** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- ====================================================================== February 1990 Volume II, Issue 1 Contents Etc... .................................................. Jim McCabe Editorial Cops, Cabs and a Decent Pastrami Sandwich ......... Craig Schlechter ----------------------------------------- Fiction Ouroboros Annie ........................................ Jason Snell --------------- Fiction Trade Agreement ...................................... Phillip Nolte --------------- Fiction ATHENE, Copyright 1990 By Jim McCabe. Circulation: 532 (18% PostScript) This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge under the condition that it remains in its entirety. The individual works within are the sole property of their respective authors, and no further use of these works is permitted without their explicit consent. This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe, using the Xedit System Product Editor. Subscriptions: Athene is available in PostScript and ASCII form, and is distributed exclusively over electronic computer networks. All subscriptions are free. To subscribe, send email to MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET, with a message inicating which format (PostScript or ASCII) is desired. Etc... Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET ====================================================================== Some of you may be wondering just what happened to January, and why there hasn't been an issue since mid-December. After all, this magazine is supposed to be monthly, right? Excuse number 1: Winter Break. I lost a couple of weeks of good word-crunching time while I was away from school, visiting my family. Excuse number 2: The New Look. The PostScript edition of Athene now is greatly improved over the older style, and the changes took about one week to complete. For one thing, I started using a newer release of the publishing software, which was substantially different from the older release. So I had to learn how to use all of its now features, and also learn the new ways to accomplish the old familiar tasks. Those who read the flat text versions will probably not notice too much of a difference -- there is only so much one can do with straight ASCII. Sadly, about 80% of the subscribers never see how nice the laser-ready magazine looks. The PostScript version is the form I consider the "true" Athene, and I start working on the ASCII version only after I have the ps release available to serve as a model. So, this issue was delayed long enough to make it more like a February release, and that's how it will be labeled this time. I can foresee this style of journal becoming very popular in the near future, now that high-resolution printing and display devices are becoming so commonplace. At the moment, I am only aware of one other magazine that is distributed preformatted, in some page description language like PostScript. That magazine is Quanta, a close relative of Athene that specializes in science-fiction-related topics. But there seems to no reason to stop at just fiction journals. It would be nice to see all sorts of magazines distributed this way, catering to a fantastic variety of interests. There is really no reason why this shouldn't happen over the next few years. In any case, here we are today with the first issue in a new volume of this magazine. I hope that, with occasional feedback from the subscribers, we can set a standard for excellence that will help to make this medium more commonplace and respected. Cops, Cabs and a Decent Pastrami Sandwich By Craig Schlechter cs4d+@andrew.cmu.edu Copyright 1989 by Craig Schlechter ====================================================================== It was midnight, and Gabrielle and I were standing on the corner of Grant Avenue and 79th Street. She had the umbrella, and I was soaked. I was standing against a building, but that didn't stop the rain from hitting me. I pushed my suitcase further towards her, to keep it dry. A car in the distance shone its lights on the back of her head, making her hair glow with a bright yellow aura, while hiding her face in shadow. I wasn't ready for this, and the first thing it reminded me of was an image of the Angel of Death from some late movie I'd seen. Then the car drove by, and I could see her smiling, wide-eyed. It was midnight and raining and we'd been waiting for a bus for the past hour, and still she looked so happy, like there wasn't anything else in the world she'd rather be doing. Gabrielle was a strange girl. I'm not talking specifically about her looks, although they were a bit unusual. She had a very round face. Not just the shape of her head, but the cut of her hair, the curve of her cheeks. Even the concave slope of her nose seemed to add to the roundness. And especially her huge dark eyes, circled by round-framed glasses. I couldn't tell you if the rest of her body was similarly round, because she always wore layers of formless, baggy clothes to hide her figure. What I really found strange about Gabrielle, though, was her outlook on life. It was as if she had been in a coma for the entire time between her eighth and eighteenth birthday. Nothing seemed to get her angry. She could get condescending and preachy if you didn't agree with her, but she would never argue. Of course, that's because she would never listen to what the other person had to say. Before I met her, I'd never known anyone who sincerely believed that God looked out for the `pure of heart'. I'm Jewish, and to me, the existence of this kind of naivete in the 1980's is nothing short of incredible. One of the first things I learned, back when I was seven and our pet collie got sick and died, was that life is not fair. That's the cornerstone of Jewish belief. So when I see that someone has written a novel about "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People," I just have to laugh. I remember being invited to a party her roommates were throwing for her. It was her nineteenth birthday, and I had been invited even though I didn't know her all that well. I made her a gag gift. I had taken a "Beware of Dog" sign and switched the letters so that it read, "Beware of God". She loved it. She put it up outside her house, and it's still there. I guess she thinks anyone who tries to break into her house will get struck by lightning or something. Well, the only thing I really remember about that party was that during a lull at the beginning, when everyone else was getting everything set up, Gabrielle said to me, "So, Craig, are you eating right?" I asked her what she meant, and she said, "You know, three square meals a day." I assured her that I was. She said this was good. I was tempted to ask her why she wanted to know, but then some guests arrived and the party got started. So what was I doing there, soaking wet, staring up into the street lamp, waiting on that corner with Gabrielle? Well, I hadn't planned on it. Thanksgiving Break was over, and I was returning to school. My train had gotten into the station five hours later than scheduled due to some blockage on the tracks. I happened to run into her at the station; she had just come in from South Carolina. Her parents had seen her off, and she had brought explicit written instructions on which bus to take to get back to our campus. Unfortunately, her train had arrived late also, and the bus on her list, the 44B, didn't run after ten o'clock. I suggested we get a cab. She said that she didn't have enough money, and it was foolish to pay ten dollars each when the bus could make the trip for a dollar and fifty cents. I couldn't just leave her there, so I said okay, we'll take the bus. The guy at the information desk told us about another route we could take (the 49A), with only two transfers required (the 45C and 44A.) She wrote it all down on that little piece of paper, which I noticed had her name and address in gold lettering at the top. I had a bad feeling as I got off that first bus. The driver seemed surprised that we were asking for transfers. I could have sworn I heard him laugh as he drove off, but Gabrielle assured me it was the sound of exhaust from the bus. And an hour later, we were still there, on the corner of Fifth and 79, waiting for a bus I knew in my heart would never come. I was now certain that the 45C existed only in the imagination of the Department of Mass Transportation. You know, like the Flying Dutchman or something, a bus spoken of only in whispers, that appears out of the fog, then rolls off into the distance. I pictured Charon the Ferryman from the Greek myths, who ushers dead souls across the River Styx to the underworld, I could see him in the driver's seat. He had a blue bus driver's cap covering the shiny bone at the top of his skull. His hand, like a misshapen cluster of Kellogg's Rice Krispies, pointed down the aisle, and a voice like steel scraping steel said, "Come on in, Craig. Plenty of room." "The bus is real late," Gabrielle said. "Yes, it is," I said. Cautiously, I added, "Look, there's a taxi down there." It was really easy to catch any movement on the streets, since the only thing out that night besides Gabrielle and I was the rain. Off in the distance, I could see a yellow car approaching, the rain glistening in its headlights. Actually, I could tell it was a taxi before I saw what color it was, simply by the way he was driving. "Um," she said. I knew what that meant. Every time I even hinted that we give up waiting and find a cab, she refused. She was downright indignant about it. When I asked her why, all she would say was, "If God had meant for me to take a taxi, there wouldn't be a bus route leading right to my door." It didn't really make much difference, anyway. The cab I saw was off-duty. For the past half an hour, all the taxis that passed by were off-duty, or full of passengers. That's the way the city works. The three things in the city you can't find when you need them are cops, cabs and a decent pastrami sandwich. It never fails. I was getting tired of standing in the rain. The only sound was the splatter of water and the hissing of cars in the distance. It would have been easy enough to start up a conversation with Gabrielle, but to tell the truth, I was afraid to. Talking to Gabrielle is like playing verbal Russian Roulette. Sooner or later, you're going to say something that she will find offensive, and your conversation turns into a sermon. It could be anything, from a food that she finds `yucky' to a book she thinks is `blasphemous'. I yawned, and when I opened my eyes, this taxi was pulling up in front of us, nearly running into the lamp post but neatly avoiding it. I had no idea where it had come from. Actually, just calling it a taxi doesn't do the car justice. It was a jalopy. I don't know much about cars, but I can tell a jalopy when I see one. Dark orange rust coated the bottom of the car, like diseased fringe. The front fender was completely missing, and it had taken the headlight with it. There was a huge dent in the back door, and a piece of clear plastic was taped across the window. It had the typical checkered pattern along the side, but the sign on the roof had been smashed off. The driver leaned over to the passenger window and rolled it down. He was a thin-faced man, wearing a ratty sheepskin coat. His hair was slicked back, and two gold teeth flashed out from a carnivorous grin. He had thick eyebrows, and his eyes were set so deep, you couldn't see them. "You two need a ride?" he asked. I nearly burst out laughing. As far as I was concerned, it didn't matter if this guy were pulling a rickshaw. I'd be damned if I was going to wait out in the rain for another hour. Here was my ticket home, how could I refuse? As I opened my mouth, Gabrielle piped up. "No, thank you, mister," she said. "Hey," the man said. "A nice lady like yourself shouldn't be standing out in the rain this late at night. Come on, I'll take you anywhere you want to go." I could see she was starting to stretch her lips, forming the word "No". If she used that magic word, our ride to safety would disappear, leaving us stranded. "Listen, Gabrielle," I said. "It's late, I'm cold and I'm wet. All I want to do is go home. Now. I'll pay for the taxi, the whole thing. I don't care anymore. Let's just get out of here. Okay?" She stood there, thinking. I tried to look as wet and miserable as possible. "Well, alright," she said. The driver popped the trunk open and I put our suitcases in. Gabrielle sat in the front seat, I took the back. I wasn't surprised at the condition of the interior. The seat covers were torn, and graffiti was scribbled all over the back of the seats. There was a plexiglass divider between the front and back, with a small opening in the center. The plexiglass was covered with stains I didn't even want to try and identify. I was a bit surprised that the driver had allowed Gabrielle to take the front seat, but I wasn't going to argue. It was like now, I didn't feel obligated to act like I was having a good time. Every time I saw her smiling on that bus stop, she seemed to be saying, "Aren't you having fun?" After just five minutes of it, I was ready to ask her "What's so goddamned fun about this?" The driver turned around and asked me where we were going. I didn't even get a word out. Gabrielle told him the name of the college, and the nearest major street, and several of the larger intersections near campus, until he said "Okay, I know where that is." I looked through the hole in the plexiglass, just to make sure there wasn't anything vital missing up front, like the steering wheel. That was there, but half the dashboard was gone. Something else was missing as well, but I couldn't quite place it. It wasn't until he started the engine that I realized that the cab didn't have a meter. There wasn't even a CB radio on what remained of the dashboard. So, I said, "Uh, excuse me...how much is this going to cost?" "Oh, twenty-five dollars," he said. That was a little more than what I had expected, but I wasn't about to go back to waiting in the rain for the Phantom Bus 45C. And with a screech of tires, we were off. I had learned my city etiquette lessons a long time ago. Number one was, when you're walking down the street, never make eye contact with anyone. There's crazy people out there who will yell at you if you look at them `wrong'. When I was fourteen, a friend and I were just walking along, minding our own business, when this old man walked right up to us. He started yelling at my friend, "You got a problem or something, you got a problem?" All my friend was guilty of was looking at this deranged man as we walked past him. So, I learned that rule really well. The second rule, and I'm not sure who taught me this, was to keep conversation with cab drivers down to a minimum. I think it's because the less you open your mouth, the less chance you'll reveal that you're just a tourist, that you don't live in the city. This is important, because there are plenty of cabbies out there who will try and cheat passengers who don't know any better. That was why I was keeping my mouth shut, not to mention the fact that being sealed off from the front seat as if I were in a police car didn't encourage conversation. Unfortunately, Gabrielle's from South Carolina, and hadn't even been to a large city until she was eighteen. Right after she fastened her seat belt, which even the driver hadn't done, she proceeded to start up a conversation. We soon learned that our driver's name was Chico. He told us rather emphatically that he didn't work full-time as a cabbie. He only needed to make an extra hundred dollars or so to pay for his car insurance. Meanwhile, I looked out the windshield, and noticed that he was driving on the left side, on the wrong side of the road. He breezed right through a red light, and I saw headlights in the distance, coming straight towards us. I remembered the taxi's broken headlight. The car ahead honked, God knows how he saw us coming, and Chico slid calmly back to the right side of the road, completely innocent, as if he were just changing lanes. Chico was still talking, he didn't even break rhythm. He said, "No, most of the time, I work in movies. I'm an extra, you know, for those action movies. There's this company called Toughs, that's where I work. Whenever Stallone or Schwarzenegger needs some bad guys, you know, some enemy soldiers to kill, they go to Toughs. It's great, I was in Raw Deal. It's just there's not a lot of work right now, so I'm doing this." And all this time, I was thinking, only a hundred dollars for this maniac's car insurance! By now I felt like I was on some demented carnival ride. The whole situation, with Chico the Cannon Fodder at the wheel, driving as if he was the last person alive in the entire city, was almost surreal. I couldn't believe it was really happening. I was expecting to see little cardboard pictures of Mr. Badger and the Weasel gang pop up, like in Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World. Only it would be cutouts of women with shopping carts, businessmen dropping their attaches, all with crazed looks of horror on their faces. That's why I wasn't afraid. I was so sure that any moment, the car would stop, and the doors would automatically open, and we would step out and be home. "This is the turn-off, up ahead," Gabrielle said. I looked out the window. We were almost home. "Okay, that'll be fifty bucks," Chico said. I reminded him that he had said the trip would only cost twenty-five dollars. "Each," Chico said. "That's crazy," I said, "I won't give you fifty." "Stop at the blue house," said Gabrielle. "The one with the big bright light on in front." "You want to go home, it's fifty bucks," Chico said. "Look," I said, "you told us twenty-five dollars. I wouldn't have done this if you had told us twenty-five each." "This one this one this one here on the left," Gabrielle said. "No, man, it's fifty." "Sorry, I ain't giving you fifty." Chico slammed his foot to the floor, and we sped off. "You passed it!" Gabrielle said. "Fifty bucks," Chico said, "or I take you right back to where I picked you up." I really think he meant it, too. I think he would have driven all the way back and left us there, if Gabrielle hadn't been...well, hadn't been Gabrielle. She started insisting that he turn back around and let us off. He shouted back about how we shouldn't have gotten into the cab if we were going to try and cheat him. He was paying almost no attention to the road, just driving in a straight line, away from her house. They yelled back and forth, and I was lost. I mean, I still thought that this was a big amusement park ride, but now with a bigger price of admission. I think that if Gabrielle had kept quiet, he would have gone all the way back into the city and left us. Instead, he turned into an alley and screeched the car to a stop. I sat there in the dark for a moment, still not sure if this was really happening. I looked up at Chico. He was holding something, a dull grey metal thing. "Have to do things the hard way, right?" Chico said. I leaned forward to get a better look, then flew back. It was a gun, and he was pointing it at Gabrielle. "Okay, lady, drop your purse and get out. And you too, asshole. Just throw your wallet through the glass here and get out." He tapped on the plexiglass angrily. It took a moment for me to realize that I was staring through a sheet of plexiglass at a short greasy-haired man holding a gun. My first thought was, is that a real gun? I quickly decided that I wasn't going to find out. The next thing I thought was, is this plexiglass bullet-proof? It didn't matter. He wasn't pointing the gun at me, only at Gabrielle. I've been mugged before, but never at gunpoint. Being robbed by guys with knives isn't as frightening. It's a lot easier to kill with a gun. I pulled out my wallet, and popped it through into the front seat. "Okay, lady," he said. "Let go of your purse." She didn't. She looked him right in the eye and said, "You can't do this. You just can't." "What are you talking about?" he said, a bit taken aback, "I can do whatever I want." "No, you can't mean this. Put that away, you don't mean this." He lifted the gun out the window, and fired a shot like a thunderclap. "He means it!" I said, as I shoved the door open. "Give him your goddamn purse." Gabrielle flew out the door, and landed on the sidewalk. I barely got my leg through when Chico drove off, down into the heavy darkness of the alley. In a second, all you could hear was his motor. I sat there in a daze, listening to it fade into the distance. Gabrielle was going to be furious, I knew. After all, this was all my fault. If I hadn't insisted that we take a taxi home, if we had just waited for the bus like God had intended her to, this would never have happened. Now, she had lost not only her purse, but her luggage as well. I remembered something Buster Keaton had once said, "The best way to fight a woman is with your hat. Grab it and run." I was considering the merits of this solution when I heard Gabrielle start to cry. I looked over to her. She was sitting on the sidewalk hugging her knees, and trying unsuccessfully to hold back her tears. "Oh, God," she said in a shaky voice, "Oh God, oh God, oh God..." She fell silent, and I couldn't think of anything to say. I felt like I should say, "It's alright," but it wasn't alright. We had both been robbed and dumped here, and she was getting all wet now, and it was not alright. Oh, God," she said, and I thought that would be it, but she added, "What happened? God, what happened, why? What did I do?" And then I understood. Here was a girl who had lived such a sheltered life, she really believed God was watching over her. She did all her work in school, and got very good grades. I had met her parents one time when they came to visit her. They were almost stereotypical God-fearing southern folks. For nineteen years, her Lord provided for her, gave her good parents and let her get into good schools, made good things happen. But now, to her mind, God had turned. God let her get into that car. God let Chico take everything she was carrying. All the crime and death going on in the world around her, and none of it had actually touched her until now. I suddenly thought, "About time something like this happened to her. She had to learn what the real world is like sooner or later." And I believed it, but I hated myself for thinking it. She hadn't deserved it. Neither had I, for that matter. How could I possibly tell her that this was for the best, that it was a learning experience? A chill ran down my back, and I shivered. I had to say something. So I said, "Look, there's Center Avenue. Come on, let's get out of here. We'll go to your house, and call the cops." I offered her my hand. She wiped her eyes and looked up. I helped her to her feet. A neon sign across the street blinked, then went out. "How," she started to say, then choked up. She cleared her throat. "How can you take this so...so easily?" I said, "Listen, we Jews have been suffering for thousands of years. In Ancient Egypt, we were slaves. In the Middle Ages, we had the Inquisition. In World War II, we had the Holocaust. This is a piece of cake." She laughed, then looked across the street. There was a deli over there. It was open until the wee hours of the morning, since it was so close to a college campus. She said, "You know, I'm really hungry all of a sudden." I reached down to my ankle. "Rule number three of city etiquette," I said, "is to always carry a spare ten dollar bill in your shoe." I pulled the crumpled bill out, and waved it in front of her. She held her nose and said, "Ugh, don't get it too close, if it's been in your shoe all day it must stink!" "Come on, wise guy," I said, "Let's get something to eat. Just don't order pastrami." Ouroboros Annie By Jason Snell pa1033%sdcc13@ucsd.edu Copyright 1989 by Jason Snell ====================================================================== OUROBOROS: The mythical serpent which eats its own tail, a symbol of the unending cycle of the universe. Where Annie went, it seemed, she left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. It wasn't as if she didn't care, wasn't as if she had no feelings about the men who fell in love with her-- in fact, she loved them, too, in various ways and varying degrees. It hurt Annie, when she left them. It had always been her doing-- she was the one to sense the end before it came, the one who felt life pressing on her back like a five-hundred-pound weight. The end hurt them, all of them, and Annie was always the one who caused the end. It was their pain-- that was what hurt Annie. It hurt her deep down inside, in the part of her heart reserved for love, for tenderness, the part of her heart she treasured the most. At times, it felt like her heart would break. But it didn't. Though it hurt like hell sometimes, she always got through it. Again, and again. She knew the hurt would always come at the end-- but she did it anyway. The hurting part of her heart had to heal, and love was the only thing that could heal it. The problem was that love was what caused the damage in the first place. It was an endless cycle-- Annie loving, them hurting, her hurting, and then Annie loving again. At least, it seemed endless. It wasn't, really. I'm afraid that I was the one who saw to that. There is no such thing as an endless cycle. I've noticed something funny about love, about people and attraction-- sometimes, the people you always expect to end up with you, the ones you @know@ will end up with you, don't. And the ones you don't expect at all, they're the ones that do. It was kind of that way between Annie and I. Have you ever heard of instant attraction? "Love-At-First- Sight," as the movies call it? I was thinking about that very subject when I met Annie. One night I was at a party, talking to a friend, when this woman, fairly nondescript, with brownish hair, walked up to me. I was definitely thinking about love at first sight. Actually, my precise thoughts were: "I wish I could experience love at first sight. Instead, all I meet are women like this." Annie and I didn't hit it off. She was a nonentity to me, and I was a nothing to her. The next week, at another party hosted by the same group of friends, we were introduced to each other. And, several times that evening, we were forced to speak with each other. It turned out that we had quite a few mutual friends. So I got to know her better. And I actually liked her. She seemed very confident, like she knew exactly what she wanted. I had no reason to doubt that. And I noticed something very funny about her-- she wasn't nondescript, after all. She was actually somewhat pretty. And her brownish hair had a slight red tint to it. We were the last people to leave when the party was over that night, and as I walked her out to her car, we kept on talking. About all sorts of things. And, somewhere in our conversation, Annie changed again. It wasn't as much of a physical change, this time, as much as a personality change. When I started talking to her, it was clear to me that Annie knew exactly what she wanted from life. But then she softened. And I saw her as being vulnerable, as being a confused woman with a lot of wide-eyed little girl running around loose inside of her. I guess that's how she does it. Time and again, the softening will do it. I know that as soon as I saw that girl, I wanted more than anything to let her escape from the self-confident wall that Annie had built to protect herself. I got the little girl out, finally, after talking with Annie on the phone any number of times, going out to dinner with her, and spending a lot of time with her. We were good friends-- good enough, anyway, for her to drop her confidence and let me see who she really was. The self-confidence was a part of her, of course. But there was something more. I wanted to see all of her. And, one night, while we were sitting on her couch talking, a beautiful little red-haired girl popped out of nowhere. It was then that I saw all of Annie-- the nervous, curious, childlike wonder of the little girl and the sensual, self-confident woman. And when I kissed her, I felt a shudder of relief come from her body. It was as if the last barriers, the final layers of protection, had fallen away from her. And as they fell, a wave of fear-tinged passion flooded into her. We both clung to each other, like two sailors clinging to the mast of a sinking ship, hoping that each other's company could save us from the rest of the world. In that embrace, we were safe from the world. Nothing could hurt us. It's funny how strange the human mind is. It strives for things it can not have, and refuses anything but perfection. We were looking for perfection. We were looking for protection. And we couldn't have either. My mind went about telling me that we couldn't stay the way we were, that we weren't really protected. It only took a few months for me to realize that we were vulnerable. For Annie, it took a little bit longer. I guess that was the first time that she'd been beaten to the punch by her partner. I don't envy her the feeling of being first to the realization-- it always happened to her like that. But it only happened to me this once. My mind started suggesting to me different ways that our relationship couldn't work. It started pointing out other women, women who were different, women where there was more of a chance of perfection. It slowly became obvious that what I had with Annie wasn't perfect, and I needed to move on. Maybe, if I kept going on long enough, the relationships would get more and more perfect. It was an endless cycle, all right. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. If you always follow all three steps, you'll be in the shower until your fingers shrivel away. I'd be looking for the perfect relationship forever. So why didn't anyone tell me about it then? I wish someone had. I told her. Not all at once, and not straight out, but the exact words really didn't matter. I said things like "it's not working out" and "maybe we should see other people", but they were just words. You're not perfect, and I can't accept that. That's what I was saying. Once I've gone, you'll find someone better. You'll find someone perfect, or try. I looked for the little red-haired girl, and she was gone. I tried to look in her eyes, deep down into her soul, looking for that girl. And, if I found her, maybe I would want to take her in my arms and hold her again. There was nothing in her beautiful golden-brown eyes. At least, nothing that I recognized. The emptiness was a wall, stronger than her wall of self-confidence, and I had a feeling that I was the one who had helped built it. Maybe the little girl was back there, the innocent little girl who didn't know love and, therefore, didn't know sadness. But I'm afraid that all that was back there was pain. Because of me. I was the one who ended it. I should have known that it was coming, and I should have avoided hurting her, but I didn't. How many times had Annie gone through what I was going through? How could she take it? As I drove away for the last time, away from what we had been, I felt that this was the end. I was tired of loving, and I was tired of pain. I was tired of feeling them, and I was tired of causing them. The end of the cycle. So I'm in this dance club, a few months later, and I meet this girl. Nondescript. Nothing special. But we dance, we talk, we get to know each other, and now I'm sitting on the couch in my apartment, talking to her, noticing how beautiful her eyes really are. And I'm praying for a little girl, hoping there's one somewhere inside of her, one that I can bring out. And I find myself wanting the same things, all over again. And I'm planning the same things, all over again. When I find that little girl, though-- what then? Love. Pain. And then, begin again. --------------------------------------------------- Jason Snell is a sophomore at UC San Diego, double-majoring in Communication and Writing while serving as the Associate News Editor of the UCSD Guardian newspaper. He wrote "Ouroboros Annie" as a birthday present for a friend who, according to him, "closely resembles the character of Annie" in the story. Snell is currently spending lots of time studying, and is trying to complete a "cyberpunk" science-fiction story. --------------------------------------------------- Trade Agreement By Phillip Nolte NU020061@NDSUVM1.BITNET ====================================================================== Traffic on the crosstown freeway was a little heavier than usual this fine summer morning. Brad really didn't mind all that much, he would still have little trouble getting through it. A small gap between a Buick and a Toyota became evident over in the passing lane and he slashed into it in an instant with a quick twist of his right wrist and slight lean to the left. He was past the ancient rust-colored Pontiac in a heartbeat. A lean back to the right and another twist of the wrist and Brad had a quarter-mile of open road ahead of him. The speedometer needle was touching seventy-five before he backed off. Brad smiled inside his full-face helmet, it was going to be a great day! These morning rides to work on his Kawasaki Ninja were often the most enjoyable part of the day. The ritual of suiting up in a heavy leather jacket and strapping on a full-face helmet were sort of like getting ready to do battle. For a motorcyclist about to experience heavy traffic, the simile was perhaps uncomfortably accurate. Still, it certainly was a great way to start the day and by the time he got to work, he was definitely awake. "Work" was no longer an unpleasant situation for Brad, since he and his friend Peter had started their own business. They called themselves "Offworld Specialties" and they sold a whole line of science fiction products. Name it and you could get it, anything from old paperbacks to posters to stuffed aliens to Star Trek T-shirts. Most of the their business was mail-order, but they did occasionally have some walk-ins. Both men had been working for the same agricultural chemical firm when they met and discovered a similar love for science fiction. Over a sack lunch one day they had dreamed up the idea for a short line of products with a science fiction theme. It started out as a mind game but, within a month, they had decided to go ahead with a modest ad in one of the fanzines. A year later they had both quit their regular jobs and were devoting a full- time effort to their fledgling enterprise. The money wasn't nearly as good as their previous jobs had been but the business was their's and it did seem to be growing. Neither man regretted his decision. Brad could see Peter's battered old Chevette already parked outside the ancient building in downtown St. Paul that Offworld Specialties called home. Two different philosophies: Peter got up a little earlier than most people and drove sedately through light traffic to get to work, while Brad lounged around in bed, got up at the last minute and rocketed to work dicing with traffic all the way. He pulled the big bike inside the building through the open overhead door in front. After a couple of blips on the throttle he shut it off, put down the sidestand and dismounted. He unstrapped and then removed his helmet as he left the garage area and entered the main building. "Good morning," he called out as he set his helmet down and removed his leather jacket. Peter's muffled voice came out from somewhere in back. "Finally decided to come to work, huh?" "Jesus, Pete, are you in the can again?" Brad said, smiling, amusement in his voice. "Just get started on that pile of mail orders and don't be so damned worried about my bodily functions!" Peter replied, with mock anger. Brad chuckled and moved to comply. There was a satisfyingly large mound of letters on the long table that they used for handling orders. Each letter contained an order and, more to the point, a check or cash. Brad smiled, it was a great job, kind of like Christmas every day! He had gotten through three of them when Peter finally came out of the john. "That's better," he sighed. "Mornin', Brad." The men were both in their mid-thirties. At six feet, Peter was at least half-a-head taller than his friend. The dissimilarities didn't end there. Peter Breck was slender with an unruly shock of blond hair and a pair of ice-blue eyes that reflected his Scandinavian heritage. In contrast, Brad Weller was stocky and muscular with dark-brown hair and green eyes. "Isn't it about time for some coffee yet?" asked Brad. "You bet! Julie put some on, it should be done drippin' about now." replied Peter. "Besides we've got some business to discuss." "What kind of business?" But Peter wouldn't say any more until they each had a cup of coffee and had sat down. He set a medium-sized cardboard box down on the table between them. "I got a phone call yesterday," he began. "It was from some character who claims that his firm can supply us with all of the products that we have right now at about half the price we're paying." "Sounds like bullshit to me," said Brad. "It gets better," his friend replied. "Not only will they be cheaper, the guy said the quality would be better too." "Really," said Brad. "Let me guess. Is that what's in this box?" "Yup!" "Well, what have we got to lose? Let's take a look." Peter cut the tape along the seams and filled Brad in on a few more details. "He said his company could supply some of the items in our little mailer catalog right now. We could expect samples of those products today. He wants us to compare them to our present stuff." He fished around inside the box. "Hey wow! Take a look at this." He held up a Star Wars T-shirt. At first glance, it looked exactly like the ones that Offworld Specialties were selling. A closer examination revealed that the fabric was subtly softer and shiner than their current product and the colors in the transfer were much more vivid. "This looks like nice stuff!" said Brad, taking his turn at rummaging around in the box. "Oh my! What have we here?" He grabbed it and pulled it out. What they had there was the new version of their dashboard blaster. Their present blaster looked a lot like a radar- detector. It was a black rectangular box with some buttons on the front of it and there was a suction cup that mounted it to the dash of the customer's car. If the customer was stuck in traffic or pissed off at some idiot at a stoplight, he could vent his frustrations by pretending to blast the perpetrator into the next galaxy. It was powered by flashlight batteries and, in actuality, all that it did was make some nifty sound effects. It wasn't a big seller but at $19.95 they made just over eight dollars on each one they sold. The new product looked like nothing more than an old-fashioned, art-deco ray gun with an outlandishly large cross-hair sight on the back of it. It was made of a very tough-looking plastic and the quality of the fit and finish was excellent. There were several other new versions of their wares in the box; each had some noticeable improvement over the old. "What kind of prices did he say he'd give us?" asked Brad. "I'm sure he said it would be only half of what we pay now," answered Peter. "It sounds great and this stuff looks wonderful," said Brad, shaking his head. "But I can't help thinking there's a catch of some kind. You know what they say about a free lunch." "Yeah, I know." He put the blaster back into the box before continuing. "Well," he shrugged, "the guy is supposed to call on us this afternoon, around one or so. We should at least meet with him. What do you think?" "Won't hurt to talk to him, I guess. Meanwhile we might as well try the stuff out." said Brad, as he slipped off his tattered University of Minnesota T-shirt and slipped into the new one with the vivid, multicolored Star Wars emblem splashed across it. The shirt felt cool and light on his skin; it was very comfortable. "This feels great! I don't know, Pete," he said, shaking his head appreciatively. "This is good stuff!" The two friends went back to work and didn't talk too much more about their pending business deal. But that didn't mean they weren't thinking about it. Finally, at quarter-to-twelve, Peter suggested that they take a break for lunch and go to the bank to cash and deposit the morning's receipts. "Good idea," said Brad. "Shall we take the bike or the Chevette?" "The bike or the car?" said Peter. "Give me a break! I'm taking the car." Peter headed for the door. Brad stared to follow him but, as an afterthought, he went back for the new products. "Just a minute," he called out, "let me grab that box. We can take a closer look at some of the new stuff over lunch." He scooped it up off the table. "Julie," Peter called out the their part-time secretary, "mind the store. We're going to get some lunch and go to the bank." "Okay," she called back cheerfully. "But remember, I've got an appointment at one-thirty today. I'll be gone by one." "No problem," said Peter. "Just leave the place open if we're not back. We won't be long." "And don't forget the phone guy is coming in tomorrow to fix that noisy line," she added. "The phone will be out for a while in the morning." "Great, it's about time!" said Peter. Moments later they had left the old building and were heading towards downtown St. Paul. Peter was needling Brad about his motorcycle and how impractical it was--again. "You and that stupid crotch-rocket. Damned thing sure is worthless; can't even carry two people and a couple of bags of money!" he said. "Hey Pete, ease up a bit, would you," said Brad. "I used to be a lot worse. At least I gave up road racing when I got married. Look, the bike is my one indulgence, and I couldn't afford a Ferrari, Okay? Besides, I take great pleasure in knowing that my Ninja will kick the ass of any Ferrari or Porsche or Corvette made. You know what, Pete? That bike's the closest thing to an x-wing fighter on the planet." "X-wing fighter?" asked Peter, dubiously. "You remember the scenes in 'Star Trek' and 'Star Wars' when they make the jump to warp speed?" asked Brad. Peter nodded but still looked puzzled. "Well, that's about how it feels to twist the throttle on that Ninja. Zero-to-Sixty in less than three seconds, quarter-mile in eleven flat, top speed one-sixty-plus! You bet, Peter, it's the starship of the 1980's! And I own one!" Peter smiled and shook his head. "You're an incurable motorhead!" he said. It didn't matter, they had had the same or a similar conversation a hundred times before and, as usual, it was all just good-natured banter. Each man had his own turf and each respected the other's opinion, even though that opinion might be radically different from his own. No doubt this was one of the reasons that their friendship had worked so well. It was a good cornerstone upon which to build a successful business. Lunch was a quick soup and sandwich at the Center Street Deli. They took the opportunity to play around with some more of the potentially new products in the box. Brad was especially enamored with the stuffed animals. They were cute, cuddly and seemingly covered with real fur! Peter liked the little dragon with the ivory (?) teeth and the incredible iridescent skin. Neither man had any doubts, it was all first-rate merchandise. Lunch was followed by a trip to the First National Bank to deposit the fifty or sixty checks that had come in that morning. By 12:45, the two friends were on their way back to work. As usual, the downtown traffic during the noon hour was heavy and slow-moving. The poor little Chevette was so underpowered and sluggish that they were more-or-less at the mercy of the slowest vehicles on the road--mostly more. Finally they got stuck behind a UPS van that was double-parked to make a delivery. Not a soul traveling in the middle lane had the common courtesy to let them get around the van and so there they sat until the driver came sauntering out and moved it. Brad shook his fist and hollered at the guy out the window. The driver just smiled and flipped him off. Brad was furious! Two blocks later the Chevette was stopped for a red light. Across the intersection they saw the van stop and the driver get out and go into a store. Again the van was double-parked. "I'll fix that son-of-a-bitch!" said Brad. He fished around in the cardboard box. "I'm gonna blast his sorry ass!" He quickly found the new blaster, dusted off a spot on the dashboard with his elbow and licked the suction cup to mount it. After a brief examination, he flipped a switch on the side of the Buck Rogers-looking ray gun, centered the back of the van in the outsized crosshairs and pulled the trigger. To his utter shock and amazement a blue beam the size of a pencil shot out of the gun. "Ka-wummp!" With a loud report that shook the ground, the back of the UPS van jumped two feet off the street and went up in a searing ball of blue-white flame! The two friends looked at each other in horrified shock. "Let's get the hell out of here!" shouted Brad. Peter, his face white as death, complied by turning right and flooring the accelerator. Mercifully, it was only a short distance, maybe five or six blocks, back to the store. Brad rocketed out of the car as they arrived and opened the overhead door. With a quick glance up and down the street, Peter pulled the car inside, barely missing the big Kawasaki, and Brad pulled the door shut. Peter, still shaking, got out of the car. "Brad, what the hell happened?" He was shouting. "That God-damned ray gun blew the shit out of a UPS van!" Brad shouted back, his voice quavering with excitement. "Jesus Christ, it's a good thing the driver was in the store, we might have killed him! Where the God-damned hell did that stuff come from, Pete?" A calm and whispery voice interrupted. "You are in some way dissatisfied with the new products?" Both men nearly jumped a foot off the floor at the sound. They turned to see a short man in what looked like a strangely- styled, two-sizes-too-big, cream-colored leisure suit. It had no lapels and was secured in front by two huge, sparkling crystal buttons. He was also wearing a matching, outsized fedora hat with a floppy brim. A pair of gaudy Elton-John sunglasses added the finishing touch to his outlandish costume. In the darkness of the garage area they could not make out any details of his face. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?" Brad nearly shouted. "Your attractive secretary let me in before she left," the man lisped. "And, as you may have already guessed, I represent the firm that is offering to sell you all those fine new products." There was something definitely odd about him. Brad also had to seriously question the guy's taste in women; Julie was heavy set, had bad acne and was anything but attractive. "Man, you can't sell a functional ray-gun to people by mail!" said Peter. "We're God-damned lucky we didn't kill somebody!" "Perhaps we misinterpreted the purpose of the weapon. From your brochure it was apparent that it would be used to rid the streets of idiots. As you can see, it will be very effective for this purpose. "You're God-damned right it will be effective for that purpose! We damned near killed a UPS driver! Okay, the guy was an asshole," he admitted. "But that's no reason to kill him. Who are you anyway?" Both men felt their knees turn to water as the short man stepped out of the shadows and removed his hat. He was obviously not from the earth, meaning that he was humanoid but certainly not human. Without his hat, he was even shorter than they had thought at first and he was very thin which made the oversized zoot-leisure suit look even more outlandish. His head was hairless and sported a pair of delicate and very ornate ears which stuck out sharply. His skin was light-blue, almost white, and looked smooth to the touch, like doeskin, and his lips were thin around a small mouth. Yet, for all of his differentness, there was no air of menace about him. At that moment, the mouth was apparently in the alien version of a smile. "I am called Roton and I represent the Coalition of Worlds," he lisped. "We are certain that we can provide you with products superior to those you now sell and at a lower price." He removed his Elton-John sunglasses, revealing a pair of liquid, aquamarine eyes. "Who is your current supplier anyway? Is it Deneb? Sirius?" "W-we get our stuff from many different outlets," Brad managed to stammer as he backed towards the door. Peter stood his ground. "Hang on, Brad," he whispered, grabbing Brad's arm to slow down his retreat. "This is starting to make sense." "It doesn't matter," said Roton. "We can still do better. The Coalition represents over a hundred civilized worlds!" He looked at the two friends, seeming to finally notice their near- flight attitude. "What is wrong? I mean you no harm. You look as though you'd never seen a Coalition agent before." "To be truthful...," Brad began. Peter interrupted. "It's been a while," he said. "Why have you contacted us anyway?" "We wish to open new markets for trade in your solar system and your firm is perfect for this purpose. As you can see, we can already provide certain items that you can use by modifying some of our staple goods and certainly there are many products of your world that we can use also. We are very interested in doing business with you but we have to be very careful not to alert the competition that we are here. In fact, we have purposely not used some of our most sophisticated probing devices for fear of detection. Instead, we have been monitoring what you call 'radio' and 'television' broadcasts for some two weeks now and with the aid of a learning booster we have absorbed enough about your culture to communicate. We found your firm in something called the 'yellow pages'. You know, 'let your digits do the walking'! The (untranslated expletive) Denebians would never have looked there!" "Good, good, I'm glad you found us! Umm...Would you excuse us for a moment?" said Peter. "My partner and I have to talk a little business. Have a seat. You do sit, don't you?" Roton nodded. "Of course, my physiology is very similar to your own." "Good," Peter continued, scanning the room for something to occupy the little alien for a few minutes. "How about some coffee?" "If you mean the beverage made by straining hot water through partially burned vegetable matter; no thank you," he said, making a face. "Do you have any Coca-cola?" Peter nodded cautiously, Roton continued. "Excellent! That is a product we simply must have! The aroma, the bouquet! I know of ten worlds where we can sell all that we can get!" Peter got him a Coke out of the small fridge in back and got him settled down in a chair. The two friends went into the office to talk. "Give me the phone!" said Brad, in near panic. "We gotta call the cops, the Air Force or somebody. That's a God-damned alien out there for Crissake!" "Hang on a second," said Peter, grabbing his shoulders and gently pushing him into the desk chair. "This is different! This alien wants to do business with us. I don't know, there must have been some kind of mistake somewhere, but it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that they've come to us, you and me--first! Do you know what that means, Brad? We will be the first humans to have dealings with another civilization!" Brad cocked his head. "You're right," he said, starting to calm down a little. "This is our chance to be famous." "There'll be fame and notoriety, sure, but that's only the beginning. Think of it, Brad! It means new products from over a hundred different worlds and we, you and I, have sole rights to sell them in this solar system! Brad, Brad!" Peter shook him. "We're talking heavy-duty, major-league wealth here! Can you imagine how many people would stand in line to buy something from the stars? And what about all of the stuff made right here on good old earth. You heard him, they want to buy Coca-cola for Chrissake! Coca-fucking-cola! If we play our cards right, they'll buy it from us! We'll be two of the wealthiest people on earth. We'll need dump trucks to haul all of the money to the bank. You can buy that Ferrari...Hell, you can probably buy Italy!" He paused to let the impact sink in before continuing. "Unless, of course you'd rather call the cops or something." Brad swallowed and sat back, his face contorted from the effort of the mental battle that was raging inside his head. To his credit, he thought for only a moment. "You know, you're right," he said, as it dawned on him. "We certainly could take advantage of this situation." Brad had always demonstrated a gift for understatement. They gathered what self-composure they could and went back into the mail-room area to confront the alien. Roton had just finished his can of Coke and was sitting with his head thrown back, eyes closed, apparently still savoring the aftertaste. "Mr. Roton," said Peter. "How do we go about setting up to do business with you?" The alien blinked and brought his head down to face them. "Truly an excellent beverage!" he proclaimed. He looked into the empty can forlornly before setting it back on the table. "It is really very simple," he lisped. "We will draw up a standard contract with you as our sole agents for T-shirts, dashboard blasters and stuffed animals along with some choice products for us from your planet. But that is only the beginning, from there we can go on to some serious business. You might say that the stars are the limit!" he chuckled, a sort of bubbly hiss. "How long until you can have a contract ready, Mr. Roton?" asked Brad. "Just 'Roton' will do," he replied. "It usually takes only a few hours. We could do it more quickly but there are always some special details for each world we deal with." "We've been talking this over and we're very interested," said Peter. "But, I think we may need some time to settle a few things. I think we could be ready by tomorrow morning. Would that be alright?" "Not at all irregular. It will be fine. I shall return tomorrow to answer any questions you may have. We can have a contract ready at, say, nine o'clock for you. It can be signed at that time." "Good, Good!" said Peter. "Until tomorrow, then?" "Actually, there is one more thing," said Roton. "The landing craft that brought me here will not return until tomorrow. As I said, we do not wish to alarm the Denebian or Siriusian competition so we have operated only clandestine flights." "Probably not a bad idea," said Peter. Good, he thought, no one else has seen him. He was even more positive that he and Brad had made a good decision. "Indeed," said Roton. "The question is: Could you direct me to an establishment that will accept a Coalition credit cube? I need a place to spend the night." "Um...There aren't any near by," Peter managed to stammer. Shit, he thought, we can't have this alien roaming the streets! Could ruin everything! Thinking quickly, he came up with a solution. "Why don't you spend the night with one of us," he said, managing to stay outwardly calm; meanwhile his mind was racing. He himself lived in a large apartment complex, no good, too many people. Brad had a nice two-story with attached garage--perfect! They could probably get Roton into the house without anyone seeing them. "Brad would delighted to have you stay with him." "Huh?" said Brad. "Wonderful!" Roton was almost gleeful. "I should tell you that I am an amateur sociologist. I would like to study a human family unit to gain some insight as to how they work. You know, relationships and such. This would be an excellent opportunity!" "Well...okay," said Brad hesitantly, definitely not convinced that it was going to work. "As long as we're going to do business together, we might as well get used to it. Yeah, what the hell! Come to my place tonight. I'll talk to my wife right now. It should be no problem." He almost choked over the words "no problem". Roton got a small transmitter out of his breast pocket and spoke some unintelligible syllables into it. After a couple of exchanges, he announced. "The arrangements have been made. Valtex will come down tomorrow with a contract. And I am free for the evening!" They got Roton another Coke and the two friends went back to the office to call Brad's wife. They looked at each other for a moment, neither wishing to break the spell for fear the dream would end. Finally, Brad broke the silence. "Pinch me, Pete! This has gotta be a dream!" "If it is, I hope I never wake up!" said Peter. "Brad, we're gonna be rich!" "Yeah, and I invited an alien over to my house. 'Gee Honey, guess who's coming to dinner!'" They both cackled excitedly. They didn't accomplish much for the rest of the day. In fact, most of the day's orders remained unfilled. Nancy Weller was a reasonable woman. During the time she had known Brad, she hadn't pushed him at all. In the beginning, she had waited and worried, silently, until he decided, on his own, to give up the extremely dangerous sport of motorcycle road-racing. The worry had been worth it. Since it was he who had made the decision, he had no trouble living with it. Later, when her husband had informed her that he was going to quit a secure, fairly-well-paying job to start up a science fiction business with Peter she had been worried but, again, hadn't voiced any objection. A year later it looked like Brad may have made a good career move. However, she had balked a bit when he announced that he was bringing an alien home for dinner. "You mean a migrant worker, Dear?" "No, I mean an honest-to-God, not-from-this-planet space alien." "What the hell are you talking about, Brad?" she asked sternly, her voice tinged with worry and more than just a trace of anger. "You guys didn't have another one of your famous four-beer lunches, did you?" "Not this time, Honey. I'm dead serious. Believe me, this is the opportunity of a lifetime! Hell, five lifetimes!" She decided to humor him, it had always worked in the past. "Great, what do I fix for supper?" "He says that his physiology is almost like ours. What the hell, make your lasagne. Better make a lot, because he's going to ride home with Peter--I can't bring him, I'm on the bike--and Betsy will probably stop over after work." There was a silence on the line. He added. "I love you, sweetheart. Thanks a lot." They say behind every successful man stands a good woman. By any measure, Nancy Weller was truly a magnificent woman. With her behind him, Brad was practically guaranteed success! Dinner went splendidly. Roton had two generous helpings of Nancy's excellent lasagne and washed it down with a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. No doubt about it, there was trouble brewing. Roton liked Pepsi even better than Coke. Brad caught himself thinking of what a great TV campaign it would make, sort of an ultimate Pepsi Challenge. Move over Bill Cosby, make room for Roton! And he might have been in a gourmet restaurant the way he reacted to the meal. Even before dinner had ended, he had charmed both women completely. The rest of the evening went just as well with Brad, Peter and Roton talking about potential products and swapping stories about life within their different societies. They had a few after dinner drinks. To further their amusement, they discovered that something in the Pepsi, the carbon-dioxide maybe, affected Roton much the same as alcohol effected the humans. The slightly tipsy and very personable alien was great entertainment. Finally ten o'clock came around and Peter announced that it was time for he and Betsy to be going home. Roton agreed that it was time to quit also. Members of his species didn't sleep as such, but they did have a similar state, and he was feeling like he needed to partake of it right then. By that time, Nancy and Brad had no reservations about having their new friend and business associate spend the night. Brad didn't sleep much that night but when he did, he dreamed of two-wheeled starships and short, dapper aliens who looked like Truman Capote. Morning found them all in good spirits with, fortunately, no ill effects from the previous night's activities. All, including Roton, had overslept a bit so they were running a bit late. They served up a normal, midwestern breakfast just like any other day. Roton took a particular liking to Wheat Chex. Brad mentally marked off another product that could make millions for Offworld Specialties. With breakfast finished, there was coffee for Brad and Pepsi for Roton. Brad decided to double-check the morning's agenda. "When do we sign the contract this morning, Roton?" he asked. "Unless I am mistaken, I believe it is at nine." He consulted a cube from his pocket. "Yes, my colleague Valtex will come to Offworld Specialties at nine with the contract. I am very excited. I haven't told you this yet but this is my first assignment for the Coalition." "Your first?" "Yes, but I think it is going rather well, don't you?" "Ah...sure, but there is one thing that puzzles me," said Brad. "Why did you guys pick us to do business with?" "Your's was the only firm that we could find which had some experience working with extraterrestrial civilizations," said Roton. Roton had admitted that this was his first assignment; Brad figured he that owed a confession also. "But, Roton, we don't have any experience working with aliens." said Brad. "How can that be? On the telephone, yesterday, I asked your partner if you were the firm that worked with other space-faring civilizations and he replied 'yes'!" said Roton. There was an edge of concern in his voice. "Roton, we get thirty or forty calls a week where someone asks us the same question," said Brad. "We tell all of them 'yes', they expect it, it's part of the game." "But the name 'Offworld Specialties?' said Roton. "We chose it because it fits with the illusion that we have some contacts in outer space. But none of our customers really believes that we do." "Oh, this is most unfortunate!" said Roton, agitatedly. "It's a kind of joke!" said Brad. He looked thoughtfully at Roton for a moment. "Maybe you just don't understand our humor. That would make sense." A light went on in Brad's brain. "Sure, like that damned dashboard blaster. Ours was never intended to work, it was just a toy, a noisemaker. Your's blew the shit out of a UPS van! Maybe we should talk a bit more, Roton." "You mean you admit that you lied to a Coalition agent?" Roton was really getting worked up." "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it lying," said Brad. "I'd say that you guys kind of jumped to some conclusions." It may already be too late!" said Roton. "What time is it?" "It's twenty minutes to nine," said Brad, looking at his watch. "I'm going to have to leave for work pretty soon." "You must stop your friend from signing that contract!" said Roton. "There are severe penalties for lying to a Coalition agent." "I said I was leaving for work in a few minutes. Surely they won't sign the contract without both of us there!" said Brad. "Now it is you who do not understand. In our society, time is inviolate. If the contract is to be signed at nine o'clock, that is when it will be signed, believe me!" "Look, we certainly didn't mean any harm," Brad began. Roton cut him off. "The last time someone lied to one of our agents we retaliated by destroying the entire planet." said Roton, in near panic. "What!" Brad stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over behind him. "Jesus, Roton, isn't there anything we can do?" The panic was infectious. "No problem, if we get it straightened out before he signs that contract," said Roton. "Otherwise..." "I know, why don't you call Valtex on your communicator and tell them not to sign before we get there!" "Good idea," said Roton, with some relief as he reached for his breast pocket. His face fell as he failed to find the device. He stood up and frantically felt the rest of his pockets. "I...I cannot find it! Let me think. I used it in Peter's vehicle on the way here yesterday. I...I must have left it there! If you remember, I had two Coca-colas before we came here yesterday. I get a bit disorientated." "I'll just call Peter myself," Brad said as he picked up the phone and dialed the number. That failed too. "Oh shit! I forgot! The phone is down this morning!" It seemed there was only one possible solution. He hollered to his wife as he grabbed his leather jacket and full-face helmet. "Nancy! Call the police and tell them to meet the maniac on the Ninja at Offworld Specialties. Tell them it's a life or death situation. Get Roton in the car and follow me down as quickly as you can." He had the jacket, the helmet and his gloves on before he opened the garage door. He had the key in the ignition and switched on before he even threw his leg over the bike. He stabbed the starter button and, as usual, the engine roared to life immediately, throbbing with power. There was no time for the customary pre-ride inspection--the future of mankind was at stake!. He pulled in the clutch with his left hand, snicked the shift lever down into first gear with his left toe, blipped the throttle with his right hand and let out the clutch. The rear tire left a six-foot long stripe on the concrete floor as he launched the bike out of the garage. He slowed down only slightly and took a left into the street--right into the path of a Buick! He ignored the squeal of brakes and the angry curses of the driver as he straightened out the handlebars and twisted the throttle to the stop. Engage warp drive! In less than a heartbeat the awesome power of the two- wheeled beast was unleashed. The bike lunged forward, the front wheel skimming a couple of inches off the street, the rear tire clawing at the asphalt. The tach soared to redline in first gear accompanied by the soulful howl of the big, inline four in full song. The guy in the Buick stopped in mid-curse as the big bike with its obviously psychotic rider seemingly evaporated down the street! With the throttle still at the stop, Brad snapped the clutch in and out while lifting his left toe simultaneously, accomplishing the shift into second gear in less than an eyeblink. The front wheel again lost contact with the road. The process was repeated for third gear. Brad was now a mere eight seconds away from his driveway. His speed was already 102 m.p.h. and climbing. Four intersections shot past, Brad silently thanked God no one was coming! Too quickly, it was time to slow down for the crosstown freeway entrance. After a quick pull on the brakes and a downshift to second gear to lose a little speed, Brad shifted his weight over to the left, "hanging off" to insure proper cornering attitude as he banked the streaking bike over into the curve. The rear wheel slipped a couple of times but he managed to successfully negotiate the carousel onto the highway at just over 70 m.p.h. Brad's heart was in his throat, even in his racing days, he had never done anything quite that dangerous! Race tracks have generous runoffs and hay bales if you make a mistake. On the street there are nothing but hard things and sharp angles. Not to mention cars. Thousands of cars, all crawling along at 65 m.p.h., or less. There were trucks too, big, heavy, ugly trucks that clogged the road even better. Out on the highway, and he was on the throttle again, hard! The Ninja again lunged forward, eating up the road ravenously, like some lithe, hungry, two-wheeled predator. Brad tucked in behind the short bubble windscreen of the sportbike's full fairing as he weaved in and out of the traffic like a madman on amphetamines. The tach hovered near redline in fourth gear as he and the big bike screamed down the dashed lines in the middle of the two-lane one-way road and flashed between a moving van in one lane and a tow-truck in the other. The noise of the wind tearing at his helmet and clothing was all that he could hear but he could feel how hard the engine was working by the urgency of the tingling vibration he felt between his legs and in the handgrips. Brad realized once again that riding a big powerful bike really fast required CONCENTRATION!. Things happen at an alarming rate at 130 m.p.h.! Don't try this at home, kids! he thought, as he shot over to pass a dirt-covered Cadillac, skirting by it by going out on the shoulder. Not surprisingly, most of the people he passed were shocked and angered and were making all kinds of gestures at him. At the speeds he was traveling and in his state of total concentration, he barely saw them. The engine was singing soprano and the speedometer indicating 135 m.p.h. as the exit for downtown came up on the right--fast! Brad grabbed a handful of brake with his right hand. It was like hitting a brick wall. The powerful twin discs on the front wheel of the streaking black and red bike were so strong and the need of the rider so urgent that the back wheel came up momentarily from the force of braking. He downshifted twice, fourth to third to second and coasted down the ramp and out into the street at half-throttle. There was a tiny opening in the traffic; Brad put the hammer down! The warp drive kicked in again and the big bike with its white-knuckled rider clawed its way around a red Dodge Omni and flashed through the tail-end of a yellow light, speed: 80 m.p.h. Just five more blocks to go! Then four, then three...Again the squeal of car brakes from a near miss--unheard. The "Offworld Specialties" sign came into view. Brad again hit the brakes so hard that the back wheel came up off the street. He slithered the bike to a stop in front of the building, slammed the sidestand down and ran inside, screaming for Peter as he clawed at the fasteners on his helmet. He rounded the corner into the mail-room just in time to see Peter and another alien by the desk. The clock on the wall read 8:59. Peter had a pen poised above a large formal-looking document. "Peter!" Brad shouted. "For God's sake don't sign that contract!" Peter looked up at him with a kind of bewildered stare. Brad didn't even stop. He continued his headlong rush across the room and snatched the pen out of Peter's hand. "What did you do that for?" asked Peter. Brad was out of breath from the exertion of piloting the big bike. Or maybe it was because he hadn't breathed for most of his incredible trip--He wasn't sure! He sat shakily down in a chair and put his head in his hands. The enormity of what he had just done, the saving of mankind and the personal risk he had just taken, was beginning to dawn on him. It would be a while before the adrenaline wore off. "We have to talk a bit more about some of the details of the contract," said Brad, calmly. "That is, if we want to stay in business for very long." Within minutes, the building was surrounded by police cars which were full of confused and angry policemen. A short time later Nancy and Roton arrived. The spacecraft on the roof and the alien on the ground were enough to convince the cops that a momentous event was in progress. Besides, they weren't sure who had jurisdiction over the matter. Roton and the two friends made a few minor (but extremely important) changes in the wording of their contract and, with the stroke of a pen, Offworld Specialties really did have contacts with an extraterrestrial civilization! * * * It had been a truly fantastic banquet with delightful and exotic cuisine from all over the Galaxy and the lush appointments of the formal dining room were opulent in the extreme. Red velvet draperies and gold brocade adorned the frescoed walls. The table was covered with the very best Denebian linen and was set with "china" from Sirius's most famous kilns. Around the table, three friends raised their expensive Rigellian crystal goblets in a formal toast. Two of the goblets contained the finest champagne, the other contained the finest Pepsi-cola. "To the first five years of our prosperous partnership, Brad, Roton," said Peter. "May there be many more!" They clinked their glasses together and tossed down their respective beverages. "Where to now?" said Roton. "Oh, I don't know," said Brad. "How about Barnard's Star. I hear they had a fantastic year for Sardinarian Brandy." Roton disappeared into the control room. Minutes later the sleek gleaming starship that was the property of Offworld Specialties came majestically about. After a short countdown she flashed into hyperspace. With her wealthy merchant crew and her cargo of precious goods, the Offworld Ninja was off on another foray as trader to the stars. --------------------------------------------------- Phil is a research specialist in Plant Pathology at NDSU in Fargo, North Dakota. He is also a Ph.D. candidate at the same time. He's been writing science fiction for about three years but has enjoyed reading it all his life. He comments, "I got interested in the writing end because of the many disappointments I've had while attending science fiction movies and coming away wondering how they could have spent so much money on actors and special effects, and so damned little on a decent story!" This story marks Phil's second ap- pearance in Athene. --------------------------------------------------- QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. 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