"I have learned over time that humans are amazingly resilient when it comes to change. I personally stand before you as a perfect example of that fact, for here I am today, a totally different person than I was a year ago. Based upon this and my other observations, I surmise that people may adjust quickly because they are just that, people. As individuals, our views are more receptive and open toward change and, for the most part, we can be unbiased if we are not swayed by outside influences. In terms of the whole, we tend to accept it much easier, regardless of the depth that may be involved.

"However, the key to bringing about successful change to a society, and its perceived notions of what the world, or universe, should be, is for it to be gradual and not all at once. To change dramatically over a very short period is to cause fear and chaos, not so much from a real threat as from a perceived one. Our history has been fraught with events permeated with the anticipation of what one side or another might do; yet, in actual physical terms, they would do nothing but think of these things.

"It is for that reason that I, along with a select group, have decided it best to keep certain knowledge of actual events from the public and to proceed with a gradual method of introduction. Some might think of that as a conspiracy like methodology and a threat to the democracy of a society, but I have accepted that risk. I accept the risk because this change will be a phenomenal leap for all of mankind and, in the end, will possibly save the planet from destruction, whether from an outside or internal struggle.

"Historians shall record this day, and all those events that have preceded it, and they will scribe the facts as they have occurred up to this momentous time. It shall make for an interesting story, one that I hope will explain our beginning and be preserved through the ages whether we succeed or fail. It shall be a testament to the people of Earth that I…we…meant no wrongdoing in this undertaking, and the records of our actions shall be placed before them.

"Historians shall no doubt point to the fact that I am not totally human, and they will certainly question my right to make such a decision regarding Earth's future. I assure each of you that I have not chosen this path lightly, and I hope you understand my reasons. You know I have the ability to see ahead to the near future in a limited way. But, even with this ability, all the technology we possess, and the priceless knowledge at our disposal, I can only pray that they are the correct choices for the planet and its people."

Statement by the Leader of the United Council of Developing Worlds, (UCDW), at the first Council Meeting held on the Planet Earth, as recorded and logged into the Planetary Archives on the Planet Zire.

Archival note: This is the first meeting of the new Council since the murder of all the Council members on the Planet Zire.

Earth Year 2002

"Just have them killed and begin the indoctrination!" the voice boomed impatiently. "We will not waste any more time debating this issue!"

All heads turned toward the Honorable Copolla, leader of the UCDW, as he regally strode to his seat. He took slow, calculated steps, so that each delegate could take note of his ominous appearance. His large apelike, humanoid-looking frame commanded a height of well over seven feet. His body was a large mass of pure muscle that conveyed an immediate sensation of power and strength. His face, made of a substance that resembled quartz, glistened in the light, and was as unmoving as stone.

He walked forward, his long robes flowing with self-importance and prestige, his position flamboyantly displayed for all to recognize. He approached his seat, the biggest in the Great Hall. From here, he would sit and listen to the discussions of the members. On many occasions, he sat without a single comment throughout entire sessions. On others, he thundered his rulings, leaving the delegates quavering in their seats. His quietness was sometimes mistaken for aloofness, but he was a being who could formulate plan upon plan while not missing a sentence of discussion.

The delegate from planet Ross 154 finally asked timidly, "How can you be sure they are the ones? I am very concerned that the movement to install members to this Council from this primitive planet is very premature. They are by far at the lowest end of development compared to any other planet that is a member of this Council. Furthermore, the indoctrination process is very tricky, and could compromise the initial contact agent, Leumas. I feel the Council should re-visit this issue. The charter states that—"

"The Leader of the United Council of Developing Worlds has decided!" Copolla thundered, his strident voice echoing throughout the cavernous hall. "They have been selected as the next members. It is done!" The leader spoke with finality. "The Sol system has been under our influence for far too long now. It needs its own species to contribute to the decisions of its destiny. There will be no further discussion on this issue!"

The delegate from Ross 154 sat quickly as Copolla addressed the delegation again, this time in a more subtle tone. "Members of the UCDW, my distinguished colleague from Ross 154 has brought up an important issue regarding the planet Earth." Copolla looked around the room, staring with a piercing look directly into the members' eyes, "I have personally looked into this matter and have carefully reviewed the Council's recommendations."

He lifted his hands to emphasize his point. "The opportunity to make history is before us. This planet, Earth, even though we all agree it is very primitive, has great potential to provide valuable insight into its own development and serve as an example to other planets that we are currently assisting. I feel very strongly that we are doing the right thing." He continued with what he hoped was a sincere smile on his hard, carved face, "I have carefully looked at this from all angles, and that is why I have assigned our very best to handle this case. You all know that Leumas is one of our best initial contact agents. I have the utmost faith in his ability to successfully indoctrinate the two new subjects, who I have assisted the Council in selecting."

The delegate from Ross 154 looked imploringly at the other members, hoping that someone would join him in questioning the validity of the order. No one stood. He was on his own. He prepared to rebut, but suddenly felt Copolla's piercing eyes burning through him, and decided to remain silent.

Even as he maintained control of the Council meeting, Copolla's mind was drifting off into thoughts about the plan he had set into motion to discredit Leumas, who was becoming far too popular within the Council and who could pose a threat to his leadership as older members were replaced with younger ones.

A large percentage of the Council members were from the old school, set in their ways, and not so much as "comfortable" with Copolla as much as they had learned to live within his cruel twists of Council powers. However, as the years went by and the older members were gradually replaced, the Council majority was more receptive to Leumas' new-aged suggestions.

Copolla was not going to lose his position to anyone, especially not to Leumas. He couldn't stand the vain and arrogant bastard. To this end, he had orchestrated Leumas' new assignment, which involved, ironically, the planet Earth. The last time he and the Council had dealings with this planet, the results had been disastrous, and no one knew this as well as he did. Earth was still far from ready to join the Council, but that was what made the plan perfect for what he had in mind.

Leumas had been shooting off his mouth for months now about reforming procedures regarding initial contact. He had many ideas about how things needed to be changed. All were centered on Leumas' concept of making the Council better and more efficient. Several members had even voiced their agreement with Leumas, and considered his ideas innovative and creative, a breath of fresh air.

Copolla knew that these kinds of feelings among members could be the beginning of a movement to boost Leumas higher in his position within the Council, and Copolla did not want Leumas any higher than he already was. In fact, he thought it was time for Leumas to suffer a minor career setback. Clip his wings and bring him back down a couple of notches, Copolla thought menacingly.

The beauty of the plan was that it would also take care of some loose ends that had been thorns in his side for years. Certain images from his past had recently resurfaced in his dreams, maybe an omen of sorts, he thought worriedly. But that was where Leumas came in. Copolla had not worked this hard, and clawed his way to where he was, to be hindered by a speck of dust like Leumas. He had seen this before, when he was much younger, and had vowed to never fall prey to it himself.

Copolla had been born on the planet Sevith and, from birth, everything had been a constant struggle. Born to a middle-level family unit, he quickly saw the differences between those that had and those that had not. He also knew he would someday be one of those that had, no matter what it took. He discovered early on that power was the key to everything. Everything. He learned the advantages of having an edge over someone physically or mentally. This realization had started during his young education, and he had nurtured it throughout his career. His philosophy was simple. Never take an assignment that was too risky, never come between two different political views, and always—always—know everything he could about life forms he dealt with, either publicly or privately. He had also found that, in most cases, the more private the information, the better.

He soon found himself in the position of delegate's aide on the Council. He rose through the ranks quickly by keeping his eyes and ears open to what was going on in the Council, as well as outside of it. He stuck to his philosophy and made it his business to know everything about anyone he dealt with. All, interestingly enough, usually had some type of skeleton in their closet, if they didn't, he would masterfully put one there for them. He had used this method throughout his career, and still continued it. That was how he had become the Leader of the Council and, now that he had the power to control and manipulate through fear and intimidation, he planned to keep it.

He pulled himself out of his reverie as he realized all the delegates were looking at him expectantly. He stood, banging the gavel on the Council table three times.

"If there is no further business then, this meeting of the United Council of Developing Worlds is concluded."

# # #

Earth Year 1945

The two figures sat on a park bench overlooking Chesapeake Bay in Norfolk, Virginia, watching the play of seagulls sweeping up and down as they rode the unseen air currents over the water. The sound of the waves crashing along the bay front distracted their gaze of the birds in majestic flight. The aromatic smell of Italian food whiffed through the air from the restaurant next to the park. Amused and overwhelmed at these sensory delights, the two sat silently absorbing the simple pleasures they had never experienced on their home world many light years away.

They sat with their troubling thoughts hanging before them, waiting to be addressed, but neither one wanting to begin, for they knew what the outcome would bring. Finally, they spoke frankly and with a familiarity that could only be attributed to many years of close friendship.

"Copolla won't send anyone else," Sorn said as he pulled his cap down closer on his forehead against the early spring chill of 1945. He was tall and lean, but his facial features were smooth and calming even though he was troubled by the internal turmoil that plagued them both. Galib was not as tall as Sorn, and his face possessed features that were more neutral in their demeanor. Although they were not of this world, neither one was conspicuous in any way that would attract any attention from the casual onlooker, for neither possessed features that could be construed as alien or different from other humans.

"What makes you so sure?" Galib's long dark hair caught in the ocean breeze as he removed his knit cap and stuffed it into an oversized coat pocket. The air was cool, but the feel of an untainted atmosphere on his skin was worth the chill it brought.

"Because he won't take another chance of getting caught by the Council. He sent us here under the assumption that the information we provide will help him out of this mess with the German leader Hitler."

Sorn paused, thinking, carefully considering their position again before continuing. "But getting caught sticking us here would be going too far out on a limb, even for Copolla. Replacements or searchers are out of the question. It would draw too much attention from the Council, just as the World War caused by their meddling."

"A lot of innocent life forms died in their war. A war brought about by the Council," Galib said.

"Not so much by the Council as by Copolla," Sorn replied cynically. "He orchestrated the entire event. I hate to imagine what he might have done if he had more power and deeper control of the Council members."

Silence fell between the two for several minutes as they wrestled with the indecision in their minds. They knew what had to be done if they were to have a chance at freedom.

"We were lucky to have been chosen in the first place," Sorn stated. "We've been looking for a way to get away from Copolla's dictatorship all these years, and here it is, handed right to us. We could start anew here, free from Copolla's threat to expose us for crimes we never committed."

"I know, Sorn, I know," Galib said nodding. But it almost seems, well, too perfect." He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, trying to relieve the frustration and fatigue. "I can't help thinking we're missing something."

Sorn clasped his friend on the shoulder in acknowledgement of a friendship that had lasted many years. "Don't start seeing shadows in all the corners now. Paranoia will get us quicker than any life form will. We've been on Earth now for over two months, feeding Copolla reports about the inhabitants of this planet. He's happy with all the new information and suspects nothing. So, suddenly, all the reports will stop. He won't have any way to track us down, even if he sends another agent to look for us. He's given us all the tools we need, and our natural appearance blends right in with the inhabitants. It's the perfect opportunity."

Galib smiled at his friend's positive outlook, but he knew there was one more thing they had to do if they were going to try this crazy defection plan they had devised.

"I know it is," Galib replied hesitantly, dreading the words he knew must come next. "But, just to play it safe, I think we need to…perhaps it would be best if we…well, you know, separated, and went our own ways. Just in case someone should come. At least, if we're apart, the chances of them finding both of us are not as great."

Sorn reluctantly nodded agreement. "I hate to admit it, but you're right." He turned to look at the Earth people walking along the beach, the children running along the water's edge, dodging the incoming water despite calls from their parents to stay out of the water. Everything seemed so peaceful among the humans, even in their own personal turmoil. Sorn sighed, and looked back at his friend of many years as he tried to hold back threatening tears.

"These Earth people are not such a bad lot. In fact, they are quite similar to us in many ways."

Galib looked up, avoiding Sorn's eyes. "Yes, this is quite true. However, they are so far behind on the technological side. Look at the weapons they used in this war. An atomic bomb? Chemicals? It's as if we've gone back in time."

Sorn nodded. "True, but at least here we will be free from Copolla. Imagine life on a planet where you can actually walk outside and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, unlike Zire. Enjoy it without pressure suits because there's no residual radiation lurking in the soil and blown about by the fierce winds."

He stood from the bench, stuffing his hands into his baggy pants and raised his head to meet Galib's gaze.

"Where will you go?" Galib asked, looking at his friend sadly.

Sorn shrugged, "I don't know, and I think it's best that you don't know either, Galib."

Galib rose from the bench and faced Sorn. They shook each other's hands warmly, neither one wishing to let go because it would solidify their separation for the rest of their lives.

"Long life and happiness to you, Galib."

"As to you, Sorn."

The friends of many years parted, neither one looking back. They had been friends far too long and knew it was best to be done quickly. If they waited too long, they would somehow convince each other there was another way they could accomplish what they needed to do. They both exited the park, their vision blurred by tears, heading in opposite directions. They would never know of the other's successes or failures in joining this alien society. They would keep their promise and would not contact each other again.

# # #

From Virginia, Galib and Sorn went their own ways. Sorn headed to the North and settled in a small rural town in New Jersey. As part of their cover, Copolla's personal agents or spies were provided all the false documentation necessary to blend into society, including birth certificates, social security cards and driver's licenses. Sorn mentally discarded his own name forever and assumed his new identity as Sam Carlson.

The new Sam Carlson used his time to learn the Earth culture, using the local library's facilities, and studying the inhabitants while he maintained a low profile. Once he felt confident enough to blend into society mentally and emotionally, as well as physically, he found a job working as a bus driver for the city. It was through his job that he met Joan, a receptionist at the local real estate office, who rode the bus every day to work. Casual conversation led to a date and, from there, the relationship escalated until they were married in 1969. Their marriage would produce one child born in 1979, a boy they named Greg. Sam was very happy in his new life, but never free of the thought that he might still be sought out and found.

Galib ended up in Altoona, Pennsylvania, where he immediately found work on the railroad. As Sorn had mentally committed himself to his new name and identity provided by Copolla, Galib now assumed his new documented identity as George Ferguson, casting off any remaining ties to the previous life he had known. The work was agreeable to George, and he filled his free time by contributing his off work hours to charity. He liked working with children, so he spent a lot of time at the Community Hospital with the terminally ill. It was there that he met Susan, who was also a volunteer. They quickly struck up a friendship and were married a year later in the spring of 1967. They had one child in 1979, a daughter they named Sarah. George was also the happiest he had ever been, but he always wondered about Sam, and whether he too had found happiness on this alien planet they called home.

# # #

Earth Year 1992

"Maybe you should try to talk to him," Joan said worriedly. Sam put the newspaper down in his lap and looked at his wife of twenty-four years. Every time he looked at her, he felt the love for her just as it had been the first time they had met. She was a wonderful wife to him, and a good mother to Greg, who was now thirteen. However, Greg had reached that age where certain things were more easily discussed with a father than a mother.

"Is he really that upset about being turned down for a date?" Sam asked with concern.

"Yes, he is really upset. I went in his room and caught him crying about it. I tried to talk to him about it but…he was reluctant."

"Where is he? Still in his room?"

"Yes. He's been there ever since he came home. I tried to talk to him, but I think this is a man's problem," she said, a smile showing around the edges of her mouth, teasing Sam.

"Okay. I'll try and talk to him," Sam said as he smiled at her lovingly and rose from his chair and headed for the stairs. He shook his head and thought, teenagers.

He climbed the staircase and was suddenly surprised to find his breathing increased rapidly as he climbed each step. He felt a tightening pain in his chest as he stopped, trying to regain his composure by taking deep breaths. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Joan had not seen. He didn't want to worry her. He stood there with his eyes closed, attempting to will away the pain that had been increasing in frequency over the past couple of months. The fire in his chest finally receded to a dull flame as he ascended the two remaining steps and walked slowly down the hall. He knocked lightly on the door of his son's room.

"Greg? It's Dad. Can I come in?"

A muffled tear-filled voice answered. "Okay."

Sam opened the door and stepped inside. Greg was lying on the bed, staring upward at the ceiling, his eyes red and puffy. He quickly sat up when his father entered the room. Sam sat on the bed next to him.

"Tough day, huh?" Sam said, attempting to ease carefully into conversation.

"Humiliating is more like it," the boy poured out. "It was awful, Dad, in front of my whole algebra class. She laughed and blurted out 'no way' so everyone could hear it."

"Did you really like this girl?" Sam asked, feeling sorry for his son's embarrassment. Adolescence was such a confusing time, no matter what planet or species.

"Well," the boy sniffed, his tears drying. "We've talked a couple of times and exchanged a smile here and there. I thought she liked me."

Feeling his son's confusion, Sam put his arms around Greg's shoulders. "I know it feels terrible and you feel like you want to just crawl under a rock. But, believe me, in time this will pass, and no one will even remember it. This sort of rejection is just a part of life and, over time, won't seem that big of a deal. Just remember, she's the one who lost out."

Sam stopped to catch his breath, which was becoming laborious again, "Uh…believe me, there will be many more girls to ask. It's really just a case…of…"

He was not able to finish the statement, as a coughing fit racked his entire body. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his chest.

Greg looked concerned, and eyed his father, "That cough isn't getting any better, Dad. Maybe you should go see a doctor."

"No. I'm okay, really," Sam said as he fought back the coughs that screamed in his chest to be released. When the fit stopped, he continued. "Now, where were we?" He asked, smiling weakly at his son. "Look at it this way. Would you want to go out with the girl just for the sake of going out, or would you rather go out with her because she really likes you?"

Greg thought it over for a moment, then smiled. "You know, it's funny how you can always make sense out of a mess. Thanks, Dad."

Sam smiled, proud of his son, "Not a problem. And, next time, if you are going to ask a girl out, I would do it, well, somewhere more private. That way, if you meet with any harsh comments, it will be between you and the girl, not the whole class. Okay?"

"Got it," Greg said, embracing his father. Sam hugged his son desperately as the pain returned to his chest. It pounded harder this time, causing him to close his eyes and concentrate to keep from yelling out in pain. Quickly he left his son's room and stood against the wall outside. He prayed silently for the pain to go away, but he knew in his heart that the end was inevitable and coming very soon.

# # #

"Darn it! That can't be the right answer," the teenage girl yelled at herself for the fourth time in the past hour. She had been tediously laboring over her algebra problems for two hours. She balled up the piece of paper and threw it angrily at the wastebasket, where it joined several others that lay scattered on the floor. She hastily took out another sheet of paper and began again.

"That's not the way to approach a problem," George said, smiling in the doorway as he looked in on Sarah.

"Oh, hi, Dad," the raven-haired girl said, ashamed that her father had witnessed her outburst.

"Haven't I taught you better than that?" he asked.

"I know, Dad, but I'm just so frustrated," Sarah said, "If I want to get that scholarship, I have to keep up my straight A's, and this algebra isn't being very cooperative."

George smiled at his daughter's determination. He was glad to see that she was strong-willed and didn't give up easily. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, "Perhaps you need to step back from it for a little while. Take a break, do some reading or something. Okay?"

His daughter smiled at him lovingly and closed her book. "Okay, Dad, you're probably right, as usual. I'll stop for a while."

"Great! I've got to go to the doctor's office. Your Mom thinks I need some medicine or something for this indigestion of mine. We'll be back in a little bit. See you later. And stay away from the algebra for a bit."

"I will. Bye, Dad." She smiled and waved.

Sarah relaxed on her bed with a book of short stories her mom had given her two birthdays ago when she was eleven. She loved the stories; she'd read them all so many times that she could almost recite them from heart.

Two hours later, George and his wife Susan returned home from their trip to the doctor. Sarah met them as they entered the house.

"Mom, Dad, it worked!"

"What worked, honey?" her mom asked distractedly, trying to hide the fact that she had been crying. But Sarah noticed immediately that something was wrong. She looked at her father and noticed that he also appeared haggard and distraught.

"What's wrong, Dad?" she asked, alarmed.

"Nothing, honey," George answered, trying to summon a smile. "The doctor gave me…a shot…for this flu I picked up. I don't think it agrees with my stomach."

"I'm going to put on some coffee," Susan turned abruptly and went off toward the kitchen.

"What were you going to tell us?" George asked, wanting to change the subject as his wife disappeared into the kitchen.

"I figured out that algebra problem," Sarah said as her own enthusiasm returned.

"Great. How did you do it?"

"I did just what you said. I left it alone, went and read some short stories, and then the answer just came to me. It was so simple," she smiled.

George felt flushed with pride. He glanced at his watch, "It's time for bed, isn't it, young lady?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Okay, Dad." Sarah sighed and went to the kitchen to give her mom a hug. She came back to hug George. "Thanks, Dad. It always seems that you and mom have the solution for everything."

He kissed his daughter on the cheek, tears glimmering in his eyes as he returned her hug very tightly. "Now, get upstairs and get some rest. I'll see you in the morning. Good night."

"Night, Dad," she called, as she headed up the stairs to her bed.

George walked slowly toward the kitchen. Susan was sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of coffee she had poured for them. She looked up at his entrance.

"Did you tell her?" she asked, tears still in her eyes.

"No. I just couldn't. The time is not right." He put sugar and milk into his coffee.

"You know she has to be told soon. There isn't much time," she said, her voice breaking.

"After her exams, Susan. I don't want her distracted. Her school work is everything to her," he responded, grimly.

Susan started to reply, but the look on George's face told her it was better not to.

"I just can't come out and tell her that her father only has three months to live," he said as he sat at the table and grasped Susan's hands. "I just can't."

# # #

Six months later, in two separate states, two medical examiners' reports and death certificates of Sam and George listed the cause of death as respiratory infection, which caused lung failure. It was somewhat a mystery, although not enough to warrant further medical investigation; no distinct cause for the infection could be isolated. The cause was therefore attributed to a particularly virulent flu strain that was currently plaguing the country. The cases were closed, and life went on.

Joan and Susan lived for four and five years respectively after the deaths of their husbands. Joan died in an automobile accident, and Susan died from cancer. Their children were now totally alone. George's daughter, Sarah, headed off to college to work on a degree in marketing with hopes of landing a job with a prestigious New York City marketing firm. Sam's son Greg had joined the Navy after high school and was seeing the world with no plans beyond what today brought him.

# # #

Earth Year 2002

Greg suddenly awoke in his own daydream and found himself in a nightclub reminiscent of the late 1940s. He blinked his eyes, hoping that it would go away and be replaced with the usually unmade bed or the clothes-covered floor of his apartment. But the bizarre surroundings remained the same. At least he was still Greg Carlson, he thought, but everything around had changed, right down to the clothes on his body.

Surprisingly though, he wasn't scared. In fact, he felt rather serene, a feeling he associated to the calming effect of having had a few beers, and this kept him from flipping over the edge.

Gazing at the surroundings, he guessed at the 1940-ish date from old photographs he had seen in books and magazines of the speakeasy establishments of the period. It was furnished with small round tables, topped with miniature lamps with shades that dangled with streams of glittering red plastic beads. Perfect white linen tablecloths reached to the black-and-white checkered floor. His sudden realization of having known the details of such an establishment made him wonder if in fact that had something to do with what he was now seeing. Perhaps his brain had been picked and the intricate details supplied to the manufacturer of this dream. The only answer he could come up with was that he had to be dreaming, but how often did one realize that very thought while sleeping, that you were actually awake in your dream? He touched one of the tables and its cool, hard surface felt just like it should, confirming its physical existence.

He was able to perceive everything around him as if he were wide-awake. He even touched himself and felt the pressure of his own warm hand. Then, there was…this strange feeling of electricity in the air. He could almost feel his hair strands beginning to stretch upward, there was so much static in the air of this place. Something was going to happen; that was the only thing he was confident about at the moment. However, because he knew not to be nervous or scared, he knew this was a 'good' thing.

Suddenly, a crowd materialized. The people were all dressed in period clothing. Of course, they would be; what else would they be wearing? Greg began to walk toward them; perhaps he could learn something from them and possibly end whatever was happening. Then he noticed that most of the people who had materialized were gorgeous and luscious women. At that point, he virtually lost control of what he was doing as his mind blended into some kind of scripted event, yet he remained a casual observer to the play.

They're all here for me, he said to himself, as his body shivered at the mere thought of all these women.

"Of course, why else would I be here?" he said aloud, as he strutted across the floor in his fashionable clothes, the baggy pants billowing with each step; his tight-fitting shirt accentuated his one-hundred-sixty-pound muscular, five-foot, eight-inch body. His dark hair, every strand perfectly in place, shimmered in the light and added a golden aura to the dream-like quality of this experience.

He almost felt embarrassed by the thoughts and words coming from his mind and mouth. Yet, there was this uncanny attraction that seemed to grow as the dream went on.

The crowd parted magically as he walked through their midst. They appeared to glow and glitter as he neared them, like ghosts drifting between points of solid and gaseous states. They came from all around just to shake his hand. He felt the warm touch of flesh against his palm, and they were all women.

But something told him, or somehow he knew, that these glancing touches were just empty shells of air, and seemed only to reaffirm that there was somebody else here that he had to meet. Someone very special, and he was meant only for her, not any of these others.

A gorgeous and voluptuous blond-haired woman stepped up to greet him.

"Hi, Greg. Remember me? I'm Karen. I bought you a drink once." Her voice was so high, it almost sounded like a squeak. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders as she moved closer, her face only inches away from his. He could smell the too-sweet perfume that radiated from her.

"You were so kind, you…spoke to me," she said breathlessly. "Remember? I gave you my chair and you said, 'thank you'."

"I'm sorry, but no, I don't remember you," he said apologetically, yet it hinted of a new found arrogance as he stepped away from her hands and her warm grip, his own actions again surprising him. Although his body moved around her, his eyes remained fixated on her loveliness, chest high.

"Oh, thank you! You are just too kind!" She said, nearly in a swoon, as he brushed past her. She stared down at her hands as if this mere touch had made them golden. She turned them over and over, and then hugged them to her body in ecstasy, pushing her chest almost to the brink of expulsion from their captivity. He continued to walk on, shaking hands with everyone, not having a clue who any of them were.

Then, for some reason, a spotlight appeared from somewhere out in the darkness and encompassed a sole woman who sat at the bar. She appeared to pose there, her back to him. In this view, he could catch glimpses of her carefully taking tiny sips of her drink. He immediately stopped and gazed in awe at this woman. She is the one, he thought, she is the one that I knew would be here.

She wore a simple black evening dress that flowed over her body, accentuating her curves in all the right places. As he studied those curves with rising interest, he felt goose bumps suddenly arise all over his body. He stared at her hair that shimmered like black silk hanging past her shoulders, wanting so much to touch those strands of black loveliness before they disappeared into the darkness outside of the spotlight.

He squared his shoulders and stepped up to where she sat, a ravishing sight, on the barstool. He knew why she was here. She was waiting just for him, nobody else, just him. He had never felt so sure about anything in his entire life. As he reached her stool, the room fell eerily quiet. He gently placed his hand at the base of her stool, noticing even more how the black dress clung to her body. He inhaled deeply and let her perfume tantalize and tease his senses. It affected him like one who is addicted to a drug and has just found a bountiful quantity. He had to have more, and more. His head was giddy, he felt the mood for the perfect words that would entice this woman to be his. Words that would make her simply melt. He felt no control as his smoothest voice spoke warmly and seductively to her, "You look like you're waiting for someone. Someone like me. Well, I'm here now. You and I have a destiny to fulfill. We will go to the stars together and experience things that others have only dreamt about."

The woman slowly began to turn toward him. Time stood still as he watched her face rotate into his plane of view. Then, suddenly, without even the slightest hint or warning, her face disappeared.

He screamed, "No! No! I must see your face!"

But the darkness kept coming and he knew that it would try to keep him from her, his woman. All he saw was darkness hurtling toward him, and he screamed.

# # #

"Damn it, that hurt!" Greg shouted, as the box of files he was reaching for fell from the shelf, glancing off the side of his head. He rubbed the spot with his hand as the box continued its gravitational trip, ending with a resounding w-r-u-m-p as it hit the floor.

"Damn it!" he shouted again, but the pain was not as bad as the disappointment he was feeling at not seeing the face of the woman in his recurring dream. This time he had gotten closer than ever before to actually seeing what she looked like.

As far as the box taking a whack at his head, he knew he had no one to blame but himself. This incessant daydreaming he was experiencing was getting worse. At first, it had just happened when he was sleeping, but now it was taking over even his conscious moments. Not that he minded about the women, or really just 'the woman,' in the dream. But that box weighed a good fifty pounds and, with the height and speed, it could have caused some serious damage, possibly even killed him, as it sent him hurtling off the ladder to the hard cement floor.

Well, what's done is done, he figured, as he continued to rub the knot on his head. He noticed the time on his watch, and was relieved that it was time to call it a day before he seriously hurt himself, especially with the way things had been going lately. In fact, it was a strange coincidence how his clumsiness appeared to be getting worse as the dreams become more intense and frequent; that was something to consider over a beer as soon as he got out of here.

He hurriedly made his way to the time clock, probably the quickest thing he had done all day. As he stood before the almighty guardian of time and money, he became fixated on the manila punch cards, all arranged neatly in their little slots. He had never realized how he was just one cardboard slip of paper among the many, with nothing special about it, no individuality.

"I need a change before I become lost in the pile. I'm meant for greater things or, at least, something other then this," he said out loud, catching a few stares from other workers waiting impatiently to punch out as the last stroke of the clock indicated the exact hour. He removed his card and let the mechanical teeth bite into it. He winced at the solid thump of the machine as if it had done bodily harm to him, quickly placed his card back amidst the myriad of others, and headed for the elevators. He punched the "down" button of the old elevator, and waited for its steely doors to open. He jiggled his car keys in his hand as he waited impatiently, still seeing the herd of uniform manila time cards in the back of his mind. "Just lost in the crowd," he muttered, as his thoughts drifted back to the woman in the dream, where he was an individual who garnered attention and who obviously had some self worth.

Still, it was odd. Why was he having these dreams, these images of going to a bar to meet a woman? Why was she so important?

The chime sounded and the doors of the elevator slowly opened for its passengers. As he automatically stepped forward, he suddenly dropped his keys, and bent to pick them up. As he grabbed them, he instinctively looked forward and felt his heart jump in his chest. Instead of staring into what should have been the elevator floor at this angle, all he saw was the darkness of the elevator shaft where the elevator should have been.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, as he continued to peer into the empty doors. It was a straight shot down the dark shaft. He would have been killed if he hadn't dropped the keys and stopped to pick them up.

People began to huddle around trying to see what had happened, the infamous disaster rubber-neckers. The corny jokes were already starting to flow.

"I guess you have to understand the gravity of the situation," someone sniggered, shortly followed by another, "You could really have gotten the shaft there, fella. Oops is forever," a man said, elbowing him to indicate that it was all in good humor. He had to admit he didn't see anything amusing about what had almost happened.

Finally, a security guard sauntered over to the rapidly forming crowd and, having conducted a thorough investigation by looking down the shaft and determining that there really was a problem, he sealed off the elevator shaft with yellow caution tape.

The guard turned to him and said, in a cigarette-harsh voice, "Good thing you looked in there before you walked on, 'cause that would have been a good seventy-five foot drop. Your butt would have been New Orleans Gumbo after that fall."

Greg laughed politely with the guard, although he didn't see the same humor in the situation. He muttered agreement with the guard's assessment, and thought it might be a good idea to maybe take the stairs down instead of waiting for another elevator. As he proceeded down the steps nervously, the earlier thought returned to him about all these 'almost accidents' that he was having. This made him feel extremely conscious of possibly falling down the stairs, so he cautiously trod down each step, one at a time, slowly, just to be safe. He did not subscribe to the old expression that when it's your time, it's your time. His life might not be very exciting at this stage of the game, but it was still a life, and he wasn't in any hurry to see it end.

Nearing the door that led to the parking lot, thinking he was safely almost out of the building, he nearly tripped over a suddenly untied shoelace. He shook his head and bent down to tie it, nervously laughing and wondering if that could have caused another mishap.

Suddenly, there was a loud crashing sound. He snapped his head toward the sound. The door that led to the parking lot had swung open violently, without warning. It looked like the mechanism that held it in place had broken, causing it to smash into the adjoining wall with such force that a piece of cinder block had chipped off and a severe crack appeared in the remaining block. If he had not stopped to tie his shoe, he would probably have caught the full effect of the crashing door. Deja vu?

"Jesus!" he cursed under his breath, as realization hit him. "What the hell is going on around here? This place is falling apart at the seams!"

He cautiously stepped around the door, still shaken, and moved rather quickly to the safety of the outdoor parking area. Out in the sunlight, he stood and let the warmth soak into him; it seemed to help him regain some of his composure. He started to walk slowly, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine of May, knowing that the weather would soon turn into the usual, unbearable heat and humidity so typical of the New Orleans area.

Finally feeling somewhat relaxed, he let his thoughts wander aimlessly, trying to find something else to focus on other than the near-mishaps. This usually worked for him because, when he dove into his thoughts, he might be looking directly at someone as if he was listening to what they were saying, but his mind would be centered on some other plane out in space. He closed his eyes momentarily, as was customary in the calming process, and then opened them.

To his shock and surprise, he was back in the 1940s-era bar again, standing next to the woman at the bar. She was still looking away from him, her face hidden from his view. But the rest of her was there, in the wonderful shape and form he remembered. As he tried to think of something to say, her mysterious voice reached out to him.

"Tell me about yourself," she said, her voice warm and inviting. "Tell me about your life."

Greg knew full well that he had been standing in the parking lot a few seconds ago, but he could see none of it now, only this place and this gorgeous woman. He struggled with what or which reality he was in but, as earlier, a sense of calm settled over him, and he felt so relaxed that he didn't want to be anywhere else at the moment.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I asked first," she murmured, still denying him a glimpse of her face. "You go first, now, please. I want to know all about you."

His soul melted at the warmth of her words and her voice.

"Well, where shall I begin?"

"At the beginning."

"I grew up in New Jersey," he began. "Went to school there, not that there was anything exciting about that."

"Friends?"

"Friends? Well, not a lot. Heck, I wonder if anyone from high school even remembers me. They didn't even know I was there. No senior prom, no sports jock, just plain old me." He closed his eyes tightly to block out the bright spotlight that had changed its angle to glare into his face. But then it moved again, appearing to be slowly moving along to another position.

"Don't let the light bother you," she said, her face still turned. "I'll bet you had a lot of girlfriends."

"Not exactly. I remember getting a bad start, and I think it dampened my whole outlook toward dating. I asked this cheerleader out on a date. I think I was thirteen or something like that at the time. You know, she wasn't the best-looking girl in the school, but she still was kind of cute in her own way. She turned me down flat, in front of a bunch of kids in my algebra class. That was embarrassing."

"Her loss," she responded, reminding him of what his father had told him after that incident.

"My father told me the same thing," he said, as this thought, tied to another by the closeness of time, brought back memories of his father's sudden death just a few months after this event. "He died not too long after that."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"I was devastated, because my dad had always understood me. We could always talk things through, regardless of the sensitivity of the subject. When he died, I became very depressed. Mom tried hard to help, but I really missed the conversations Dad and I used to have. He always seemed to know how to make sense of things. Hell, he could probably even figure out what was happening to me now with all these almost-accidents."

"Don't let those concern you right now," she said, as she sipped her drink. "They're just distractions."

"Distractions? You know about them? But how can you? You're just a dream in my mind, some kind of fantasy that I'm living."

"Me, just a dream? Oh, no, I'm as real as you. But let's not talk about that right now. Tell me more about your father," she said, and he detected a subtle firmness in it this time.

He wanted to talk to her about what was happening, but her voice was very persuasive, so he continued about his father. "After Dad died, I felt there were so many things I didn't know about him. I asked Mom about the past, but she admitted that there were some things even she did not know about him, particularly about his past before they met. She told me that the past didn't seem to matter when you were in love." He smiled at that memory and continued. "Mom passed away a couple of years after Dad, and that left me with parts of his past littered with holes that I have never been able to fill," he said, the frustration evident in his voice

"It's difficult to face the future sometimes without understanding the past," she said.

"Yes, you understand," he said, although he was surprised that she understood.

"Of course. Please, go on."

"Well, through these hardships, I completely retreated into my shell, and didn't show my face anywhere for quite a while after that. I bounced around to my mother's relatives for a while, but never seemed to find a home that felt…you know…just right. That was another strange thing about my father; there were no relatives of his that we knew of. They had been killed in some terrible transit accident or something, he had told me."

"You sound as if you didn't believe him."

"It's not that I didn't believe him, but it was a bit odd. Anyway, I floundered around for a few years until I realized I wanted out of New Jersey, and maybe wanted to see the world. So I enlisted in the Navy. I only did a short stretch in the military because that was about all I could stand. It was good in some respects; I did get to travel, but the constant cleaning and the folding of clothes thing got out of hand. Let's see. How did they put it? 'I lacked the self-discipline.' That was the comment on the last evaluation I received. What they really meant was that I was basically a slob. And, I have to admit, I couldn't argue a bit with that assessment."

"You don't seem like that type," she said, her voice still mesmerizing him with its sound. "You are searching for a purpose. Many go through the same thing and then, one day, they find what they are seeking and dive into it with passion."

"I suppose that could be, but I obviously haven't found that purpose yet," he laughed.

"All in time," she answered. "But please, go on. I am intrigued with your story."

The light appeared to get brighter, its glare distorting his vision. He squinted his eyes and raised his hand to block its brightness. With the light in his eyes, he could barely make out her image.

"Please finish your story. I want to know all of it," she said.

"Okay. After I received my discharge, I ended up staying where I had been last stationed, here in New Orleans. I found work in an army file storage facility, humping boxes. It was a job, and it kept me in food and rent. That was about all I needed for the moment."

"You want a challenge, don't you?"

"A challenge?" he asked, as suddenly a sound began, a whine that was getting louder every second. "What's that?" He continued to shade the bright light from his eyes.

"Don't worry," she said. "That is your destiny coming for you."

"My destiny?"

"Yes, the one that we shall share together."

The sound was almost on top of him, and he couldn't decide whether to use his hands to block the light or the sound.

"What's happening?" he shouted frantically over the unbearable noise.

"Just be calm and relax. You are relaxed, aren't you? That's why I am here, to prepare you for your journey and your destiny, the one that we shall face together."

Then, as suddenly as it has begun, the light and noise stopped, and she turned to face him. She had the most beautiful face he ever seen, so warm and friendly, features that were so smooth and enticing that all he wanted to do was touch and caress them. Then, everything was gone and there was only silence and darkness.

# # #

"What happened?" the burly police officer asked as he sorted through the crowd of spectators that encircled the body on the ground. The paramedics were putting their equipment away. One of them looked toward the policeman and shook his head, indicating that the man was dead.

"I don't understand it," a man said. "I was backing the garbage truck out of the pickup area, and all my lights and alert sirens are working fine," he said, pointing to his large truck. "I never saw this poor fella but, for the life of me, I can't understand why he never saw or heard me."

"Witnesses? Did anyone see what happened?" the officer asked.

"Yes, sir, I did," a young woman said.

"What did you see?"

"It was the strangest thing," she began. "He," she pointed toward the body, "was just standing there and he was…smiling. He had the most contented look that I have ever seen in my life. He just stood there as if oblivious to everything around him."

"Anyone know his name?"

"His name was Greg… Greg Carlson."

# # #

Sarah Ferguson aligned the paper clips on her report, small side facing in and two inches from the left side of the paper. The folder, which contained the report, was brand new, labeled, typed, and dated neatly. She flipped each page, being careful not to crimp or crease any of them. She glanced over every word for the tenth time today, checking to make sure she had not missed anything. No smudges, no fluctuations in ink contrast. Finally, satisfied, she closed the folder and placed it off to one side of her immaculate desk.

She checked the clock, smiling to herself; the report was not due to her boss for another twenty-four hours. She was quite proud to submit her findings ahead of schedule, as usual. Mr. Giddy would be pleased, she thought. He commented constantly about how well she had been doing in the short time she had been working for the company. Just thinking about those comments made her feel warm inside; she lived for those types of compliments.

She decided to take the report to her boss now, instead of waiting any longer. She picked up the folder, being careful not to scrape the fingernail polish from her conservative-length nails onto any of the pages. She stepped around the desk to check her appearance in the full-length glass panel that separated her desk from the rest of the office. She thought she was quite an attractive woman. She was slender and physically fit, and had long black hair that she brushed religiously a hundred times each night before she went to bed. She always stayed informed about current events and current fashions, and dressed in appropriate business attire. Her eyes inched their way down her image. She stopped, her eyes widening because, to her dismay, she noticed unsightly wrinkles in her skirt. She knew immediately that she would have to correct them before leaving her office, especially before she went in to see her boss with the report. She reached into her lower desk drawer, removed the wrinkle remover and plugged it into the nearest electrical receptacle.

While waiting for it to heat, she sat in her chair and swiveled it so she could get a view of the blue sky and clouds outside. She felt a little out of sorts today because her sleep had been interrupted by a disturbing dream last night. The beginning alone had disturbed her, just because of its location. She had actually been in a nightclub of all places! Even worse, she was sitting at a, well, a bar, and alone! Sarah thought, appalled, that she would never be caught dead in a bar of any kind. Still, she remembered thinking that the 1940s motif did have a certain charm to it.

Either the lack of sleep or the charming ambiance of the setting caused her to drift back to the scene in her thoughts. As she opened her eyes, she found herself sitting at the bar, just as she had been in her dream. Surprisingly, she did not feel alarm; instead, she felt an unusual calm settle upon her.

Her eyes watched as a man strutted across the room, his pants legs billowing as he moved, greeting many people. He seemed to be very popular, especially with the women, she thought almost with some sort of well, almost—jealousy? That was silly. She didn't even know him; she was sure of that much. But people certainly seemed drawn to him for some reason. Something—something about him keyed a feeling in her mind. She just couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe he had been a business acquaintance that she had met and subconsciously the image of him had imbedded itself into her mind. Yes, that was probably it, she thought, dismissing any possibility of an unexplained event.

For a fleeting moment, she had felt his eyes upon her. She knew that he was heading toward her. Feeling shy, she turned away from his approach and concentrated on taking tiny sips from the drink in front of her. She had wanted to give the appearance that she did not want to be disturbed.

She nervously smoothed the folds of the black evening dress. What will I say if he tries to converse with me? she thought, panicked. She could talk about work. No, that wouldn't do, she thought, hearing her mother's "I told you so" voice ringing in her ears.

He put his hand on the back of her stool. She could hear him inhaling deeply as he stood directly behind her.

"Tell me about yourself," he said, his calm voice enticing.

"Me?" she asked coyly.

"Yes," he answered, "I want to know all about your fascinating self."

She blushed. "I wouldn't know where to start," she said, as she continued to look ahead and not directly at him.

"You pick a place and time."

Sarah felt a rush of thoughts enter into her mind. Oddly enough, the predominant thought was her mother's warning. "No man will marry a woman who is a perfectionist. They will say you are too 'picky' to live with. Always criticizing. Can't please anyone but yourself."

"That's not true," the man said, startling her. "Being a perfectionist is a amiable trait to possess."

"My dad would tell me the same thing," she said. "He would smile at me and say not to worry about it, to just be myself, always."

"You loved your father a lot, didn't you?"

"Yes. I loved him immensely. I was very saddened at his premature death. I wished that we could have had more time together. He understood me so well that he always seemed to have the solution, regardless of the problem."

"But you're troubled about something else, aren't you?" His voice was so soothing that Sarah just wanted to keep hearing it.

"Yes. I always wanted to know more about the past, his past."

"Tell me about your past," he asked, his voice inviting her to continue.

"Well, as you already know, I am a bit of a perfectionist. Been this way throughout my school years from grammar school to college. I am an extremely hard worker and I graduated at the top of my class in high school."

"You had many admirers, didn't you?"

"Not exactly. I was 'a wallflower', the one never asked to the dances. But that was okay with me. I knew I looked nice and had an amiable personality and all, but I had a different set of priorities that drove my life. A relationship wasn't near the top of the list, at least not for a while anyway. When I was in college, I threw myself into my work and ignored everything else around me. Because of these efforts, I graduated with all kinds of academic honors and a degree in Business Administration, with an emphasis in marketing," she said proudly.

"But you wanted to be more social, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I knew there would be time later."

"But you weren't sure, were you?"

"No. But no one can be sure of the future. I just knew or felt that there would be a later," she said, and paused, wondering if she should look toward him.

"Please go on."

"I had glowing recommendations from my teachers, and I landed a good job in New York, working for an up-and-coming marketing and consulting firm. I was determined to work my way up to the top, no matter how long it took, or how much work I had to do."

"Who were you trying to prove it to? Yourself or your father?"

"I don't know, maybe both. All I knew was that I had to keep going and, being a perfectionist, I always tried to be prepared for every possible situation."

"But something happened this morning you weren't prepared for, didn't it?"

"Yes, but how did you know—"

"Tell me," he said softy before she could finish her question.

"Well, after parking my car across the street in the company's lot, just as I do every morning, and crossing the street in my normal place, a big delivery truck came barreling down the road straight towards me. My first instinct was to leap in the opposite direction, but I slipped and fell. The strange thing was that if I had leapt in the direction I intended, the truck would have run me over for sure. It was as if the truck had anticipated my thought of jumping and swerved in that direction. But slipping and falling the other way actually saved my life."

"Sometimes the planned or anticipated reaction is not the best," he interjected. "We become creatures of habit, and that could lead to our downfall." He paused before continuing. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to digress. Please, continue."

"I placed a call to the police to report the incident. But, since I hadn't gotten a license plate number, and the description fit a lot of trucks in New York City, chances of finding the driver were pretty slim, according the police officer. He tried to explain that the driver probably just woke up and didn't see me. It was just one of those freak accidents, you know, nothing 'intentional'."

"Do you feel better now that you have talked about these things?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. That's what you intended, isn't it?"

"Yes. I wanted you to be relaxed, to feel at ease with yourself before we go on."

"Go on? But isn't this just a…dream?" she asked.

"A dream? No, it isn't a dream. This is your beginning. Our beginning."

Sarah didn't understand what was happening but, strangely enough, she really didn't care either. She hadn't felt this calm in a very long time, especially with a man.

Suddenly, the dream appeared to pause for a moment, and she was halfway back in her office, but not totally out of the dream. She could hear his calm voice soothing her from the scene in the forties bar and, at the same time, she was in her office preparing to remove the wrinkles from her clothing with the wrinkle remover.

Unfortunately, she didn't see that the device was smoking, not from the steam, but from an obvious short in its wiring. As she picked up the device, the man in her dream said, "Look at me. I want to see your face." She turned and looked into his kind face. Her whole body surged with an electricity of anticipation unlike anything she'd experienced before. Then everything darkened and there was nothing.

# # #

The police officer examined the electrical device that was now charred almost past recognition.

"Never seen anything like it," he said to the medical examiner; who was covering the woman's body with a blanket.

"Yeah, it is a bit bizarre," the examiner said. "You would think the body would be charred as well. But it's not. Not a burn on it."

"Did anyone see it?"

"Yeah, the secretary in the outer office was coming in as the power kicked in," the medical examiner said as he reviewed his notes.

"Open-and-shut case then?"

"Well, that's the strange part. I can't find any sign that the device malfunctioned. Everything checks out. It's as if the electricity just leaped into her through the device."

"A fluke?"

"I guess that's what I'm calling it. The other thing was that the secretary said she saw the woman's face just as it happened and that she had the strangest look of calm on her face when she was dancing with the juice."

"Wow, this is a strange one. And such a shame," the officer said. "How old was she?"

"Mid-twenties."

"What was her name?"

"Sarah. Sarah Ferguson."