to keep up with it all." And with that she swept the remaining stacks of papers from her desk onto the floor. At that moment, as if on cue, the door opened and an old man, dressed in faded coveralls, with a baseball cap covering his sparse white hair entered, pulling a cart full of piles of paper, each pile containing additional lists.

 Without a word the man removed the piles, one at a time, and stacked them on the woman's desk. Silently, her eyes glowering, her hands on her hips, she watched as the man completed his task, nodded his head first to her, then to Llort and Jeremy and trundled off with his cart.

 “Bah!" said the woman. "There's just no end to it. Here take a list," she said, reaching for one at random from the newly established pile. "Take one!"

 Llort reached out and accepted the paper, then turned  back to the exit and ushered himself and Jeremy out.
  "Good luck," he said, turning to the woman as he shut the door behind them. She grumbled something in return but the closed door kept them from hearing her exact reply.

 Jeremy was anxious. "Is it the right list?'' he wanted to know. Llort inspected the paper. “Looks like we might have some possibilities here,” he mumbled, leadinq the boy further down the same long corridor, a corridor with endless doors and not a person or thing in sight.

 "What do we do now?" asked Jeremy.
 "Just come along," said the troll. We’re looking for the Department of  Lost Dreams and Faded Hopes. At least thats the address on the paper."

 "Is it far?" asked Jeremy.
 "Won't know that until we get there,” said the troll.
 "But, how will we find it if we don't know where it is or how to get there?"
 "Just keep looking," said Llort, "We'll know it when we find it.”

 After an hour of searching they stopped for a rest.
 “I’m, tired," said Jeremy.
 "Good. Then we're probably there.”
 Huh!"

 The troll reached for the handle of the nearest door..
 “Yeah, I think this will do." He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Jeremy was right behind him.
 “Come on,” " said Llort, "There's still some walking to do.”

 At the edge of a bluff, on a grassy hill overlooking an amber sea was a battleship-grey office-desk. Behind it sat a young man, dressed in a clean tan suit. The man was thumbing through a pile of notes when the two arrived at his desk to stand, waiting to be noticed.

 The man, after reading through some papers, marked on one in red, underlined a word here, scratched one there, placed a single page in a red paperholder, another page in a green one, a third in a purple one, two went into the top drawer of his desk and the remainder he dropped into a rabbit hole just in back of him. Finished with the file, he rubbed his hands briskly and started for another pile when he noticed the boy and the troll.

 "What's the matter?" said the man. "Is there a problem?"

 Llort spread his hands wide. "You see," he said, "there's Jeremy here who..."

 "What's the boy doing here?" said the man. "And what's your number, Troll?” Llort stuttered out his number and the man, opening his desk drawer, thumbed through a file, pulled out a manila folder and studied it. Then he reached for an old fashioned telephone and dialed a number, waited for the answer, cupped his hand over the receiver to muffle the conversation and when finished returned the phone to its hook.

 "You can go now," he said to Llort.
 "But! ... but! ..." stuttered Llort. "The boy and I... we've been through...”
 "Are you questioning the words of a supervisor?" said the man, leaning forward on both elbows, eyebrows raised.
 "Oh, no sir, I wouldn't do that," cowered Llort.
  "Then get back to your post," said the man.

 "Certainly! certainly sir!" said Llort backing away, and bowing low to the desk. "I'll get right back."
 "But, Llort,” said the boy, "You can't leave me here. What about us?"
 Llort shrugged his shoulders as he continued backing away. "Sorry," he said.
 "And Troll," said the supervisor, “We’ll be docking you for this. . .
Ah! . . . infraction of the rules. Just see to it that there’s no more fraternizing with the customers. Keep your act on a business level. Do you understand?”

 Jeremy started to follow his friend. The supervisor  stood up.
 “Hold on Little Boy!" he said to Jeremy. “You’re  not going anywhere."

 Llort turned and jogged down the hill.

 "Wait up!" called Jeremy, running after the troll.
 "Go away,'' came the reply from Llort, "You’ll get us both in trouble." But, Jeremy continued chasing after him
 "Troll! You're in big trouble now," yelled the supervisor. "And you too! Get back here Boy! You can't do this to me! I'm a supervisor..."

 Meanwhile Jeremy had caught up with Llort and jogged alongside his friend.  He yelled, "Llort! You can't just run off on me,”He reached out and grabbed hold of the troll's shirt and they came to a halt.
 “Now you've done it," said the troll, shaking his head from side to side. "For certain my job's done for . . .”
 "So! Is that all you care about, a few lousy bucks?" shouted Jeremy, "Is that all our friendship's worth?" He glared at the troll who was wringing his hands and still shaking his head.

 "A troll's gotta have some security in his old age, doesn't he?"

 "Yeah! but at what price?" said the boy. "And I thought we were friends, you and me."
  "We were. . . we are," said. Llort. "But I can't depend on you, a kid. You'll grow up, run-off, get married and have a ton of kids and then, what about me, left all alone. . . Whose gonna care? Tell me that."
 "You still don't understand," said Jeremy. "This is different. If I wanted to run off and leave you, to grow up, get married and have a family, would I be here now?”

 Llort stroked his chin: “Well...no, I guess not...”
 “Can't you see," said the boy. "I'm the different one, the one who doesn't grow up. Back there, where I came from, they can keep that stuff. I'm not going back. Never! Whether you help me or not, I'm staying here where I can have fun and be myself, forever." -

 "Peter Pan. . ." murmered Llort, "Maybe!”

 “What did you say?" asked the boy. "I can’t hear you.”
 Llort contemplated the situation, and the boy. "You know," he said. "We're in for a lot of trouble from that guy back there."
 Jeremy smiled. "I knew you'd see it my way.”

 Llort spread a wide involuntary grin across his face. "Okay," he said. "You've seen right through me. You know I like you.”
 “Of course!  Now let's go hide. Where can we run to?”

The two of them were off, Llort chattering as they moved.
 “They’ll send for the Manglers.”
 "Who'se that?"
 "Nasty brutes: Manglers-Eight they’re called. Work for the organization. Do all their dirty work. Union busting, everything."
 "You're clever," said Jeremy. "We'll  outfox em.”

Crashing through a door in a hillside they were back in the corridors. "Follow me." said Llort. "We can't spend too much time in the hallways. Got to keep moving. If we can find the Land of Runaways they might give us a break there.''

 "How do we find it?'
 Llort shrugged his shoulders. "Just like any place else," he said, “ just keep looking until we discover it."
 “Can't we get a map or something?”

"This place ain't like your world. . . Things change every day. They shift around. One day a place is here and the next day its over there and a week later its a thousand miles away.”
 "But why?"
 "That's just the way it is here. I don't make the rules... or the maps.”

 There was the sound of tramping feet coming from down the hall, like a football team doing laps on a basketball court.
 "What's that?" said the boy.

Llort turned his head toward the sound. "It could be them . . . Manglers Eight. If they get us we'll be. . . Never mind! Quick! Pick a door, any door."

  A rooster crowed to wake them and, stretching, the two yawned-awake on the hallway floor. Jeremy opened his eyes and stared up into the face of a goat-headed man with a broom in his hand.
 “Thought you were trash," said the man, "Going to sweep you up and throw you out."
 "Don't do that," said Jeremy, rousing Llort. "We're not trash, not really. Just a boy and his troll, that's us, off looking for the Department for Runaways.”

 “Why you're in the wrong corridor," said the goat-headed man.  Take the crossroads down yonder, cross over three squares and take a down-elevator to another level. That’ll get you closer. Ask questions after that. You're a long way from where you want to go.”

 "Llort! We're in the wrong corridor," said Jeremy.
 "I heard him,” said the troll. "Say, my good man. Do you know where we can get a bite to eat, and perhaps a warm pool to scrape away some of this mud?'

 "That's no problem," said the man. "Take the Sunrise door. You can't, miss it,  just before the intersection. Brightest door you'll come to. Take care now and good luck.”
 “Thanks," said Jeremy, brushing the muck,from his trousers and then looking apologetically, "I'm sorry about the dirt."

 "Never mind," said the man. "I sweep up a thousand tons a day and another thousand every night. That's my job you know. I don't mind another few pounds, not at all."

 "Then we're on our way," said Llort. "Come on boy," he said, taking Jeremy by the arm. Their feet made slurping  sounds as they struggled down the hallway under the heavy load of dirt that had crusted on them.
 "There it is! There's the door!" yelled Jeremy. "Look how bright it is, just look at that window. Come on!”

The light streaming through the door’s window looked almost as if it could melt through the glass. “Let's go! Now!"
 "Take your time," said Llort. "Just remember how quickly we got into trouble last time. This place has a million secrets, you know.".
 “Only a million!" said Jeremy. “More like a million times a million. I'll bet there's no end to the magic doors. I could stay here, forever and ever." The boy stopped and thought for a moment then shook his head. " No, I can’t do that, I’ve got to go back and find Ned."
 "Sure," said the troll. "If the Manglers don’t get us first.”

But only after we wash up and have some breakfast," said the boy, laughing and pulling the troll after him. He opened the door; sunlight, like liquid honey, flowed out; the sound of trumpets heralded either their arrival or the arrival of daybreak. Llort laughed and let himself be pulled into the room. There was no hurry anyway. Why, after a thousand years of work, he deserved a holiday. And one of these days they'd find the right door.

 So, laughing and arm in arm, the two friends tumbled down a grassy-green knoll to splash into a verdant pond below as a rooster crowed from the highest hill and ducks splashed out of the way. And the water fight began.

Later, as their clothes lay drying on the hillside, Llort showed the boy how to find mushrooms and other edibie plants and berries. Finally, with a full belly, they sat at the edge of the pond.
 “I still have to go back, “ said Jeremy.
 "But...Yeah, I know," said Llort, "your brother....”
 "Un-huh. Couldn't I... I mean we... bring him back here?”
 “Afraid not, said the troll. "Once you leave here that's it. We're quits for evermore. I knew you'd....”

 "What?"
 "Never mind."
 "You were right Llort. I'm just like all the rest, when it comes right down to it.”
 "Naw! It's not your fault. Human's are just pretty soft, specially when it comes to their own kin."
 "You mean trolls aren't like that?"
 "Not at all -- independent,  self sufficient, that's us.”

 Jeremy was quiet for a while. "I'll stay Llort," he said, eyes downcast. I got you in trouble, made you break the rules and now I want to run out on you.”
 "Yeah," said Llort, under his breath.

Jeremy stood and inhaled deeply, spread his arms wide and filled his lungs. "That's it," he said. "I'm gonna stay. You're my troll and I gotta take care of you too.”
 Llort cocked his head and squinted at the boy. “You mean that?" he said.

 Jeremy said nothing for a while, then finally: "Come on,  get up. We have to find that Land of Runaways before the Manglers find us, right?"

 They got dressed and wandered back up the hill and cautiously entered the hallway. For a while they scampered from one door to the next, trying to locate the right entrance to their land of escape.

 "This might be it," said Llort as they stood before a door, a door just like all the rest but with a rosy-glow illuminating the frosted glass window.

 Jeremy looked at the troll, then down the corridor at all the other doors. "But," he said. "How can you tell? They all look alike."

 You forget, Human-child, that I have some special talents."  Llort reached for the handle but Jeremy grabbed hold of his sleeve and held the hand back.

 “What's the matter," said the troll," changed your mind?"

 “No! I guess not,'' replied the boy, looking downcast as Llort opened the door.
There was really nothing to see but a thick fog rolling about slowly over a tiled-floor that vanished just a few feet within the room.

 "You see," said Jeremy, "It's the wrong place. Come On! Let's go look some more. How about another swim back in Pleasure?  “The boy turned and reached for the door handle but there was none.
  "Llort! The door's gone."
 "Shhh! Quiet!" said the troll: "Listen."

 There was the sound of a wind, a constant breeze, soft, rustling like tree leaves rubbing together. "Come," said Llort. "Gently."
 Together they advanced into the room, one step at a time, through the mist, greyness swirling behind them, "What's that?" whispered Jeremy, pointing to a dark form huddled low toward the floor. The shape came toward then moving on hands and knees, fingers sliding over the floor, making slow circles as if searching for a lost coin. Llort and Jeremy squatted as the figure came to their feet, explored their shoes, the hem of Jeremy's trousers. A shiver of fear went through the boy, but quieted as a gentle face looked up, smiling at him. "I think I've found it," said the old man. "Yes, it must be. You must be me..."

 Jeremy looked quizzically at the man, then he glanced toward Llort who quietly nodded that all was well. "My name's Jeremy," said the boy.

 An expression of disappointment moved across the man’s face. “Oh!”  he said, a tone of sadness modulating his voice. "Then you're not me.." and his hand fell away from the boy to continue making circles on the floor. "Where did it go?" said the man. "I know it's here . . .  somewhere. If only I could find it. I Had it just the other day." Soon his voice was lost and his form gone, swallowed by the greyness of the place.

 "What's he looking for?" asked Jeremy.
 Llort sighed and took a deep breath. "His life, his youth, memories of a time gone by."

 "Hmmm," muttered Jeremy remembering the stucco house, the yellow light drifting through the window, the image of his mother cooking good things in the kitchen and his brother Ned. Llort was remembering a time, long long ago when he lived in a forest land, as a child, within the comfort of a giant-tree with his seventy-six brothers and sisters and...

 Peacefully both boy and troll slid down to the floor and, with hands making circles, rubbing carefully the smooth floortiles, they began looking for the things they had lost. Jeremy found a tile, rubbed it, watched the square begin to shimmer, the mist fade from it; a yellow glow appeared within its center.

  A sad smile came to the boy's face, one corner of his mouth drooped as the image of a seashore filled the tile. There he was, building sand-castles at the water's edge, his mother sitting higher up on the beach, sunning, reading a book from beneath a beach umbrella, while his younger brother made mud houses just a short distance away.  Jeremy watched the image of himself as it added another building to his structure and connected it to his main fort, then added a channel to bring in the ocean, to fill the lake within...  Jeremy reached out to help the boy,

 Touching the square Jeremy  found the image vanishing, a circle of clouds closing in around the ocean and the scene getting smaller, shrinking into nothing. Frantically the boy tried to rub it back again but the square was now cold and lifeless. "Ooh!" he murmered, looking up briefly to find his friend Llort, saw someone nearby, searching,  just as he, and returned his concentration to the tiles.

 "There must be another one," said the boy, crawling along the floor searching every tile, rubbing, trying to coax an image from the squares. And again he found one, the face of a man far away, his father. Here was a kind man, a loving man who loved his son and took him to ball games. Jeremy watched the scene of boy and man eating popcorn on a hot summer day as they cheered on a winning team.

 Wanting desperately to be part of the scene Jeremy tried to touch that man, and he wished he could be the miniature of himself; but in touching the tile he broke the delicate surface of crystal-membrane and the scene broke into tiny pieces that fell, tinkling, down a black shaft. He looked up again; there was the shape of the other searcher, a little further off to his left..

 Llort was having a grand old time watching himself and the horde of brothers and sisters scramble from limb to limb high up in the old family tree. There was Aarksvark with the marvelous sense of humor, always dropping lizards down the girl’s dresses.

Llort watched his brother do a loop in mid-air, catch a branch, swing up to another and stand balancing on the narrow limb. What a shame the old boy had died at Dragon-gorge. The tiny figure of Aarksvark teetered on the edge of the limb, seemed to lose his balance. Llort reached out, tried to help the brother, his hand came in contact with the tile. Pop! Out went the light -- no more image.

 “Oooh!" gasped Llort, looking up, he turned around, saw a crawling figure to his left. "Must be the boy," he thought, and crawled some more, looking for another tile, another memory. But, as he moved on, he noticed more figures to his right and then a dim outline in front.

  “Jeremy!" called the troll. "Which one is you?" But, there was no answer. Quickly the troll got to his feet and ran to the figure to his left. It was a woman dreamily looking into the tile which showed a young child in the arms of a dark-haired lady. Llort ran to the figure that had been on his right. It was only a man dreamily watching the tile of a family gathering.

 Jeremy!" yelled the troll to no avail. His search of the figures around him turned  up one wrong person after another, and as he moved off in search of the boy, the troll realized that his chances of finding Jeremy grew slimmer as he traveled further away from their starting point.

 Dimly, Jeremy heard his name being called as he looked into the tile, the tile of himself as a babe being washed by his mother. He melted into the image, hypnotized by the tender caresses. A sensual rapture spread through the boy as he tried to merge with the babe being washed, reached out, to grasp the woman's hand, to guide it toward him; the woman looked away from the babe, through the tile into the face of the older boy.

"Son,! she spoke. '"Don't lose yourself in this place, these dream's. Even though we've lost each other in another world and time, my thoughts are ever with you. Go to your friend, find him before its too late." His hand reached to the tile, through it, to touch the warmth of the woman's soft skin; but even as their fingers met,the image rippled, like water on a pond and disappeared.

He recognized the image immediately and a cold shudder ran the entire length of his body. They were in a car driving along a cold icy road -- a heavy snow crusted the windshield and his father cursed at vehicles coming in the opposite direction as they threw a spray of cold icy water onto the window. Jeremy and Ned sat in the backseat, his mother and father in the front.
 In the distance ahead were the headlights of a truck coming at them -- roaring down the long icy hill. "Stop!" screamed Jeremy,

"Stop! . . .  That truck's going to . . . " But there was no time and no way to stop the future rushing at them. As those blinding headlights of the out of control truck roared at them, father struggled with the wheel, trying to get them out of harm's way. And, he almost made it, but there was just not enough room. Mother turned to the children, her arms out to protect them, terror reflecting deep within her eyes. Their car lurched at the edge of the road, then careened over the edge to roll, over and over down the hillside.

Jeremy closed his eyes and when he opened them again he and Ned were standing side by side, they were dressed in their Sunday clothing, and looking down into a gaping pit in the earth as some preacher droned on saying something about eternal rest unto their souls and something else. And then it was over. His Aunt reached over and took Ned's hand. Jeremy looked into the face of his Uncle who quickly looked away. But in that moment of eye contact Jeremy could see the future, his and Ned's, and it was not good.

Jeremy watched the image fade and again he was back in the mist, moving on his hands and knees across the floor.
 Jeremy blinked, gasped and came awake remembering that his mother had died in that terrible car crash when he was eleven. He thought of the years that followed and the unhappiness of living with his uncle and aunt. Holding back tears of sorrow for himself he began searching again for another tile, another dream. Again came the voice from out of the mist, his name, "Jeremy" being called.

 In front of him a tile pulsed and he reached exploratory fingers toward the image that seemed to draw him to it. A man's face filled the tile, once again his father, the father he missed so much.
  "Jeremy!" called a voice, "Jeremy!, it's Llort. Can you hear me?"

 "Llort," whispered the boy, "My father -- Llort?" Something was wrong and even as the image in the tile distorted from the smiling man to that of his uncle using a strap on his brother Ned, Jeremy pulled his mind, wrenched it loose from the floor and staggered to his feet.

“Llort!" yelled the boy, ''Llort! I'm here." He waited for the sound of his friend's call. And then the voices began, quietly at first, but growing louder all the time. "I'm here!" called a woman "I'm here!" called an old man. "Look for me here!" came the cry of another. "Here!" and "Here!" Soon there was a chorus of thousands, their voices filling the space as the gathering rose to their feet, and called to the ones they had left behind.

There was running, the sound of running feet, as the figures gathered and moved as one, still chanting their rhythmic, "Here! Look for me here! I'm here!' Look for me here!" The crowd surged past Jeremy, thrusting him aside.
 He fell to the floor, gasping, as one foot stepped on his stomach, another trampled the side of his head. Desperately the boy rolled into a ball, trying to recover his balance so that he could get to his feet.

A hand grabbed for him, that of a woman seeming to come out of nowhere, lifting him to his feet, and another hand, that of a man, a man that seemed to look, for that brief glance, like his father; but then the boy was on his feet, running with the mob, immersed within the chant.

 The surging, chanting group raced through the fog, carrying the boy in their midst. Occasionally, Jeremy heard the sound of his name, "Jeremy!" and he answered it with the name of his friend. "Llort! Find me Llort!" until the cry of the mob wiped it out with their echo of, "Llort! Llort!  Find me Llort!"

 But the motion of the many bodies seemed to have created a wind which swept the mist swirling away into the sky and patches of blue punched through the gloom. Jeremy was tired, his legs ached but he dared not slow, lest he be trampled by the feet of the horde.

  With the passing of the mist and the coming of a blue sky, the boy found himself running within a small pack of people, as individuals peeled away from the main throng, each still chanting his call, but taking a seperate path, diverging from the main, until the boy was alone. He stopped and looked around to see the last of his companions-in-despair receeding over gentle undulating hills. On the top of one hill stood a troll, waving to him.

 Jeremy climbed the slope. They stood together for a while neither one saying a word, both of them looking out over open water.

 "Llort?” said the boy.
 "Yeah!" said the troll. "You don't have to say it. I know what you have in mind."
 Jeremy shuffled his sneakers, “If it wasn’t for Ned," he said, "I'd stay here with you... forever.”
 "I know," said the troll.

 "Don't feel bad," said Jeremy. "I'm going back to get him and take him away from them. Then I’m gonna teach him how to use his imagination and to find his own way...  You know, like you. Then we're coming back, both of us. You'll have two sons’ that’s better than one, isn't it?"

 Llort smiled. "You know kid, you're all right. Just remember:
no matter what problems come up in your life,  try  think of  your trials  as an adventure, just another problem to solve. Now, come on. Let's get you out of here and send you on your way back home."

 For a while they hiked along the bluff, Llort scanning the beach for something. As they walked along the banks they passed old ruins which were overgrown with vegetation and covered by sand dunes.

“What are all these ruins?” asked Jeremy.
 “Temples to the old gods,” replied Llort.
 “What do you mean old gods? Were there more than one?”
 “Back in the old days of your world there were lots of gods.”
 “What happened to them?”
 “Obsolete -- out of favor. Your writer. . .  Dunsany was his name said something like: ‘the gods that are not worshipped now are asleep . . .’
 “But won’t they ever wake again?”

 Llort shrugged his shoulders, “Who knows! People are fickle - rock stars, clothing styles, religions, who can tell what the public will turn to next. But look, over there, that’s what we’re searching for!”
 "It's a boat!" cried Jeremy. "But! Where are we going?"

 Llort was on his way, sliding down the sandy bluff on his way to the beach. "To the Hanging Ocean," he said, tumbling and rolling down the hill, with Jeremy cartwheeling behind him.

 It was a beautiful boat with the figurehead of a swan and as the two climbed aboard, the craft moved out towards the open sea. Llort unfurled a sail from the mast to catch the winds from land and then lay back, his head against the gunwhale; he stretched out and take a nap. Jeremy watched the land receed for a long time and then, as it disappeared, he was entranced by the concept of being totally surrounded by water -- then he too lay down and slept.

Much later Jeremy awakened to the dull sound of what he took to be thunder. Llort was checking the craft for supplies and anything they might need on their trip. There was a cask of water, and a compartment with food and other gear.
 "Hope we dont need these,” said Llort holding up a pair of swords.
 “You will and soon... Soon!” came a voice from the top of the mast. Jeremy looked up at Elving, the small fairy of their encounter in the elevator.
 “What's up?" said Llort.
 "Can't stay, can't be seen with you, but beware, the Manglers are on your trail. Keep clear of the mists and the fog or you're dead."
 ''Thanks," said Llort. "We're much obliged."

Like a dragonfly the fairy left the mast and hovered over the surface of the water, darting away, swallowed up by the sea.
 Thunder grew louder and soon Jeremy could make out a giant wall of water that filled the sky and the mists where it thundered at the edge of the sea.

 “There's mists!  The fairy  said to watch out for the mists,” warned Jeremy .
 Llort adjusted the angle of their sail and they moved on a parallel course with the enormous waterfall of an ocean.

 “What do these Manglers look like?"
 “Never saw them myself," said Llort. But I’ve had them described by others. Their leader's  got heads, three of them that is: body of a man, and the heads of three serpents. Then there's the bear with a man's head and a two-headed guy with a dinosaur's body and... some other pretty creepy looking fellas."

"I don't think I want to meet them," said Jeremy, eyeing the compartment that held the weapons. Llort caught his movement and opening the latch, took out the short-swords and handed one to the boy. "Get used to this," he said. "You’ll probably need it before we’re done.”

 Jeremy tested the blade against the air, then slipped it under his belt. He was no stranger with a blade, at least not in this land, and he knew that Llort was a troll who could hold his own in battle.
 “What are we searching for?" said Jeremy.
 “Hard to explain," answered the troll. "We’re looking for a place where the water ripples just a bit. There's a current there that'll take us through the falls...if we're lucky.”
 "And if we’re not lucky?”
 "Then we become part of the falls going...wherever it goes.”
 "Where's that?"

"I'm not sure anybody's ever come back to tell about it.”
 "Oh," said the boy, craning his neck over the side, looking diligently for ripples.
 An island came into sight off their port bow, an island lying low in the water and shrouded in mist.
 "Over there. There's ripples," said the boy, pointing to the farthest side of the island. "Lots of mist too."

Llort adjusted the tiller and, keeping as far from the island as he could, he readjusted their course to pass into the area of rippling water, with the bow pointed directly toward the falls.
 "We might as well give it a try," he said.
 Jeremy nodded in silent, but wary, agreement.

Entering the area of ripples the boat now obeyed a force other than the wind; a strong current took hold and pulled the vessel, like it was on a rope, directly toward a fogbank. In a short while they were obscured by the white blanket and their field of vision dropped to a few feet.

 “Llort, I think I'm scared."
 "It's all right," said the troll. "I don't feel any danger here."
 "Are you sure?”
 "Yep!"

 Jeremy gripped the gunwhale in both hands and tensed for what might come their way. The boat shuddered slightly in response to a scraping noise beneath the hull.
 "What's that?" queried Jeremy.
 "Just a sandbar: nothing more."

 More scrapings jarred them, slowing their speed. Suddenly Jeremy heard a loud, continuous scrape from beneath him and the boat ground to a halt.
 "Blast!" spouted Llort.

 The troll vaulted from the bow into ankle-deep water and wrestled with the vessel, trying to push it back into the moving current, but his strength was not enough.
 "Come on Boy! give me a hand."

Jeremy eased into the warm water; his  feet came in contact with the granular bottom. Together the two pushed with all their might and managed to get the craft off the bar for just an instant before the current shoved it back, almost on top of them.

 "Too strong for us, Boy: let’s try to pull it across the bar."

 Pulling and grunting they made slight headway but gradually the boat moved across the sandbar where they could get behind it and push.

 "That's better," said Llort. we’re gaining.
 ''How far?"
 Llort stopped and mopped his forehead. Jeremy did the same.
 There's no way to tell in this gloom. And we don’t dare leave the boat and explore for any distance."

There was the sound of a horn in the distance, a melancholy tone with sinister overtones that caused the hairs on the back of the boy's neck to rise.
 “What! what’s that?”
 "Probably just a fog horn."
 "You sure?"
 "...I...well, yeah, I'm sure. It's just a foghorn."
 "You're not just trying to keep me from getting scared?" asked the boy.
 "Let's push some more," said the troll.

 Sometimes the pushing was hard, as when the vessel moved over a high spot in the sand;  at other times they thought they had come to the end, when the water came to their thighs, and the boat was just about floating free; but within a few steps they found themselves pushing hard again.

 Every five minutes or so, that persistent horn would sound again; now and then it appeared very far away but occasionally the source seemed to be almost upon them.

And then a new sound entered the picture, there were splashing noises from behind them, so the two pushed even harder, until finally the vessel grounded and they came to an absolute halt.
 “I'm tired," said the boy, "Can't go...further."
 Llort grunted and gulped in air. "Listen," he said. The splashing sounds had grown louder.
 “Llort. Do you think its them, Manglers Eight?"
 "Might be, but, don't let your imagination get carried away.”
 "What do we do now?"

"Come on, " said Llort. "We can't go any further with this ark, and we can't push it back ..and we certainly aren’t going to wait and see who's coming. The island's over there. Let's go!”

 Leaving their craft behind, the two adjusted their weapons and, hand in hand, strode through the mist in the direction of the island. In front of them the horn sounded its note of mystery while behind the movement of something in the water continued.

 "Look!" said Jeremy. "I can see a hole in the fog.
 “It's the island!"

 They ran the remainder of the way, shoving aside the mantle of fog and stepping out onto a lush green island. Stopping for a moment on the beach, they tried to scout a direction away from the water and so scanned the entire scene quickly. The beach to either side of them curved away out of sight and ahead merged with gentle hills. The island, it seemed, was bigger than they had been able to gauge from the sea, for in the background, loomed several peaks of considerable height.

 Without talking, the troll and boy jogged up  the beach toward the interior, rapidly leaving the sand far behind as they wound among the hills, gradually moving higher all the time.

A roar shattered the air. Troll and boy came to a halt, Jeremy tilted forward and fell face-first in the grass, but quickly regained his footing .

 "What! what ! " he gasped.
 “Quiet!" whispered Llort. He left the boy for a moment while he moved to the crest of the hill and carefully moved into position to look toward the beach. A brief glance was all he needed.

Jeremy shuddered in the grass, imagining all kinds of monstrous sights and was relieved when Llort scrambled back beside him.

 Is it?...Is it them?"
 Llort nodded his head. "It's them all right. Three of them anyway.”
 “Which ones?”
 “Ghork, with the snake heads, Faul with the bear’s body and an ugly looking pet with four arms and a dragon's head."
 “Do we have to fight em?"
 “Not a chance with those things," said the troll, patting the sword at his belt. We’ll have to try and hide. Come on! Let's move.”

occasional horn blasts. Llort ground his heels into the turf and came to an abrubt halt; Jeremy crashed into him.
 “That horn!" exclaimed Llort. "We’ve got to find that horn."
  “ W...why?"
 "Not now: I'll explain later. Quiet! and listen.”

 They stood their ground for one moment then another, listening for the muted horn. From the hills to their right came that sound, low and resonant.

 "It's pretty far away but I think we can make it before...”

 Llort was off at a gallop. Jeremy caught his breath and took off after his friend. Neither spoke for a long time saving their strength. Though several times Jeremy straggled  behind and Llort had to slow down or stop for the boy to get his wind.

 “ Can't keep up!" gasped Jeremy.
 "Do you want to wait for them?"
 "No! " gulped Jeremy. "Give..me....a minute.”

 So they waited and listened again for the horn which seemed to have moved further to their right but was not any further away. The boy nodded to his troll and they were off again jogging slower this time, trying to fall into a rythm of breathing.
 At last the hills leveled out and the boy seemed to do better in his gait. The horn sounded directly ahead of them and Jeremy tripped and went down on one knee.

 "Wait Llort!"

 But the troll had sensed his fall and turned back to help him up. Jeremy saw the expression of terror on Llort's face as the troll’s hand froze in mid-air reaching to give him a lift. The same hand pulled back and moved to the short-sword, jerked it quickly from the belt, and raised it shoulder height.

"Don't look back," cautioned Llort. "Just get up. Quickly! And move toward the mound of rocks in back of me.

 Jeremy was too curious at this stage; he stood and turned his head to take in Llort's field of vision. What he saw made him shudder throughout. Advancing toward them was a gigantic creature with multiple clawed-talons, and a face like tyranossaurus rex with fangs to match.  Shakily, the boy withdrew his own sword and moved to stand, side by side, with Llort. A grunt from the left side of the hill attracted the boy's attention to a bear-like beast emerging from the shrubbery. Its head was that of a man, but distorted and twisted, the mouth, well-fanged, growling.

Jeremy swallowed hard. For a brief moment the boy allowed himself a taste of pity as he visualized the little brother who would never see him again and he caught a glimpse of his own body-parts strewn over the hillside, this time for real. Then he shook off the image and planted his legs wide apart; he turned to face the bear, leaving the bigger beast for Llort.
 “Move slowly," said Llort. "Behind us; those rocks; don't turn around, but keep walking slowly backward..."

 The boy moved in unison with the troll, stepping cautiously lest he fall, and kept his eyes fixed on the advancing bear. The silent air broke with a growl from the bear, echoed by a roar from the other great beast, as both moved in for the kill.
 Llort and Jeremy had closed the distance to the mound of boulders, when a sound fractured the day which totally immobilized both troll and boy.

A shrieking, rattling, hissing multiple-sound came from their unprotected right side. Breaking the spell of fear, Jeremy twisted his head in the direction to confront a tall man-shaped being, clothed in dark fabric and cape, but whose head was a writhing, three-headed snake, yellow-eyed glowering hate. In reflex, Jeremy raised and hurled his sword directly at the thing. A shriek erupted upon impact as the blade penetrated the neck of the central head.

 “Get to the rocks!" yelled Llort, pushing the boy in that direction. Jeremy needed no further urging and plunged among the boulders, trying to wriggle himself down into the recesses of escape. The troll was right behind him, but backing in, holding the sword at arm's length to protect their rear.

 Jeremy kept moving, relieved if only momentarily, that the  tunnel kept going further down. One hand felt ahead while the other tried to keep in contact with his companion.

Outside, the sounds of angry beasts, gnashing and roaring, churned the countryside, and for a while the two companions could feel the impact upon the boulders that shielded them from the creatures efforts to pulverize and widen the crawl space.
 

 There was an end to the tunnel and the boy squirmed around within the small space to feel for his troll, but there was no one there.

 "Llort!" he whispered, once again and again, but no answer.
 "Llort!" he said louder, but the thought of being heard outside caused him to fold his arms around himself, shivering in cold fear, and to listen for a hint of his friend.

The boy thought of Llort, perhaps lying hurt in the tunnel, and the concern for himself drained gradually away. He had to go back, no matter what. A terrible growl from the world outside caused him a momentary emotional set-back, which he gulped into submission. Then he made up his mind and groped forward, and upward, feeling ahead of him as he traveled.

Quiet descended upon the boy, cutting him deeper than a blade-slash. In desperate fear for his friend, Jeremy scuttled faster through the tunnel, coming to light at the end, and still no Llort. Cautiously he came to the opening and looked out. The field was empty.

 "Llort," he whispered. "It's me, Jeremy, where are you?"

 No answer, no sound met his ears. With all his senses alert the boy pulled himself from the opening, out into the air, ready, at the slightest sound or movement, to dive back into his cover. He stood and walked out into the field scanning his head from side to side; he was alone.

"What...?'' said the boy aloud, his only response to the puzzle as he stood there turning slowly from side to side. There was a rustling sound in the grass to which Jeremy stiffened, ready for flight back to the rocks. A gasp caught his ear.

"Llort! Is that you?” he said, moving one step at a time toward the sound. There was a hollow rattling noise that faded away and was gone. It took the boy every particle of courage within him to complete the last few steps to the place of the sound. And when at last he could see the origin he stiffened and froze The serpent-man lay crumpled upon the ground, a blade imbedded still within the throat; all heads lay flat upon the ground except for the center one whose head was tilted back. The eyes were open wide in death.

 Cautiously still, Jeremy moved in close to the dead creature and, reaching out at arm's length, took hold of the sword's handle and pulled it loose. A final gurgle, and reflex spasms moved the head and Jeremy jumped back to stand, sword raised, in defense of his life; though, the serpent moved no more.

 Jeremy lowered his sword and scanned the countryside once again; This time he heard the sound of pounding earth as well as the sound of the horn, and he moved back toward the safety of the rocks. He saw them, there were more than five, coming toward him over the hill. Centaurs, moving two abreast charging straight toward him.

 His first instinct was to crawl back among the rocks, but a spirit of something deep inside himself caused him to reject the idea and turn instead to face the forces straight on. He backed against the boulders and held his sword at waist high level.
 For a moment doubt impinged upon his decision to stand against the horsemen, but he flinched it away and prepared to fight. His weapon had drawn blood once and could do so again

 They came at him in a single charge and the boy lifted his sword high, ready to swing in an arc.
 “Hold on!" came a man’s voices from the forward rider on the left and the steeds ground to a halt almost as a single body. "We’re here to help, not to fight you "

 Jeremy held fast, not giving in to possible deceit. He wanted to  yell at them, to question who they were, but his teeth clenched tightly against each other as adrenaline pumped furiously throught his system.

 It was their smiles that did him in, finally convincing him of their sincerity. Now the boy's energy reserve was gone, and his body broke into a shiver that raced to his hand by way of his arm and the sword lowered shakily to the ground. Tears came to the child's eyes.

 "Llort!" he croaked...and crumpled to the ground.
 When next the boy awoke, he was lying on the grass at the top of a hill. Below him was the sea, clear of any fog or mist.
 "Have some fruit," said a man's voice behind him; Smiling, the boy turned, hoping to see Llort, but instead it was one of the centaurs, holding forth an apple. Hungry, Jeremy took the food and downed it greedily. But, he refused the offer of a second.
 Where....where's Llort?!'

 The centaur looked away for a moment, then returned his eyes to the boy's. "Gone," he said.
 "Dead?" said Jeremy, tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes.
 "No, I don't think so," replied the centaur. "We saw most of it from a distance. He injured Faul and then took off with both things chasing him. I think your troll's a  cunning devil. They’ll never catch him."
 "You really think so?"
  "I'm sure of it."
 "Who are you?"

  "One of Chiron's children. Mendle’s my  name.”
 “I've got to help Llort, go after him," said Jeremy.
 Mendle shook his head. "You'd never find him now; Look, the tides gone out and the land-bridge is open to the mainland."

 Jeremy followed the direction of the centaur's gaze to the thin strip of land that stretched for miles from the island to the horizon. He twisted around to look in the opposite way, to the fantastic wall of water known as the Hanging Ocean of Malvena that cascaded to the other horizon.

 "I'm going back home," said the boy. And then, l'm coming back, with Ned, to find Llort."
 The centaur nodded in agreement with the plan. “Come on,” he said, “My friends have hauled in your boat. It's ready for the high tide."

 Jeremy walked a while, until Mendle offered him a ride. Jeremy refused the first time, but at the second offer accepted and climbed aboard to cling to the centaur's shoulders.  They moved over  the hills and fields, past rushing streams and flowered lawns that led down to the shore.

 While they waited for the tide to turn, Jeremy talked with the band of centaurs and immediately found a sense of kinship for the gentle folk of this island. He felt sorrow at the thought of leaving so soon, but the urgency of his mission to rescue Ned overrode this concern.

 “Mendle!” asked Jeremy, “What does Etcheonda mean?”
 Mendle nodded: “It means here,” he said.
 “No, I want to know what the name means.”
 “But that’s what it means, Here -- or Home, where you’re welcome all the time.”

 The tide changed swiftly and, with instructions as to direction and approach to the Hanging Ocean, the boy took leave of his new-found friends and set sail for the wall. Actually, the sail had little effect on the voyage as the current took over when the craft was clear of the shore and Jeremy had only to man the tiller to keep the bow pointed in the right direction.

 The boy waved to the swiftly dwindling figures on the shoreline and then, as the mist and spray rose around him and the water grew choppy, he withdrew from one world and concentrated on this transition phase into another.

 The mist became a slow drizzle which increased in intensity until it changed to a pounding rain and a roar which drowned out all else. Jeremy held onto the tiller with all his strength as the little boat turned and spun, bounced and twisted, through the churning falls, carrying him to the very edge and tumbling him into space.  Jeremy felt himself falling free from the boat and he had no control over his motion as he tumbled, end over end, through a drop that seemed to go on forever, water filling his mouth and eyes, drenching him completely, flooding his senses, drowning his total being.

  With a crash he collided with a liquid surface, plunging deep, gasping for air and drawing only water, but still he struggled, clawing his way back up, and finally digging his nails into hard land, to drag himself, entirely spent, onto a grass-covered bank. There he lay gasping, retching water for a long while.

 In  time, the boy's breathing came back to normal. He sat up slowly and took in the world around him, recognizing its familiarity -- the woods close to his home. He stood up and looked around, adjusting himself to this return to his former dimension; a slight chill went through him from the coolness of the approaching evening. His shirt was gone, as were his socks and sneakers; and his jeans were soaking wet.

  But, he smiled as he looked around him once again, as he set out, up the path toward home. Several times, on the way out, he stopped and looked back toward the river. Tears mixed with laughter as he thought of “his” troll, and he knew that the old codger was okay. Jeremy stood still, listening to the bubbling of the brook, the slucing of the winds in the pines overhead; he heard the many tiny sounds of the forest creatures moving on their missions across and beneath the forest floor. He looked down at the river, at the swirling pool and up to the miniature falls that fed it.

By closing his eyes he found he could still bring himself down there; he smiled knowing that he’d never be too old for the adventures -- in this Llort was wrong. He was comforted in knowing that he could escape at the blink of an eye -- but the responsibility of Ned . . .  he had to teach Ned how to find his own way out of danger. Turning away from the river he headed toward home with a bounce to his stride, and a mission in his heart. He could hardly wait for the next adventure to begin.

“Thanks Llort!” he said. . .

- End

The Apple Orchard
 

Autumn,
 The chronometer shifts
  from emerald to rust.
I drive Connecticut back-roads
  searching --
feeling the shifting of the seasons --
  apprehensive
by the loss
  of another year.

I smell winter-apples --
  red and ripe --
   on gnarled trees --
their aroma penetrating
   through an open slit of car- window.
I try to fathom the smell --
   to use the fragrance as a wedge
 to pry into
  the closed chest of time.
I search for memories
   of real and imagined moments . . .    lost.

But  I am traveling
   too fast.
I feel the moment
  slip away,
as I circle to return
 to that place . . .
And - - passing again,
  in slow-motion . . .
I watch
 gnarled branches
   clutching at the sky --
an army of           misshapen trolls
   locked to the earth . . .
    together.
Again, I inhale
 that intangible apple-memory
    as I roll by the orchard
     wanting to stop . . .
  to savor the tantalizing fruit
    forever.
But, that is not possible - -
  and soon
   I am at the end of the road . . .

and the highway begins . . .
 

      Captain Jason Redbeard

  It was an old three-story house, sitting at the back of a wooded lot off a street that seemed always to have been there. Reputedly the house was constructed, many years ago, by a magician who came to town from nowhere or possibly England. The stranger had the house built by out-of-towners and lived there for a short while, then, just as mysteriously he disappeared and was not heard from again.

 Local legends grew up concerning the house, tales that involved the stranger in witchcraft and dark magic. There were stories that he held Druid cult meetings, attended by strangers from around the world in the woods behind the house. Supposedly the house contained secret passages that led to the underworld, but none were ever found.
 In time, after the stranger's disappearance, right after the "Hurricane of 38" the place was purchased by a Doctor Phelps who moved in with his wife and there began his family.

 Dan was reading "Mandrake the Magician" in his room when the front doorbell rang. With a lurch the boy leaped into the air and the book in his hands dropped. Almost before it landed  he was halfway down the stairs.
 "Here it is! Here's your package," said Mr. Daniels, the mailman as the brown-haired twelve year old spun onto the porch, to snatch the cardboard box out of the man's hands.

 "Hey! Take it easy," said the postman, "You'll get hurt."
 "Sorry," replied Dan, "but I've been waiting for so long."
 "Just about eight weeks," added Mr. Daniels. "I guess we won't see you so often any more, now that you have that ... package, whatever it is ..."

 Dan tried to be polite, but wished the man would leave so that he could open “that package “.
 "Well, good luck," said the man as he turned to descend the long squeeky, wooden steps of the old grey house. Just as quickly Dan was back through the screendoor and racing up the stairs, then down the long hallway, stopping just before his room.

 Dan held the package ahead of him, anxious to rip it open, yet a little frightened at the power that might lay beneath the thin skin of cardboard. "It's finally here," he whispered as he remembered that moment eight weeks ago when he had placed the six box-tops along with two dollars in an envelope, sealed it and walked downstairs to wait for the mailman.
 Now it was his. Slowly, like he was peeling an orange, Dan opened the package, breaking loose first one side, then the other. He lifted the lid and took a deep breath before going on to the next level, the crinkled, white stuffing that held his treasure.
 No! not just yet. He entered his room, walked past the brightly colored posters of Tarzan, and Buck Rodgers, the Wizard of Oz and Frankenstein. There he sat, on his unmade bed by the window as he cradled the package in both hands while letting the tingle in his stomach grow until he could bear it no longer.

  Setting the package between both knees, his thumbs gently probed through the wrinkled paper to the core. For a moment he was afraid there was nothing there, that they'd mistakenly sent him an empty package. He squeezed the paper but still he could find nothing. Losing patience he tore the package into two halves, dropped one section onto the floor while he ripped apart the first section. Nothing! In panic Dan dropped the torn pieces and snatched up the other half. Quickly he opened the second part wide. Not a thing.

 "I think I feel sick," he mumbled.
 Then his eyes widened as a thought came to him. "What if the ring fell under the bed?" Dropping to hands and knees the boy searched the orange rug; but there was nothing under the bed beyond yesterday's dirty socks and underwear and his good shoes.

 With a sigh the boy began to stand, but then he reconsidered and knelt down one more time. Wasn't there a glint of something shining from down in that knothole at the corner of his bed? Sure! That had to be it. He was always finding strange stuff in there: nickels he had lost or fish hooks and sometimes things like jacks and marbles he'd never seen before. It was a black hole of sorts.

 Dan scurried back to his tool box and found a hook and some line and fastened them; then he was back under the bed and lowering the line into the hole. A couple of times he missed, but finally, after taking a deep breath and calming himself down, he concentrated on the task.

 There! He had it now. Gently he lifted it up and out. There it was, the ring: The Phantom Wizard Magical Ring. It was his.
 "Beautiful! Worth every penny of that two dollars." Dan held the ring in the palm of his hand enjoying the coolness of the gold metal against his skin. It was heavy too. He'd expected a little less, but this was a real ring; and the green stone set in the middle actually sparkled. He slid the ring onto the index finger of his right hand. A perfect fit. Holding it up to his face he explored the two miniature dragons who guarded the precious stone between them. On the bottom their scaly tails came together and entwined. Tiny stones set into the eyes of the dragons sparkled a red glint.

 Dan, dressed in his wizard's cape, the one he had taken from a trunk in the attic, stood in front of the bureau-mirror and pointed the ring while he narrowed his eyes into small slits.  Focusing the power of his mind through the ring he concentrated on Todd Lundgren, that bully down the steet who was always giving him a hard time. If he could make Todd disappear that would be worth the two bucks alone.

 "Zap," he said, and Todd was gone. Now for Mrs. Hageman, next year's teacher, a crabby old biddy who was acquainted with his mother. "Zap!" he said, and she was gone too. He thought of his friend Walt and almost zapped him too for not being around when he wanted him and for always being away with his parents on trips. Then suddenly, realizing what he was doing, Dan dropped his hand to his side.

 "I almost zapped Walt!" He was shocked at the act he had practically committed. "How could I think of zapping Walt?" Walt! he had to find Walt and show him the ring.
 In full flight, the boy darted through his bedroom doorway and down the hall, down the stairs to the screendoor, throwing it open and charging across the porch to leap into space, missing all the steps and landing on the grass below, to tumble once, and roll to his feet. With a bounce he was running across the wide-lawn to leap into the air, to scale the row of neatly trimmed hedges that separated the two houses. Then he was on the front porch. "Walt!" he yelled through the front door. "Walt! It's here! the ring."

 But Walt didn't come crashing down from the second story to view this most wondrous of all creations. There was silence from the house as if no one had ever lived there. Dan tried once more: "Walt! Are you home? Walt!"
 He turned away from the door, feeling sad that he couldn't share this moment with his friend. Then, half-way down the steps he froze in mid-step. "What if .. just supposing that ... No! It couldn't be .. or, could it?" He nodded his head and took another step, but came to a pause and reconsidered. "What if I had imagined that Walter had disappeared.
 Frantically Dan tried to remember his thoughts, all of them, after he'd put on the ring. Let's see now. I imagined Todd disappearing and Mrs. Hageman too. But not Walter! Not my best friend...

 Suddenly the air around him was scary, the house on whose steps he had trod became strange, electric. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled at the thought of what might have taken place. Slowly, deliberately making his mind a blank, the boy took off the ring and put it into his pocket. He had the feeling, quite strong, at that moment, that he wanted to be home, checking to see if his mother was in the kitchen, getting supper ready and that his sister Martha, who he despised, was still playing dolls in her rooms. He wanted them to be there.

 Dan walked across the lawn, parted the hedge and was half-way through the bushes when he heard the yell from down the road.
 "Hey Dan! It's me. Wait up!"

 "God! What a relief." There was Walt jogging down the sidewalk. All of a sudden, as if the clouds had opened wide on a rainy day, liquid sunshine poured over everything and the world was okay again.
 Dan let out a loud sigh, and felt in his pocket for the ring.

 "Where you been?" asked Dan.
 "Just down the street, watchin Todd and his folks packin their things."
 "What? What did you say?"
 "They're going away, for the summer. But Todd might not come back, not this year anyway."
 "How come?"
 "I don't know. Said he might stay with his aunt and uncle or somethin. I think his folks got money problems or somethin."
 "You sure?"
 "Yeah! Why wouldn't I be sure. It's no big deal, is it?"
 "What about Mrs. Hageman? What about her?"
 "I don't know anything about that witch."

 "Oh!" said Dan, "I thought you might have heard something about her. Like her going away or, you know, something like that."

 "No such luck," said the boy, "Anyways, I don't know anything about her. Hey! Did it come, the ring in today's mail?"
 Dan had been clutching the ring in his hand within his pocket. He dropped the ring into a crevice within the pocket while he slid his hand into the open. "No," he said, "Maybe in tomorrow's mail. Come on over to my house and we'll see if we can get some sodas and stuff from my Mom."

 The two boys walked across the lawn and into the house.
 That evening, when the house was quiet, and the family was either asleep, that was his sister, or quietly reading in the living room, that was his father; Dan climbed out of his second-story bedroom onto the roof and shinnied down an old oak tree to walk to the edge of the woods bordering their back lot. There he dug a hole, stopping now and then to listen to the cries of bats flying overhead, as they crossed in front of the full, orange-moon.

 He dug a hole with a table-spoon carried in his back pocket for this occasion and there he planned to bury the powerful, mystical ring where he would not be tempted to use its powers for his own selfish gain. And, he thought: "I'll save the world and all of its citizens from harm.

 Removing the ring from his finger Dan placed the band into the fresh hole and stared down at the beautiful stone which  caught rays from the moon and reflected them into his eyes.  He took up a handfull of dirt and began to sprinkle it lightly over the hole.

The boy sensed, rather than heard, a mournful wail from somewhere in the darkness which sent a shiver of chill up his spine. His second handfull sprinkled on top of the first, dimenishing the ring's sparkle, and again a wail which caused him to dump the remaining dirt and look all around him. Had the wail come from the woods, or -- or from the hole? Dan stood and backed, swinging his flashlight around him, checking 360 degrees. But there was nothing. Quickly and quietly, almost as if it was not his own thought, the boy reached down, lifted the ring, brushed off the dirt, and stuffed the glimmering jewel back into his pocket. Shivering in the damp air he returned home.

 When Fall came and school began without Mrs. Hageman, who it seemed, had gone off to England and become engaged, Dan was not certain that he had done the right thing by not burying that powerful ring. And though he never wore it or talked about the ring to anyone, including Walt, the band was always with him, usually lodged in one corner of his pant's pocket.

 One warm evening - Indian Summer it was - Dan and Walt played down in the local park, behind the volunteer firehouse where there were swings and a chute, next to the ballfield. Though both boys had outgrown the swings, or so they thought, this evening after playing ball with the kids in the neighborhood they sat and swung as they talked. It was one of those evenings where the blue of the sky and the dark of the night caused the star-field to twinkle ever bright, and the rising moon seemed to fill the sky.

 "Walt! Do you think there's life out there, like us, I mean?"
 "I don't know. There could be I suppose."
 "But would they look like us?"

 Walt shrugged as he pumped his swing higher, "Why not!"
 For a while the boys raced each other on the swings, each trying to outdo the other in height, then each, in turn reaching the limit and jerking down. But the feeling of exhileration in their stomachs was worth the effort. It was a wonderful, glorious night.
 "Walt!"
 "What!"

 "Do you think there's a god?"
 "Both my mom and dad say there is."
 "But you, I mean, what do you think?"

 Walt was silent for a while, pumping slowly now, no longer reaching for the heights, but just enjoying the wind in his face as he swung back and forth. "I don't know," he said, "I used to believe, but then, you know, finding out about Santa and the Easter Rabbit and all that. It makes you wonder just what to believe ... How about you?"
 While they were swinging, Dan found himself looking at the moon and one hand slipped into his pocket, withdrew the ring and slid it onto his finger. It seemed to fit, just right.

 "Me, well that's hard to say. I did believe, for a while but then one night when I really had my doubts I looked at the stars and asked God for a simple sign, just a little signal that he was there. I looked for anything, a shooting star, an airplane passing by or an owl would even do. But there was nothing and so I made up my mind ..."
 "So what do you think there is?"
 "I think its us, we're the gods, each one of us creates the universe in his own mind."
 "So. What happens when you die?"
 "I guess a universe somewhere blinks out ..."

 "Oh!"

 They swung in silence for a while longer, then yawns dispelled the magic of the night and both headed home. In the morning when he awoke Dan found the ring on his finger. It was comfortable there, but he felt the old fear and remembering the disappearence of Todd and Mrs. Hageman he got up early and went out into the woods, replaced the ring in the ground and covered it over.

  Though, in later years, when he tried, out of curiousity, to locate the "Ring of Power" he could never quite find the spot where it lay.

 Dan grew up, went to college and became a school teacher, and part time magician. Walt married Dan's younger sister Martha, and there was one child, a girl. As the years went by, Dan retired,  and then Walter. Dan had remained a bachelor and spent a considerable amount of his personal time doing benefit amateur magic-shows for schools, hospitals and other charities. His parents were gone now and Walter and Martha's daughter got married, leaving just the three of them alone in the two large houses. And suddenly Martha died and now there were two.

 In another neighborhood old Dan might have looked out of place, dressed as he was in top hat, long flowing cape and tuxedo; but here, walking down the quiet avenue among the old houses with wide lawns he belonged to a sort of "left-over" part of another time. In one gloved hand he carried a straight, silver cane, and in the other hand a black valise. He crossed the street and walked toward the old grey house, noting a little sadly, how run-down it was getting. Not that Walt's place next door looked any better though. Walt was reclining on a lawn chair reading, shaded by one of the great oaks that circled the property.

 "Hey Dan!" said Walt, "How'd the show come off?"
 "Pretty good Walt. But the kids are getting awfully demanding these days."
 "What'd they want - an elephant out of that hat?"
 "How'd you guess? Rabbits are pretty tame now I guess. World's changing too fast for me."
 "What do you mean?"
 "Walt. Its time we talked. There's a few things I want your thoughts on. Come on over to the porch and we'll talk about it with a beer in our mits."

 Dan went into the house and emerged wearing casual jeans and a sport shirt. When he came onto the porch Walt was sitting in his usual rocking chair, feet propped up on the railing, looking off toward some far off place.
 "You're thinking about Martha again," said Dan.
 "Un-huh! Just wishin we could have spent more time together, but I guess it wasn't meant to be... Things change."
 "Yup! They sure do. That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about."
 "How so?"

 "Do you remember, about a year or two after Martha died; you kept thinkin she was still around; you kept hearing her in the kitchen or upstairs?"

 "Hmmm! Yeah, of course, I remember."
 "Did you think you were goin crazy ... for a while?"
 "Maybe! Yeah, I suppose I did."
 "Well! I've got almost the same problem. No! Not seein Martha, but somethin like it; I need your help to try and figure it out."
 Walt slid his feet down from the railing and, straightened his posture in the chair to turn toward his friend. "So! Tell me about it," he said.

 "I started to a couple of times," said Dan, "but I was a little embarassed."
 "Not with me, I hope."
 "Yeah! I'm guilty. A man doesn't like to feel that he's slippin but I just might be."
 "Let's hear all about it."

 "Do you remember England?"

 "It sounds a bit familiar, but no, I never heard of it."
 "How about Ireland, Scotland or Wales?"
 "No! I can't say that I've ever heard of them. Where are they?"
 "I don't know. Somethin's happened, somethin very strange. You see, up until very recently all of those places I named were countries; small though they might be, they were countries which at times were very important in history."
 "You mean ancient civilizations?"

 "No, that's the troublesome part; they were, they are, I mean, they were modern civilizations, but they've disappeared."
 "How do you mean, disappeared? They changed their names, you mean, like Constantinople and the likes ...?"
 "I'm not sure. About three months ago I noticed that there hadn't been any mention of any of those countries in the news for some time. So, just out of curiousity I went back through the micro-discs to see where they were last mentioned."

 "What did you find?"
 "That's it - nothin."
 "What do you mean nothin?"
 "It's just a simple statement of fact. I could find nothin in the news that gave even the faintest indication that any of those places had ever existed."

 "Did you go back in the history books? And ... geogaphy texts?"
 "That was the next step."
 "And ...?"
 "Nothin... they don't exist. Never did."
 "Well, that's simple then; you've made them up. Probably part of a dream that got lodged in your memory. Could be the makin of a book you know."

 "Yes, that's all well and good but I know that they existed."
 "But how can they exist if nobody knows about them? You say they're modern nations or rather modern civilizations but how can they be if nobody knows anythin about them? Phantom nations perhaps?"
 "That's not all. Does the name Japan mean anythin to you?"

 "Ja - pan! You mean as in the god Pan?"
 "See! I thought so. That was a country too. Try Australia."

 "Australia. Hmmm, sounds familiar. No, that's just because it sounds like Austria. Are you sure you don't mean Austria. Now, that's a nice little country, visited there about ten years back. Right on the ocean, a nice place to vacation. Martha loved it."

 "On the ocean is it? What about the Alps and Italy? No, don't tell me: I've looked at the maps. Those places don't exist either and a whole bunch of other places that were there when we were children. For that matter all of them were there until just over a year ago, but now they're gone."

 "Dan. Have you ... I mean, have you been for a check-up lately?"
 "Yep! Just this week and by the way it was a psychological check-up. I had the same question on my own lips. But the Doc gave me a clean bill of health. My memory losses were due to aging, he said."
 "Did you mention this problem, the loss of whole nations?"

 "Well no. I didn't tell him about that."
 "Uh-huh! Don't you think you should have told him?"
 "Sure, but I didn't want him to think I was crazy."
 "Oh, I don't think it's that bad, just some minor delusions. Perhaps some chemistry imbalance, probably a few pills would straighten you out; don't you think?"

 "No Walter! I wish it was that simple. I think what's happening is that those countries have been stolen."
 "Oh come on now! How could anyone steal a country? It just isn't rational, is it? And why are you the only one who remembers them? I trust that you've made additional inquiries."
 "I have and nobody does, nobody remembers them... Still, I do. Here, let me show you. I've started a journal with all the information I can remember about them. Mostly its bits and pieces. I never was much of a history bug. Though, as you can see, there's quite a bit of information here."

 Walt took the journal and went through it. "Hmmm! This is impressive Dan. If it was fiction you could probably get it published. Why don't you try the science fiction markets?"
 "Because its not fiction; those places really existed."
 "Have you tried a travel agent, tried to book a ticket then?"

 "That I have; went down to Brownstone Travel; still no luck. They never heard of any of them."
 "Well then! Isn't that enough Dan? If the travel agencies never heard of them, surely they don't exist." Walt smiled and sipped his beer. "If those places were there you can bet that someone would be selling tickets to them."
 "I hear you Walt! And I know that I don't have a single written fact to stand on. Perhaps I am crazy, though I don't feel any different than I ever did. A little older maybe."

 "Don't get worried," said Walt, "It happens all the time. Go back to your doctor, fill him in on the details you overlooked. He'll probably find the answer on page 256 or somethin of his medical book. I'm sure its a chemical problem, imbalance. It usually is you know; and they have pills for that sort of thing."

 "I guess you're right, but those places ... that England and Scotland, Wales, Japan, Italy and ... and the rest. It seems like they've always been a part of my world and I can't see how they come into it ... or rather, how they got away from us."
 The men finished their beers. It was Walt's turn to cook that evening so they went over to his house for ham sandwiches, watched a football game on tv for a couple of hours and then each retired to his own home.
 And, though they met each day it was over three-weeks before the conversation went back to that evening's subject.
 "Walt?"

 "Yes Dan."
 "You know that conversation we were having just the other day about disappearing nations?"
 "I seem to recall somethin of that nature. Did your doctor prescribe a pill?"
 "I haven't been to see him yet, though maybe I will next week."

 "Oh!"
 "But Walt! Do you remember tellin me about your vacation, the one you and Martha took in Austria ... about ten years ago?"
 "Austria! Austria? No, I don't think so. Actually I've never heard of the place. Is it another one of your vanished civilizations?"
 "You really don't remember it, Walt, from our talk the other day?"
 "Sorry Dan; if I'd been to such a place as that I'd certainly remember it now, wouldn't I?"
 "I guess so; the whole thing is terribly confusing. Europe? How about Europe? Do you know anythin about it?"
 "Europe ... That doesn't sound the least bit familiar. You've certainly got an imagination for names Dan. You should think about writin that novel."

 "How about Greece Walt? You know: the god Pan .. and all that mythology?"
 "Mythology! Greece! Pan! Those are interesting names; I'm certain you could write an excellent fantasy story. Why don't you give that a chance?"
 "I think I might, right after I visit my doctor."
 "Good idea."
 "Dan cooked hot-dogs for supper with ripe red tomatoes plucked fresh from the backyard garden. They ate, listened to the tv for a while, and returned home to their separate houses.

 Time passed. Dan sat alone rocking his chair on the porch of the crumbling home. He looked across the beach to the endless expanse of ocean and remembered a vague neighborhood that might once have been there. And he thought of his friend, brother-in-law and neighbor Walt who had once lived only a stone's throw away. As if to test the thought about distance he got up, carefully walked down the steps to the beach and picked up a rock which he threw in the direction where Walt's porch once was. The stone splashed and disappeared beneath the waves.

 Dan placed his hands, clasped them, behind his back and began his circumnavigation of the world. Rounding the backyard he looked into the distance at the watery horizon and stopped to remember the woods that had been there. His attention was attracted to a sparkle on the beach and so he walked there, stooped down and retrieved the circle, washed it in the salt water and held it up to the light. He smiled at the gold band, the dragons holding a green stone between them and tried to remember where he remembered it from. The ring had been his once, he was almost sure of that, but when?"

 "Oh well, " he shrugged, "It doesn't matter anyway." And pocketing the ring, he continued the short walk back to his starting point at the front porch. It was getting to be a chore, all that walking, with his arthritis and all. It was certainly a big world, but somehow it had once been bigger.

  Climbing the steps he sat on the porch and watched the waves. Several times he patted his pocket to make sure the ring was still there and tried to search back through the haze of his mind to remember it, but the mist was too thick.
 Dan thought he'd like to go on down to the library to do some research on disappearing continents, but wondered how he could do that. And then he'd like to consult with Walt about all the changes in the world, but that didn't seem to be possible either. So he settled for going back up the stairs to the study.

 On the way in, the golden ring fell through a hole in his pocket and then bounced twice on a floorboard to vanish down a crack to the darkness below the house.

 Dan climbed the stairs, entered the study and, taking a geography text down from the bookshelf, opened it at random. The page was blue; as a matter of fact every page he opened to was blue and nothing more. Except for one page that seemed to have a single tiny dot on it, a fly speck perhaps. But he brushed this speck away and watched it fall off the page.

       Voyager
 

Early morning in March ... Buffalo Bill begins his descent to the pavement ...

 Voyager initiates telemetry of the surface of Jupiter.

He groans in his sleep -- chased through alleys of his mind by childhood demons, reborn.

 Bright orange bands swirl with red streaks.

He pisses his pants and pukes upon a grimy sidewalk.

 Cameras begin shooting at 350,000 kilometers, focusing on the Great Red Spot.

Men and women, on their way to work, detour around the snoring man: they step over a wet circle that spreads from him.

 Into the camera's range Io and Europa appear as baubles against the great Jupiter Mother.

The sun is kind today, beating warm rays upon the wretched man who hugs the sidewalk.

 There is a noticeable color difference between Io and Europa.

Midmorning in the city and Buffalo Bill groans and thrashes in his sleep. One hand scratches his groin ...

 Ganymede comes into view followed by Callisto -- both moons have vast amounts of ice ...

Buffalo Bill rubs his eyes and struggles up ... looks around him trying to focus on the world.

 Callisto exhibits its impact basin, a bright circular spot, about 600 kilometers across ...

He leans against a brick wall, adjusting his trousers, then cages a quarter from a passing tourist ...

 On March 5, Voyager makes its closest approach to Jupiter, sending back time-lapse pictures of the counterclockwise motion of the atmosphere.

Buffalo Bill has caged three more quarters ... He saunters down the avenue toward Mick's Bar and the start of a new day ...

 Detailed photographs of Jupiter reveal the intricate and involved structure of the Red Spot, before the spaceship moves on to its rendezvous with Saturn.
 
 

            Captain Jason Redbeard

 Look son! Like I said, I have always kept a journal. No, not a recorder, but here in a little book, like this one. I like the feel of stylus on massus, used to be called paper where I came from; almost the same thing, only massus lasts forever, or so they say.

 So what is it you want to know? I probably have it written down somewhere or other. Yes, I was one of the first star-travellers. Hold on now! If you want really technical information I'm not your man; you'll have to find a scientist for that. Okay!  You want the historical perspective on how it started. Well, I don't know if I can help you out much with that either. You'd probably  get better info  from a library bank.

 Here's the problem. Physically I'm thirty-five years old but mentally and emotionally... now that's something else. Continuity wise I'm around nine-hundred and fifty. But, hold on now! Up here, in the cranium, I don't have that much memory stored. Each time I do a dump into a new body we do some editing, cut out a lot of stuff, otherwise it would get pretty confusing over a lifetime or two. As a matter of fact, the junk we accumulate in one lifetime is almost too much as it is. Now, I've been through ten conversions.

 After a hundred years or so one needs a new frame, new shape, sometimes a different sex. I've been one of the them, the other sex,  I mean sexes, three times. And, it certainly was different. But you want my thoughts about the early years. Well, I've kept some of those memories, edited them, consolidated a lot, of course, but in general the early memories are still intact; call me sentimental..

Valentine was the one started the whole game going. He'd been a self-taught engineer who worked at Yale, knew Delgato, Benet, Kindlmon, and had worked in most of the disciplines, physics, chemistry, psychology, engineering; he really knew his  stuff.

 Experimenting at home in his own lab Val put it all together, a system for magnetically coupling brain-waves, memories and all, onto super-dense magnetic substrates. At first he didn't realize what he'd come up with; basically he was searching for a new way to control vehicles, trains, cars, planes with the mind directly interfaced for steering, braking and the likes.

 It took him several years to get it right. I was working with him at the time, as a technician doing routine wiring and layout; I put together a lot of the original circuits, but he did the really fine stuff and was the only one who knew how the whole system came together. Gradually he began to see what some of the grand possibilities were and in the process he dropped lots of commercial jobs as the "Brain-Scan" project took up more and more space. Finally it overflowed practically onto the streets and we had to find an old factory with lots of floor-space to move into. Just moving took us weeks, and it damned near drove him mad to have to "waste" the time. A few things got broken too, during the move, and had to be replaced.

 Most of the time Val used himself as the guinea pig; he didn't want to put anyone else in danger, he said. We'd routinely transfer memory via wire from his mind to storage and replay the information. Then, one morning  when we computerized the data, we ended up with more stuff than we sent. The information was beginning to generate its own information. So we got stuff on the screen like: "Wake up out there you god damned idiots! It's dark in here. Give me a camera input."
 We were both stunned. What the hell did we have?

 So we inputted a camera to the processor, added a voice synthesizer, and stood back.
 "Okay shitheads!" said the synthesizer, "Now we've got a problem here. I've transmitted myself into this box and I'm here, thoughts, memories, emotions, no direct feelings though, like touch or smell, but I do have some other sensations that I've never experienced before. I'll have to explore them further before any more comments. And, you've forgotten the audio feed. So fix that up with a mic. and we'll try and figure out what the hell to do next."

 We quickly wired in the audio feed so we could talk to .... Who? Valentine-2, or what? We'd find out soon.
 "Okay," replied the voice, changing its timber by itself so that in no time at all it was a facsmile of Valentine's voice:
 "Look guys! I'm in here. Granted I'm a Xerox copy of Valentine but he's all here, in this box, and when you start connecting up heat and pressure sensors there'll be more of me yet."
 "What's it like there?" asked Valentine.

"It's like looking at the world through a camcorder. Never knew you were such an ugly lookin bastard though."
"Thanks a lot," said Valentine-1, "This is going to be ver