6

 NEW DIMENSIONS

Dierdre & Sarah

            Unknown to Audley, the laws of the universe were at work.  The gods don't arbitrarily send entities into foreign realms and desert them.  There is a vast network of personalities and coordinated activities that assure the safekeeping of the sojourner, and 0802-LZ was no exception.

            The Warden of Penn State Reserve read the Visitor Log from the night of August 14th and the day following the black-out, noting Audley Blackstone's request for admittance as well as the name of her traveling companion, Lanon Zenton.  He forwarded this information, along with all the other pertinent information on PSR’s operations, to Jesse Brothers at JCP Headquarters.

            Jesse was not surprised when he read in the report that Audley Blackstone, daughter of his own member-at-large Wilhelm Blackstone, had been in the blackout.  He knew she was an adventurous woman.  The fact that she stopped at PSR was no surprise, either, for in spite of her known prejudices against the JCP, she’d had no choice; she needed fuel.  But the name Lanon Zenton meant nothing to him.

            Across the globe in Guadix, Spain, however, Jesse's mentor, Professor Alexius Vessey, knew all about this entity.  He knew 0802-LZ was coming, how he got here and when, what his mission was, who he was with at that very moment, and what could be expected to happen next.  He knew about these things in the same manner he had come to know about  everything meaningful in his life for well over the past forty years - from his communications with the Supernals.   He was their Taction, their contact personality.

            In his workroom, built apart from the house in which he lived with his wife, Dierdre, and their two small children, Professor Alexius Vessey stilled his body, cleared his mental mechanism, and prepared to listen to the familiar voice that brought him messages from another world.

            "Greetings.  We bring you good news.  0802-LZ has incarnated.” 

            Alexius absorbed this news with supreme satisfaction.  He had looked forward to this message for a very long time. 

            “The materialization took place in a remote, wooded area in the State of Pennsylvania, in the east central portion of the United States of America," the voice continued.  "The process was successful by all standards.  Before dawn on the night of August 14, 0802-LZ was a fully functioning human being of your realm.”      

            Although his body was now frail and confined to a wheelchair, Professor Vessey’s mind was still sharp and his will was strong.  When he heard the news of 0802-LZ's arrival, he determined to live a little while longer; at least long enough to see the Zooid mission accomplished.

            "You will hear of a power failure in the eastern portion of the United States,” the Messenger reported.  “This energy drain was not brought about by the materialization process.  Kindly reassure the entity that he was not responsible for the power failure.” 

            What now, Alexius silently wondered.  What next?

            The communication continued: "The entity has made contact with a female of the realm, Audley Blackstone, who is the daughter of your JCP peer and member-at-large, Dr. Wilhelm Blackstone.  She will take the entity to Penn State Reserve where he will record his safe arrival. 

            “I will ask you to adhere to the same restrictions as those placed upon our communications, and do not discuss 0802-LZ or his interests on any electronic media.  Even so, please admonish Jesse Brothers to monitor the entity’s whereabouts.”

How can I admonish Jesse to do anything if I can’t talk to him openly on the viso-phone?  Alexius wondered.  Maybe the woman is a liaison.  Can she be trusted?

            "To answer your question, yes.  The woman has been thus far approved.  Whether or not she will remain active in our mission will depend on her.  Whether or not she will be informed of the nature of the mission will depend upon the entity.  We cannot interfere with free will.”

            “Fine,” Alexius mused, “but Doc Will is probably the contact we need, not his daughter.”         

            The voice went on, “It is our conjecture that the woman will lead him to her father, Dr. Blackstone, who is also approved, but again, it remains to be seen whether or not 0802-LZ will take the doctor into his confidence.  Remain alert for further communications.  Any questions?"

            The Taction had no questions.

THOSE SAME COSMIC OVERSEERS work in the realms of the minds of mortals.  Although they do not interfere with mortal free will decisions, they do act upon the decisions that mortals have made. 

            The day after Lanon was admitted into her father’s laboratory, Audley’s mind was busy trying to decide what to do next.  Brad and Sylvia were out of the way.  No doubt she had handled that situation poorly, but at least now she was free to consider her options.  As for the coleus, the hell with it; maybe it would rain.

            She knew Lanon was safe, reasonably safe with her father.  If Doc Will should happen to stumble upon Lanon's origins, Lanon would have to deal with that.  The question was:  What should she do now?   Her gut told her that her next move was to adjust her attitude about the JCP.  Lanon's reason for being here had to do with Life Experimental Stations, of that she was certain, and whether she liked it or not, Penn State Reserve was a JCP Life Experimental Station, one of many.

            She tried to remember why it was that she had such an aversion to the JCP -- the Jural Colony Project.  She knew it was a deep-seated prejudice, one that went back a long way in her mind, back to when her mother died.  Audley had gone from being an only child, doted upon by both parents, to nearly a virtual orphan in a matter of days, for no sooner was her mother laid to rest than her father immersed himself in the establishment of the PSR.  Dr. Blackstone had always been dedicated to his work so his behavior was not out of the ordinary, but for the suddenly motherless child, his absence spelled yet more abandonment and insecurity. Alas, Doc Will was too grief-stricken at the time to notice.

            He did what he could.  He explained to Audley’s  four-year-old consciousness that Mama had gone to be with God in heaven.  When Papa left too, right after that, becoming absorbed in the Jural Colony Project, her child mind reasoned that since God had taken Mama to Heaven and the JCP had taken Papa, God and the JCP would be her life-long enemies. 

            The grown-up Audley knew she couldn't hold this childish theory over their heads forever.  As an adult, she accepted the fact that her father's work was vital to him.  He loved mindal science, he was good at it, and he was entitled to find fulfillment in it.  If the JCP appreciated his abilities and utilized his services, so much the better.

            But there was another prejudice from the early days of the JCP that she had to rethink.  This one was from her teenage years, when Doc Will had tried to impress her with JCP values.  He went on and on about the maturity of the Zooids, the morality of their ideals, and the responsibility that such a way of life entailed.  She remembered these concepts as being crammed down her throat when she wasn’t yet interested in Values, Morality, Maturity and Responsibility.  In her defiance, she had turned her back on all that the JCP represented.  Forever!  It had been an immature decision, yes, but she had made it, and through these many years it was this she lived by.

            But now this man from Zenton was propelling her to review her thinking and change her attitudes.  Were he a lesser man, were he a Bradford Spencer, she would have told him to go fly a kite, but with Lanon she couldn't do that.  Well, she could, but she found herself committing herself to him.  Why, specifically, she couldn't say, but she wasn't about to turn her back on him.  To all intents and purposes she now had something of value, a direction for her maturity, a reason for morality and an interest in responsibility.  If Lanon Zenton did nothing else while on this planet, at least he did that for Audley Blackstone.

            She knew she had to do something, something that pertained to destiny, but what was it?  She wasn't a seer, a religious leader, a great war general.  She was a reporter.  This was what she was trained for -- investigative reporting.  “So investigate, Audley,” she instructed herself.  “Take notes.”

             Investigate what?  Investigate the JCP.  If Lanon was interested, she obviously should take an interest in it, too.  Would the JCP be receptive to a man from outer space nosing into their affairs?  If Lanon was interested in Life Experimental Stations and he had come all the way from another constellation to get involved, it reasoned that the JCP might be interested in him, too, but they would have to deal with her first.

            God, she mused, what could she remember about the JCP besides that creepy prison?  They called themselves Zooids, they wore funny clothes, and lived like ants in colonies they called Life Experimental Stations.  Jesse Cain Brothers was their leader.  There was a Board of Directors.

            Somehow she had the idea that Jesse was young and that somebody had to have worked on it before him, but who? How did it start?  Christ, she couldn’t remember a thing!  She lit a cigarette and sleuthed.  Jesse's father must have had something to do with it, she reasoned, and she seemed to remember he had an uncle, a Senator, who was involved somehow.  But even before that.  Whose idea was it in the first place?  Wasn't it Jesse's college professor?  Didn't she remember hearing Doc say the idea originated in the student-teacher relationship between Jesse and his Professor when Jesse was attending the University of Where?  The University of Knossos.  Wasn’t Knossos in Greece?   Yes.  That must be it.  She remembered her father saying, "The seed has been planted."  What seed? 

            What Professor?  Who was he?  Is he still alive? 

            Jesse would know, of course, but could she trust him? Doc Will would remember the professor's name, but she didn't want to bother him again.  When he was with a patient, Dr. Blackstone didn't like to be disturbed.  She knew that he would have Lanon holed up in the lab for nearly a week and she could do a lot of investigating in that time.  She crumpled up an empty pack of Springs and opened another, noticing without alarm the alarming condition of the ashtray. 

            It was Monday.  Jesse would be in his office.  Would he have time to talk to her?  Even if he had time, would he?  She wasn't anybody important.  Her father was a member-at-large of the JCP, but so what?  She was only a notoriously willful snip of a rookie reporter who probably was, to them, more a part of the problem than the solution.

            Well, she concluded, it's time to get Audley out of the picture.  It was necessary that she contact Jesse because he could help her help Lanon, and helping Lanon was more important than wondering about her status in the eyes of the JCP.  Yes, Lanon could do it by himself, in his own good time, but she felt she had a duty to perform on his behalf.  After all, she was the one who had coerced him into spending a week of his valuable time locked in a laboratory environment, subjected to a barrage of tests to prove or disprove who he said he was in the first place.  Maybe she could make waves for him in his absence.

            She lit another Spring and reached for the phone.  As she waited for the call to go through, her mind froze time and again.  How would Jesse react to her call?  Would he react at all?  She didn't know him.  She'd never met him.  Why should he talk to her?  Her anxieties had nearly convinced her to hang up when Jesse's voice came through.  

            “This is Jesse Brothers.”  He had connected with her so quickly and so unceremoniously, she hadn't had a chance to formulate her thoughts into words.

            “Oh!  Uh, hi.  This is Audley Blackstone.”

            "What can I do for you, Audley?"  He sounded friendly, as though they had known each other for years.

            "Thanks for taking my call, Mr. Brothers. Listen," she blundered on, "I won't keep you; I know you're busy.  I was just wondering if you would tell me the name of your professor in Knossos.”

            There was a long silence.  Had she been presumptuous?  It didn’t matter.  She needed to know.  At last he said, "His name is Professor Alexius Vessey."  Jesse's tone was curious yet cautious.  "Why?”

            She didn’t know what to say, to tell him, without giving away her ... secret, so she said nothing. 

            “Are you thinking about writing an article about him?  Or about the JCP?" he asked.

            "Oh, no," she said.  "I know the JCP has its own staff of reporters and that I don't qualify.  I was just wondering.  I don't suppose he’d be listed in the phone book.”

            Jesse grinned.  "You were just wondering, huh?" 

            Of course, he would question her motives.  He needed to protect his interests, too, but she wasn’t in a position to tell him why she was interested.  She held her ground and waited for him to answer, if he would.  She knew he was weighing their conversation; she could feel his brain clicking.

            Finally he said, "I can do this for you, Audley.  I can contact the Professor and tell him you're wondering about him and let him answer for himself."

            She breathed a sigh of relief.  “That would be great.  Thanks."

            "Is there some lead I can give him as to what it is you are wondering about?"

            "Yes."  She took a deep breath.  "Ask him, please, if the word 'Zenton' means anything to him."

            "Zenton?"  He recognized it as the name of her passenger the night of the blackout.

            "Yes."  She spelled it.  "If that word does mean something to him, would you please ask him to call me here at my father's?  Collect.  The number is ...."

            Jesse interrupted.  "I know the number."

            "Okay."  Now she sighed.  It was done.  "I appreciate your help, Mr. Brothers."

            "Call me Jesse,” he smiled into the phone.  “And I’m happy to help, Audley.  Anything else I can do for you?"

            "No.  Just ... just tell the Professor it's important."

            "Obviously.  Good luck!"  His phone clicked off.

            "Thanks."  She gripped the receiver and reviewed their conversation.  Weighing him now, in light of her change of attitude, she kind of liked him.  He didn't waste time on idle chatter; he got straight to the point and handled matters expeditiously.  He accepted her as herself and not as an extension of her father.  He respected other people's privacy.  He respected the fact that what she was 'wondering' about was important, at least to her.  When, after several moments, the dial tone interrupted her thoughts, she realized she had not hung up and slammed the receiver down quickly.  Professor Alexius Vessey might be trying to get through!

            She lit another Spring and tried to be patient.  She didn't have to wait long.  She and Martha answered the phone simultaneously.  "I've got it, Martha."  The kitchen extension clicked off.

            "Hello?"  There was a long pause and a lot of static.

            "Hello?  Who is there, please?  This is the Blackstone residence.  Audley Blackstone speaking."

            Suddenly the wires cleared and a voice sounding as close as the Santa Barbara Shopping Center said, "Hello, Ms. Blackstone.  This is Alexius Vessey returning your call.”  He sounded strong and healthy, not at all like an old man.  Her heart was in her mouth.  What was she to say?  Do you know of a man from outer space?  No?  Oh.  Sorry to have bothered you.  But before she could say anything, he continued.  “I got your message.  Yes, I recognize the word but I cannot discuss it with you on the phone.” 

            Her throat caught and she couldn’t speak.  All she could think was, “It’s true.”

            "Are you there?” he asked. 

            The “yes” she uttered was something of a croak. 

            “Don’t say anything,” he instructed and she knew at once that he was also protecting Lanon.  She felt an immense relief, but at the same time new fears spread through her.  He asked suddenly, “How is your father?”

             “Oh, fine, thank you,” she said easily, understanding his technique.  “He’s with a patient right now.”

            “Yes,” Professor Vessey said, as if confirming what he already suspected.

            “Have I made a mistake, Professor?  Did I do the wrong thing?”

            “Of course not, my dear.  What could you possibly do that would be wrong?   Why don’t you come over and visit Dierdre and me for a few days.  It would be wonderful to see you.”

            "Yes, alright.  I'll come right away.  Where are you?  In Greece?"

            "No.  We are in a small village in Southern Spain.  You must take the train from Madrid."  She began writing notes.  "Guadix is on the way to Almeria.  Dierdre will meet you on the platform.  When can you come?"

            "I’ll be there right away!"  She would go now and be back before Lanon's tests were completed and evaluated, before he was released or found out. 

            “Don’t worry,” he reassured her.  “Bring me an accurate description.  As specific as possible.”

            "Okay."  Maybe she could get her father's notes.  Height, weight, stuff like that.

            "It's quite exciting, don't you think?" he asked.

            Exciting?  The Professor's voice was childlike when he asked that, now that he was no longer giving her orders and they were mutually reacting to a phenomenon.  Even so, she pictured Lanon sleeping with his clothes on, his fingers pressed to his brow (or her nipple), looking at his hair under a microscope, and grinned into the receiver.  "Yes, Professor, it is.  Quite exciting.  Frankly, I’m overwhelmed."

            "Yes," he agreed, then added cheerfully, “We’ll see you soon!" as the line clicked off.

            It was not yet noon.  She called her Malibu neighbor Eugene and asked him to housesit, then dialed the airlines and got an afternoon flight from Santa Barbara to New York and a night flight to Madrid, Spain.  Connections on the train and she could be in Guadix, Spain, within thirty hours with a bad case of jet lag and a belly full of butterflies.

            JFK International Airport.  Christ!  She had just gotten away from there!  This time, however, the outlook was different.  Last time she was contemplating Brad; this time she was contemplating the next step in the Case of the Man from Zenton.  She was excited.  Sober.  Her mental faculties were intact and operable.           

            Alexius hadn't given her much.  Neither a phone number nor an address.  He hadn't offered to pay for the round-trip ticket. My God, she thought, I'm on the story of a life-time and I can't write it, can't get paid for it, and it's costing me my life in time and money! 

            She took out her pen and paper but, as a reporter, what could she do with this kind of story?  No one would buy it, literally or figuratively.  It was all registered in her mind: every thought, every reaction, every bit of information and every conversation, but if someone should happen to find her notes, it might harm Lanon.  She didn't dare put this on paper.  Instead, she wrote Weinberger a letter of resignation for with the intention of mailing it from Madrid.  She loved that kind of prank.

            When the person behind her got up to go to the rest room, she reclined her seat as far as it would go, then settled in for the nine-hour flight.  With the earphones on "off" she fell asleep during the movie and slept soundly all night.

IN THE DREARY LIGHT OF A WET DAWN, the plane set down at the Madrid airport.  She had never been to Spain; she had never been abroad alone.  Were she in her right mind she might have felt anxiety, but she was not in her right mind.  She had a goal and a determination to reach it that superseded her concerns on how to get there.

            She followed the crowd off the plane and into Customs where passports were stamped and luggage was checked, then to the Exchange to have her dollars transferred into pesetas.  She spoke almost no Spanish, but the Spaniards were willing to attempt English, so with many gestures, por favor's and gracias's she was able to board a bus for the downtown Madrid train station.  No one tried to steal her luggage (a simple bag this time), and no one tried to pinch her, these being the two things she had been warned to beware.            

            Downtown Madrid, which she had been prepared to enjoy as a tourist, disappointed her.  A Sears-Roebuck department store, a McDonald’s restaurant, signs advertising Eastman-Kodak film, and all windows displaying Visa and American Express placards, revealed Madrid as an extension of America.  The Chamartin Station, a wonderfully modern train station, confirmed this.  At the ticket counter, however, she was informed she needed the Atocha Station, on the south end of town, and in the taxi that took her this distance, she passed from one time zone to another. 

            From the Atocha Station she saw she had passed from the 21st Century into the 18th.  This was the Spain of storybooks. 

            There were no First Class accommodations.  She could not smoke in the train, which was more like a rickety bus, having no private compartments and no amenities.  The toilet, built like a privy in the front of the car, emitted an unacceptable aroma; voracious flies flitted from one homely passenger to the next.

            She was obviously out of her class.  Everyone knew she was a foreigner.  They stared at her openly.  She felt overdressed and out of place.  She should have worn jeans and she should have a dowdy black scarf over her hair.  The women passengers lowered their eyes, stealing peeks at her while she looked away; the men watched her overtly, without expression.

            Most of her fellow-passengers wore black.  Many of them were plain-faced countrywomen, obviously Catholic.  The men all had stubble on their swarthy faces and they smelled of cheap red wine.  The children, without exception, kept close to their mothers and were silent.  Each traveler carried a bag of sorts, containing bread and cheese and wine.  Even the children drank wine.  She was sorry she didn't know of this custom because by now she was hungry and thirsty and she desperately needed to feel included.

            The train started on schedule and chugged on down the track at an interminably slow speed.  At this rate, she would not reach Guadix until nightfall. 

            After several miles the train warmed up and the stares of the passengers cooled off.  She accepted an orange from a woman then settled back on the hard wooden seat to await the end of the ordeal.  Several hours later, lulled by the movement of the train and caught up in the timelessness of the Andalusian countryside, she wrote in her journal:          

            "Southern Spain.  Somewhere between Baeza and Guadix.  One might think that after these many hours, gazing mindlessly at the terrain, one would become immune, as if mile after mile of sameness would become dull.  But not so, not so. One panorama merges with the next, ever-changing, constant variations on the same theme of Urth's beauties.  Plains at first, the train has ventured slowly:  climbing ... gently sloping upward.  For an hour now -- or has it been an eternity? -- we are in high tablelands, in gentle, rolling fields of fertile, peaceful, bountiful land.

            “In the distance the mountains merge with the blue and purple of the sky, one a shadow of the one beyond, while in the foreground are dizzying waves of rippling fields, peppered with red poppies which creep insidiously into the green and gold of the wheat as in a Van Gogh vista.  The byways have been carved out of the land and the generations by age upon age of the tracking of the herds and the hand-wielded farming tools, housed in winter in deserted haciendas, crumbling with the dust of the ages.  Here and there a herd of goats and a flock of sheep commingle with the lone herder and his pair of faithful dogs."

            It's another age, she marveled.  Another dimension.  She could see that her fellow-passengers were right!  They were one with the countryside: staid, constant, sturdy, reliable, steadfast, plodding.

            "Out of nowhere a small village, a cantina.  A man leads his mule.  A woman in the dark garb of the Spanish countrywomen, pushes her wheelbarrow.  In a moment the village has passed and the vistas of fields and plateaus, mile upon mile of fertility, resume."

            The women nodded over their rosaries; the children slept against their mothers’ bosoms; the men closed their eyes and occasionally swallowed the dust on their lips with a sip of red wine.  Audley dozed, her head slipping quietly to lean against the window, her sun-glasses securely in place, sensing that as mile followed mile, she was traveling farther and farther back in time, away from the hustle and bustle of civilization, entering another era, another age. It was a peaceful transition.

            As one perfect horizon followed the other, she dozed.  Two or three times she opened her eyes to notice that little had changed.  Perhaps Guadix was a myth.  Perhaps she herself was a myth.  Perhaps even life was a myth, as incredible and unpredictable as that stranger back in her father's laboratories.  Perhaps none of it really existed.  All that existed was a nap, a dream, and a mirage of endless fields accentuated by red poppies. 

            Late in the afternoon she was bumped awake.  The fields were gone and in their stead were rock upon rock, red upon purple, grays and blacks and still more reds.  Gone were the soft and endless greens, replaced by an almost violent Grand Canyon, a dramatic Hades, a sublime and stately array of red pinnacles of non-life.  Her eyes opened wide, alarmed at the change.  Had she gone so far back in time?  Surely this was the age of dinosaurs!  She watched, transfixed, as the sun slipped behind the mountains and the violent shades cooled and tempered into pastels.  It's a continuation of the dream, she told herself.  Life is just a misty unreality. 

            But what was that?  Something caught her eye.  A pillar of smoke coming out of a mound of Urth?  A door cut into the side of the rock?  A hole at the base of that stone wall and another.  And a window!  See here, she told herself, there's a door into the side of that mountain!  Indeed, a whole community of people must live inside that mountain.  Yes.  Smoke was coming from that chimney and an opening revealed a room painted bright blue.  Cliff dwellers! My God.

            She instinctively sought confirmation from her fellow passengers.  They were still there, still in their eighteenth century raiment, still nodding over their beads.  She couldn't sleep now.  Life was too full of surprises.  She stood up, ready to come awake and stretch and see more of the unreality of life outside the train windows.  On the opposite side of the coach she opened the shade, fully expecting to see a repeat of vast pastel nothingness speckled with cave-dwellings, but instead she lost her breath to a visage of Shangri-La.

            The sun, now sinking behind the mountains, cast a halo of light on the village.  Billows of magnificent clouds, outlined by a brilliant glow of sun, revealed the proverbial 'silver lining.'   Her gaze slowly lowered into the eerie light that hovered over the deep green valley at the base of the Sierra Nevadas.  There, protected and blessed, the rippling verdant valley held in the palm of its hand, the loveliest sight her eyes had ever beheld:  Guadix.

            The Village was a Bali Hai, an Invitation, and a Siren Song of dwelling places.  Set back under this panoply of wonder, the Village nestled in the lowlands, protected by a wall of mist and a moat of deep low fields.  This was not a dream.  The train ground to a stop.  The conductor rang out, "Guadix!" and she stepped off the train in a fog of adulation.  Even the air was different.  It tingled the nostrils.  Crystallized into perfection, it smelled of exotic, delicately scented blossoms.  

            The altitude swept her breath away.  She stood light-headed for many minutes, lost in the heady aura.  When she began to focus, not yet knowing what to do or where to go, her eyes came to rest on a very beautiful woman who seemed an apparition as perfect as this unknown village.  Poise surrounded her.  Tranquillity and clarity emanated from her.            Like the women on the train, this young woman wore no make-up.  She wore a dark cape over a loose-fitting dress and open toed sandals.  Over her yellow hair she wore a mantilla.  She carried a large bag, burgeoning with parcels.

She smiled in recognition and approached, holding out her hand and setting the bag on the platform. 

            "Welcome, Audley.  I'm Alexius’ wife, Dierdre." With that, she embraced Audley as she would a sister.  Audley responded instinctively.  It was no social kiss, nor was it sexual, but it was profoundly satisfying. 

            As they set out on foot, Audley could see that they had a good two-mile trek ahead of them and that she had worn the wrong shoes.  She lit a cigarette and fell into line with Dierdre’s established pace, enjoying the beauty of the second sunset.  The silence was unnerving. 

            After discarding several options for small talk, she said, "I'm glad you were here to meet me, Dierdre.  I would never have found my way alone."

            "I agree, and the towns-people likely would have  stopped your attempt.  They are very wary of strangers."

            "Professor Vessey didn't give me an address or phone number,” she pointed out.  “I could have taken a cab.”

            "There are no cabs in Guadix.  The fact is it was easy to meet you.  I called the airport and traced your arrival.  There is only one train a day.  Addresses and phone numbers are mere details.  Alexius doesn't like details.  He lets me tend to those."  Nothing in her voice indicated she might resent the role her husband relegated to her.  "It’s been a long journey.  You must be very tired."

            "No, not really," Audley confessed.  "I slept.”

            "I get very tired when I travel, so I travel very little.  Alexius can't, you know.  He's been confined to a wheelchair for the last two, almost three years.  Otherwise, I know he would have come out to meet you."

            "Did he tell you why I'm here?"

            Dierdre shook her head.  "Alexius confides very little of his work with me.  We have our world that we share with each other and with the children. Alexius keeps busy and I give him freedom to have as much fulfillment as he needs. As for me, I am a wife and the mother of two very active little ones.  And Alexius allows me as much fulfillment as I can absorb from that."

            "I take it you’re not into Women's Lib, then."

            "Heavens, no,” Dierdre laughed a lovely trickle of joy. “I'm not naturally sympathetic to American women.  I don't think they need the ERA or whatever it is called." 

            Audley thought of Lanon and smiled. "You're probably right."  With a man like Brad, however, liberation was a woman's only hope of survival! 

            Dierdre acquiesced, “If women’s liberation is necessary in order for you to discover human liberation, then I will bear with you.”

            The sun, now deep behind the Sierra Nevadas, cast long, shadowy haunts along the Village streets.  Dierdre led her guest through the shadows to the Via de Comprende which wound upward, meandering, into the black foothills.  The eerie quiet, as well as the unfathomable dark, unnerved Audley, who again sought the comfort of Dierdre's serene voice.

            "You don't look Spanish, Dierdre."

            "I am as Spanish as one can be, Audley.  Where I live with Alexius, where our children were born, is where I have lived since the beginning."

            "Do you have family?"

            "A large family, yes.  They live nearby."

            "The only 'near-by' I saw were the cliff-dwellings."

            "In that direction, yes.  But there are many haciendas, and what might seem near-by to us might seem far away to you.  The sense of time and space is different in this way of life."

            "Yes, I noticed that.  Guadix seems to exist in another dimension.”

            "All of Andalusia is that way."

            "It's beautiful country," she allowed.

            "Yes.  It is.  Heavenly."

            They had climbed for half an hour and both women were breathless when they stopped to turn and look at the Village that now lay below them.  The train station, a dark spot in the reflection of the moon on the train tracks, was in the far distance.  The villagers had lit the lamps in their homes and the lights danced merrily into the dusty streets.  The last mystical blues and lavenders of the sunset settled over the valley.  Before Audley could light a cigarette, Dierdre said, “We are here.  Come.  You are hungry."

            They veered off the dirt path through an arched wrought-iron gate and entered a veritable garden of domesticity.  Well-placed lanterns lit the path and Audley could discern bougainvillea sprays, geranium beds and manicured lawn off the slate walkway. 

            "Tomorrow," Dierdre promised, "I will show you the gardens."  Audley followed Dierdre into the glow of light coming from an outdoor patio where two dark-haired, fair-skinned children, aged about six and ten, met them.  They held back in the shadows, even while relieving their mother of her burden.  "And our guest!" she admonished.  "Take hers, too!  We have been walking for an hour.  Where is your father?  Where is Maria?"

            The children disappeared as Maria emerged from the golden glow of the candlelit kitchen.  Dierdre and Maria spoke entirely in Spanish, but Maria smiled and bowed when Dierdre introduced them.  Another outpouring of Spanish sent Maria flying back into the kitchen and Dierdre led Audley, now barefoot, into the house.

            "Alexius is in his office.  He will likely be there until quite late.  Maria will bring us a nice supper then you can go to bed early.  Would you like to refresh yourself?  Wash your hands?  The children will show you.”

            Audley would like that, yes.  She smiled at the children, who led her down a long, wide, hall. The house was very old, she noted, but also very well cared for.  The paint was fresh and bright off-white.  The wooden floor and stone hallway were highly buffed and polished.  Throw rugs of dramatic design, deep color, and coarse texture adorned the floors and walls.  The ceilings were very low and cross-beamed.  Hidden lights embedded in the beams gave just enough light to show the way.  There were many doors along the hallway and she sensed that even with small rooms, it was a large house.

            The bathroom was enormous.  It had two windows and, except for the fact that it was dark outdoors, she expected them to overlook some sort of gardens.  Even so, the room was a profusion of potted plant life, evidencing Dierdre's green thumb.  She washed her hands and face and then her feet, opting not to put on fresh make-up or shoes.  She wound her hair into a braid and let it fall down her back.  She then abandoned her dusty traveling clothes in favor of a loose-fitting paisley gown. Returning, refreshed, she detected women's voices and followed them into the main part of the house where Dierdre greeted her. 

            "There you are!  How lovely!  You feel better now."  It was statement, not a question.

            "Yes, thank you." 

            Dierdre touched her arm and directed her into a very large and airy room, lit by candles and adorned with flowers.  There was a table set, picture perfect, where another woman, easily as beautiful as Dierdre, stood to greet them as they entered.  Suddenly Audley felt weak.  Jet lag, she supposed.

            "This is my sister, Flora.” Dierdre said.  “Flora, this is Audley.  She has come to see Alexius."

            "I am pleased to meet you.” Flora said.  “You have traveled far."   Again, it was a statement, not a question.

            "Yes, Flora," she heard herself say.  "Quite far.”

            "We are honored that you can join us," Flora said, seating herself again at the table. 

            Dierdre urged Audley to sit also.  “Have a glass of wine,” she urged.  “It will refresh you.  Maria will be serving us soon."

            Audley sat, feeling drunk.  It must be the altitude, she thought.  She determined to go easy on the wine.  The sisters waited for their guest to look around and get her bearings. 

            "You have a way with plants, Dierdre," Audley said.  "Your home feels like an atrium!"   

            "Flora and I are both botanists," she explained.  "Do you enjoy growing things?"

            Audley thought of her humble coleus.  "Yes, very much."

            "It is the most noble of endeavors," Flora said.  "To plant a seed and nurture it to fruition is to take part in the miracle of creation."  Maria entered with a cart of fresh fruit, bread and salad greens.  She withdrew, and when the three were alone again, an intense stillness prevailed.  The atmosphere was so heady, Audley felt faint.

            "Please," Dierdre urged, "take food.  Gain strength." 

            With her first bite, Audley was renewed.  She soon felt lighter and more carefree than she could remember.  These women were so different from Sylvia, from any other women she had known.  Their beauty had overwhelmed her.  A halo of yellow hair framed each woman's face. They epitomized good health.  She had felt intimidated by them until their graciousness and good cheer put her at ease.      

            "Do you live in Guadix, too, Flora?" Audley asked.

            "No, I am a Visitor," Flora said, without ado.

            "Well, you certainly resemble each other," Audley said.

            "It is said we take after Our Mother," Dierdre avowed.

            During their meal, they all laughed easily and often. The ambiance, the light supper, and the filial rapport of the women conspired to envelop Audley in an aura of well being. Neither Dierdre nor Flora felt compelled to play hostess or direct the conversation, so they sat enjoying the atmosphere and the food until it must have been quite late.  Their conversations were about simple matters.   Audley noticed that the things that seemed important to these women were those which were immediate: the flower arrangements, the folds of their dress, the comfort of the guest, and the music that emanated from some hidden, subtle source.  Was it a guitar? or was it many guitars?  Whatever it was, it was hauntingly beautiful.         

            Long after they had eaten their fill, Maria cleared the table and served the three a heady flower blossom tea before extinguishing the house lights, leaving them to savor the uncanny peace.             When Audley could no longer stifle her yawn, Dierdre escorted her across the lawn to the guesthouse where the children had earlier placed her suitcase at the foot of her bed, and her purse and camera case on the dresser.  She unpacked her few things, hung her blouses in the open closet, and arranged her cosmetics on the shelves over the sink, jet lag and the tea overcoming her.

            Reflecting on her evening with Dierdre and Flora, comparing their comportment to hers and Sylvia's, Audley was impressed by the total absence of competition.             

            Hers was a small room.  Any sounds she made were quickly absorbed into the thick, cool, adobe walls.  Around the three windows and two doors were massive wood sills.  The windows were high and deep and housed a nest of plants and flowers.  The bed appeared to be as old as the house, but the mattress was firm.  Over the massive wood-carved headboard hung an oil portrait of an ancient-faced Spaniard.  The floor was wooden and bare.  In one corner nested a kiva fireplace built low to the floor with bancos off to the sides.  The dresser was rickety but functional, and a wicker rocking chair floated freely in the scant open space of the room. 

            It was intensely quiet, and within seconds of sliding between the cool white muslin sheets, Audley was fast asleep.

THE PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATIONS began the following day in earnest.  Doc Will began with the standard Rorschach, amazed at Lanon's lack of creativity.  He next applied the Alfons-Thermatic Personality Evaluation, followed by Mexler's Standardized Social Evaluation and the Wexler-Belview.  Following a review of these fundamental tests, there came a series of Doc Will's own tests, notably the Blackstone Behavioral Indicator, as well as the Criminology Potential exam he had devised for the PSR, and myriad other secondary and tertiary psychological evaluations.

            He stayed in the lab late that first night, grading the tests and mulling over Lanon's unorthodox reactions and responses.  True to form, Dr. Blackstone became totally detached from the external world.  He refused to take calls or see visitors and he grew increasingly irritated by Martha's insistence that he stop to eat on schedule.

            Lanon dutifully followed every instruction that was put to him by the good doctor and so the psychological testing went well.  Almost too well.  The patient often finished tests even before the doctor could grade and analyze the one previous.  Lanon would have occupied himself reading Doc Will’s many psychiatric journals, but the Doctor forbade the patient to read anything until the testing was completed.  0802-LZ thus spent many hours resting his eyes on a plaque on the wall that read, “While the mind is not the seat of the spiritual nature, it is indeed the gateway thereto.”

            On the third day, when Dr. Blackstone still had no insight into the man's amnesia, Lanon turned the tables and set out to psychoanalyze the doctor.  He had finished a rather grueling morning of testing when he spoke up in the early afternoon, his stance formidable.

            "Dr. Blackstone," he began.  "I'd like to try to penetrate the hidden recesses of your mind.”

            As a rule, Doc Will would object.  He had a policy of long-standing that there should be little or no extraneous dialogue between doctor and patient during a testing series.  This time, however, he decided to break his own rule.  He had no leads so far.  He might as well try another approach.

            "Okay.  Shoot."

            "The tests you use.  Do you make up your own?”

            "Yes, I use the standard tests, like the Rorschach and Mexler's Standardized Social Evaluation, but I administer my own as well, depending on the subject in question."

            "When you set up the tests for Penn State Reserve, what all did you have to take into consideration?”

            Doc pondered his patient for a moment before he revealed, "Doctor Martin Belger of Alabama devised a test which predicted, in essence, the criminality potential of children before they reached the age of six … which is to say that by way of this test it could be determined if, when the child became an adult, ..."

            "Yes," Lanon interrupted.  "I understand all that.  Did you feel his test had merit?"

            Doc rather growled, "I had a lot of respect for the theory and I’d like to see the test administered more often."

            "In every case perhaps?"

            "Perhaps,” Doc Will admitted.  “I'm a great believer in potential.   I like to know what could potentially happen.”

            "But the ones you dealt with, those who were already adjudged as criminal, how did you test them?"

            "I made up several new tests.”  It seemed Lanon was truly interested.  “The first test, and the one I regarded as the most important, was designed for prison personnel because we needed to know right away if they would draw out responses from the criminal element and, more to the point, what their responses would be.  I mean, it would not do to have guards being sarcastic or abusive to the people we were trying to rehabilitate.”

            "Of course.  You tested Barrister, the guard at PSR?” 

            "Oh, yes.”  Doc nodded kindly.  “He was found to be a peace-loving man, a follower, one who would obey orders.  In his case, it was a matter of determining where his orders would come from.  We can find out all kinds of things about people through these tests -- all you'd want to know and then some."

            “What did you need to find out about the prisoners?"

            "Strangely enough," he said, warmed to the subject,  "the first thing we wanted to know was who had leadership ability, and then we ascertained whether or not they were capable of being re-programmed.  Rehabilitated."

            "Are the tests you devised still being used today?"

            "Oh, yes," Doc said proudly, “along with the standard tests, of course.  But the most ingenious device being used now is a machine that photographs personality.  I regret I didn't think of it myself.  This camera shows emotional reaction.  Feelings are color-coded, so to speak.  If, say, something makes a person angry or anxious or whatever, the machine will photograph that emotion.  It's quite a breakthrough."

            Lanon let his fingers linger briefly on his brow and after a moment suggested, "Why don't we get back to work?"             

            As Lanon willingly set upon the afternoon's tests, Doc Will set about reviewing the morning's test results and noted that Lanon had begun the test at 8:04 and finished it at 10:17.  No one had ever even finished this test at all, much less under the time limit.  Doc Will was perplexed.  He had reviewed less than one-half of the finished test when he looked up to see his patient staring into space.

            "Ahem!" he said with some annoyance.  "You finished the test already?"

            "No."  There was something in Lanon’s tone.

            "You understand all the questions?" Doc asked.

            "I understand the questions, but I don't understand the intent of such a test."

            "It's a simple test, son," he said.  "Did you read all the instructions on Page 1?"

            "It's not the test that I don't understand.   As I said, I don't understand the intent."

            Doc Will became authoritative.  "You're not here to understand the intent.  That's what I'm here for.  I'll understand it, if you don't mind.  Your job is to answer the questions."  He prepared to return to the morning's tests but Lanon's persistence stopped him.

            "For example, Doctor."  The patient’s attitude demanded a hearing.  "By this test it is strongly intimated that all humans will steal or kill or commit other acts of violence if they feel justified in doing so or if they feel they can get away with it."

            Doc Will was immediately defensive.  Patients weren't supposed to read into the tests.  It would appear, however, that Lanon had done just that.  "Well, it's true," he admitted reluctantly.

            Lanon studied Doc Will's face and rebutted, "It is not true.  It's an incorrect assumption."

            Doc Will’s eyebrows shot up.  "You don't say!"

            "I know that these tests were designed for the guests at PSR, but I am not a criminal.  I have no criminal tendencies."

            Doc Will felt he was being severely rebuked.  "Go on," he said.

            "It’s unfair of you to expect me to answer this kind of question.  It puts me in a position of guessing what I would do in a situation I have no intention of experiencing.”

            "Such as?"

            "Such as...."  Lanon pointed out a specific question.  "This.  'If you had not eaten for three days and you found a loaf of bread (a) on your doorstep; (b) on your neighbor's doorstep; (c) in a supermarket; would you consider it (a) a stroke of luck; (b) your due; (c) not at all; and would you (a) take it; (b) borrow it; or (c) leave it alone?'"

            "What is it about the question that you take exception to?"

            "I take exception to the question itself!"

            "But why?"

            "Before you put me in the position, through this question, I would not have considered that I might not eat for three days.  Naive?  No, I don't think so.  Trusting.  Trusting in powers higher than you acknowledge here, except in your primitive reference to 'luck' which could be easily construed as 'superstition'.  There is no option here for discussion with my neighbor, either by note, a telephone call, a visit.  Moreover, if I were hungry, why would my neighbor not know it and have offered to share with me before even one day had passed?  So you see, it is the question I take exception to.  It doesn't paint a positive picture of humankind, Dr. Blackstone."

            "I'm not painting anything," Doc countered, smarting from Lanon's use of the word 'primitive'.  "The results of the test paint the picture.  You, in refusing to take the test, have painted a picture."

            "But I am assumed to be guilty by default, if that is the picture I paint, without explanation.  The test implies to me a rather backward level of life here on this planet."

            "Does it come as a surprise to you to learn that man is an animal?"

            "No, of course not.  I know man is of animal origin, but what surprises me is that he has evolved so little!  You are telling me, by the use of this test alone, that with several million years of evolution behind him, man still hasn't overcome his animalistic tendencies."

            Doc Will nodded.  "That's correct.  And if we're smart, or lucky, we might survive to evolve for several million more years."

            "For what?  To what end?  To remain at a status quo and continue to justify these unevolved natures?"

            "Lanon,” Doc urged, “take the farther view!  Yes, it is true that men, women and even children do steal and murder and worse.  But most of us don't.  Most of us find other ways.  We develop ethics and values.  We are becoming civilized after all."

            "It wouldn't appear so from this test."

            "You've made your point.   Let me have the test back."

            "You said we need to take the further, long-range view.  How long do you suggest?  How long before the human race grows up?"

            "That's a question I ask myself.  It's hard to say how long it will take, Lanon, but I do know that given enough time and effective techniques in behavior modification we will mature."

            "Behavior modification?"

            "Yes.  Behavior as it influences and is influenced by the behavior and needs of other people.  It's a new science, granted, but with the programs now being developed we will, in time, be able to modify behavior first on an individual level, then as a family unit, then as a community, a nation, and eventually as a world.  We do have goals and views that preclude violent crimes and asocial behavior."

            "Your method takes too long.  I don't think I'll be here to see the end result."

            Doc Will was miffed.  "Of course, it takes time!  Do you have any alternatives?  It's all very well and good for you young people to complain about this world, but do any of you have any concrete suggestions?  Or, Heaven forbid, do any of you do anything about it?  No!  Like Audley, you're spoiled.  You think a pill will fix something that takes generations to come about.  All you youngsters do is demand and complain and I'm getting too old to tolerate it any longer!" 

            Oh, dear.  Why had he gotten angry in front of this patient?  Sometimes he did, but it was highly unusual.

            "How old are you?" Lanon asked, undaunted by the doctor's tirade.       

            "How old am I?"  The doctor sat down.  "I'm 76.  Why?"

            "Do you think everyone under 76 is a youngster?"

            Doc Will had to admit that he did.  He referred to his 50-year-old clients as 'kids' and to Jesse and the Board of Directors as 'children'.

            "By Urth's standards, that's a reasonable length of time to live, isn't it?"

            "Reasonable, yes.  Some live to be twice my age, but these are usually in other cultures.  The American culture is such that it burns one out more quickly."

            "Why is that, do you suppose?"

            Doc shrugged.  "Drugs and alcohol aside, I'd say it was because of the striving."

            "I'm led to believe that a certain amount of striving is desirable."

            "Some, yes, but we strive incessantly.  We strive for success, for acceptance, for affection, for something, all the time.  We don't know how to relax.  If you were to ask someone over the age of 100 how he managed to live so long, chances are he would say because he wasn't in a big hurry, that he quit the striving long ago.  A man of years lives each minute for itself and for the fact that he's still alive, not for what can be gotten tomorrow.  Or for that matter, what he failed to get yesterday.  Smart people modify their strivings sooner."

            Lanon nodded solicitously.  "I will take words under advisement, Dr. Blackstone, and cease my useless strivings."  Doc Will didn't realize he had been giving advice or that Lanon was taking it as such.

            "Fine, son.  Fine.  And I will, of course, make a note of your response to this test and release you from the subject.  By the way, I quite agree with you, but I had my reasons for giving you that test."  Not the least of which was his daughter.  Lanon dutifully went on to the next test while Doc Will wrote, under "Comments: No Criminal Tendencies," and went back to grading the morning examinations.

            The rest of that day was uneventful, as was the following day, but on the subsequent day Lanon once again stopped the flow of progress.  In the manner of a precocious child, he stated, "I cannot continue with this test."

            Doc Will was immediately attentive.  It was the test addressing the patient's attitudes toward death and dying.  Lanon might not be criminal, but he faced death as surely as any taxpayer.  The doctor was curious to hear the patient's views.  "Why not?" he asked.

            "It doesn't make sense."

            "The subject of this test, Lanon, is death.  That might help you understand the test."

            Lanon shook his head.  "It doesn't help."

            "Would you care to elaborate?"

            "You mortals have no concept of what occurs at the time of death.  What you have is based on sketchy, fear-ridden, ignorant ideas so far beyond my comprehension, so backward, I can't even relate to this."  To emphasize, he pushed the papers away from himself and away from the doctor.

            Doc Will was perplexed.  'You mortals' he had said, as if he were not.  As if he had some super-human insight into what happened after death.  It occurred to him then that perhaps Lanon had experienced 'clinical death' at the time of his plane crash, a 'life after life' experience.  He decided to pursue that possibility, so in all sincerity he asked, "You have already experienced death, perhaps?"

            "I have not!" Lanon retorted.

            Doc Will scratched that theory.

            "It isn't necessary," Lanon added.

            Doc Will cocked his ear.  "I beg your pardon?"

            "It isn't necessary that I experience death.  Nor you."

            "Would you care to explain your theory?"

            "No," Lanon said.  "I've said too much already."  Lanon sat with his fingers pressed against his forehead for a long moment before Doc said, "We have time for another test today if you're up to it.  Otherwise, we can do it tomorrow.  How do you feel?  Would you like to rest?"

            "No," he said, removing his fingers.  "I'd like to ask you some more questions."

            "Such as?"

            "I'll ask the questions," Lanon averred.

            Doc Will considered.  So the patient wants to out-psyche the psyche?  He had the stamina for it.  “Go ahead.”              "Referring back to the Criminology test for one moment, do you think it refers to you?"

            "It refers to man."

            "And what is man?"

            "Man is an animal with intellect and potential."

            "Potential for what?"

            "Selflessness."

            "And you don't consider that suicidal?"

            "Not at all.  I consider that altruism."   

            "Hmmm.  Good.  Now, in reference to this more recent test, about death.  What does that mean to you?"

            "Death is cessation of life."

            "What happens, then, to the intellect and the potential?  Do they die as well?"

            "Well, I haven't died, of course, but I'm under the impression that there is some sort of afterlife.  Intellect and potential ... well, they...."  He blushed at his inability to respond as adroitly as he expected his patients to respond.  Still, he made mental notes of his patient's behavior and the tenor of the questioning.

            "You said you were ‘under the impression’.  Where did that impression come from?"

            "I suppose it came from Christianity."

            "Are you Christian?"

            "I guess so."

            "You aren't certain?"

            "What is this?" Doc objected.  "A psychiatric examination or a third degree?"  He saw Lanon hesitate, as if he was not sure what was meant by the phrase 'third degree.'

            "I'll ask the questions, all right, Doctor?"

            "Sure."

            "Are you Christian?"

            "Sure."

            "What makes you Christian?"

            "My heritage.  If I were Chinese, I'd be Buddhist."

            "Do you have no personal belief of your own?"

            "I'm a scientist!"

            "Does being a scientist negate the possibility of your having a personal theology, a personal philosophy?"

            "No.  I have a personal philosophy."

            "Is it one you inherited or one you developed?”

            "It's mine.  I developed it myself."

            "Are you pleased with it?"

            "I'm not ashamed of it."

            "I'd be interested to hear it."

            Doc Will hesitated.  He didn't want Lanon taking on his, Blackstone's, philosophies.  "I have many."

            "I'm specifically interested in your philosophy of life as it relates to death."

            "Life terminates at death.  There's no philosophy there."

            "But if there could be, what would you have it be?"

            "Immortality, I suppose."

            "Do you love life, Dr. Blackstone?"

            Doc considered: life without rheumatism, without arthritis, with work, fresh air, with Audley and the dream of a grandson.  "Yes," he said.  "I do."

            "What do you love about life?  The animal?  The intellect?  The potential?"

            "All of those."

            "And do you believe in love, Dr. Blackstone?"

            "Do I believe in love?"  He thought about his wife and his daughter.  "Yes, very much."

            "Good.  Now, when you answered that question, you had to have pictured something that you love, since the mortal mind works in words and pictures, right? What did you think of, what did you picture when you thought of love?"

            "My daughter and my deceased wife."

            "Interesting.  Your deceased wife.  You think of love in the same terms for someone who is alive and for someone who is no longer alive."

            Doc Will nodded, now feeling pinned against a wall.  He regretted going along with the game Lanon insisted on playing.

            "Someone who has experienced death,” Lanon pressed.

            Doc Will nodded again.

            "Someone who is dead!”           

            "Yes!" Doc Will said aloud at last.

            "Yet you think of her in terms of love."

            "Yes," he admitted quietly.

            "Therefore, is it fair to say that the love did not die?"

            "It would be fair, yes."

            "Let me ask you something."

            Doc Will waited, fascinated.  Fearful.

            "There was a moment," Lanon said.  "Once you loved a moment.  A peaceful, sublime and tranquil moment that you shared only with a flower."

            "All right."

            "Do you still love the flower?"

            He said "yes" but his voice faltered; his attitude questioned.

            "Do you love that flower, that moment, the same way you love your wife?"

            "No, of course not."

            "You had no objection to my saying you love your wife in the present tense.  Is it fair to say you still love your wife after ... how long has it been?"

            It wasn't easy for Dr. Blackstone to uncover and admit his emotions, yet he answered, "Twenty-three years."

            "You still love her after twenty-three years?"

            "Yes."  And he missed her.

            "Present tense."

            "Present tense."

            "What's her name?"

            "Sarah."

            "So you're telling me, then, that Sarah is still loved."

            "Yes."

            "I will go so far as to say that Sarah still lives!  She is alive, and not just in the love that you keep alive for her.  She is as alive and well as you and I are, sitting here."

            Dr. Blackstone didn't know how Lanon knew that, of course, but he was impressed with Lanon's certitude.  He was reminded of Sarah's strong faith and belief in after-life.

            "Wouldn't it have been easier, Doctor, if Sarah had not experienced death?"

            "Easier?  I don't know what you're saying."

            "Just as I don't know what you're asking me in that test.  Death is a door.”  Lanon held Wilhelm captive.  “You're familiar with the analogy that if you come to a door and you want to get to the other side, you open it and pass through it.  That is all death is, Dr. Blackstone, a portal, a door, a ‘gateway thereto’, and you don't have to die in order to get to the other side."

            "I don't understand." 

            "You will.  You'll approach that door yourself, but it doesn't have to be called death, and this is my point.  Couldn't we, for the sake of discussion, call it Fusion?  Or Home Transport?  Or Dematerialization?"

            "What's the difference what we call it?  We all end up going through the same damned door!"

            "The difference is how we react to it, how we regard the person who left and the people who are left here."

            "This is philosophy," Doc muttered.

            "This is philosophy until it becomes reality.  You’re the one who spoke of a man as an animal with intellect and potential.  Potential!  Potential then, now and in the future!"

            The doctor envisioned Sarah - alive, loving, laughing, giving, caring, teaching, and accepting.  He sagged.

            "I'm nearly finished," Lanon said.

            "Yes," Doc Will responded, recognizing that he was as caught up in Lanon's mental machinations as Lanon ever was in his, if not more so.

            "If a method could be devised to approach death as easily, as academically, as we approached the door to your laboratory, would you be interested?"

            The ultimate behavior modification.  Modify man's approach to death.  It was the one area of Mindal Science he had not developed, the only challenge that life had not yet put before him, but it was a challenge he would readily sink not only his teeth, but also his whole soul.

            "Yes" he confessed.  "I would be interested."

            "Good.  We will discuss it at another time."

            "Yes.  Enough for today."  He was drained.

            "Are there any more tests you want me to do?"

            "No, Lanon.  No more tests."

            Lanon retreated to his cubicle to inform his peers of his progress for the day and Doc Will retired to his room upstairs.  In all his years as a doctor, a patient had never before treated him.  Who is Lanon Zenton? he wondered.  Where does he come from?  And why has he challenged me about Death?

DOC WILL DIDN’T SLEEP at all that night following his discussions with Lanon.  It had been many years since something had so disturbed him.  Not that he, himself, was leery of the subjects of death and dying, no, but that someone had encouraged his own theories along these lines.

            It had been very difficult for him when Sarah died.  It was called an accident, but he never believed that.  As a scientist he accepted their verdict, but as a sensitive and feeling human being, he reflected deeply and asked himself such questions as 'Why?'

            Sarah's faith had been simple and traditional.  His was not.  His beliefs were derived from questioning and testing and experimenting, and for poignant moments, he sought answers.  Not necessarily reasons -- he did not expect to understand all the reasons -- but some kind of an answer that he could live with, that helped make sense out of life.

            It was, originally, improbable that he would ever find a woman, a wife, at all.  He had dedicated his life to the Science of Mind years before he met Sarah and he had no reason to need a wife.  If he had not met Sarah, had not come to deeply love her and marry her, she would not have been on that scaffolding that day and she would not have had that fatal accident.  Yet, he could not deny how he had benefited from the experience of knowing her and loving her.

            From that unlikely union they had produced Audley.  At their ages!  Audley was not an accident.  They wanted a child, and look at what he had been able to experience and contribute to his field as a result of bringing up the girl. Look now at what she was contributing!  It was not an accident, he knew, that she had brought Lanon Zenton to his house.  Doc Will didn't believe in accidents. 

            Sarah's death was not an accident.  He couldn't, didn't and wouldn't allow himself to think that way.  But if she had to die, if it were necessary for her to cease, if it were necessary for her to not be here anymore, it would have been so much simpler, so much more dignified, if the Powers-That-Be had simply taken her without all the mess and distortion of the 'accident'.

            The odd thing was that Sarah seemed to know she was going to be leaving this world.  She had said as much to Wilhelm only days before it happened.  Whatever it was that she said, and he couldn't remember the exact words, it had startled him and he could see that it rather startled her, too, when she said it.  As if something in her knew she would be leaving and was preparing to go, and she was telling him so that he could be prepared to let her go.

            It would have been so much easier if she had just said, "Well, I'm off!"  Instead, there had been a tragedy.  There was much screaming and wailing and calling of ambulances and medical attention and expense and trauma.  There were guilts to be dealt with and worked through.  There were regrets and depression, anger and resentments, and the dark hole of grief that threatened to consume him.

            Then followed the public reaction, the newspapers, the funeral, the mourning, and the sympathy.  The sympathy was worst of all, for it fed the sense of loss, of  helplessness.             

            If it could have been clean, if she could have just said, "It's time for me to go," and left, with no one making a fuss, if it were expected to be a natural part of living, the leave-taking, rather than the infernal negative approach running rampant on this planet, it would have been so much easier.

            Yes, Lanon had struck a very sensitive nerve.  He had a damned good point.  Dr. Blackstone had a room full of notes on the subject of death, on the stages of death and dying.  The existing theories were ‘primitive!’  Why should anyone have to go through those phases at all?  How could one be expected to calmly approach anger, denial, depression and acceptance?  Like Lanon said, death wasn't necessary!  It distorted all of life, ending all human experience with a negative.

            The entire world would have to be re-programmed.  Death was not and had seldom ever been handled right.  What did one do, then?  Send the human race to Alaska to see how the Eskimos did it?  They knew when their time was up.  They invited all their friends and family in to say good-bye, they put their affairs in order and they left!  God, that was clean.  They knew how it should be done.  Goddammed civilized society had to put on the garb of mourning and the fear of God and the expense of the damned.

            What did Lanon call it?  Prefer to call it?   Home Transport.  That was a good one.  It had a positive ring to it.