Category: Writing

Pacific Northwest Enclave – 2305

Kevin struggled for breath as he entered the environmentally controlled foyer of his building. He didn’t want to believe that the air outside had deteriorated. It implied that Kevin’s years of sacrifice had bought, at best, time and not a solution.

His breathing had returned to normal by the time he had taken the elevator to his fortieth floor apartment. The door scanned his eye and accepted his password.

“Lights, twenty percent.”
The computer raised a dim glow that melted into the grey illumination from the largest window. It felt like dusk.
“Messages?”
“None. There is, however, one incoming call. Care to take it live?”
“Sure. Kitchen, please.”
A flat view-screen was installed in the kitchen wall. It came to life to show Carlsonn.
“Give me one good reason not to hang up.”
“This is an invitation, Number 6.”
For some reason, Kevin thought the Operations Controller was looking old.
“You can’t address me with a number. I’ve resigned. We’ve been over this. Often.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin. Old habits. I wanted to invite you down for a discussion about a mission I felt obliged to offer you, regardless of your status. It is of such an important and frankly fascinating nature that I wanted to make sure you had a chance to volunteer.”
Carlsonn amazed Kevin by using words like ‘volunteer’ and ‘invitation.’
“When would you like to meet?”
“Now would be helpful.”

The air outside was definitely worse. Fortunately for his breathing, he was quickly cleared by Agency Security. Typically, Carlsonn was uptight about security, but his staff barely noticed Kevin. This was doubly strange as he had been the first operative to resign from the environmental agency who had not been summarily, if unofficially, executed.

Number 87 escorted him through the corridors to Carlsonn’s office.

“Good to be back Number 6?” she asked. “I no longer have that number … surely.”
Number 87 hated her real name — Shirley. She smiled angrily and did not say, “Don’t call me ‘Shirley’.”
“Still the rebel,” she said. “Let me rephrase. Good to be back without me having to capture, drug, and confine you?”
“That was you?”
“I enjoyed every second.”
“Don’t tell me you ran that glorified prison in Wales?”
“Yes. Pity the budget for it didn’t get re-approved.”
To Kevin she looked like a hungry, if extinct, leopard.

“Kevin, good to see you,” said Carlsonn.
“You look tired, Carlsonn.”
“As well I should be. That’ll be all … Shirley.”
“Very witty, sir.” She left.
“Kevin, sit down please. The situation is simple. In three to five days we are going to lose the atmosphere.”
“What?”
“The whole thing. There’s not going to be a square millimetre of breathable air on this planet.”
“I knew this was a possibility, but not for a long time.”
“A long time has passed since the first coal fires. A long time is now. The Agency is, of course, preparing to dome cities, but it’s an interim measure. Our off-world colonies cannot take the ten billion people who won’t be covered by domes. Simulations indicate that the disaster on Earth will slow down the development of the colonies to such a point that they will not become self-sufficient before the system of domed cities fails.”
“Doomed domes.”
“Quite.”
“Apart from the fact you’re being kind, and warning me that I should go home and work on those bottles of Scotch I have, why am I here?”
“I want you to go back in time and fix the problem.”
“Right. I thought if you travelled in time you’d be changing an alternative reality.”
“That was the original theory. It wasn’t entirely correct. With fine-tuning, we discovered you can move back in time in your own reality. Once you arrive, you destroy your own timeline and then anything goes.”
“Cole Porter’s Anything Goes?”
“Cole Porter might never come to be. Even if you forget all the technical challenges, no one wants to obliterate their own history.”
“Until now.”
“Quite. This is where you come in.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Have you tested it?”
“Yes, according to the prototype time machine, we sent a machine back in time two minutes.”
“Why ‘according to the prototype’?”
“Well, you see we were two minutes from launching a prototype. Then what looked like a copy of our prototype materialised. Just as we were about to launch our prototype, it disintegrated, leaving us with the one that materialised. Apparently ‘our’ prototype’s molecules were displaced by the arrival of the one that had gone through time. We had a camera on board the prototype. We reviewed the tapes and they showed us sending off the prototype.”
“But you have no personal memory of sending it.”
“No, but that makes sense. We sent something back and destroyed our timeline. The arrival of the other machine made us change history.”
“So you’re convinced that sending a person back will work.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m convinced. We have nothing to lose.”

Kevin did not commit right away. He did not stay for further technical briefings. He went outside. The sky looked perilous. Swollen with gases never intended to be there, curdled clouds rushed across the sky in a frenzy. His breathing became laboured in two minutes. He went back to The Agency.

“Why me?”
“You survived the Agency. Your commitment to the environment is stronger than your commitment to self-preservation as a political or social animal. You work well alone. You want to make a difference. You’re not afraid to kill.”
“OK Carlsonn, what’s your plan? I want all the details, then I’ll decide what to do. If your plan is workable, I’ll go.”
“The plan is simple. Industrialisation was done very badly. We want to send you to 1750 to start influencing governments to control and slow down industrialisation. The British Empire’s laisser-faire policies put everything on the wrong footing for sustainable development. The Chinese attitude toward the natural environment and their uncontrolled population has to be checked. And somehow, warfare has to be reduced. The damage 19th and 20th century wars did truly put the nail in the coffin. We are going to install the time travel system into your body. Your DNA will be bound with a premier Artificial Intelligence (AI) to act as your historical and technical database as well as your companion. Your life span will extended to 130, barring injury or damage, of course.”
“Sure, simple.”
“You are going to have to rely on your own initiative to complete the mission. You can do whatever you want. It won’t matter to me — I won’t exist.”
“Now there’s a pleasant thought. Let’s get started.”

They rearranged Kevin’s chest cavity so that it could hold the major system components. The power supply was enormous and represented the most significant challenge for the engineers. Uncontrolled, the power plant in Kevin’s body would obliterate an area the size of Europe. The trick to time travel was shielding the traveller’s molecules from the reality that it had duplicates in the environment.
Kevin woke from surgery. “I feel like shit.”
“That’s not a surprise,” said Carlsonn. “How do you want your AI configured. Male, female or neutral?”
“Female will probably balance my testosterone-driven responses. Make sure she’s got a pleasant, intelligent-sounding voice. Where are you getting the AI?”
“It used to manage all the power grids in North America.”
“Why a power system AI?”
“Because your power system is the crucial component for the control of the time travel system.”
“Oh. Since you’ve installed the power plant inside my body, where is the AI hardware going?”
“You forget. We’re binding her to your DNA. The operating system is electro-chemical.”
“It’ll be the most intimate I’ve ever been with a woman.”
“I won’t miss your remarks after you leave.”
The irony was not lost on either of them.

Weary, weary, weary. A day and a half of surgery left him barely able to stand, despite the improvements.
“OK,” said Carlsonn. “Time to go over the mission parameters.”
“Finally,” said the female voice in Kevin’s head.
“Give me an hour,” said Kevin. “I want to go outside.”

It was very grey. Cloud formations tried to coalesce, but they could not maintain their integrity. Kevin was having trouble breathing — the recent loss of a lung to accommodate his time travel equipment hadn’t helped — but he knew the whole planet’s air supply was stale.
“So, Jennifer, do you think Carlsonn is telling the truth?”
“Are you naming me Jennifer?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Later. I think we’ll have lots of time.” “All right. My analysis of the situation is that the only thing Carlsonn could be lying about is the timing. The behaviour of the sky is consistent with simulations I have seen. Why the question?”
“He does seem to be in a hurry.”
Kevin slowly walked around the facility.
“You are uncertain about this mission,” stated Jennifer.
“I trust Carlsonn about as far as I can throw this building.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have access to my file?”
“No. I am bound by privacy laws.”
“That’s right — you aren’t an Agency-commissioned system. Looks like I’ll have lots to tell you over the next several hundred years.”
“Under one hundred, personal time.”
“Yes. I only get to live to 130 it seems.”
“I just hope there’s a computer system to take me on when we finish the mission.”

Back inside, Kevin, Carlsonn and two advisors sat in a meeting room.
“I feared you’d changed your mind.”
“Needed to be sure I was doing the right thing. The inside of this building never left me with a sense of serenity or personal security.”
“Very well. The plan is to start in 1750. The Industrial Revolution wasn’t much of a revolution as it took generations to complete. At this point there are any number of ways you can manipulate the government and industry. Injecting new technology would not help, we feel that optimising the technology of the day and improving techniques will probably be best. Your AI …”
“Jennifer.”
“… Jennifer … has all the details that we have on history of the current day. You will want to do a survey to see how accurate it all is.”
“I want to start earlier.”
“When?”
“1604.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say that I am curious to see how religion might play in this equation.”

England – 1606

It was a week from Christmas and cold. Bishop Rainolds wore a thick, fur-lined cloak and hugged it close to his body as if to indicate that all was well. He wasn’t sure it was. His Royal Highness King James I of England had given Bishop Rainolds a glare as icy as the road home.
“Two years work and nothing?!” echoed in Rainolds’ mind. Petulant Scotsman. Why had Rainolds recommended the commission of a new bible? The Bishop wanted to beat himself. Once home, he went to the hearth in the parlour, hoping the fire hadn’t died. The embers were red. As he stoked the fire and brought it to life, he despaired having let his wife proceed ahead and return to Oxford. He realised he was hungry — any food in the kitchen? He left the parlour, crossed the cavernous dining hall and entered the kitchen.
There was a giant in Rainolds’ kitchen. The Bishop gasped and felt his pulse race as he gawked at the tallest man he had ever seen. The giant was inspecting the various pots, skillets and utensils. Certainly not a threatening posture, thought Rainolds. He decided not to panic. The giant moved to examine the brick oven by the fireplace.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you,” said the Bishop.
The giant turned slowly and smiled. “I’m so sorry; it was cold outside and I took it upon myself to enter while I waited for you.”
“I see. Bit startling finding a stranger — especially a giant — in one’s home.”
“My name is Kevin Wren.” He gave a slight bow. “I have travelled far to meet you. I heard that His Majesty has commissioned a new bible. In English. My curiosity overwhelmed me.”
Despite the cool temperature, beads of sweat trickled down Kevin’s stomach. Jennifer was monitoring his condition, looking for signs that his immune system was overreacting again. “I’m being so rude,” said the Bishop. “Were you some villain, by now you’d have likely overwhelmed me and done me harm. With your size I’d be no match for you. Can I offer you an ale?”
“I certainly wouldn’t refuse,” said Kevin.
Jennifer electro-chemically cringed. Almost nothing had gone down well since they had arrived. Not even the air.
From the pantry off the kitchen, Rainolds drew two pewter mugs of ale from a barrel.
“It is, in fact, the bottom of the barrel. I only use this house when I visit Hampton Court.”
They walked to the parlour. Rainolds’ couldn’t help noticing how loud the giant’s footfalls were on the floor of the dining hall. Kevin sipped the ale. It was the harshest beverage he had ever tasted.
In the parlour, Rainolds wondered what chair would hold Kevin. In the end, Rainolds deemed the recently refurbished Tudor chair suitable.
“This project must have enormous challenges,” said Kevin, “what are you finding the most difficult?”
“The King. I just arrived from a most trying meeting in which he was angry over the lack of progress in the last two years. He just does not realise how complex this is! He wants an English Bible that’s linguistically consistent as well as theologically sound. How in heavens do you make English linguistically sound? It’s a mongrel language.”
“How many people do you have working on the translations?”
“About fifty.”
“How do you manage them?”
“What do you mean?”
Kevin listened to Jennifer’s translation of Elizabethan English into twenty-fourth century Standard English. The ale was upsetting his stomach. This made listening to Rainolds’ speech and Jennifer’s running commentary more difficult. Rainolds knew nothing of management.
“How have you assigned the work?”
“I parcelled it out to two of the more senior clerics and instructed them to supervise the others.”
“How will you enforce the consistency of language that you need?”
“You mean ensure that all the parts fit together at the end. Well, I don’t know.”
“I would like to volunteer to help. I have some unique experience.”

Kevin barely made it back to the small cottage he was renting.
“You have to rest,” said Jennifer.
“It went well, didn’t it?” He sounded like a sleepy little boy seeking approval.
“Yes. Lie down.”
The bed was constructed from wood. Wool blankets were folded and put on the bed to make it less hard. Kevin lay down and was asleep within seven seconds.
Jennifer monitored his biological functions. It annoyed her that they had sent him on the mission before letting him heal from the surgery.

Kevin had worked with Rainolds for months establishing language standards and setting up self-managing teams. They had divided up The Bible into thirteen parts and assigned four clerics per team. Each of the four had a specific role in the process. An individual owned one of translation, research, language standards or transcription. No section of the work could be passed onto the review committee — run by Rainolds — until all four team members were satisfied.
Kevin and two senior clerics were floaters, who checked in with the teams to resolve disagreements and make sure the team members were paid, fed and not slacking off.
Kevin took particular interest in the team working on Genesis, and dropped by early in the process. One day he sat and read their preliminary work.
“What do you mean by ‘dominion’?”
The cleric-translator looked up at Kevin, mystified.
“Well — sovereignty, I suppose.”
“When it comes to a location, there’s normally one sovereign. King James for example. But when man has dominion over all the animals, it’s a broader notion, is it not?”
“I’m afraid I’m not quite catching your meaning.”
“In this context, does the source material not mean dominion as responsibility and stewardship? I cannot believe God wants us to run roughshod over His plants and animals. The King surely knows he is responsible for his subjects, but will the common man realise that he has a similar responsibility for the subjects of the animal kingdom?”
“I’ll review the source material,” said the researcher.

“Kevin, I’m sad you’re leaving.”
“Pressing commitments abroad, Bishop Rainolds. I’ve had a wonderful experience here.”
“Your assistance in organising the translations and standards has been invaluable. And your counsel on reporting to the King. Brilliant.”
“You would have done perfectly well without me.”

“I’m nervous about the jump, Jennifer.”
“I can tell. But we don’t have much choice. You are fairly well healed and we have to move on. There’s no way to tell what kind of power usage we’re going to need. We cannot fix industrialisation 150 years before it even starts.”
“I wonder if we can fix it at all.”
“True, but we won’t find out here.”
Kevin stood on high ground where he could look at London of 1609. He had become fond of this place despite being ill for most of the last three years. He wondered what kind of allergies — for lack of a better term — he’d face in the eighteenth century.
“Let’s get this over with.”

England – 1756

Kevin materialised on a busy street. The horse was waiting for his driver to return and did not appreciate the sudden appearance of a giant. The horse reared up with such force that there was risk of the carriage tipping.
Kevin reached up and grabbed the reins and brought the horse down. His pulse raced as Jennifer gave Kevin instructions on the most likely actions and commands to prevent a disaster.
“What’s all this then?” The driver sounded gruff, but it was dark and the he did not at first perceive Kevin’s size. Once the driver had fully seen Kevin, he took a kinder tone.
“Are you all right sir?”
“I’m afraid I spooked your animal. Not entirely sure how.” Kevin gave the horse solid pats now that it had recovered from its fright.
“No harm done then. Happy Christmas.”
As the horse, driver and carriage headed down the road Kevin asked Jennifer what it was with Christmas. They left on Christmas. They managed to make Kevin healthy enough to approach Rainolds on Christmas. And now this jump takes them to Christmas sometime in the eighteenth century.
Kevin and Jennifer were not exactly sure when or where in England they had landed.
“Is there no way to be more accurate about timing and location?”
“Time travel is space-time travel, actually. You are lucky that we don’t materialise underwater, inside a mountain or in outer space.”
“Sorry I asked.”
The street was wide and lined with shops that were either closed or closing. He walked along the road listening to conversations about feasts, last minute preparations and going to church.
“Church,” said Kevin. “We’re going.”

Christmas Eve Evensong at Mistley Church, Essex was a popular affair. People from all over the county came to worship. They wore their best clothes for the candlelight service.
The building itself was impressive and recently remodelled. Two clock towers at each end straddled the body of the church. Kevin looked at the Greek-style pillars at the entrance and thought them a strange architectural affectation.
His consideration of the pillars drifted to a concern over his own appearance. He wore late Elizabethan attire with a ruff and tights that were neither in fashion nor effective against the cold. Jennifer was keeping his temperature normal.
“You are being stared at,” said Jennifer. “I think it is as much for the clothes as for your size. Should I try to run the holographic projection system?”
“No. We haven’t tested it. And it won’t help at close quarters.”
“It would fool the inattentive.”
“I’ll just find a dark corner.”
Inside the church he located a pew in the shadows and sat down. The church soon filled to capacity. A man and wife in their fifties sat beside him. They eyed him curiously.
“Merry Christmas,” said Kevin.
“And to you,” said the wife.
They kneeled and prayed before the service began. When done, the husband took out his bible.
“I hope I’m not being rude, but I have left my bible at home and would very much like to review a passage. Could I borrow yours for a moment, at your convenience?”
“Certainly, sir.”

Kevin reviewed the opening pages. It had been released a year earlier than Jennifer’s history files indicated. At least he had had an impact on the delivery date. He flipped to Genesis, chapter I, verse 26 and compared what he was reading to what Jennifer had in her on-line copy of The Bible.

And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have stewardship to maintain the fish of the sea, and the fowl of the air, and the cattle, and all the earth, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

“Wow,” thought Kevin. “It worked.”
He quickly flipped through the pages to allow Jennifer to read them; she could do this as fast as he could turn each page.
The couple next to him regarded him carefully.
As her reading progressed, Jennifer noticed only minor content changes and a more consistent application of the language. Both these axioms held until Revelations. It was substantially different. She absorbed it all, deciding to review it with Kevin at a more convenient time.
Kevin looked about the dimly lit church. Was anything fundamentally different as a result of his meddling with The Bible? Impossible to tell from here. England was still England and did not seem to be being run by anyone else but the English. He would have to do a survey and compare recent history to Jennifer’s database.
A candle near him went out. With the swirling smoke his sense of success dispersed. Kevin found himself shivering. He was truly lost. In 1606 he had had the luxury of having a historical database he could trust. And now … he didn’t know.
The processional began. Everyone in the church rose and started singing the first hymn. He felt the pipe organ’s sound vibrate in his chest.
Perhaps the meaning of the Christmas coincidences was simple. He might very well need a kind of religious faith to take him through the centuries as he attempted to tend a Garden that his own culture was bent on destroying.

Only complete lunatics would get married on Christmas Eve.
The church was old, very old for North America, and was decked out with more poinsettias and evergreen boughs than I’d ever seen collected in one place. Candles were the primary source of light for the event and the main source of raw fear for the Sexton. I admit, this old stone church near Picton affected me by chilling my feet and warming my heart.

The Groom and I had just left the vestry where we had played a couple rounds of Rummy with a deck of cards I’d used in all five marriages in which I’d been Best Man. The cards and the rings were in my right jacket pocket. During my second tour of duty as BM, these cards made their mark. The elastic around them had broken and a handful of them came out of my pocket at the time I was producing the rings. Normally this would be mildly humorous, but the cards were from a strip bar in Quebec to which I had been on a weekend romp with some buddies in high school. The images weren’t obscene per se but definitely not haute decor for a Methodist wedding in London, Ontario.

I stole a glance at my watch as we stood at the front and realized that we’d been standing there too long. Typically they don’t haul the Groom and BM out for display unless the Bride is primed and ready to roll. I looked up at Jonathan to see if he was cracking. He had the I’m-glad-I-didn’t-have-bran-this-morning look. You’d think someone six-five would be cooler than that. An unfair comment really. You see, I’m a disgusting five-nine. My older and younger brothers are six-two and six-three respectively. Bastards. I’m built like a tank mind you. It was the only way I survived my childhood.

So what the frig was the Bride up to? The priest looked ticked and had the how-did-I-get-talked-into-this look. She had to hurry us out of here to set up for the Christmas Eve service.

Some signal was made. The string quartet began with Handel’s Fireworks Music and the priest smiled. It struck me that I’d never heard this piece performed by a string quartet nor as a processional.

The first wedding in which I was BM was for my younger brother. He had the fun of being eighteen with a pregnant bride. The shotgun had been ready to blow his head off. My utter driver of a father conscripted The Anglican church to bless the marriage. The Bride had appeared wearing a stunning flowing gown in a tasteful off-white.

This Christmas Eve, the Bride was being non-traditional. She slinked down the aisle in a black velvet gown that clung to her like a very close friend. I had seen Deborah a number of times over the years and had never been truly affected by her in a sexual way. I suppressed a gasp. As per tradition, Jonathan had not been allowed to see the dress until now. I stole a glance up at him and his lower lip twitched. Once Deborah reached the rail, she smiled slyly at him. As we turned to face the preacher, Jon was shaking. If he fell over, I would kill him.

In my experience, the only other time a bride had been truly lascivious in appearance was at a Unitarian gig on a beach in British Columbia. The Bride then in fact wore a bikini and a sarong. Both she and my younger brother (Yes, it was his second; the shotgun never properly went off.) were in excellent physical shape and had granola pouring out of their ears. My brother wore a T-shirt and shorts that caused a couple of the guests to go ga-ga. Beautiful wedding, stunning scenery in that part of the world, but I couldn’t wait to get back to my favourite pub in Toronto. Just didn’t feel safe in B.C.

I never understood his desire to marry once, let alone twice. I’m the professional bachelor of the family. I’ve had my share of tempestuous relationships, and even lived with someone for a while. But the whole notion of forever with one person just gave me the willies. At thirty-eight I felt secure in my bachelor-hood.

“I would like to request,” said the preacher, “that you take a moment to ensure that all electronic devices have been shut off, this includes flash units, assuming anyone’s still using them. Let’s keep the bustle of the outside world away from this service on this holy night.”

Amen, I thought to myself. All the convenience of personal communications had gotten worse over the years and here, on the last Christmas Eve of the century, I prayed for simplification of this needlessly complex world.

The preacher, now that I noticed, was a rather striking blonde and wore her hair in a ponytail over one shoulder. This struck me as odd; was she expecting to lose track of her hair during the service? I disciplined myself as hitting on the preacher at a wedding struck me as suicide made in heaven.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together Jonathan and Deborah in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted by God in the time of our innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church. This holy Estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and the first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee; and is commended in holy Scripture to be honourable among all: and therefore is not by any to be entered upon, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.

“Matrimony was ordained for the hallowing of the union betwixt man and woman; and for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that one ought to have of the other, in both prosperity and adversity.
“Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any one can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, speak now, or else hereafter for ever be at peace.”

I was shocked to hear the Book of Common Prayer being used, even if this passage had been rendered gender neutral. Not surprisingly, the bit about raising kids had been removed. The opening prayer was not the shortest I had ever heard but the preacher, the Very Reverend Cynthia Donald, (a truly ducky name) had a glib seriousness about her that intrigued me.

The one Roman Catholic priest I’d met had been a windbag. My best friend at that time had fallen in love with an Italian woman with immense beauty and strongly held RC religious views, excluding those issues involving premarital sex, contraception and abortion. He nearly went mad during the six week marriage prep course and the conversion to Roman Catholicism. During the actual service, I thought I was going to drool on myself from boredom.

I was amazed at how much day-dreaming I’d been doing during this Christmas Eve wedding.
We prepared for the readings by shuffling ourselves around — Jonathan and Deborah sat in chairs near the lectern while the Best Woman sat beside me in the first row of pews. As Jonathan turned to sit, it seemed as if he had either just eaten pure garlic or seen something upsetting. He became white as a sheet and I was glad he was sitting down.

The first reading was the Song of Solomon, which I’ve always enjoyed hearing. The sister of the bride had a lovely reading voice.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine … Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue … And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.”

It was the most human and lyrical bit of the Bible I could recall. I don’t know how it got past the retentiveness of the last couple thousand years of translations.

Romans, as read by a very nervous younger brother of the Groom offered us: “Let love be without pretense. Hate what is evil, hold to what is good. Love one another with fraternal charity, anticipating one another with honour.”

The problem with evil, I thought, is that hating it is not simple. Evil takes on strange shapes and wears odd clothes. I then wondered what I’d been drinking to have a thought like that.

The Reverend Ms Donald, moved to the lectern and delivered the gospel. “And on the third day a marriage took place at Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Now Jesus too was invited to the marriage, and also his disciples. And the wine having run short, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’ And Jesus said to her, ‘What wouldst thou have me do, woman? My hour has not yet come.’ His mother said to the attendants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.’
“Now six stone water-jars were placed there, after the Jewish manner of purification, each holding two or three measures. Jesus said to them, ‘Fill the jars with water.’ And they filled them to the brim. And Jesus said to them, ‘Draw out now, and take to the chief steward.’ And they took it to him.
“Now when the chief steward had tasted the water after it had become wine, not knowing whence it was (though the attendants who had drawn the water knew), the chief steward called the bridegroom, and said to him, ‘Every man at first sets forth the good wine, and when they have drunk freely, then that which is poorer. But thou hast kept the good wine until now.’
This first of his signs Jesus worked at Cana of Galilee.”

I always liked that story, although I always figured it really was accidental that the first miracle was at a wedding. I never got the impression that, in the Bible, marriage was as important as political power. Regardless, I would love to have tasted that wine.

Why Jon and Deborah picked Jerusalem as the hymn was beyond me. Frightfully British, and very odd. Odder with a string quartet and no organ. Oddest because we sang every verse. Even the one with the “Satanic mills,” a line of poetry that really hit home the point that William Blake was utterly bonzo.

After the hymn, the preacher rose to do her homily. This was always interesting. Of the ones I recall, the RC priest talked about babies incessantly and the Methodist managed to bring in a reference to hell as it pertained to adultery or “inappropriate social contact.”

“The miracle at Cana of Galilee, was in fact trivial compared to Christ’s other miracles, like Lazarus and the fishes and the loaves. But it was subtle. Imagine if Jonathan and Deborah received a jar of wine that had been converted from water by Christ himself. Tonight being Christmas Eve, we are concerned with miracles of a subtler sort. We are thinking about a birth, miraculous one, and a marriage. All marriages are miraculous. It takes formidable courage to stand in front of your family, friends and God and declare your undying love for one another. It takes even more courage to make it work. Now — and this may sound sacrilegious — had Jesus guaranteed that the couple in Galilee would have a marriage that lasted and would be happy for ever … well, that would be a big miracle.”

I decided that was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever heard a preacher say. And I’d been an Anglican server until I was twenty-seven.

“I don’t mean to be cynical, but I have seen a lot of marriages undergo extreme stress. I don’t know if it was ever easy for marriages, but the last twenty years have been brutal on marriages and the family structure.” She paused and drew a breath. “I don’t do Christmas Eve weddings.”
There was a laugh from the congregation.

“But when I saw Deborah and Jonathan in my office for the first time, they oozed being in love. I was nearly revolted. Of all the people I knew who have married, these two needed to be married. I contemplated just grabbing a couple of people off the street for witnesses and getting it all done right there. When Deborah said that she wanted to have the service on Christmas Eve I couldn’t believe the word ‘yes’ slipped out of my mouth. So here we are, just like the Guests at Cana, participants in a miracle. I hope that all of you feel Christ’s love in this place and time as I do.
“Miracles happen all the time. It takes work on our part to see them and nurture them. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

Striking. Not just her, but the homily. The Best Woman’s lower lip was wobbling. I hoped she wasn’t planning on crying. I don’t think I have ever gotten along with the Best Woman in any of the five weddings I have been Best Man. For starts, they all disapproved of what I did for stags. Most of them involved massive amounts of drinking and questionable activities with women depending on the tastes and preferences of the Groom. No one ever was badly injured at any of my stags. My mother did ask me to go easy on my younger brother the second time he married. This was because she had to nurse him to health for two days after I took him out for his first wedding.
The Bride and Groom made their solemn vows and I managed to produce the ring without incident. I’ve always had this urge to have the ring attached to a huge length of multicoloured handkerchiefs and spend a minute or two pulling them out. Maybe next time.

“Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

They kissed and I led the congregation in a round of applause. Despite having just got married and been kissed by a beauty in black velvet, Jon’s eyes were darting about the church as if he were looking for something. Or someone. Strange. He said his vows in a solid voice, so I didn’t think it was the result of a lack of resolve. Now I was curious.

It was during the signing of the registry, that I saw a little old lady, cute as the proverbial button, gesturing to me from the transept. She had an urgency about her and I worried that she was ill or something. So I slipped away while the Best Woman signed.

“Can I help you?”
“There’s a very unhappy young woman here tonight.”
“Not the Bride I hope,” I said with my gosh-what-a-looney smile.
The old lady struck the floor with her cane. “No, no, young man, someone else. You must watch out for her.”

I figured that she was a very old woman because at my age I did not feel much like a “young man.”
“Ah. Um. Who is she?”
“Watch for purple,” she said and she patted my hand with one of hers and boy it was cold.
I heard the Best Woman clear her throat. I looked over my shoulder and she had a truly hostile look. I turned back to ask one more question, but the little old lady was not to be seen. She must have moved off into the shadows. I returned to the wedding and we repositioned ourselves.
“Go in peace and serve the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God,” we said.

Handel’s Water Music began and we started our recessional. I positioned myself with the Best Woman’s arm in mine and the parade began. I always thought it odd that the Groom and BM got to sneak into the wedding early and then had to walk out in full display. Seemed somehow unbalanced.

I always looked at the folks in the congregation during the recessional. I was curious about how people were responding. Were they crying? Laughing? Smiling? Frowning? If I knew who wasn’t having a good time and needed cheering up, it made my job of BM easier at the party that always followed.
About five pews from the back, on the Bride’s side, the little old lady stood, staring anxiously at me. I nodded to her and smiled. Her eyes were a brilliant green, as if they had been painted on. She caught my gaze tighter than I could imagine. I was gripped by the look of concern she wore. Then she slowly moved her head, taking my eyes with her, and we both were looking at the floor of the vestibule. On each side were curtains that concealed the coats of the congregation and the choir’s gowns. The drapes were trying to hide a person as well. Just the toes of a pair of purple pumps were sticking out from under the curtain. I could discern the faintest of movements of the fabric due to the individual’s breathing.

The old lady silently mouthed the words: “Do something.”
I then had about thirty seconds to wonder why someone would be hiding behind a curtain at a wedding during the recessional. It wasn’t the time for practical jokes, nor was it likely anyone had had such a bad time they felt it important to hide.

I then remembered Jon’s face as his eyes had darted around the congregation. He had been looking for someone? Had that person made him nervous?

It was at this point I stopped thinking. I started to accelerate down the aisle. At first, I dragged the Best Woman with me, but then let her go. Just as Jon and Deborah reached the vestibule, the curtains parted and I was in the middle, between a well dressed woman in a purple evening gown and the Bride and Groom.

There was a knife raised in her right hand. My left hand darted out and grabbed her wrist. I was just starting to wonder what the heck to do next, when I realized she had another knife in her left hand. It was a stubby blade, looking like something you’d get from an outdoor adventure store. I tried to get my other hand to intercept, but she jammed the blade into my hip area. Right through my deck of cards. There was a warm feeling in my side as my hand finally grabbed her wrist and held it in place next to my deck of cards.

I worried about what the tuxedo rental place would say.
Finally I looked at her face. She was familiar. I wasn’t sure, but I thought Jon had dated her at one point. She started to growl, her face contorted and looked as if she’d taken some kind of drug, or was really off her behaviour modification medication. She was unrelenting in her attempts to continue to stab me. Her strength was considerable and clearly adrenaline-boosted. With both hands engaged, there was little choice.

I head-butted her as hard as I could manage.
Since we were roughly the same height, it was a clean solid hit. She fell backward into the curtains like the proverbial sack of potatoes. I was left with a blade in my side, wanting to fall over, wondering what to do next.

The Very Reverend Cynthia Donald was there to rescue me. My vision was a blur from the head-butt.

“Jon. Deborah. I don’t know what’s happened here, but I’ll take these two to the hospital. You just carry on. I’ll call you at your parents home once we’re at the hospital.”
“Uh, OK,” said Jon, “Look, her name is Mary-Lee Corda and she’s supposed to be in a mental health care unit in Midland. How she got here is beyond me. I’m sorry.”
“Ah ha,” I thought as I recalled Jon dating a woman who developed severe depression and them breaking up over it. About four years ago.

The preacher then grabbed Mary-Lee, lifted her with ease and started to lead me out the door. “My car is close by. How are you?”
“Not too bad.”
“Leave the knife where it is.”
“My intentions exactly.”
We were out in the crisp air, our feet crunching along the snow covered gravel parking lot. My head was clearing with the cold air.
“Can you open the door?”
“Beep beep,” went the car’s alarm as she deactivated it.
“No problem.”

She put Mary-Lee in the back. I wasn’t keen on bending and was thinking about how to get in the car.
“Are you going to be OK?”
“You get in first. I’ve got an idea.”
Ms Donald sat in her car, and I entered the car carefully so that I was practically lying on her. I barely got the door closed. That was the painful part. I then put my head in her lap.
“Sorry about this …”
“Don’t be; I haven’t had anyone down there in a long time.”
I gasped and then laughed.
“Sorry,” she said, “I couldn’t resist.”
“Don’t be. Do you think I gave her a concussion?”
“Probably … you really nailed her a good one. How did you know she was there?”

Cynthia pulled her car out onto the country road. I hoped a hospital wasn’t far away. My hip felt kind of wet.
“Well, a little old lady warned me that there was someone in purple who was very unhappy at the wedding. And then she directed me to look at the curtains in the vestibule. That’s when I saw the purple shoes and decided to lunge ahead.”
“Did the lady who warned you have a cane with an ivory dog’s head?”
Good grief, I didn’t know. Women remember different details than men. I closed my eyes, feeling the pull of the corners as Cynthia drove swiftly to the county hospital. I concentrated and tried to remember the old lady.

Cynthia took a corner very tightly. My eyes shot open. “Yes, she had a cane and it was ivory on the top, but I don’t know if it was a dog.”
In the back, Mary-Lee groaned.
“I have seen that woman, but I’ve never been able to catch her to speak with her. I have no idea how she gets to church and no one can tell me anything about her.”
“Spooky,” I said. “Oops.” The knife fell out of my wound, and the deck of cards, landing with a thunk. Obviously my body had rejected the knife. I applied as much pressure as I could on the wounded area. I could move more easily. “Look, let me get myself out of your lap.”
“Don’t bother,” she said.
So I didn’t. For a long time.

The “Night Danger” signs for moose were getting on his nerves. The pictogram of a large herbivore plunging onto the road appeared too often. How was he supposed to identify a dark moose against a black background?

The posted speed limit was ninety kilometres per hour, but he maintained a hundred. Joel estimated he’d be just as dead if a moose made a suicide run in front of his car.
Three hours more to Thunder Bay.
The strain of glaring into the darkness was causing him to imagine movement in-between the various road reflectors.
“Great. By the time I get home I’ll be hallucinating moose in the tub,” said Joel.
There was no chance to see the patch of ice.

Self-awareness returned to him. Joel stood at the side of the road (or so he thought) and frowned at his overturned car. Unsure of how he came to be outside the car, Joel approached his battered vehicle and saw someone familiar sitting in the driver’s seat. A double-take later, he realized he himself was sitting upside-down in the car. There was a massive abrasion across his forehead.

“If that’s me, what am I?”
Self-inspection revealed an unwounded copy of himself hovering barely a millimetre above the shoulder of the road. Clouds obscured the moon and he wondered how he could see so well. It was like looking through a rifle’s starscope. Then he realized the car lights were off. His hand, or some other part of his body, had pushed in the light switch. He reached to pull it and could not; he was completely insubstantial. The car was resting partly in the road, just around a curve. Some other rushing fool could easily crash into him.

Question two: “Am I dead?”
Joel passed his way into the car and crouched close to his twisted body and stared at the face. He could discern a faint intake and release of air. Fantasy? Wish-fulfillment? Near death experience? Joel knew he had a low pain threshold and it seemed oddly logical that his consciousness would “hit the road” before his car and body did.
He feared he would be permanently disembodied if he didn’t at least get the hazard lights going.
A lumbering rustle startled him. He looked clearly into the darkness.
“Christ — a moose.”

Curious, he wondered how close he could get to the beast in his current state. Investigating the roadside for twigs, the moose perfected the art of being oblivious. Joel stood beside it and touched. Unlike the lifeless auto frame, the moose offered patterns and signals and … ingress.
Joel believed he could get inside the moose’s neural processes and control it so he merged with the herbivore’s biological network. He made the creature wave its head and antlers about. Neat.

He remembered “Deadman,” a comic book hero who was, obviously, dead but could take over any living creature. If this was the case, why not reoccupy your own body?
He left the moose; it seemed bemused by being possessed.
Joel’s own body was unwilling to accept him. His biological processes were too keen on self-preservation to permit the presence of an active consciousness. Even his own.
Joel then knew he’d die if he didn’t get help.
Bloody lights, he thought.

The moose was moving off. Joel dashed over and reoccupied it. Controlling the ambulatory processes was tricky. Like a moose after too much Wild Turkey, Joel moved toward the car. He realized a hoof could not pull ON the headlights, but it might be able to push IN the hazard light button. After gouging away chunks of the dash with the right front hoof, the hazards started blinking. Now all he needed was a rescuer.

The moose was getting feisty and starting to fight his presence, so he released it; the creature promptly crunched its way into the forest.
“You figured out how to manipulate organics pretty quick.”
A man with a goatee and clothes like Jay Gatsby was addressing him.
“Who are you?”
“Gee.”
“I’m Joel. Are you, uh, like me?”
“No, I’m actually dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No no; it’s been this way for quite a while now.”
“But I’m not …”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“I see … can you explain this? Are you a ghost, an angel?”
“Something like that … look, it’s going to be a little while before you either die or get rescued and I was wondering if you’d like to help me.”
“I — uh — sure, I guess. What did you have in mind?”
“Being Christmastime and so forth, I try to help people out, but I’ve not had an affinity with the flesh — like you — for a long time and I’ve been working on a thorny problem.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather show you.”
“How?”
Gee appeared to touch Joel on the shoulder and the world started to spin unusually fast.

The music in the dance club was loud. It would have hurt Joel’s ears were they real. The band was live and thrashing out lyrics like: JESUS IS HERE!
That’s Front 242, Joel thought.
“What a nice welcome,” said Gee.
“Where are we?”
“Hamburg Germany, December 22, 1993.”
“That’s yesterday. How …”
“Our non-biological forms have certain privileges that make up for insubstantiality.”
“But, time travel?
“Think of it as having crossed the date line. Twice.”

Gee led them in the direction of the toiletten. “Here’s where I need your help. Inside, in the second stall, is a fellow named Karl — he’s about to try to fix the problem of his earlier downer with an upper. I’d like you …”
Joel was already on the way, motivated by the memory of a friend in school who had overdosed. He walked through the walls and passed into Karl’s body. Control was harder to maintain; the moose hadn’t been drugged.
Joel crushed the hypodermic under foot. He tossed all of the remaining drug into the toilet and flushed. He left the stall, stumbling. The chemicals in the blood stream were partly to blame, but mostly Joel was having trouble coordinating the host body.
Gee was standing by a basin. “Try to manage only the decision control functions of the bio-network. You can’t, and don’t need to, run the whole thing.”
Joel commanded the body: “Walk to the basin.” Karl’s body smoothly performed the task.
“Well done. Now I need you to beat up the bouncers.”
“What?”
“I want Karl to bring a lot of attention to his drug problem. Getting arrested should do it.”
“Oh.”

Joel pushed his way through the teeming dance floor and made it to the front door. Gee simply passed through the bodies.
“Now, insult the bouncer.”
Joel made Karl emit an English — mild by North American standards — bit of invective.
This German took the oath quite seriously. He grabbed Joel/Karl by the shirt and moved to throw him out of the club.
“Tell Karl to defend himself,” said Gee.
“OK,” said Joel. Karl’s body crouched, rolled backward and propelled the bouncer away from him. He crunched loudly against a wall. The bouncer’s partner came up and took a swing. Missed. Karl — still on auto pilot — landed a punch to the solar plexus.
For Joel it was like being inside a martial arts film.
Bouncer One returned and grabbed him about the legs. Karl smashed a hand against each of his attacker’s ears.
A third dance club employee landed a minor kick to Karl’s face. “Ow,” said Joel.
Gee stood by, watching; he fidgeted with his goatee.
Karl planted both hands and kicked out, catching the newest attacker in the knee and thigh. Bouncers One and Two used this opening to grab Karl and pin him roughly against the wall. Gee looked down the street and saw the flashing light.
“OK,” said Gee, “tell Karl to pass out and then exit his body.”
“My pleasure.”

Gee and Joel were walking up the steps of an urban Hamburg home. The sun was just rising, but Joel hadn’t noticed time passing and wondered why.
“Here we have the pleasant unassuming home of Karl. His mother is single, works in a hospital, and has a young daughter. She is three and is Karl’s half-sister, born out of wedlock. Father and mother parted ways shortly after the baby arrived and he has since permanently entered a cancer clinic. Karl’s family has been consequently unaware of his drug problem, until now.”
“Quite the soap opera,” said Joel. “What’s the point of being here?”
“For starts, it’s Christmas and, furthermore, the arrest of our young friend Karl is only part of his potential rehabilitation. His mother could use some assistance — she’s a bit of a basketcase — and the daughter’s the key.”
“How so?”
“She needs help placing a phone call.”

“Oma?” said the little girl into the phone. She thought it just wonderful that the kind voice inside her head had shown her how to make her grandmother’s phone ring.
“Susanne?”
“Ja, Oma; ist Susanne.”
“What are you doing?”
Now comfortable with the phone Susanne was able to a talk a blue streak. Karl. The fight. The doctors. And of course all the chocolate yesterday at the market.
Oma eventually convinced Susanne to stop talking and go get her mother. Soon a good long-distance mother-daughter cry began.

“Perfect,” said Gee.
“Why?”
“You see, Oma will call her son.”
“So?”
“You must learn to pay more attention to numbers.”
Oma promptly called her son, a doctor, for advice on what to do. Tears soon regained a prominent location on her face. He melted under the pressure and, on December 23, started driving from Dryden to Thunder Bay.

Gee and Joel floated over The Kings Highway 17 like clouds. “What’re we waiting for?”
“A black 1984 SAAB 900S. Loaded.”
“I assume it’s driven by someone … significant.”
“Oma’s Canadian son, a Dr. Hessel.”
“Oh.”
The SAAB rose over the hill like a lunging elk.
“Oops.”
“What?”
“There’s a moose making a beeline to the road. Intercept course.”
Joel re-focused. It was true. “I guess I better change its mind.”
He descended and met with the moose. Joel tried accessing the creature’s bionet (he was an expert now) but was repelled. There was someone else in there. The moose lumbered on. Who the hell would have …
Joel had a nasty feeling. He repositioned himself one hundred metres before the road. The moose had glowing blue eyes. Joel forced his way into the beast, ignoring the resistance.
“Get out.”
“Who are you?” asked Joel.
“You don’t want to know. Get out.”
“No.” Joel sent a message to the moose’s motor control centre. He told it to stand on its head.
The moose had a giant muscle spasm. The other presence tried to correct the balance centre problems. Joel did not give up. The SAAB approached. He kept bombarding the moose’s brain with off-putting commands while all the time hearing the other entity issuing one command: “run.”
The moose collapsed three metres from the road. The SAAB passed, oblivious to the danger.
Both Joel and the other spirit emerged.
“How did you get here? You haven’t even crashed your car yet.” The hatred made Joel nauseous, even without a body.
“Mef, leave him alone.”
“Hello, Gee. Should have known.”
“Guess I’m getting sneakier. You don’t think your power to directly take over a biological entity came from nowhere?”
“Takes you to ruin a good tragedy.”
And Mef was gone.
“Who was that?”
“A nasty devil of a fellow.”
“And … ‘power imbalance’?”
“Can’t time travel, and make use of it, without counter-effects. Come on, let’s watch you crash your car.”

Joel’s car took the corner, hit the ice and tipped. Even in his insubstantial form, he shivered.
“All-season radials just don’t cut it out here,” said Gee.
They watched his astral body control the first moose and activate the hazards.
“Why didn’t we see us standing here before?”
“We’re not quite here yet.”
The SAAB arrived on the scene several minutes after the ‘original’ Gee and Joel headed to Germany.
“Now we’re here.”
“You did all this just to have Oma’s son rescue me?”
“Karl badly needed help and the timing was just too tempting. Mef didn’t catch on until too late. The moose charge was an obvious desperation ploy.”
“So you’re saying …”
“You better return to your body, Dr. Hessel’s got you about as stable as he’s going to before getting you to hospital.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“‘Thanks’ will do.”
“Merry Christmas, Gee.”
“Even better.”

He regained consciousness in the hospital and saw his wife peering at him. Joel figured a couple of hours had to have passed for her to be with him. Dr. Hessel was in the room.
“You all here?” she asked.
He reached out and held her hand, happy to find out his body was real. Turning briefly away from his wife, he said: “Excuse me, doctor, how’s your nephew Karl doing?”

December 24th, 1998
Vancouver General Hospital

Raymond Kroll was damned if he was going to die in bed. His wasted claw-hand swept the sheet off and he sat up, a significant effort. Raymond hadn’t stood on his own power nor been this lucid in weeks. His roommate, another AIDS patient, was asleep and took her breaths in sharp snorts. Painfully Ray stood and made his way to the window.

He could see the moonlit snow-covered mountains to the north. But he really wanted to look east, toward Ontario, where he had been born. Since he had discovered he was HIV positive (six years earlier) he’d been looking for a way out. A way back. Raymond always suspected it was a matter of how you looked at it. And when. With great effort he cracked the window open far to squeeze his gaunt face out into the cool air. A massive coughing spasm started, but he forced his eyes open, looked east and imagined his mind was floating back.

In an hour, the nurse made a round of the ward and found Raymond’s body suspended by its chin from the window sill. It was 12:15 AM.
Merry Christmas, thought the nurse.

December 24th, 1964 – 11:30 PM
Wellesley Hospital, Toronto

“Oww. The little bugger’s early.”
Sandra was being wheeled toward the maternity ward.
Her husband Todd had returned to the house to manage the chaos of three other children on a disrupted Christmas Eve. He hoped his wife would not deliver until his sister could be brought in to look after the children.

No such luck. At 12:15 AM on December 25th, 1964 Sandra Taggart had a five and a half pound baby boy. When smacked by the doctor, the infant made an “urk” sound. For a second the doctor was worried, but the child was breathing normally. The baby had wide staring eyes and, when finally cradled in Sandra’s arms, seemed to just glower at her. Sandra had always been sensitive to others’ thoughts and could have sworn the child was thinking: “who are you and where the hell am I?”

“His name is Raymond.”
“But Sandra, that’s not any of the names we discussed.”
“Look Todd. He’s a Raymond. Just look at him. He’s got Raymond written all over him.”
Todd observed the child in the bassinet. He held a rattle and wasn’t really playing with it, Todd thought, more like analyzing it. Todd could see no indication the child was more like a Raymond than say, a Nicholas or Thomas. Todd looked back at his wife. Her jaw was set and pulsing. He looked at the child. Worth a fight? Was the name objectionable? He picked the baby up and held him high. “Hello Ray. What’s new?”

May, 1973
John Ross Robertson Public School

“Ray is bored, Mrs Taggart. Simple as that.”
“Is this why he’s ‘disruptive’ as you put it?”
“You bet,” said the teacher cheerfully. “It’s like everything’s review for the poor guy.”
“What do we do?”
“Accelerate him to Grade Six.”
“Two years?”
“And put him into the higher level classes.”
“Is he that smart?”
“Mrs Taggart, he’ll be a failure if we don’t challenge him.”

Christmas Eve, 1976
89 GlenCastle Street, Toronto

Ray was watching A Christmas Carol with the rest of the family. The four kids were tangled in an amorphous mass on the floor, covered by a huge green blanket. It was the special Christmas blanket with its holes and faded images of Santa Claus. They were getting to the scene with the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Shortly Ray heard Alistair Sim say: “Before I draw nearer to that stone, answer me one question: are these the shadows of things that must be or are they only shadows of things that might be?”

Ray’s brain started to function oddly. Where was he? What’s going on? When the film ended he abruptly stood. His eyes were glazed.
“We’ve got to watch the news.”
“His older bother said: “You’re eleven. No one watches news when they’re eleven.”
“We’ve got to watch the news. I’ve got to know what’s going on in Berlin.”
“Berlin?”
“Change the channel.”
This is not my little boy, thought Sandra.
“Dad, change the channel and humour him.”
The news had nothing on Berlin.
“Where’s the Wall? They’re supposed to be showing pictures. What’s going on?” There was the hint of hysteria in Ray’s voice.
“Raymond, come here,” said Sandra.
“No! Where is it?”
“Mom, he’s losing it again.”
Soon Ray was an incoherent mass of tears in Sandra’s arms.

November, 1982
University of Toronto Medical Services

“I can’t sleep.”
“Any cause you’re aware of?”
“I have this recurring nightmare.”
“Recurring?”
“Yep.”
“For how long?”
“I think since I was eleven.”
The very newly graduated psychologist made a note on his sheet of paper. “Can you describe it?”
“Well, I’m on a train. And it’s very crowded. And hot. It’s sort of like a party; there’s this girl — with wonderful blue eyes — and we get along.”
“Sounds like an OK dream.”
“In the end we’re both dead.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. It’s just the certainty we’re dead that I remember when I wake up.”
“How often do you have this dream?”
“Couple times a night.”
“Every night? Since you were eleven?”
“Yep.”
“How many years is that?”
“Six.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Why?”
“In your position I’d be … well, less stable.”
“My family is unconvinced of my stability.”
The psychologist laughed. “Sounds like you’ve got something stuck in your mind that’s bugging you. Why didn’t you seek help earlier?”
“Well, I have always been short on sleep. But now that my studies are actually challenging, I find not getting enough sleep a real pain.”
“What are you taking?”
“I want to specialize in paranormal psychology.”
“Well, good luck with it. I guess we better find a way to get you more and better sleep.”
“That’d be nice.”
“Have you ever undergone hypnosis?”
“No.”
“I’d like to try, if it’s OK with you, to put you under and see what we can find.”
“Sure.”

In a little while, Ray was in a trance and thinking about his dream.
“I want you to stay completely relaxed and tell me what you see.”
“I’m on a train in Germany.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Berlin.”
“Are you alone?”
“The train is packed, but I’m travelling alone.”
“Why is it so crowded?”
“We’re all going to celebrate Christmas at The Wall.”
“The Berlin Wall?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
There was a pause. “They’d been knocking it down since November and I wanted to experience it first hand.”
The psychologist was confused. In 1982 the Berlin Wall was considered stable. “People were knocking down the Berlin Wall?”
“Yes. Didn’t you see the news?”
“No. What is the full date when you are on the train?”
“December 23, 1989.”
Dr. Shannon had the sudden irrational feeling he was being bullshitted.
“How old are you on that date?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Shannon had heard and read about past lives being uncovered via hypnosis, but future lives? In ’89 Ray would be twenty-four. Hardly the arithmetic for reincarnation.
“What is the date today, Ray?”
“November 12, 1982.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Fifty-one.”
Dr. Shannon was glad he was recording the interview. He still wanted to find out more about the trauma, regardless of problems with dates.
“Well, Ray, back to the train. I understand you met a girl.”
“Yes.”
“What was she like?”
“Lovely. Another backpacker. Bright blue eyes.”
“Were you taken with her?”
“I thought I was in love.”
“You met her on the train. What happened next?”

“We joined forces to try to find accommodation. Not a chance. It’d been a miracle that we got a seat on the train. We gave up looking and went to where the various knock-down-The-Wall-parties were held. It was amazing — people took turns bashing sections to a pulp. Later that night we realized we had to sleep. We found a spot in the woods to put down our sleeping bags — not too far from the Brandenburg Gates. We were scared shitless the police would arrest us, but they were busy. The next day was Christmas Eve. It was a magical day as we roamed the city. We were scared that we’d freeze that night — the temperature had really dropped. In what was still East Berlin we encountered a family who were thrilled by the prospect of taking us in for Christmas. We were a charming couple and had hard currency.

“We made love for the first time in a dingy room on a small bed after everyone (we hoped) had gone to sleep.”
Ray started to cry; his face was twisted in anger and frustration.
“Distance yourself, Ray. Just observe.”
Ray calmed down: “We travelled together for a couple of months after that. When it came time to go to our respective homes, we broke up but stayed friends. Berlin had been one of my fondest memories until 1992.”
“What happened?”
“She sent me a letter saying she was HIV positive.”
Dr. Shannon paused. “AIDS?”
“She developed it soon after I got the letter.”
Dr. Shannon knew little of the disease in ’82. He dimly recalled it being a problem in the gay community of San Francisco.
“And you?”
“I died of AIDS in 1998.”

Dr. Shannon brought Ray out of the trance. They looked at each other.
“That was odd,” said Ray.
“Yep.”

June 1985
Convocation Hall, University of Toronto

Ray was graduating with distinction in psychology. He was happy; the day was beautiful and sunny. As he and his classmates trooped into Convocation Hall, he looked for his mother, Sandra. He spotted her and saw the smile that belongs only to a mother who has put her last child through school.

Also in Ray’s line of sight was a very familiar face. But it was déjà-vu. Ray was certain he and the other young man had never met. Perhaps he’d seen him around campus. The ceremonies were tedious as per tradition. Norman Jewison, the Victoria College alumnus and film maker, gave the guest speech. Although he was interested, the presence of the familiar yet unknown figure across the auditorium had triggered déjà-vu with respect to the whole graduation.

At the end, as people were filing out, Ray kept an eye on the familiar face. Sandra greeted him. He hugged her hard, took her by the arm and pulled her out onto the lawn of King’s College Circle.

“Where are we going?”
“In pursuit of an adventure.”
“Life has been an adventure since the moment you were born.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.”
They hurried across the lawn. Ray was certain of where déjà-vu-face would be. He was being photographed by an equally familiar, if rather heavy, father. Ray barged in.
“You’re Raymond Kroll, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his hand.
“Er, uh, yeah. Have we met?”
“Not as such. I’m Ray Taggart. I’m testing my psych work. You just graduated in Comp Sci with an 83 and you’re off to continue your summer work with IBM, right?”
“This is a joke right?” asked Kroll.
Sandra looked at Kroll’s eyes and suddenly recalled the first time she had set eyes on her son’s face. She shivered.
“Nope. I’m just a little odd. Have a great day.” Ray Taggart took his mother’s arm and ambled away.
“What was that all about?”
“You know. I know you know. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“You and the other Raymond have the same eyes.”
“Yes. He will become me, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Explain this … reincarnation?”
“Sort of. Pre-incarnation may be more accurate. In 1998 he will die of AIDS and be born as me.”
“In the past.”
“Yes.”
“You are weird Raymond. What makes you think this?”
“Do you remember that hypnosis session I went through in First Year where I talked about a relationship with a woman in 1989?”
“Yes …”
“Well that was him. Raymond Kroll. He’s going to go see the Berlin Wall and meet her.”
“And get AIDS, if I remember the story correctly,” said Sandra.
“You do indeed. And now I have a moral dilemma.”
“What is it? Let me take your picture. Hold still.”
“Well,” said Ray as he posed, “do I take advantage of my knowledge and save Raymond Kroll?”
She snapped the photo and let her arms drop. “Wow. If he doesn’t die of AIDS, that implies you won’t be you. And I would be a different person too.”
“Circular logic.”
She took another photo.
“But,” he continued, “there is risk in saving someone from, say, a car crash. However, if you knew there was a chance to save them, what would you do?”
“I’d risk it,” she said.

October, 1986
Toronto

Ray decided to see if he could collect enough information to make a rescue plan. The obvious solution was to call up Raymond Kroll and teach him about safe sex. Boys, Ray believed, were notoriously dense about the whole subject. How many friends did he have who worried about contraception after having sex? Many. Plus they were all trained in health class in the 70s to wear a condom in order to prevent babies. STDs were secondary. At that time, VD wouldn’t kill you.

Ray didn’t have much faith in the idea of confronting Raymond Kroll in Berlin, stuffing condoms in his hand and telling him to wear them during the months in which he would be dating his girlfriend.

The plan evolved to delivering the safe sex message to both of them. The problem with this plan was information. Despite knowing a lot about Kroll, Ray did not recall the woman’s name. Nor was he sure Kroll would have known when she picked up the virus.

“OK, Ray, I’m ready to hypnotise you and try to find out these facts you’re after.”
“The tape’s running?”
“Yes.”
Raymond knew self-hypnosis and it was easy for his colleague to put him under.
“I want you to think back to the time you went to Berlin.”
“OK.”
“You are relaxed and will remember all the facts pertaining to the situation.”
“OK.”
“What was the young lady’s name — the lady on the train who you met?”
“Sylvia Johnson.”
“Where was she from?”
“London.”
“I understand that she wrote you a letter — after your relationship — telling you she was HIV positive.”
“Yes …”
“Did she tell you at anytime how she contracted it?”
“She told me she suspected she picked it up after a party in London.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure. It was a party celebrating Australia’s Bicentenary.”
“Where?”
“London.”

Ray listened to the tape over and over. Not much to go on. The Australian Bicentenary was to be in January 1988. London was a big place; the party could be anywhere. At a family dinner, Ray asked: “anyone know if there’s an Australian neighbourhood in London? Or where Aussies would hang out?”

“Earl’s Court,” said his sister.
“It’s a district of London,” added his brother.
“Why do you ask?” said Sandra.
“A friend of mine went to a great party in London and said it was in an Aussie neighbourhood. I couldn’t imagine there could be such a thing.”
Sandra heard the partial lie in his voice.
After dinner, in private, she asked him: “Ray, what are you plotting?”
“Well Mom, my research into Kroll has led me to a woman named Sylvia who, apparently, picks up the virus at a party in London. The only lead I had was the Australian holiday. Now I’ve narrowed it down a bit.”
“So you’re going to try to save both of them.”
“Try is the key word.”

January, 1988
Earl’s Court, London

Ray had saved up his money. He’d travelled to the UK and toured around England before heading to Earl’s Court. He had been unable to locate Sylvia in the phone directory. There were too many Johnsons and too many variations on the spelling. Another complication was the date-line. It was possible to celebrate the Australian Bicentenary on two nights. From what he could gather the Aussies planned to do so on both nights. Finding Sylvia would be tricky but he hoped his déjà-vu circuit would help in recognising her.

The Prince of Teck was the Aussie Pub with the largest crowd. He started there and wondered what he was going to do when and if he found her. Telling the truth seemed a little impractical.

In the pub he bought a Victoria Bitter, found a piece of wall to lean against and watched the door. Gradually the pub became so full he could barely move. The din of celebrations drowned out the CD jukebox. A man noticed Ray’s Ontario lapel pin and said: “How are you liking Aussie madness?”

“Not bad, you?”
“They’re teaching me to drink beer.”
“How’s that going?”
“A bit too well. You look really familiar. Did you go to school in Toronto?”
“Yes, Victoria College.”
“What year?”
“85”
“Shit. Me too. It’s amazing — here we are in London getting pissed with Aussies after spending years at the same school. I’m Robert Ford.”
“Ray Taggart.” They shook hands.
“You here on your own?”
“I’m, er, waiting for someone.”
“Christ it’d be hard to find anyone here — what does she look like?”
“How did you know she’s a she?”
“It was an inspired guess.”
“Blonde with blue eyes.”
“I’ll help you look as long as she’s not my ex-wife.”
“Her name’s Sylvia.”
“Phew. Good. I couldn’t deal with a co-incidence like that.”
“‘Allo Rob, you bastard. Who’s this?”
“Ray, meet Ernie, an Aussie rugby player with an attitude and a 150 proof liver.”
“G’day. Rob mate, there’s a party at this sheila’s flat — you know that Kiwi?”
“Sure.”
“After they kick us out of here, we’re invited.”
“Care to join us, Ray?”
“Uh, sure.” He hadn’t found Sylvia yet and was beginning to think it unlikely he would.

The flat was up a long narrow flight of stairs. Ray, Robert and Ernie ducked to avoid hitting their heads as they ascended.
Once the door opened they were hit by a blast of music, smoke and chatter. There were shouts of greeting by people they didn’t know. Robert and Ernie made their way to the refrigerator to store the beer they had purchased on the way over.

Ray looked around the crowded living room and found Sylvia in conversation with two others. There was no doubt who she was. Ray found himself a drink and walked past her listening intently for a cue to join in the conversation.

“When I was in America last year, people were so rude.”
“Are you including Canada in ‘America’?”
Within seconds, Ray was embroiled in a discussion regarding the usage of the word ‘America’.
He stuck with Sylvia throughout the party.
Robert homed in on them and asked Ray: “Is this Sylvia?”
“Er, yes, Sylvia meet Robert. He graduated with me from University and we’ve never met until tonight.”
“Hello,” she said, “how do you know my name?”
Robert, although drunk, had the wherewithal to notice Ray was biting his lower lip. “It was an inspired guess; you look like a Sylvia.”
“How does one look like any name?”
“It’s a matter of being called a name long enough to take on the characteristics society associates with that name. I know of a fellow who’s idiot father nicknamed him Thor. The poor bastard had to live up to the impossible and eventually was shot by police in a hostage-taking incident.”
“So you’re saying that naming him Thor caused his violence.”
“There naturally had to be other factors, but I’m sure it didn’t help.”
Sylvia and Robert continued to debate while Ray relaxed.

Ray later escorted Sylvia home and they kissed warmly.
“How long are you in London?”
“Another day or two.”
“Can I give you the insider’s tour of London?”
“Sure,” said Ray, “as long as we can visit the British Museum.”
“I haven’t been there in years; certainly we can go.”

The next day was spent poking around the non-tourist parts of London. Ray enjoyed every moment. They spent the afternoon in the British Museum until it closed. In the room with the many clocks from every era, they sat, admired the collection and kissed passionately.

After closing time, they had a romantic dinner and Ray wondered where this was headed. It seemed like he was stealing Raymond Kroll’s girlfriend months before he would meet her. So what? Ray thought. He had already changed history by intercepting Sylvia at the party. His hypnosis-induced memories may no longer be accurate.

Back at her flat, they made out on the settee. In a while they were in the bedroom, helping each other out of their clothes. Before things became too advanced, Ray produced a condom from his day-pack.

“I’m on the Pill,” she said.
“What’s your point?” said Ray, smiling.
“Well. Condoms are so …”
“Clinical?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad. We don’t know where we’ve been.”
“This is new — most men I’ve known just don’t talk about contraception. Did you buy those specifically for tonight?”
“No, they’re a standard part of my shaving-medical kit. I take it you don’t carry condoms in your purse.”
“No.”
Ray went over to her purse, which was on the night table, and put three condoms into it. “Now you do. You can buy little cloth carrying pouches that look much more pleasant that these plastic wrappers.”
“You’re a fashion consultant and a safe-sex advocate.”
“Losing the mood, Sylvia?”
“A little, yes.”
“Put it this way. Consider that all of what I’m doing is a moment of lucidity before my intense desire for you utterly shuts down my brain.”
“Get over here.”

The next day, Ray left London. He had promised to call Sylvia from his next destination and to send postcards. Ray did neither; Raymond Kroll deserved a chance in Berlin.

September, 1989
89 GlenCastle Street, Toronto

Ray had worked in Toronto for the last few months to earn money to go to West Germany for Oktoberfest, the knocking down of The Wall, a toy festival in Nuremberg and Raymond Kroll’s encounter with Sylvia.

As he prepared his backpack, his mother sat on a chair and stared at him.
“Yes mother, this is it. By Christmas it’ll be all over.”
“How will you know it worked?”
“I won’t.”
“Then why go?”
“A sense of completion and I love travelling.”

November, 1989
West Berlin

Ray watched The Wall come down; it was glorious. The one thing he owed to his hypnosis sessions was the foreknowledge of the collapse of East Germany. It was a party he’d have regretted missing.

December 23, 1989

Ray sat on the floor of the West Berlin train station. Every time a young couple emerged from a train he twitched a little. Had he already altered history? What if his fling with Sylvia had put her off travel? He frowned at the thought. What if he’d affected Raymond Kroll somehow?

The two left the train — together. Sylvia and Raymond Kroll stood in the midst of the crowd, trying to determine where to go. Ray Taggart stood and shouldered his pack. He strode toward them, head down. As Sylvia neared, and almost passed him, he adjusted his pack and clipped her with it.

“Oww.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Watch it,” said Kroll.
“You,” said Sylvia.
“Sylvia?” said Taggart.
“Raymond Taggart?” said Kroll.
“You know him?” Sylvia frowned.
“We went to the same school. Where did you two meet?”
“Over a year ago,” Taggart said. “In London — drinking with Australians on the Bicentenary.”
“This is most odd,” she said.
“How is your shoulder?”
“It’s fine. What are you doing in Germany?”
“Bit of Wall bashing.”
She moved closer to Kroll and took his arm. “Raymond and I are here because we just didn’t believe it was happening. So we just had to come.”
“I felt pretty compelled to come here myself.”
The three headed toward the exit. Sylvia held Raymond Kroll’s arm tightly. Once in the ticket area, Sylvia announced with certainty that she was visiting the WC.
Ray grabbed Kroll. “Listen. There’s not much time.”
“What is going on?”
“Don’t think. Listen.” Ray Taggart stuffed a piece of paper in Kroll’s hand. “I have booked you both a room — I know neither of you have accommodation. Go there and have a great time and consider it a Christmas present from me.”
“Why? You don’t know me.”
“Yes I do. Better than you think. And, as crass as this may seem, take these.” Kroll found he now held condoms.
“What?”
“Trust me, Raymond. She was not a safe sex practitioner when I met her and few in our age group are. You wouldn’t want to ruin your Christmas would you?”
“No, but, really.”
“Trust me. And for God’s sake put those rubbers in your pocket and don’t tell her I gave them to you. Got it?”
“OK.”
Ray Taggart left.

On Christmas Eve, Ray Taggart was lying in bed watching A Christmas Carol on Sky TV. He was pleasantly drunk. When the time was right, he rolled over to the phone and called home.

“Ray!” said Sandra. “Are you OK? How did it go?”
“Well … … I’m not sure really.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Like the proverbial skunk.”
“What happened?”
“I intercepted them and gave Raymond a ‘safe’ Christmas present and that was it.”
“Did it make a difference?”
“Let’s just say the future didn’t turn out quite the way I remembered it.”

December 24, 2456: Tol watched the distant star explode. It was beautiful. He gazed listlessly out the starship’s observation deck. Tol was exhausted from a double shift — even the synthetic parts of his body hurt.

The star, now a super-nova, was a deadly vista but only because the ship’s radiation screens had failed. Normally there was little danger during the repair period, as the ship’s hull provided modest protection. An exploding star released more than modest amounts of radiation.

Tol was alone on the observation deck. He had come down for a tranquil view before sleeping. Everyone else aboard was working frantically to repair the screens or had passed out from exhaustion.

Sirens sounded. An announcement said they had fifteen minutes.
Tol wondered why he felt so calm. He asked his in-body computer to advise on a course of action. The machine had no suggestions.
In his peripheral vision, there was a blurry figure. He turned, focused more and a young man appeared.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Desmond.”
Tol’s in-body computer needed to link to the main computer library to download a translation table Desmond’s archaic speech.
“Where did you come from?”
“Touch my hand — quickly.”
Tol’s computer advised against it, but he reached out to Desmond. The two of them blurred — and faded away.
In twelve minutes everyone else on board would die.

December 24, 1987 in New York: Eli walked past the Waldorf Astoria. A few minutes later, three large men emerged from the park. “Shit,” thought Eli.

Transition …
Tol: Where are we?
Desmond: In between.
Tol: In between what?
Desmond: Times.
Tol: Are you in control of this travel?
Desmond: Not really.

The sensation of travel had been nauseous. Desmond had slipped through time before and his body hated it. Nevertheless he had dragged Tol away from death in AD 2456 to NYC in 1987.

They demanded Eli’s wallet. He had been called a dirty Jew by a group of blacks earlier that day and was feeling particularly uncooperative. The lead Hispanic brandished a switchblade with clichéd timing.

“OK, you win.” Eli reached into his pocket.
“Too late; I’m going to cut you …”
Tol stepped in and pushed the attacker over. Another brought out his switchblade. Tol slapped him, leaving a bright red mark on his face. It took a moment for it to sink in. Tol was six feet seven and moving very fast. The attackers fled.
Desmond had watched the events from a safe distance. Tol had rescued Eli without prompting. Desmond knew intuitively that was important.
“Thank you,” said Eli.
“I am Tol.”
“You certainly are.”
“My name is Tol. You speak virtually the same language as Desmond.”
“Who’s Desmond?”
“Him,” said Tol, pointing.
“Hi Eli, I’m Desmond.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He generally answers questions in that manner,” offered Tol.
“You guys from LA or something?”
“Not exactly,” said Desmond. “Let’s go for a coffee. Is there any place near here? I’m getting cold.”
Eli thought he should just bow out, but he felt obliged and curious. He led them to a place he knew.

Once they had ordered, Eli said: “Funky clothes, where’d you get them?”
Tol became self-conscious. “They are standard space-farer issue.”
“Eli, we’re from the future.”
“Sure, Desmond. I’m from the Bronx.”
Desmond smiled. “Tol here is from what year … Tol?”
“2456, your calendar. And this is?”
“1987,” said Eli. “You guys are not much in the way of time travellers if you don’t know the date.”
“I am not the traveller, he is.”
“Tol is right,” said Desmond, “I have travelled before but normally I can only go into the past. And only to those places in my personal memory.”
“Then how did you get to 2456?”
“I don’t know. I was helping my family set up the tree. When I walked from the living room into the kitchen I found myself moving toward your ship.”
“What tree?” asked Tol.
“The Christmas tree.”
“It was Christmas when you left?” asked Eli.
“Christmas Eve.”
“Today’s Christmas Eve.”
“It was December 24 when you rescued me,” said Tol.
The coffees arrived. Eli put in a lot of sugar. Tol extended a sensor into the liquid. The small wire protruded from the tip of his right index finger. After a second, Tol announced: “This is bad for you.”
Desmond and Eli laughed.
The sensor altered the nature of the drink to make it safe.
“Where are you from originally?” asked Eli.
“I’m from Toronto. 1991.”
“So what’s new in the 90’s?”
Desmond thought for a moment. “Well, last year East and West Germany unified.”
“Get out.”
“No kidding. They knocked the Berlin Wall down. Around Christmas 1989.”
“Fiction.”
“In 2289 they discovered how to utilise spacefolds,” offered Tol.
“What are they?”
“Since the shape of space is not linear or flat, we travel huge distances in a short amount of time by effectively boring through the surface of space.”
“Sexy,” said Eli. “So, Desmond, you yanked this guy off a spaceship.”
“Yes,” said Tol. “One that was minutes away from destruction.”
“Really? And you landed here to rescue me from Senõr Shithead and his friends.”
“We did, but I don’t know if it was by design.”
“So we all meet on our respective Christmas Eves and two out of three of us are rescued from death.”
“Statement or question?” asked Tol.
“Statement. I’m thinking out loud. Which reminds me. Why am I believing you guys at all?”
“Perhaps there is another force at work,” said Tol. “I believe that this adventure is not yet done.”
Desmond suddenly grabbed their hands.
“Hey. We just met,” said Eli.
The muscles in Desmond’s face twitched. He was slipping through time again. And he was not in control.

Transition …
Tol: Are we travelling again?
Desmond: Yes.
Eli: I think I’m gonna heave.
Tol: Where are we going?
Desmond: Not sure. Back.

They were sitting on stools around a wooden table. Tol’s stool broke under his weight. Eli stood. Grinning at the toppled giant he said: “Where the hell are we?” There were several other tables in the room. On them were unfinished drinks in wooden goblets. Desmond sniffed carefully at one. It was a stern kind of wine.
Tol had righted himself. A sensor protruded from his hand. It was a thicker cable than what had been used for the coffee. “According to this, we are some time before combustion engines.” He walked out the door, bumping his head on the lintel.

Eli and Desmond followed. The sun beat down on the brown vegetation. With a bit of rain, it would have been green in an instant. There was a road near the building. Eli knelt and examined the surface.

“It’s a Roman road,” he announced. “And that is an inn.”
“How do you know?” asked Desmond.
“Studied it in school. I took engineering for a while. Then history of technology and industrialization. I’d also bet my left ball we’re in Israel.”
They heard the cries.
“Follow me!” cried Tol.
Desmond and Eli could not keep up with him. Once they rounded another building, they found Tol held at bay by two short older men with sticks. They were screaming at him.
Eli recognized the Middle East Jewish clothes right away. The two men were guarding three obviously beaten women and one man who looked severely burned.
“I’ve got to help them. They are hurt,” said Tol.
Eli stomped toward the men and started yelling at them in the style his mother used when his father was being particularly dense.
While Eli argued unintelligibly with the locals, Desmond asked: “Tol, should we interfere here? Surely this is their problem?”
“Those people have been hurt by an energy weapon. Not current technology.”
Together Desmond and Tol pushed past the arguing trio and set to helping the wounded. From more mysterious areas of his body, Tol produced bandages for the burns. The man also had a broken leg. Tol drugged the victim and set his leg. He gave all of them sleep inducements and scanned them for further injuries.
While Tol worked, Desmond considered the ramifications of the energy weapon. Someone else was time travelling. He had wondered, ever since he had discovered his ability to slide in time, if there were others out there doing the same thing. It looked like he had found one. And a nasty one.
Eli and the two older men stopped bickering and watched Tol.

“The women were raped,” concluded Tol.
“We’ve got to figure out the language,” said Desmond. “We have another time traveller on the loose here.”
“You’re kidding,” said Eli.
“High tech wounds.”
“My in-body computer can’t make out their language. What are the possibilities?”
“Hebrew or Aramaic. Or a dialect. Depends on where and when we are.”
“That’s not in my library,” said Tol. “We will have to build a translation table.”
Desmond and Tol convinced the Jewish men to point at objects and say their names. Tol’s computer stored the sounds and started to build the language. Soon the computer had successfully guessed the basic aspects of their language.
“Find out what happened,” said Desmond.
After a few minutes, Tol reported: “It seems a giant — like me — arrived, raped selected women, and wounded anyone who got in the way.”
“Selected women?” asked Eli.
“Yes. They were all named Mary.”
“Jesus,” muttered Desmond.
“Exactly,” said Eli.

In the year 3122, mentally disturbed people were still not easily cured. On Christmas Eve of that year, in an institute for the criminally insane, a defrocked monk had a vision. The Virgin Mary appeared in Rocco’s room and explained why the Roman Catholic religion was failing after more than 3000 years. She said Jesus had suffered from genetic diseases because he was a product of her genetics only. The rest of his make-up was God’s energy. It would have been better if he had had male and female DNA as well as God’s power. A kind of Trinity.

It was Rocco’s duty to provide it. He was chosen to travel through time and mate with Mary. It would be a difficult mission. The Virgin said that her earlier self would be uncooperative and his own society would harass him. She vanished, leaving a blue glow that slowly faded away.

Rocco burst from his room and headed to the library. Escaping and stealing time-fold equipment would take research.

Rocco’s institution was in the Livorno region of Italy. It required six months to engineer his escape. In the end, he had tricked a nearby University into giving a seminar on time-fold technology. He had said it was part of an initiative to bring the inmates closer to reality through seminars on modern technological developments.

For their presentation, they had brought a non-functioning version of the time-fold system.
Rocco had secretly mail-ordered the other necessary components. During the seminar, he stole a weapon from a guard, activated the time-fold system and escaped.

“We go after him,” said Desmond.
“Is this why we’re here, Desmond? Is this why you collected us?” Eli stood nose to nose with Desmond.
“I don’t know. I’m not in control.”
“Great. Just great.”
“It does not matter,” said Tol. “We cannot let some errant and violent time traveller go around raping and killing.”
“Are you aware,” said Eli, “of the religious and historical significance of when and where we are?”
“We are on the road to Nazareth at the crossroads of what you would call the development of Western Civilization.”
“OK, so you know. I’m Jewish, but Christ isn’t exactly unimportant in my personal history. If this guy, whoever he is, keeps this up, we might not recognise home when — and if — Desmond takes us back.”
“It does not matter to me,” said Tol. “I have a radioactive death ahead of me.”
“Let’s just go,” said Desmond.
Their quarry had travelled on foot down the road toward Nazareth. Desmond, Eli and Tol started jogging.
“What time would this psycho be from?” gasped Eli.
“Quite ahead of my own time,” said Tol. “Space fold science implied the existence of time-folds, but the practical problems were insurmountable. It’s conceivable that, in the distant future, they will solve the problems.”
“It doesn’t matter,” grunted Desmond.
“It may,” said Tol. “Our opponent has an energy weapon while we do not. And his technology may surpass our own.”
“Still doesn’t matter.”
Tol and Eli did not respond. They kept jogging.

Rocco reached Nazareth. He knocked on the first door he found and asked for Mary. An old man answered. He did not like the look of Rocco. His eyes looked possessed, strangely blue. The man denied knowing anyone named Mary and quietly closed the door.

At the next house, the door was slammed in his face the moment he asked for Mary. Rocco drew his weapon and vaporised the door.
The family was heading out the window. A young woman’s thin leg was exposed. Rocco grabbed the ankle and pulled her back into the room. She screamed. Outside the window, an older man started to climb back. Rocco dragged Mary by the ankle away from the window. As he turned, he came face to face with Tol.

For Rocco, Tol posed a double impossibility. Judging from his space-farer outfit he was from the future, but not far enough ahead to have access to time-fold systems. As a result of this hesitation, Tol picked Rocco up and hurled him bodily into the street. Rocco rolled in the dust.

“Is this the guy?” yelled Eli.
“Yes,” boomed Tol.
With some force, Eli kicked Rocco in the ribs. He remained still with one arm under him.
“Watch out!” yelled Desmond.
The former monk drew his weapon. The energy blast seared Eli’s arm.
Tol came outside and kicked the weapon out of Rocco’s hand. He grabbed Tol’s arm and pulled him down to the ground.
“You can’t stop me!” screamed Rocco as he punched hysterically. They struggled on the ground.
Desmond tended to Eli; the burn was painful, but not threatening. Desmond walked over and picked up the weapon. He looked at it for a moment and guessed at which button was the trigger.
“Stop!” he yelled.
Tol and Rocco stopped wrestling.
A small crowd, composed mainly of the family Rocco had attacked, gathered to watch.
Rocco stood with one arm in Tol’s grip. “You can’t stop me! Who are you?”
“It’s too difficult to explain.”
Rocco broke free and lunged toward Desmond, hprepared to fire. His hand abruptly went numb and the weapon fell. Rocco passed out.
“This has turned into a goddamn time travellers convention,” said Eli.
Desmond whirled to see two women in uniforms, carrying small weapons. The outfits were unfamiliar but they had a police-like air about them. “Who are you?”
“We are that damaged one’s keepers. Sorry for the trouble.” The crisp-looking officer glanced around. The eras represented by Tol, Eli and Desmond disturbed her. All were pre time-fold technology. “Do you people need a lift? How did you get here anyway?”
“No,” said Desmond. It was suddenly very clear. “Eli. Tol. Come touch my hand. Quickly.”
They darted toward Desmond. As soon as they made contact, they blurred and disappeared.
The police officer from 3122 looked at where the three had stood. She nodded to her associate. Within seconds she, Rocco and the other officer were gone.

Mary and her family looked on the scene with disbelief. God’s conflicts were most confusing.

Transition …
Desmond: Think of where you’d like to be, Eli.
Eli: OK.

When they materialized in Eli’s living room, his mother screamed.
“Ma, Ma! It’s me.”
“Where the hell have you been? Who are these people?” “Bye Eli,” said Desmond. “Try a pub called The Duke in Toronto on New Year’s Eve. 1991.”
They vanished.

Transition …
Tol: I don’t want to go back to my ship.
Desmond: I don’t blame you. If another ship knew about your ship’s danger, could you be rescued?
Tol: It’s possible …
Desmond: Then think of that ship.

They materialized on the bridge of The Bouquet.
“Security to the bridge!” yelled her captain.
“Captain,” said Tol. “My ship is in danger; I need your help.”
“How did you get here?”
“It doesn’t matter. Star system U564 is about to go nova and my ship has lost her radiation shields.”
The captain frowned. Desmond stood silently to one side. He hadn’t understood a word they had said.
“Give me the exact location,” said the captain.
Desmond started to lose control of his position. He wanted to stay and make sure everything went well for Tol. But the environment blurred out of his control.

He stood in his kitchen. What had he come out here to do? Oh, yes. Egg Nog for his wife. He went to the refrigerator and took the carton from the shelf. He took the rum from the high shelf.

As he went back into the living room, Rebecca was finishing putting the star on the top of the tree. When she turned, she stared at his dishevelled clothes.
“What happened?”
“I went on a little trip. Egg Nog, dear?”

One Hour AD

Two spaceships were locked in combat. The smugglers did not intend to surrender despite being at a disadvantage. When the police vessel moved in to enclose the smugglers’ ship in a force field, the criminals activated their own shields, setting them to overload. The result was a fusion of energy fields. The police could not lower their shields as the smugglers’ would attack. To leave the shields up would lead to the destruction of both ships.

The police sent signals to the smugglers ordering them to reverse the overload.
They refused.
The police accused them of being insane.

One and a Half Hours AD

The shepherds, sleepily watching their flocks, were roused by the bright flash in the east. They quite sensibly interpreted the overload of two fusion power plants as a sign.
A couple of weeks later, a chunk of wreckage crashed into a heavily wooded, mountainous area. It would be close to two millennia before the region was called British Columbia.
The inhabitants of the area developed a mythology about the fiery crash, and resulting forest fire, rarely venturing into the region. Centuries later, Lord Revelstoke thought the district was potentially useful and established a settlement. He didn’t worry much about native legends.

December 23, 1990 — 4 PM Mountain Time

Dennis had been in the Calgary airport fifteen minutes when there was a power failure. It was a serious one; the airport management announced all flights were cancelled.
He had watched the weather reports closely before leaving for the airport. There was a storm brewing in the west. Dennis made a decision. He dashed to the Budget counter and rented the second last Calgary-Vancouver vehicle. If he drove through the night, he might make it. He had to get into the mountains before the predicted storm let loose and closed the Trans-Canada highway.

“Should I phone Susan now?” he wondered and decided against it. He wasn’t expected until late, anyway. He’d phone her when he had a better idea of his arrival time.
The driving became progressively tougher as he headed west but he refused to be daunted.
At Roger’s Pass, the highest point of the road, he was pulled over by the RCMP.
“Hi,” said Dennis.
“Sir, you’re the last one through the Pass. How far are you planning on going?”
“Vancouver,” Dennis said quietly.
The cop laughed. “Not tonight, sir.”
“How far do you figure I can get?”
“I suggest going to Revelstoke and finding a place to stay. And be very careful on those bends in the road, OK?”
“Caution is my middle name,” said Dennis.

The curves in the highway were nerve-wracking. Dennis was exceedingly happy he could not see just how far down he would fall if he went off the road. Revelstoke wasn’t a bad place to stop; he could stay the night and be within shooting distance of the main highway into Vancouver. If he could get an early start he’d be home before the start of Christmas Eve festivities. And before Susan killed him for being late.

By the time he reached Revelstoke the snow was falling so hard he could barely see the road and nearly missed the turn-off for the town.
The Regent was the first hotel he saw and he booked a room.

On the west side of Mount Revelstoke, the ground broke as something emerged from under twenty feet of rock. The creature extended metal arms, arched them and jammed sharp points into the ground for the best grip. The rest of the metal frame came forth. Its head swivelled 360 degrees and scanned the area.
There were heat sources emanating from down slope and the alien headed in that direction. It walked like a garbage can on stilts. At twenty miles per hour.

Dennis was on the phone.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Revelstoke.”
“What?” Susan asked, hoping this was some sort of joke.
“The airport in Calgary had a massive power failure. With bad weather coming in I took a chance and rented a car. It’s too dangerous to drive now, so I stopped here.”
“You don’t love me.”
“I love you intensely.”
“I want you here in bed with me NOW.”
“I think you’re wonderful.”
“Pitiful excuse for letting the airport blow up and allowing a winter storm to slow you down.”
“Please be reasonable,” said Dennis optimistically.
“I’m being perfectly reasonable. I want you here, in bed, before I wake up or I’ll kill you.”
“These are not fun options: dying on the road or dying by your hand.”
“Don’t be silly, I love you. I’m JOKING.”
“Really? No kidding. Wow.”
“Don’t be a dweeb. When can you get here?”
“I’m going to get something to eat, have a couple of drinks and go to sleep. I’ll get up early and hit the road. If it’s passable.”
“Dig it out yourself if you have to. Because I love you.”
“Seems logical. Take care. Love you.”
Dennis placed the receiver slowly in its cradle and headed quickly to the restaurant.

The train was squealed to a halt in a siding near Revelstoke station. The trainman finished his tasks and crossed the track. He turned and came face-to-face with the metal creature.

“What the f..”
It grabbed him, held him and looked into his face.
A few minutes later, the supervisor found him lying in the snow, asleep. There was no one else about.

9 PM Eastern Standard Time

In Connecticut, at a house by the ocean, Burton rang the bell.
Christian answered the door. “Burton!” he shouted. “Come in; come in.”
As he had done for the last three years, Burton wore a tuxedo.
The shouting caused Carmela to come to the door. She smiled.
“You look lovely as ever,” said Burton.
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Come in and sit down. We’re just doing some baking.”
“I’m glad you found us since we moved out of New York.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” said Burton. “I have stored your brain patterns and can locate you anywhere on the planet.”
They all sat in the living room.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Carmela.
“What was that festive beverage you gave me last year?”
“Egg Nog?”
“Yes! Do you have that?”
“Of course,” said Carmela, who then left for the kitchen.
“So,” said Christian, “how’s the police business going?”
“Busy lately. Had a dull time a while back, but now you never know when you are going to be surprised. I do like your house. What made you move out of New York?”
“Well, after that incident in ’87, we decided to get away from all the crazies, so we started saving like mad. And here we are.”
Carmela returned with the drink and Joshua. He was now three.
“Amazing,” said Burton, “you look so healthy, considering I delivered you in a tenement.”
“Say hello to Burton,” said Carmela.
“Hi,” said Josh, who was blushing.
Burton rose and picked the boy up. “He is so much bigger than last year.” Burton tickled the boy and produced giggles.
“I just get overwhelmed at the luck of you being on Earth when we were attacked.” Carmela felt some tears coming on and Christian gave her a hug.
“You know,” said Burton as he handed Josh over to his mother, “they never unravelled the teleporter accident that first brought me here. A complete mystery. It is those sorts of occurrences that make you wonder if whimsy is a component of the universe.”

They sat and talked more. Soon Joshua was put to bed. The baking was complete. Burton asked about changes in their jobs and lifestyles since moving to Connecticut. Then a strange expression came over his face.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I must alter the shape of my hand.” Abruptly his hand was a screen displaying myriad data. “That is amazing.”
“What?” asked Christian.
“It seems I have a job to do.”
“Here?” asked Carmela.
“On Earth. If my internal atlas of your planet is up-to-date, the problem exists in Revelstoke.”
“Where’s that?” asked Christian.
“British Columbia, Canada,” replied Burton.

9:30 PM Pacific Standard Time

Dennis had finished dinner and moved into the bar.
There were two other people in the bar: The bartender and the waitress.
“Busy night,” said Brian.
The hotel employees snickered.
“What’ll it be?” said the waitress. “And hurry up. I got customers waiting.”
“Well … I don’t know. I suppose you’ve got Kokanee, Kokanee and Kokanee.”
“And don’t forget Granville Island Lager and Labatt’s.”
“How could I?”
“I just don’t know,” she replied.
“Well, I guess I’d better have a Kokanee.”
“An excellent choice. I should be able to get it to you in fifteen minutes or so.” She turned and headed back to the bar. “Hey, Ron, a Kokanee!”
From behind the bar, Dennis could hear: “My bartending skills have been taxed to the limit. I may even put myself at risk by twisting the cap off.”
Two beers later, Dennis had coaxed them into having a drink with him. They talked about Christmas plans, the cost of gasoline and ways to avoid bothersome relatives during the festive season.
Surprisingly, a man entered the bar from the outside. He wore work boots and a grimy sweater pulled over a thick wool shirt.
“Is that Ken?” asked the bartender.
“It sure looks like him,” said the waitress, “but he’s walkin’ funny.”
Dennis just looked at the man and had the sensation that his clothes had been painted on.
The man who was not Ken walked straight up to them: “Where is the nearest spaceport?”
“You don’t sound so good, Ken,” said the bartender.
“Where is your spaceport?”
Dennis decided this was either a prank or the guy was deranged. The best approach seemed to humour him.
“Define spaceport, please.”
The alien looked straight at Dennis with a sharp fixed gaze. “Designated area for launching and landing interplanetary craft.”
The waitress giggled and the alien ignored her.
Dennis was stumped for a response. His straight line had been returned with another straight line. “Were you expecting to find a spaceport near here?”
“At least on this planet,” it replied.
“Well, I’m sorry, but the best I can do is suggest Cape Kennedy in Florida, but they only launch orbital manned craft.”
Both hotel employees were stifling deep laughs.
“This will suffice. The technology can be upgraded. You will take me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I am short of energy. You will take me. Your vehicle waits outside, correct?”
“Yes, but the roads are impassable,” said Dennis quickly.
“I can clear them as we go. Water is a useful, temporary fuel.”
“But I don’t want to go to Florida.”
“Irrelevant.” And with that, the alien grabbed Dennis by the arm and carried him from the bar. Its grip was vice-like. Dennis was frightened now, and punched the man who was not Ken in the face. It was like hitting a bag of wet concrete.
“Call the cops,” yelled Dennis as he was led out into the snow.
The alien loaded Dennis into his car, at the wheel. Once inside, the doors were sealed so he could not escape.
“Drive.” The snow whirled around the car.
“Are you nuts? I can see a …”
Suddenly a bright path appeared in front of Dennis. The snow had melted and a width of two lanes was visible.
“I don’t want to go to Florida!”
“I will kill you if you do not comply.”
Dennis started the car and headed onto the road. He decided to get to Florida via Vancouver. If he was driving, he might as well go in the direction he wanted until the police could rescue him. He hoped.

They drove in silence. For every kilometre they covered, the snow was melted and the road made visible. As best as Dennis could figure, the alien was causing the headlights to be powerful enough to melt the snow faster than they travelled. That was a lot of energy, thought Dennis. They continued to drive.

Eventually Dennis’ curiosity got the better of him. “Where are you from, really?”
“By your star charting, a planet orbiting Barnard’s star. It would be interesting to see what would happen if Mr. Barnard tried to claim it.”
Was this alien humour? “How did you get here?”
“I crashed here almost 2000 years ago. It has taken some time to become ambulatory.”
Dennis wanted to know what his rush to get home was, but decided not to ask.

10:15 PM Pacific Standard Time

After another fifty kilometres, the lights of the car returned to normal; the snow on the road was no longer being melted.
“Cops,” hissed the alien. It then reverted to its metallic form.
Dennis stared wide-eyed at the alien and toyed with the idea of panicking.
The metal creature left the car, not bothering to open the door. Dennis was greeted by blowing snow. He hit the brake, skidded, and attempted to aim for the shoulder of the road.
After a few moments of sliding, the car landed in a snow bank.
He sat in the battered car and tried to catch his breath.
The alien was further south. He had travelled about 500 metres when Burton materialised in front of him.
“You are under arrest for smuggling and destruction of a police space vessel.”
The alien criminal jeered. “That was centuries ago.”
“The length of time between the commission of a crime and arrest is no longer a defence. Please prepare for a Transmat beam.”
“I won’t go back.” The creature lunged toward Burton.
Still in human form, Burton looked vulnerable. But his hand changed into a weapon. There was a tremendous flash of energy that transformed the attacker into molten metal that soon became a harmless vapour.

10:30 PM Pacific Standard Time

Dennis was in the car, hoping for rescue. He had seen the flash and contemplated leaving the vehicle, but reasoned he’d die faster of hypothermia that way. His coat was back in Revelstoke. He curled himself up into a ball, trying to avoid the wind and snow coming in from the hole where the passenger door had been. Dennis started to lose feeling in his extremities.

Burton popped his head in the opening. “Hello.”
Dennis jumped. “Who the hell are you?”
“Call me Burton. Sorry about the trouble. Are you OK?”
“Where is it? Did you see it?”
“I had to destroy him. Too violent for capture.”
“Then you’re …”
“Another extra-terrestrial, yes. But this isn’t relevant. My scanners indicate you are in discomfort with the climate. What can I do to assist?”
“I want to go home.”
“This is a rather vague request. I’ll have to scan your mind for details.”
“You’ll have to wha …”

12:05 AM Pacific Standard Time — Christmas Eve

Dennis was standing in his front hall. His head jerked as if he had suddenly been woken. His luggage sat on the floor beside him. In his hand was the car rental return form. He opened it up and found no indication that there had been trouble regarding damage to the vehicle. He didn’t remember turning it in. Or arranging it to be towed. Also in his hand was a receipt for payment at the Regent Hotel. He didn’t remember going back to Revelstoke, either. Underneath the receipt was an envelope with his name on it. He tore it open and found a Christmas card with Santa in his sleigh being pulled by the reindeer, but Rudolf wasn’t there. He’d been replaced by a small flying saucer with a red nose. Inside the card it read: “Have a happy holiday season.” It was signed “Burton.”

Dennis just shook his head. He put the card on a side table and went upstairs.
Susan was asleep. He quietly undressed and climbed carefully into bed, curling up against her warm body and hugging her gently.
Sleepily, she muttered: “I knew you’d make it.”

Dennis was obsessed.
He went to the travel agent and, when they asked him what they could do, he blurted out: “I’ve got to get to Salzburg.”
“When?”
“Now.”
He couldn’t believe his own words. The idea of Christmas away had been brewing for a while, but the insistence on Salzburg was coming from a part of his mind over which he obviously had no control.

For an outrageous sum of money he purchased a first class ticket to Zurich, from where he would take a train to Salzburg.
On his return to the office, Dennis pondered a difficulty. It was clear he didn’t want “the powers that be” to know he was running off to Salzburg for no reason. He couldn’t even think of a good lie. Frowning, he decided it would be easier to ask forgiveness than to manufacture permission. Besides it was his holiday. Special agent or not, they could live without knowing where he was for seven days. Furthermore, he hadn’t booked the ticket with any tricky false IDs or anything.

“Fie on them,” he thought.
He felt relieved after shaking off the Agency’s burdensome parental sense. He’d feel even better if he knew why his brain was ordering him to Austria.

“Zurich,” he muttered to himself, “is frankly bloody cold.” He was surprised to find he was talking to himself. Another great faux pas for a special agent. You were trained not to talk to yourself, even when sleeping.

He walked across the station to his train, whistling a Christmas carol — Good King Wenceslaus. He toted a sturdy back pack that was unusually light due to the absence of weapons and other such spy paraphernalia. He realised how much more fun travel could be with light baggage.

A fast, high quality Swiss train whisked him through fantastic Alpine scenery. The sun was rising and gave the absurdly clean snow a blinding glare. He thought of German friends and remembered their comment that “the Swiss must get out every morning and clean the mountains.” He snickered and then wanted to cry. They were dead. Years ago, just before German Reunification, they were some of last the victims of the East German secret police. Executed for helping a foreign spy.

Dennis wiped at his warm eyes. He thought he had gotten over that one. He thought wryly he probably had more baggage in his head than there was in the whole train.
There was a brief stop before the Austrian border. An older gentleman boarded the train and sat near Dennis. By this time, Dennis was engrossed by an old Adam Hall novel and was snickering as quietly as he could manage. The old man leaned from his seat, facing across the way, and spoke to Dennis in German. But Dennis didn’t stir, even though he knew the language. He waited for the gentleman to actually touch him, if he really wanted to talk so badly.

The Austrian man did touch him.
“Bitteschoen, haben sie die genaue Zeit?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Ah. You are English?”
“Canadian, actually.”
“Kanadier?”
“Yes.”

The Austrian looked somehow familiar to Dennis. A déjà vu effect, surely. The massive whiskers obscured much of the facial detail. Dennis was still scanning his face when the man pointed to his watch, which was ancient and stopped.

“Ah, yes. 12:34.” Dennis showed him a digital display.
“Danke. Thank you.”
“No problem.” Dennis firmly resumed reading his book. The man had spooked him. For no discernible reason.
It was sometime later when the man spoke up again: “You are on a job in Austria?”
Dennis was startled. “Ah, no. Holiday.”
“Hmm.”

The conversation halted. The older man rose to depart from the train at a stop just before Salzburg. He pulled from the rack a small, battered case. There were designs on the case. All were of scenes of conflict. Men and women fighting, armies fighting, people arguing. Dennis was briefly mesmerised by the images. It reminded him of Bradbury’s Illustrated Man.

As the old man walked past, he said: “Aufwiedersehen, have a good visit in Salzburg.”
Dennis unprofessionally snapped his eyes away from his book and stared silently at the man as he left the train. When was Salzburg mentioned?

In Salzburg, Dennis picked a huge old Bed & Breakfast establishment. B&B wasn’t a term used in Austria; they were typically called a Gasthaus. He used random choice as a deciding factor. If he didn’t like it, he’d move. The Gasthaus was just outside town and was a massive place. Hilda, the almost burly proprietor, treated Dennis as if he were family.

It was a homey sensation. His room was small, but had a view of the mountains. The tiny bed had a gigantic duvet for staying cosy and warm. In the main part of the house was a huge sitting room with large chairs and hundreds of books in German, English and French. Dennis figured he was in heaven. They had an enormous spy book collection.

Since he had no real idea why he was in Salzburg, he decided to walk all over: through the castle, into the church where Julie Andrews married Christopher Plummer in “The Sound of Music” and up the steep path to Hohensalzburg, “the largest fully preserved medieval castle in Europe”. The vistas were stunning and the weather biting.
He tried as many different drinking and eating establishments as he could find. He never tired of Wiener Schnitzel and had developed a great respect for Austrian draught beer.

On the twenty-third of December, as twilight was merging into darkness, he walked back toward his Gasthaus. He took a short-cut through the gardens of Schloss Mirabell. In summer the flowers are impressive, but the beds were currently mounds of frozen dirt. The stone Gnomes, however, were still in the positions they had been in for ages. Each of the figures was unique. One carried grain for brewing and another carried a flute. As Dennis walked into their circular garden, he could have sworn he heard whispering. He deduced it was the wind whistling through the scarf tucked close to his ears. When he was about to leave the garden, one of the Gnomes jumped off its pedestal and barred him from leaving.

“Holy shit.”
“Shhh,” he heard from behind.
Dennis whirled about to see the other Gnomes leaving their pedestals.
“Dennis,” said the grain-carrying Gnome, “we have to talk to you.”
“So talk.” Dennis was buying time for his head to sort out reality. He had seen these statues before and they had shown little mobility. He also tried to figure out if they were speaking German or English. Strangely, he couldn’t tell.
“OK, thanks,” said the Gnome. The other eleven Gnomes were now all off the pedestals and looking at Dennis as if he were the unusual creature. “You’re staying at the Kaltenegger Gasthaus, right?”
“Yes …”
“Excellent,” replied the Gnome. “We got the right one, guys.” There were titters and quiet cheers from the other Gnomes.
“You see, every Christmas for the last few hundred years, that family has always had a tragedy. And you,” the Gnome poked a stubby finger into Dennis’ stomach, “can fix their problem.”
“Ah,” said Dennis. His mind was saying: listen watch learn.
“But you’ve got to be ready.”
“In what way?” asked Dennis.
“Well, you know. You bring extra stuff on trips. You didn’t bring any of that this time. You’ve got to get ready.”
And suddenly all the Gnomes snapped back into place as if they had never left the pedestals. Dennis stood with his face devoid of expression and his jaw slack.
An older couple, arms entwined, entered the garden. “Guten abend,” said the man.
“Gruess Gott,” replied Dennis.

Back at the Gasthaus, Dennis had decided he needed a good think. Hilda had tea made and she gladly gave him a cup. He sat in the drawing room and sipped on the tea and thought. There were two possibilities. He was mad or something was going on. He rejected the first one on the grounds that it was too simple. From the Gnome, he remembered two salient points. The Kaltenegger family had a history of tragedies and that he had to be “ready”. All Dennis could deduce from that was he needed some of the spy gear he had left at home.

As he mulled over the events of the day, people started arriving at the house with some frequency. They seemed to be members of the family. Dennis suspected he was the only actual guest in the house. The first to arrive were older men and they looked at Dennis with suspicion. In the kitchen, they held hurried discussions with Hilda. Hilda assured them Dennis didn’t speak German.

Dennis sipped his tea and smiled and, with no shame, proceeded to eavesdrop.
“What is he doing here?”
“He is a guest, of course,” said Hilda.
“Why haven’t you made him leave?”
“That would be rude. And he never said how long he was staying. How should I know he’d be around at Christmas? He might leave tomorrow.”
“But much of the family is arriving tonight and what if he finds out about the curse? Where would your business be then?”
“Bah. Karl, you’re ridiculous. We have to wait.”
“I will not risk a strange American seeing someone die!”
“Ich bin Kanadier.” Dennis had just silently entered the kitchen. In German he continued: “I have to apologise for not telling you I speak German, Mrs. Kaltenegger, it has to do with my work that I avoid letting people know that. I have a couple of requests of you. I would like to stay at your Gasthaus over Christmas and I would like to help you with your ‘curse’ as you put it. I might be able to help.”
“How would you know?” barked Karl.
“A Gnome told me.”

As far as Dennis could gather, the story started about 350 years before when a powerful Bishop, who dabbled in the dark arts, cursed the Kaltenegger family. Apparently, a leading member of the Kaltenegger family had embarrassed the clergyman by making public the Bishop’s pacts with the devil. In revenge, the Bishop had called on the Devil to make sure a member of the Kaltenegger family would die every Christmas Eve for all time. The family had tried to combat this annual loss by raising huge families. But, over the generations, they had been reduced to twenty people. The family congregated every Christmas at Hilda’s huge house to be together to comfort each other for their imminent loss. Dennis analysed the history of the deaths. Hilda’s records consistently showed that every year there was one death that always occurred on Christmas Eve between sunset and midnight. The cause of death rarely varied from the theme of heart failure. The story postulated that the figure of Death appeared and frightened the soul from his victim. Hidden away, Hilda had a painting by a family member that showed the classic figure of Death, with his cloak and scythe, taking the soul from a family member. In the painting the victim was in another room. Dennis was struck with an idea.

“Was there ever anyone with the people who died?”
“You mean at the moment of death?” asked Hilda.
“That’s right,” said Dennis.
The family ruminated. There were now fifteen people in the kitchen drinking coffee, tea and beer, all fascinated with Dennis’ question. Eventually they decided that, as far as they could remember, the victims had all died alone.
“Interesting,” said Dennis.

Dennis rose early on Christmas Eve and decided to go out and purchase a firearm. He had no contacts in Salzburg and he figured getting to Vienna on Christmas Eve was mad. So, in the town, it took time to locate someone to sell him a gun. The choices of illegal weapons were few. He found himself faced with buying a .357 Magnum, an ancient weapon. Dennis realised he had been spoiled by his modern slim-line, laser-sighted Colts. He sighed, paid an outrageous sum of money and pocketed the gun.

When he had arrived in Salzburg he had rented a car, but found he had done little but walk. On that Christmas Eve, he took the car and drove into the Alpine countryside to find a place to test the gun. First, he cleaned it and removed grime from the handle. It was at this time he noticed that a previous owner had carved a small dragon into the gun butt. The design was rather detailed and Dennis wondered how it had been done. The dragon had a lance through it. The spear pierced the creature’s lower back.

He tried the gun and was appalled by the resounding blast. How inelegant. But at least it worked.

The sun was just beginning to set when he returned to Hilda’s Gasthaus. The whole family was present and a party atmosphere was under way. Despite the scheduled death, they reminisced about past successes and failures in their businesses and personal lives. The presence of Hilda’s Canadian guest, with ideas of preventing their annual tragedy, added to the frivolity. Their sang-froid shocked Dennis, but then he realised that after 350 years they’d become accustomed to Death.

The fun subsided slightly when Dennis insisted they pick partners and never be separated. Even when taking a leak. Dennis had earlier noticed the statistics for people dying while on the toilet were too high. No one was to be alone, period. All unusual events, be they visual or auditory, were to be reported to Dennis immediately.

The partying continued and midnight drew upon them. By 11:30, the family was getting rather excited as Dennis had calculated the average time of death to be around 10 PM. At 11:50, an old man with huge grey whiskers walked into the main room where all the Kaltenegger family was sitting. It was the man from the train to Salzburg. The one whose watch had stopped. The battered case now had different scenes of horror. Hilda recognised an image of her brother who had died three Christmases before.

“Jesus Christ,” said Dennis.
“Death, actually,” replied the old man. “I’m so glad you recall me Dennis. I knew I’d meet you again, but I didn’t know when.
“Get lost.”
“Well, I will, but I have to take a life you see, and you’ve made it more difficult than usual.”
“You’re out of luck this year,” said Dennis. The agent’s mind was at full awareness. He watched for the old man’s move. Despite the supernatural aspects, this did not make a difference to his training. A confrontation was a confrontation.
“Surely you don’t think you can stop Death?”
“I have to try.” Here ends the bravado section, thought Dennis. He has to act now.
The old man turned, as if he considered leaving. The room was silent. Death twisted back to face Dennis and was abruptly a lizard. In a wink, Death had become a dragon. The beast leaped over Dennis and was bounding toward Hilda. She was his intended victim.

Of all the Kalteneggers, Dennis knew Hilda best. Was Death’s choice deliberately intended to upset him? As this thought passed, Dennis smoothly pulled the Magnum. He remembered the carving of the dragon on the gun butt and fired a quick shot to the creature’s lower back. The scream was unearthly, like an inhuman wail of twisting metal. The whole family held their ears. The Death-dragon was crippled, but tried to claw itself toward Hilda, seeming to want only to touch her. Dennis went for a head shot and hoped the screaming would stop. Despite obliterating the head with two rounds, the shrieking continued, but the reptile’s movement stopped. The body of the dragon and its gore began to shimmer and in minutes the sound and image faded.

Dennis was exhausted. He stared at Hilda in disbelief. She smiled at him.
The clock on the mantle struck twelve.
It was Christmas Day.
They partied well past dawn.

We were in bed, a very nice place to be. It was December twenty-second and glancing out the window showed the snow swirling about our warm house. I carefully worked my fingers down her back, lightly massaging her spine.

“Mmm,” she said.
“I think so too,” I replied.
Megan rolled on her side and gave me a kiss and touched my ear in that way she had.
“Did I ever tell you why Christmas is so special to me?”
“Don’t think so.”

“Well,” she said, pulling me close, “I realized the other day that it’s twenty years ago tomorrow that Mom and Dad and I had our adventure. I was pretty young so some of it’s hazy, but on the twenty-third of December, Mom and Dad and I went downtown to see the Nutcracker Suite. And it was great. I clearly remember all the dancing and everything and what I wore and what Mom wore. It was a very beautiful evening. We had parked a ways away so, after the show, we walked to the far corner of the lot to get the car.”

“What kind of car did your Dad have?”

“How should I know? Ask him when we see him. Carefully, though. They don’t like talking about that evening. Anyway, Dad was unlocking the car when a really scary man struck him to the ground. The guy must’ve been hiding behind another car or something. Mother screamed that piercing howl of hers and I just looked. The man was grimy. I remember that but I’d never be able to tell you anything else about his looks. His clothes were ratty. And he smelled. When I think about it I can still smell it.”

She paused and I pulled her closer. Her leg moved on top of mine. “So what did you do?” I asked.
“It was very odd. Mom kicked him. She hadn’t taken kindly to her family being threatened. But the bum lashed out with a knife and ripped her coat open.”
“Is that where she got that scar on her arm?”
“That’s the one,” Megan said. “I didn’t know what was going to happen. Mom and Dad were both hurt and I was really scared. But a guy came from behind and attacked the guy, knocking him down.”
“Who was your defender?”
“I never found out. He just smacked the guy and then ran off. I sort of always thought of him as an angel. That’s what Mom always said. That an angel of God came down and saved us.”
“That does sound like your Mom’s type of Christian rationalization.”
“Don’t be cynical. It was a great explanation for a little girl. Besides, all I care about is that I was around to be with you.”
My ears started turning red. So I kissed her. What do you say to something like that? It was too wonderful a compliment to ruin with a pathetic “thank-you” or something. So I just kept kissing her.
A little later I asked: “Didn’t your rescuer give first aid? Or call the cops?” I asked.
“Not that I recall. He just sort of arrived and left.”
“What did he look like?”
“Well-dressed, I guess. Maybe someone who went to the show.”
“Too bad we’ll never know. I’d like to thank the guy.”

The next day was the twenty-third and I finished work and went shopping. Megan knew I was going to be late because I’m that last minute sort of character. Plus I’ve always done my shopping on the twenty-third by myself. I treat myself to a nice dinner somewhere, plot out whatI want to get people, make my Santa Claus list and burst into the throngs of shoppers. There’s a camaraderie amongst The Disorganized. We hustle and bustle and enjoy it thoroughly.

For no really logical reason, I chose Mexican and made my list. It was big. So I finished up and headed south toward the Eaton Centre. There was wet snow about so I made some snowballs and threw them at walls and such. People looked at me, in my business suit and coat, and wondered how a mature man could be so juvenile. It was easy, I wanted to tell them.

I went into the big record stores and took care of about half my shopping list. So with an armful of disks under my arm, I tried to cross Dundas Street at Yonge. It was a Fiero. Red. I’m absolutely positive. It flashed from around the street car, unaware that the light was red and I was in the way. I tried to twist out of the way, but it didn’t seem likely I’d succeed. The car struck, I remember letting go of my records, but the impact wasn’t what I expected. There was a spongy sort of sensation followed by blackness.

I came to my senses and found I was sitting flat on my butt in the middle of the Dundas Street.
“Hey, man, are you all right?”
“Well,” I said, “I guess so. Did the car get away?”
“I didn’t see any car; I just saw you fall on yer bum.”

I looked up at my inquisitor and found a hippie. Which was odd. He had the effect down really well. The hair, the tie-dye jeans and bandanna were spot on. His winter jacket had a peace symbol inscribed on it. The hippie proffered a hand and helped me up from the pavement.
“Thanks muchly,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
“No sweat man. Be cool.”

I wondered what had happened to the Fiero. I wondered where my records had gone. Surely I wasn’t unconscious long enough for someone to steal them?
I finished crossing the street and tried to get some feeling of orientation. It went away when I saw a shoe-shine boy. I had not seen one in many, many years. I dimly recalled that they went out of style after two men sexually assaulted and murdered a shoe shine boy on the roof of a body rub parlour. Those particular fronts for prostitution had also gone they way of the dodo after that scandal. I started blinking a lot. The kid looked at me oddly as I was staring at him.

“Wanna shine or not?”
“Ah, no, thank you.” And I walked toward where the entrance of the Eaton Centre was supposed to be. It was gone. I whimpered, looked back at the street, and got a horrible shock. This was Yonge and Dundas of old. Some buildings I recognized and some I identified as having been demolished. Now they stood, inexplicably intact.
I turned around the corner and hastily walked south. A small store was open and I entered it and grabbed a newspaper. December 23 1968. I coughed. This was incredible. “How the hell did I get here?”

The shopkeeper looked at me. “You walked in, sir.”
“Thank you, yes,” I replied.
But it wasn’t the “here” that was the problem, it was the “when.” It was 1968, exactly twenty years from when I was a few minutes ago. I realized how odd that sounded, but subjective and objective time had just got somewhat more confusing.
“Would you like to buy the paper, sir?”
The shopkeeper was looking at my vice grip on the Daily Star with some concern.
“Certainly,” I said. I reached into my pocket to pay the dime (!) price. I glanced at the year on the coin: 1986. The ten cent piece had been the same shape for as long as I could recall, so hopefully the date wouldn’t be observed.

As I left the store the impracticalities of my situation became apparent. My paper money was useless as I knew the mint had re-issued all the currency between ’68 and ’88. My credit cards were useless because I was positive that if Visa existed, it was called “Chargex” and Mastercard was “Mastercharge.” I was walking south toward Queen Street, scanning the paper.

“U.S. moon-men ‘feeling better’ after touch of flu.” The Apollo 8 was doing a circuit of the moon. There was a photo of an astronaut. Somewhere else I noticed that Richard M. Nixon had been recently elected President of the U.S. I laughed.

I figured if I stole some money and got to a bookie and a stock broker I’d be rich in a month. I was quite good at sports trivia. Who won the Stanley Cup in ’69? Why the Canadians of course. They beat St. Louis, the expansion club. I didn’t remember the score, but naturally all I had to do was bet on the game a zillion times. Plus, I’d know a few companies to invest in. The microcomputer market didn’t even exist yet.

Then I started to cry. If I were truly stuck here, in twenty years I was going to return from my December twenty-third shopping trip a much older, greying man. I had reached Queen and Yonge. The Simpsons Department store had their famous windows, with Christmas scenes, puppets and Santa Claus. I was openly sobbing. Mom had brought me here when I was a kid.

“Sir, sir, what can be so sad at this time of year?”
It was a lady from the Salvation Army who had stepped away from her bell-ringing to talk to me.
“I’m lost,” I sobbed.
She must have been perplexed, but my vision was too blurry to see.
“Where is it that you live?”
“1988,” I muttered. I was getting mad at myself now for crying. I wiped away the tears. The Salvation Army lady was clearly bewildered. “I apologize,” I said. “I’m in love with a younger woman.”
“Oh my,” she said, “it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh yes it can; she’s five.” And I walked farther south.

After having a good solid emotional outburst, I was ready for analytical thought. I figured that trying to get back to 1988 the same way I came was clearly dubious. I felt it unwise to experiment with throwing myself in front of red ’68 Corvettes. If I accepted the fact that if I were to be in Toronto of 1968 for a prolonged period, I had better review what was happening. I found a place to sit with my paper and started to read. I pored over that paper more avidly than I had read any other newspaper in my life. The material was fascinating. A Hamilton policeman had been slain a few days earlier. The former Prime Minister Pearson envisioned war happening only through an accident. Gary Lautens had been writing a column in ’68 and was making fun of hijackings to Cuba. Ann Landers was advising that the fact a guest at a party had undressed was the hostess’ own fault. A person renting an apartment was saying that despite the fact his rent went from $145 to $180, there was no need for rent controls.

“Oil Export Crisis Feared.” I laughed. Wait until 1973, I thought.
According to an ad, you could hire a new president for your company at $25,000 a year.
A ’67 Mustang sold for $2399.
Bob Hope was in Viet Nam, saying that he had been going to stay in the States for Christmas, but there was too much violence. Same jokes.
The Leafs won 8-3. Flat out impossible.
2001 A Space Odyssey was playing at The Glendale Theatre that was to be turned into a car dealership. Romeo and Juliet, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Dr. Zhivago and Thunderball were playing elsewhere.

I nearly screamed aloud when I saw the advertisement for The Nutcracker Suite. I remembered Megan’s story of “last night” and wondered. She did say the twenty-third, didn’t she? And was it twenty years ago exactly? I was struggling to recall. It was infuriating. I could recall the Stanley Cup champions of 1969, but I couldn’t recall Megan’s story. Of course it was twenty years ago; she was five and I did remember that she was twenty-five when I last saw her.

The paper gave the location of the concert. It had already started and was probably close to ending. So what was I to do? It would be interesting to see the altercation. Seeing I already knew the outcome, I could have my wish of thanking the anonymous chap who saved my sweetheart-to-be’s life. I had nothing better to do, so I headed farther south. I wish Megan had remembered what kind of car her Dad had driven. That I would have remembered.

I found the main parking lot, but Megan had said that they were far away. Was it the main lot? I looked around. The scenario had to involve darkness. Megan’s Dad would have avoided a threatening figure if he could have seen one. So I scanned for a dark far corner of the lot. I saw one that looked promising and walked to the main entrance and very politely asked an usher when the show was to end.

“In about ten minutes sir.”
“Thank you.” I headed out to the carpark. I was tempted to look for dangerous figures, but I might scare the guy off and inadvertently affect the scheme of things. I had to observe only. Otherwise, how would Megan’s Mom get her scar? And, if the incident never happened, Megan would not have the same story to tell me in bed.

When walking by the parked cars, I noticed a lot of unlocked car doors. I opened the door to an old Lincoln and sat in the driver’s seat and admired all the leather and absolutely absurd amount of metal in the dashboard.

I pondered the law of conservation of mass and energy. It had occurred to me that a small boy with my name was bopping about Toronto somewhere right now. One of us was big and the other small, but some of the body parts had to be made up of the same matter. This became too complicated, so my mind quickly moved to the question of what I was going to say to the owner of the car when he arrived.

I saw that people were leaving the theatre, so I got out of the car and receded into the shadows. A couple of minutes passed and then I saw them. Megan was so cute. She was all bundled up in a blue winter coat and had, of all things, a muff. I tried to remember if Megan, at her more mature age, had mentioned it. I silently matched their movements, keeping out of sight.

Then they stopped and Megan’s father unlocked the car. It was a huge Charger. I was jealous. They didn’t make cars like that anymore.
But there was a drunk man lying on the ground. He had puked on the car. Megan’s Dad, a more robust figure in ’68 than the man I knew in ’88, kicked the drunk rather hard, cursing. Megan’s mother was sheltering her daughter, explaining why I was never told this part.

With amazing speed the drunk rose from the ground and grappled with Megan’s Dad. They fell against the car and the drunk kept shoving. They slid off the car and both hit the ground. The drunk rose and Dad did not. Megan had not underestimated her mother’s scream. It stung. She then firmly planted her foot in the attacker’s groin. What a Christian woman.

I wondered how this guy was going to compose himself to produce a knife but, to my surprise, he seemed not overly bothered by the kick. The attacker produced a blade and ripped deep into her coat. Her second scream was more piercing than the first.

I was losing my sense of detachment in the whole situation because Megan was now left face-to-face with the drunk. She was crying, calling out mommy, mommy, mommy. My heart was breaking. Where was the rescuer? It was his cue. I looked around and there was no one nearby but me.

I suddenly felt very stupid. Accidental time travel? What a crock. I was here for a reason. There was some balance I had to keep. I dashed out from the darkness and grabbed the attacker. He was about to use his knife on Megan. My heart was pounding. It was as if I was in an auto-pilot mode. I was outside my body, watching myself leap out at the drunk. I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the Charger. It was quick. He slumped to the ground, leaving a rather impressive dent in the car. I doubt he knew what hit him.

Turning toward Megan I saw a crying, beautiful little girl who I loved intensely. I bent over and gave her a big smack on the cheek and whispered in her ear: “Everything’s going to be O.K.”

Other patrons of the arts were rushing toward the scene. To keep with the story Megan had told me, I ran away. People shouted after me to wait, but the questions would be impossible and I knew the wounded would live.

I ran for a long time. There was a combination of shock and panic shooting through my body like lightning. I’d never hit anyone before in my life.
Running was pleasant because the city looked more normal than while walking. Less time to absorb the differences, I supposed. It was at King Street that the car hit me. I was running against a light and a red Mustang, as best as I could recall, seemed to slam right into me. It was a relief really, because I didn’t think I could cope with living 1968 to 1988 all over again, even with my knowledge of hockey stats.

When I woke in the hospital, a wonderfully mature Megan was peering at me. She was weepy. The arm that wasn’t broken reached out and grabbed her, pulling her toward me. I kissed her.

“I’m so glad you’re here. Everything’s going to be O.K.”
I kissed her again and asked what date it was.
“It’s Christmas Eve; you’ve been out cold for a day.”
“What year?” I asked.
She paused, probably wondering what kind of hit on the head I’d received. “1988,” she whispered.
“How time flies,” I said.

Central Park near 5th Avenue and 58th was relatively quiet that December evening.
The beam of light from the stars briefly illuminated a piece of grass beside a tree. After the flash there stood, on all fours, an alien. The metallic plates on his back rustled and the creature took in a deep breath. He had been expecting an argon-based atmosphere and was suitably surprised by a lung full of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide and lead.
“Urk,” said the alien.

A crazy person walking alone in Central Park ignored him.
The alien realised he was on the wrong planet. His environmental analyser scanned the area and he swiftly adapted his respiratory system.
“Where am I?” he thought. “I’ve never seen a planet like this before.”
He cursed the people operating the Transmat. He had an important mission. He had to catch a criminal. “Instead,” he thought, “they just merrily send me anywhere they feel like.”
He activated his navigation system and moved out from under the tree to look at the stars. It was cloudy, very cloudy. His navigation equipment wouldn’t function at all.
“Terrific,” he thought. “I can’t even figure out where I am!”

He scanned the park and determined that his current metal armadillo-like shape wasn’t going to match the general appearance of the natives. The alien modified his body to be roughly human, standing at about five foot ten. He modified more of his body’s molecules to create a trench coat for himself. This hid his not quite human-looking metal skin. To make himself more closely human, he would have to make contact. This could be dangerous as he had no idea what the natives were like. He walked out onto the road in Central Park and looked for a person walking alone. No one he could see was by themselves. How irritating. He decided to risk brighter street lights and he headed to Central Park Avenue.

A man in a hurry was walking toward 7th Avenue. He was grumbling. Dr. Cass was not a happy man. His mother-in-law, an irritating hypochondriac, had had one of her “fits” and had called her dutiful son-in-law over to help. She had called while he and his wife were finally getting down to some serious lovemaking after a dismal month of perfunctory interludes in the style of it’s-11pm-and-we-have-nothing-better-to-do. He had had it all set up. He had made his own pasta. The wine had been allowed to breathe. He had lit the scented candles. The lights had been dimmed. All ruined by that old bitch with a cold.

Dr. Cass did not see the alien reach out to touch his face.
There was a second of agonising pain and then:
“You must have tripped, doctor,” said a man who looked somehow familiar to the physician. It was hard to tell with the pathetic lighting on the street. The alien was holding up Dr. Cass by the elbow.
“I must have,” Cass said with some surprise.
“Merry Christmas,” said the alien, walking off.
Later, the physician wondered how the stranger had known he was a doctor. He checked for his wallet. It was still there. “Oh well,” the doctor thought, “one of life’s mysteries.”

It had worked. The alien was pleased. He now decided to refer to himself by the doctor’s middle name, Burton. He had quickly made a copy of every memory and experience in the good doctor’s brain and stored it in his own. The doctor would remain unaffected.

Now Burton could speak the language and understand the customs and behaviour of the natives. (Or so he thought.) He had also made himself look like the doctor. He decided that might not be completely wise. As Burton walked down 7th Avenue, he looked closely at people’s bodies and faces and incorporated changes into his own visage so that he looked essentially unique, but not outstanding in any way.

He looked into the sky. Still cloudy. He reasoned that there was no point in trying to travel to an area where there was clear sky as there was a good chance of it clouding over by the time he arrived. He might as well wait. And he had no money for bus, train or cab. As a police officer, albeit from another planet, he honoured the laws of any planet he visited. “Well,” he thought, “most of the time.”

Burton had to amuse himself until the sky cleared. What could he do in New York City for a few hours? Burton queried the information recorded from Dr. Cass’ brain. What to do? The answers came back:
• go to a movie
• go to a show
• go to dinner
• go to dinner and a show or movie

These all cost money. Burton could easily manufacture money, but that was counterfeiting and illegal. He queried the doctor’s brain again. What could you do in New York that didn’t cost money? At this time of night. The doctor’s brain was stumped. It could only come up with:
• take a very long walk
• crash a party and don’t offer to buy anyone drinks

Burton didn’t feel like a walk, so he decided to stroll past hotels and see if any Christmas parties were going on that he could gate crash.
At The New York Hilton on Avenue of the Americas many cars and limos were pulling up to the front gate. Elegant women in expensive dresses emerged, accompanied by men in tuxedoes. Burton queried the doctor’s brain as to the nature of the party. The response was a guess that a large bank was having a Christmas party. Since it was a formal affair, it probably was for staff and clients.

Burton walked through the main doors and wandered toward the ballroom. He looked out of place in a trench coat. At the door to the ballroom a member of the hotel staff stopped him. “By invitation only, sir.”

“I was wondering,” said Burton, “could I just take a look at an invitation? I don’t have to touch it. Just see it.”
The hotel man looked sceptical. What did this guy want? But he couldn’t see a problem, so he held up one invitation and showed it to Burton. The alien blinked and thanked him. Burton walked to a bathroom. In a stall, he assumed a different face and changed his clothes into a tuxedo. He modified the molecules of some toilet paper and manufactured an invitation. Since it was a party thrown by a financial institution, he decided to pose as a client. He called himself Burton Cummings, President of Transit Materials, Inc.

He left the washroom and showed his invitation to the hotel worker. The man frowned at the alien. Something was incorrectly here … this guy looked like the one asking about the invitation. Except the first man had been black and this one was white.

Burton smiled.

The alien mingled with people and was startled by the hypocrisy. People were being perfectly pleasant to other people they loathed. There was a total lack of sincerity. The happiness of the festive season was mostly a mask. Using the doctor’s knowledge, Burton scanned numerous people and found them to be radically unhealthy, both mentally and physically.

The cause was mostly stress-related and it was a result of seeming self-abuse. Most of the people there were doing tasks and jobs that they thought were either being implemented wrong or were basically immoral. But they refused to state their opinion because of fear of losing their jobs. Burton noted that fear and constant aggravation was a deadly combination.

One couple stood out as two who did not fit the pattern. Burton sensed them right away. The wife was due to have a baby anytime. Carmela was wearing a beautiful maternity dress that was styled better than most normal dresses. She radiated a sense of beauty and fulfilment. Although she wouldn’t admit it, she was feeling smug. Everyone said she was looking marvellous. She tried to keep a sense of reality by telling herself she looked like a blimp.

Her pregnancy had been a nuisance only in the first couple of months. It was turning out to be easier than she thought, considering this was her first child. The other women at the party who were already mothers silently thought: “wait till the labour pains, kiddo.”

Carmela worked for the bank while her husband, Christian, did not. She was responsible for public relations until she took her leave about two weeks ago. When she saw Burton and could not place him as either a staff member or as a client, she approached him and introduced herself.

Burton had hoped she would do this as he wanted to talk to her. His lies were all ready. He was a new client and he said his account manager from the bank was Davis, a man unable to attend the party and consequently unable to call Burton a liar. “I decided to come anyway. It was all worth it just to meet you.” “I’m being drowned in flattery tonight!”

“As well you should.”
Christian had long ago been able to sense when his wife was being hit on, so he politely left his conversation to join his wife.
“Hi.”
“Mr. Cummings, this is my husband Chris.”
They shook hands. “Call me Burton,” said the alien.
“Burton Cummings?” said Chris. “Any relation?”
“To whom?” asked Burton.
“Burton Cummings. Lead singer of The Guess Who.”
“Sorry …”

The conversation picked up from there. Carmela and Chris were astounded by the observations Burton was making about the people in the room. Considering he claimed to have met virtually none of them, his assumptions about each person’s trials in life were frighteningly accurate.

“I need a drink, darling,” said Christian. “Can I get you a juice or something? Burton … Anything?”
“Whatever you’re having,” said the alien.
“Get me an orange juice,” said Carmela. “I’ll be glad when this baby comes so I can drink again. Eventually.” She had momentarily forgotten about needing a clean blood stream for breast-feeding.
By the time Christian got back with the drinks, Carmela was beginning her labour pains. Burton was helping her to a cab and calling for Chris.
“Famous last words,” said Burton.
Carmela laughed. “I guess I shouldn’t have said the bit about alcohol.”
When they got to the front doors, a cab squealed eagerly to the front of the line to pick them up. The trio did not notice the cab had cut in front of other cabs specifically to take them. They all piled into the cab. The driver pulled away abruptly, not waiting for directions.
“You don’t have to come,” Carmela said to Burton.
“Why not? This is exciting.”
“Cabbie. Nearest hospital,” said Chris.
The cab driver sped on, but stopped at a nearby intersection to let someone into the front passenger seat.
“What are you doing?” said Christian.
The new passenger looked crazed. To reinforce this he pulled a gun, saying: “The woman bears a son of God. We must kill that child!”
Burton looked confused.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” said Chris. The cab sped through the streets, heading to a destination other than a hospital.
“Satan showed us the way to the Christ-child! We do his bidding. The child must die!”

Burton queried the doctor’s brain. Dr. Cass had limited experience with Satanists. Burton derived from the good doctor’s memories that, regardless of the veracity of Satan’s existence, devil worshippers were dangerous. Burton was not about to let these fools hurt his new friends. After all, the alien was a police officer, charged to protect the innocent. Carmela’s baby was as innocent as they came.

The cab ride seemed to last forever. Each of the two men held one of Carmela’s hands. Chris hoped it was comforting her. He needed to hold her hand just to keep himself from freaking out.

Burton took a moment to analyse the data. Dr. Cass knew all about Christ and the miraculous birth. But the concept this couple could have produced a second Christ seemed absurd. “But,” Burton reasoned, “how did these alleged devil worshippers know Carmela was going into labour at that hotel at that time? Had they been following her diligently for weeks? Unlikely, as New Yorkers are a suspicious lot and would notice people following them. Especially loony-tunes like these.” A Dr. Cass expression had slipped into Burton’s own thinking.

The alien then had another worry. What if the misdirection of the teleporter was not an accident? “No,” he said to himself. “Impossible.” He refused to believe in higher beings with power like that. He ascribed his strange thoughts to not having a clue where he was in the galaxy. Being lost was documented as having disorienting effects on a person. The cab finally stopped in front of an old run down building.

Carmela’s contractions were progressing quite well.
When the cab stopped, two other men emerged from the shadows carrying guns. Burton analysed the situation. He could not act here. To much room for stray fire. The three were taken up two flights of stairs into a room that had a pentagram on the floor. A variety of animal heads hanging on the walls. It smelt bad. “The woman must give birth to the child lying on the pentagram so that when we cut out its heart, Satan will have it’s soul.”

Burton saw his opportunity. Two of the four Satanists were just outside the door and two had just stepped inside the room. He gestured at the door and caused it to slam shut, breaking two noses. The two remaining Satanists raised their guns, but Burton pointed at their faces and bluish lightning sparked into their eyes. Their now-unconscious bodies rose into the air and sailed across the room into a closet. That door slammed and Burton transformed the door into a wall. The Satanists were blocked in. It would be hours before they woke and more hours before they could break out.

The two outside the room wiped blood from their noses and charged the door. Burton transformed the wood into mildly electrified steel and the men were jolted into unconsciousness.
Chris looked baffled.
“This is weird shit,” thought Carmela.

Burton pulled all the data from Dr. Cass’s brain on births. There was no way they were going to make it to a hospital now. Sterile conditions were important, Burton noted. He raised his hands and the blue lightning emerged, striking the walls, floor and ceiling. Burton took all the matter in the room and rearranged the molecules to meet the standards of a hospital room. The men’s tuxedos vanished and were replaced by surgeons’ gowns. Carmela now wore a hospital smock. All the proper equipment appeared in the room. Burton took all the skill, experience and knowledge from Dr. Cass and delivered a healthy baby boy.

Dr. Cass was at home finally getting it on with his wife and had no idea a copy of his brain was delivering a baby.
The landlord of the building was later mystified by the way the room had been renovated.
Carmela held her son and tears streamed down her face. “I feel like an idiot,” she said, “I’ve never cried for joy before.”
“You’re wonderful,” said Christian, hugging his wife and baby. “But, Burton. How did you do those things? Don’t say your an angel of God or anything, please.”

“Hardly, I’m a lost space-travelling policeman. You see I was on my way to apprehend a criminal and I landed in Central Park instead of …” The alien trailed off. Not because Chris was looking at him with total disbelief, but because he realised he wouldn’t have been able to help deliver Carmela’s child if he hadn’t made a copy of a physician’s brain. There were millions of people living in New York City. How did he happen to pick a doctor? How did he happen to choose to crash a party at the New York Hilton? How did he get here in the first place?

“Burton?” asked Carmela. “You look upset …”
“Well … I … there’s a bit of a problem with probability here.” He decided not to pursue that line of thought. “I assure you,” he continued, “I am an alien. I took a human shape to fit into society while I waited to contact my home base so they could re-route me to my real destination. I need a clear sky, you see.” The couple were a little too stunned to intellectually deal with this.

“Shall we get you, dear Carmela, to a real hospital?” said the alien.
They wrapped the baby in many small blankets and Burton produced for Carmela a coat with a baby pouch.
They decided to borrow the cab that had been used to kidnap them. Chris drove.
Shortly, the sky cleared. And it looked totally unfamiliar to Burton. His navigation equipment, which fit into a watch, took several seconds rather than fractions of one second to orient itself.

“400,000 light years off course? That’s impossible! I was only making a 200 light year jump!” Burton had yelled and consequently frightened the couple, but not the baby. He wasn’t surprised at all.

It took Burton a while to determine at what angle he should fire his message beam. When his communication was received, and return message sent, they had the gall to accuse him of tampering the teleport machinery. Burton sent a rude message back to his home base and told them to fix it.

The cab pulled in front of the hospital.
“I must go now,” said Burton.
“Come here and get kissed,” said Carmela. Burton enjoyed the kiss. He shook hands with Christian.
“Promise you’ll visit,” demanded Chris. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not human or weird or anything. You’re a great guy. Thank you.”
Burton smiled and looked at the baby. The little boy was awake and eyed Burton happily.
“I may not have much choice,” said Burton, scrutinising the baby.
There was a flash of light and he was gone.

Thomas David George looked at the Social Committee Memo and blinked. Had autumn passed already? It was time for the company’s annual Christmas party. He stared at the flickering computer terminal and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. Tom faced the dilemma all company social events posed. He did not want to go because he hated parties and dancing and smoking and drinking. Not only that, he hated not being able to talk to all the beautiful women because they were all married to arrogant men that bought them the best dresses at the most outrageous prices.

But of course he had to go. Not going would be politically unsound. He wished he had a date. Going to such events solo was always a depressing prospect.

The party was on a cold evening. Steam flowed from pedestrians’ mouths and from cars’ exhausts. A layer of crusty snow blanketed the city. Tom had taken the TTC and scurried from the subway to the hotel. He found the hotel ballroom. It was very posh and all the tables were prepared with elegant place settings. Christmas wreaths and garlands were attached to the walls. Tom walked to the cloakroom to dispose of his coat for the evening. The old woman at the coat check gave him his ticket and smiled. He looked at her and noticed that her neck had a scar as if, long ago, someone had tried to cut her throat with a hunting knife. Startled, Tom stepped back. The old woman looked at him and continued to smile.

As soon as he entered the ballroom, he looked for a corner in which to hide. He began to make for a table near the back of the room. On the way he wished Merry Christmas, as sincerely as he could, to the handful of people he knew, including his boss. Many of his fellow programmers had wives who wore newly manipulated hair styles and exquisitely expensive dresses.

Tom analysed the outfits. Each attempted to show off the individual woman’s best physical feature, be it her breasts, legs or, in one case, her shoulder blades. Backless dresses seemed to be the rage this year, striking Tom as an illogical style for winter. His glasses began to fall off his nose again.

Dinner began with the president saying pithy sorts of things about how well the company was doing this year and asking everyone to enjoy the party. Tom wondered what he would say if the company were losing money.

Tom sat with people from his work group. All were married except him. Tom felt like a charity case. He tried to make kind-hearted jokes about employees in other divisions, with the manager’s wife who was a hefty woman with an ample bosom that jiggled when she laughed. Tom tried not to stare.

The meal was awful. To Tom, the food tasted as if it had been replicated from one model meal. There was an absence of compliments on the meal.

The dance music began with Lionel Ritchie, and Tom tried not to gag. The first few songs were slime and Tom sat and watched his co-workers move to the music. Sipping at the glass of red wine, which he had been toying with all through dinner, Tom allowed the music and the gyrating bodies to hypnotise him. His brain began to go numb; he refused to make himself aware of anything. The room was a flow of indistinguishable noises and movements.

He abruptly snapped out of this coma when he saw Marion. She wore a black low cut gown and as she danced, loose fabric swirled around her, enveloping her in a protective field. Tom stared at her short black hair and her sharp features. Tom had had a fixation on Marion of Payroll Systems for many months. They had actually spoken a total of two times — he was more comfortable with e-mail. Of all the women in the room, Tom felt her to be the most personable, but, because of that, the most unreachable. He watched her finish a dance and return to her table. Perhaps the evening would not be a total waste if he could dance with her just once. Her date looked like the jock Tom had expected. The man had an arrogant paunch. Tom guessed he spent Sundays watching football and putting back a few beers.

The DJ continued to spin sludge.

Please, a good song — even a mediocre song, Tom thought. Optimistically he rose from his table and worked his way to a table closer to Marion. The DJ began a 60s set, with Twist and Shout recorded by The Beatles. Tom was fortified. He walked toward her and asked.

On the dance floor he found himself moving like a wooden stick. Marion smiled, aware of his discomfort and began to show him some of the dance steps.
“Move your hips!” He tried.
“Take your glasses off,” she said. Tom had been pushing them onto his face every five seconds or so.

Satisfaction, by the Stones burst from the speakers and something in Tom snapped. His body began unaccustomed thrusts; first he held Marion close to him, then virtually flung her away. He stuffed his glasses deep into a pocket. People the dance floor gave them room. Whenever he could, he pressed his body close to hers, feeling the warmth of her pelvis and breasts. His body jerked and spasmed to every drumbeat. Marion laughed and helped him to twirl her about. The dance progressed in decadence, at least by the standards of the company personnel. As Tom was trying to think of a way to sneak in a kiss, he felt a change. Marion’s boyfriend was cutting in. Tom glowered at him, imagining his death. Marion’s date was not entirely unkind; he had brought with him a member of Accounting to be Tom’s dance partner.

Tom stayed at the party only another hour. He was ashamed of himself for dancing with Marion. And angry that he had allowed himself to need the approval of his co-workers. He decided to walk home. It was about an hour’s walk from the hotel. He slipped away from the party without saying goodbye to anyone. It had become colder outside; the cutting feeling of the crisp air was heightened by a light wind. Tom pulled up his collar and walked faster.

He was red-faced and feeling much more at peace with himself when he reached his neighbourhood. The streets were empty and quiet. He neared the large Catholic church that annually displayed a nativity scene featuring life-sized figurines. He decided to give it a close look. It was odd; he had lived in this area for years, but had never deliberately stopped to admire the figures. As he approached the wood frame hut that held the scene, he noticed that two youths were already visiting. What struck him as odd was that while on appeared to be a Yuppie-child dressed in an expensive wool coat over a suit, and sporting a dignified haircut, the other was a punk, wearing all leather with a band’s death head on the back of the jacket. The punk’s hair was long and blue, with two bald streaks reaching from the back of the head, tapering to a halt at the top of the skull. Tom approached silently.

The punker produced a small canister of spray paint and handed it to the Yup-boy. The figure of Joseph received a blast of red spray paint in the face. Tom had just moved sufficiently close to witness the vandalism.

“What was that supposed to prove?” he asked.
He had expected them to be startled. They turned slowly toward Tom, their movements synchronised. Tom remained still as they approached.
“Nothing,” the punk said. “It means nothing.”

The leather-jacketed one handed a hunting knife to the Yup look-alike. Tom began to step back, but the punk grabbed Tom and held him in a modified headlock. The young man with the knife approached. “You mean nothing.” He raised the knife. Tom bit into the punk’s hand and tried to wrench himself out of harm’s way. The Yup plunged the knife into Tom’s side and twisted the blade. Tom howled and the Yup pulled the knife out and pushed Tom onto the snow covered ground. A pool of red steam spread out, staining the snow.

Tom saw movement from the hut. The Yup was looking down at Tom, hoping to catch a look of horror — or death — from his eyes. But the wounded programmer looked past his attacker at Joseph. The figure was wiping red paint from its face. The Virgin was standing behind Joseph at the entrance to the hut. Confused by a lack of attention the Yup looked over his shoulder and felt a stone fist plunge into his face. The boy’s flesh and bone collapsed. By the time Joseph was done, the punk was fleeing the scene.

It was Christmas Eve. Tom had been out of intensive care for a couple of days, but had not been awake very often for very long.

Tom started dreaming. In his reverie Joseph and Mary lifted him from the snow and brought him close to the warmth of the stable. He could smell the odours of the animals. There were many people around, all quite surprised at how cold it was. The Virgin looked down at him. She looked somewhat fatigued. Then her face began to change …

Tom sat straight up in the hospital bed and screamed. There was incredible pain in his side.
Marion looked a little more than simply startled. “It’s all right,” she said.
The nurse entered the room. “Mr. George, please relax.” The nurse eased him back into a lying position.
Tom was staring at Marion. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
“I brought you a Christmas present … I’m the office volunteer,” she said shyly. In his hands he found a Rolling Stones’ album wtih a recording Satisfaction.