Episode #29: The Third Eye

Hell...the eternal fires...the ultimate destination of the damned. Hell...the place forgotten by God and the domain of his fallen angels. Ancient writers from earth described hell as a place of unquenchable and everlasting fire: a place of nightmare beyond imagination.

The ancients, however, never encountered the Orpheus Wastes.

The rogue moon with its Moonbase Alpha colony of approximately 150 people had been travelling through the region of space known as the Orpheus Wastes for several days. The area was thick with debris from micrometeors, creating a mysterious haze. Areas resembling earth type thunderheads loomed in the distance, discharging impressive lighting bolts in the reddish-orange glow of the Orpheus fog. Flashes of light emanated into the viewports periodically and unexpectedly. At times, the haze was so thick, one could barely see 100 yards onto the lunar surface. The vastness of space and the stars beyond had not been visible in days. The area was unsettling, depressing and frightening. Moonbase Alpha would be travelling through this area before re-emerging into "normal" space for another 7 days.

In the expanse that divided the exploding, sub-atomic particles, the spirit in the sky spiraled downward. Cascading past the updrafts of hydrogen, and helium vapors. Heat exploded, and disseminated all around, illuminating something that had no face. Comets streaked by like white missiles. Some exited into deep space. Others deteriorated--the unstable union of ice, and electrochemical leading to combustion. The waste was soon recycled back into the demonic vortex, and another witches' brew was fermented, and then discharged into the vociferous shadows.

Descending, through infinite space, bridging the lower worlds of E = MC2--eventually finding egress into the material realm. Kilometers below, a small blue reference point on the barren satellite hove into view. The downward revolutions continued until the reference point became an indistinct form.

A ruined metropolis, surrounded by rubble, and the unchanging face of the crater walls it was erected in. Cranes lumbered through the pumice, and ejecta carrying I-beams, and pipe extensions, and skids of metal shielding. Orange moonbuggies skidded back, and forth through the slowly forming interior, dragging rolls of insulation behind them. Several humanoid figures in orange environment suits negotiated the almost non-existent gravity, examining the new construction with maglites, and rivet guns.

Passage.... ...through the work area, beyond the lifeless bulkhead of the old section.

Emergence.... ...into a narrow corridor, lined with metal pillars at intervals of fifty feet. The yellow wall panels, and gray tile moved slowly past. Stopping, theorizing, acclimatizing. Then movement--through, and beyond the deadlights.

Marilys Sing was curled up on the plastic bench. In one hand, she held a much-thumbed copy of Boris Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago. The other hand danced across the ivory keys of her Novachord. Atop the cherrywood cabinet was a Victorian print that she had always favored. Father, and son holding Croquet Mallets. The boy's homely, b&w grin was superceded only by the backward, god-awfulness of his nickers. There was a vacuum in the father's eyes. Her slender hand moved back, and forth across the keyboard. The sheet music was opened to "The Brandenburg Concerto" by Johann Sebastion Bach, but she wasn't interested in doing a recital tonight. She preferred to read about the dissonant exploits of Uri Zhivago, while quietly tapping the D, and C notes.

The mindless synthesis reverberated through the soundproofed walls. She broke into gooseflesh as death passed by her, but she didn't know it.

In the adjacent quarters, Truman Starns sat in the oval light of the gooseneck lamp. Before him lay a bad Solitaire hand, and from a deck that he regretted shuffling. So far, he had three pair--four of spades, five of spades, and six of spades. His ego found the brick wall at the end of loser alley. He was considering cheating when he felt the icy sway move past his elbows.

He came so close to cashing in, it strangled the mind with a scream.

In the map room to Launch Pad Four, Yul Ostrog was sitting in the subdued light, drinking a cup of Vegetable-B. On Earth, he wouldn't have given it to his dog, but here he was thirsty, and here it was the only game in town. He caught himself dozing when suddenly, a cool wind ruffled the blueprints on the plotting table.

Beneath the map room, and just to the left of the wrought-iron maintenance ladder, there was an alcove lined with round, plastic tables, and low back chairs. Pipe chases, moved in, and out of view. Red valves, and needle calibrations blurred, tilting upward. A network of giant ceiling fans began to rotate, casting animate shadows against the hangar walls.

The woman sat alone at the table. Latent depression ruled over the pretty lines beneath her eyes, and chin. Dark arithmetic danced through her shock of blonde hair. From around the corner, another appeared--male--carrying plastic containers. The frozen gale withering his hands, and penetrating the sleeve of his tunic.

Angelina Verdeschi was expecting Senior Mechanic Bram Cedrix, to tell her when she could get her technicians, Hugo Willet and Ed Malcom, back in technical. She was restless, weary and anxious. Like everyone else on the base, since the Moon entered the Orpheus Wastes, the mood turned from an "oh, this is so cool" fascination of the region to the slowly creeping funk of doom and depression. Angelina just finished comforting Joan Conway, who for no apparent reason burst into tears and cried bitterly and inconsolably. Dr. Mathias was summoned and administered a mild tranquilizer to Joan. She was relieved of duty and sent to her quarters.

Instead of Mr. Cedrix, Angelina was pleasantly surprised to see a man she knew very well and loved more than her life. The pupils of her eyes expanded with delight as Captain Alan Carter approached her.

"Well," she motioned him to take a seat. "I was suppose to meet Bram but I think he stood me up. I guess you'll do just fine," she teased, smiling warmly. "How are you doing?"

"'Buddyroo, these are the days." Carter grinned, sliding 'Ang a cup of processed, recycled, retreated, whole soybean coffee. "She's a 'hottie, and she's alone. Maybe I'll get lucky." He rubbed his palms together for warmth as he settled into the opposite seat.

According to a nearby thermostat, it was sixty degrees within the underground garage. Carter, all shivering timbers, had no idea what was going on with the heat sensors, but he was inclined to disagree.

From where he sat it was cold as hell.

*****

Alone in his office, Commander John Koenig stood by the viewport, gazing at the work crews outside. Koenig glanced at his clipboard, Technical's report on today's reconstruction activities.

Rebuilding the outer shell of Reactor 4...

Final Structural integrity check of Hydroponics Farm 1....

Welding of superstructure of Launch Pad 5...

I-Beam replacement of Residence Building B...

For the last two months, with the 158 people remaining on MBA, minus the two children, every person had given 110% in their various job capacities in the effort to rebuild the base.

As he considered the orange haze, creeping in once again as a fog, he also thought of Helena Russell's warning: "We are not machines, John. We are human beings and we have limits to our endurance."

Koenig was well aware of the exhaustion and now, inexplicably, her recent report in the exponential increase in the number of depression cases and the subsequent Prozac prescriptions. Therefore, he had decided to allow a social, a dance this evening, and to give the reconstruction crews, a good portion of the base, a day off, in an effort to improve morale.

Koenig glanced at the lunar clock. If he didn't get moving, he was going to be late. He had agreed to officiate at the wedding of Marcus Profitt and Clare Bradford and had to change into his "penguin" suit. A wedding at a time like this?!?? Of course, another morale booster. A tuxedo on Moonbase Alpha?!? Koenig chuckled. If it prevented another Prozac prescription from being written today, why not; he'd dress up as Bozo the clown if that would keep another person from sinking into the melancholy that was slowly claiming the people of this base.

Koenig opened the small side door to Main Mission and stepped through the opening when, simultaneously, the yellow alert alarm sounded and the floor rumble slightly below his feet.

"What the hell?!?" Koenig bounded to Winters, as Victor joined him from the bank of computers under the balcony.

"It got us." Ben Ouma affirmed, his face sallow as he gripped the register tape. "Impact area, twenty degrees, south, by forty feet southwest. The epicenter is in the boondocks, just short of Remote Unit-D."

On the big screen, the dust-covered lens of the surface cameras displayed a view from almost three kilometers away. Near Moonbase Alpha's southeastern frontier, a thirty ton bowling ball rolled to halt, just between one of the anti-gravity towers, and a circular, one story complex. The lights inside the barracks flickered, and then went out completely. A gossamer cloud of debris settled around the multi-faceted, reflective surface of the meteorite. Then the surrounding depot lights terminated in a row, and the projection was bathed in the bloody angel fire.

"It tore right through our screens." Bergman said in impending tones. "That's the fifth one today, and they've gotten closer each time. John, we'd better alert Technical Section. We've got to bring those ground crews back in immediately. "

His eyes moved in concise circles, from the big screen, to Winter's control panel, and back again.

"It came in over the eighty-ninth parallel." Winters explained mechanically; not even a scintilla of emotion in his voice. "Our scanners were blindsided."

Bergman looked askance at this, saying nothing.

Pierre Danielle looked on, blankly from the capcomm station. Klaus Rotstein decided that it was time to obtain the renewed NLO Forecast. He walked over to Kate Bullen's desk, and interred himself in a pile of blue, and green flimsies.

"Damn!" Koenig blurted as he climbed the steps behind the controller's desk. He began pacing back and forth, then realized his action was only adding to the tension in the room. "Winters, recall all surface crews. I want scanners at full power." Koenig ordered, then realized they probably were at full power. "Have Petrov prep the laser cannon just in case....and where they are ready, activate the shutters." They would be visually blind but they were blind anyway from the fog of the Orpheus Wastes

The "shutters" were actually plates of re-enforced steel that would move over the viewports. During times when it was likely the windows could be smashed, causing explosive decompression, they would afford a greater level of defense protection. Angelina Verdeschi conceived and implemented the idea after the terrible losses caused by the attack from the suicidal aliens on the purple planet two months ago. Angelina christened them "shutters" after their counterparts on earth, though the modern earth shutter was more decorative than practical.

Victor followed Koenig through the small door into his office. "Maybe I should postpone that wedding and social," Koenig murmured under his breath.

Victor shook his head. "No, John. What difference would it make in terms of the safety of the base? None. The difference is in the people..." Bergman drifted off pensively, watching the shutters for the Command Office rise into position, blocking out the fog beyond.

"You're right, Victor," Koenig sat, scratching the stubble on his chin. He realized he hadn't shaved that day either. "You're absolutely right."

*****

Paul Morrow was a rather tall man, short in comparison to Commander Koenig with brown hair and eyes, and a nicely trimmed moustache. Fixing his tie he felt uncomfortable being out of uniform, but his best friend Marcus Profitt was going to be married today and he wanted to look his best as the best man. Hearing the alarm going off on his comlock, he went out the door to pick up Sandra Benes. Walking down the corridor he soon found himself in front of Sandra's quarters. Straightening his jacket he pushed the door chime, and was surprised to see her in a beautiful light pink dress. Her hair was nicely done, and she smelled wonderful to him as he held out his hand to escort her to the wedding. She smiled at him.

"You look lovely, Sandra" he replied his eyes twinkling at her .

"You look handsome Paul, and I like the suit" she replied to him as he took her arm.

Walking down the corridor they turned the corner and could hear the excitement coming from the room for the ceremony. Taking in a deep breath, Paul escorted her into the room that was a little crowded. Paul was thankful when he saw Commander Koenig also wearing a suit and the others in civilian clothing. Patting Sandra's arm he smiled and watched as she headed over to the group of women who had gathered in a circle near the punch bowl.

Paul went over to where the men were now standing, hands in their pants pockets. "Well Marcus are you ready to attach the so-called ball and chain?" Paul asked chuckling.

Marcus Profitt turned towards him for the day pulling him into a bear hug. "I'm glad the Commander let you off to be my best man today. Hope it did not cost you alot" Marcus replied jokingly.

John Koenig standing next to Marcus and Paul smiled widely. "Well in a way yes it did. He has to pull night shift duty for the next three nights" Koenig replied pointing his finger at Paul's chest.

"Yeah , that maybe true Commander, but I would not miss this for the world" replied Paul. They all tried to show as much normal behavior in their lives as possible considering their uncertain futures since Breakaway.

Koenig looked around the room. "Attention, everyone, I believe it is time to begin," as Clare Bradford excitedly grabbed Marcus Profitt's hand and moved into position in front of the Commander.

*****

Angelina Vereschi's office was on the first floor of the Main Mission tower, adjacent to the broad, expansive, technical complex--the largest building on Moonbase Alpha. Michelle Cranston nodded to Jim Haines, and Claude Murneau as she entered the brightly lit reception area. And Murneau was unfriendly. She sat on one of the foam couches, between two prints. The first was an extreme close-up of the original, French made, internal combustion engine. The second was of an eighteenth-century diode being lit on a 2' X 4' cut from cedar wood.

She waited for about ten minutes, entranced by the salt-water tank in the center of the room. Two philipino tomato clowns battled for supremacy over a fake castle. Its dimensions were such that neither of the combatants could ever fit inside.

But so it goes.

"I'll just leave these on her desk." She told Carolyn Kennedy, leaning over the cubicle. Kennedy, who looked like she hadn't had a decent nights sleep in over a year, nodded over her dark circles. Cranston carried the bundle of supply projections through the open office door. She never noticed that the door closed quietly, and immediately behind her. She laid the sealed package on top of the desk blotter next to 'Ang's laptop computer.

She felt the iciness in her hands first. The moment she touched the desk, the permafrost edged its way up her forearms, and neck. Her heart began to beat stentoriously. Moments later, scales of anxiety crept up the back of her coveralls. She was about to walk away when the iron gauntlet gripped the back of her neck.

Michelle froze momentarily. Then...she was ticked off.

"Christ!!!" she yelled as she turned around quickly, elbows out to her side in a defensive position. "Who's the pervert?!"

She was certainly surprised when she saw who it was.....

"Oh." Pierre Danielle said, withdrawing his hand, and acting as though he had just been skewered. His head hung low as he dropped the yellow carbon copy to his waist. "I invaded your space."

He felt like an amoebae.

"I...uh...oh.." Michelle Cranston flushed. Her face was fire engine red. Uncharacteristically, she lowered her voice and spoke in a soft tone. She looked up at Pierre, apologetically. "I'm really, really, sorry, Pierre. You did scare me, but I shouldn't have reacted that way."

'Great,' she thought,'the one guy who I'm trying to impress on this rock and I act like a female Rambo.' "What can I do for you, Pierre?" Michelle felt lower than whale dung.

*****

"Is it just me, or is it cold in here." Carter asked 'Ang, setting his coffee cup down. Occasionally, he would look up at the crow's nest. Ostrog was sitting in the darkened monitoring station, staring downward at the panels with a look of unmanageable boredom.

"Well, my sweet, that seems to be a common complaint today," Angelina answered, as she got up and went over to the thermostat. "None of the infrared units are malfunctioning and the thermostats seem to check out OK," she continued, as she pulled a hand held voltmeter off of her belt clip and opened the protective covering of the thermostat. "This one is working too," she affirmed.

Ang felt a chill, crawling up her spine. She shuddered, nearly dropping her voltmeter. Her hands were ice cold. Then, she felt suddenly flush, feeling an explosion of heat in her face as she started to perspire. Angelina had a terrible feeling of dread and fear. Carter had not noticed any of this as he warmed his hands with his coffee, his back to her. Regaining her composure, Angelina returned to her seat. She felt like she'd spontaneously combust at any minute. Then, just as suddenly, she began to feel cooler.

"I'm fine" she lied. The drastic temperature change left her with a headache and a turning stomach. She smiled, hiding her anxiety while sipping her coffee.

"Are you feeling OK? Maybe you're coming down with something."

Angelina Verdeschi never knew just how much Alan Carter did notice. He examined her calcimine features, palms placed carefully on either side of his coffee cup. A physician, he was not, but he could have sworn that her malady had gotten worse, just in the half-hour, or so that they had been sitting there. Her tear ducts were swollen, and red, as were her cheeks. Her beautiful coffee, and cream complexion, now suddenly as white as a ream of corrasible printer paper. Love, and respect forbade mentioning the obvious. The goddamn thermostat was obviously broken. Not only was it cold, it was downright frigid. Even stranger was the brisk, October gale coming from the immense hangar doors. There should have been only the unpressurized vacuum beyond. Stress was no doubt the ailing star of this infirm interpolation. Apparently, the breakroom was capacious enough to support a draft. The handwriting was on the wall--as broad, and as uncivil as any graffiti. The corps of engineers was attempting to build a new reactor, not refit an old one, and not remanufacture an old one. They were building a new powerhouse from the ground up, and it was taking its toll. The tool, and dye jocks in fabrication might be hell on sprockets, and gears, but if they were anything like yonder boss, they were sporting a good case of pneumonia to match the intellectual woody that the experience had afforded them. In the battle of Technical Section V. The Microbes, Carter had pretty fair idea who would win.

"Speak for yourself, cook." He said, extending his right palm to feel her forehead. "You're burning up."

He walked immediately to the bright orange faceplate of the wall mounted beverage dispenser. He depressed the button, and waited patiently for the cup to fill. He returned, and handed 'Ang a full cup of Extract.

"Here, drink this."

Her expression went blank then dropped as she took the Vitaseed extract and stared at it. Victor Bergman was the only person she knew on MBA who would drink the stuff; in fact, he relished it and it was his beverage of choice. However, being handed a cup of the Professor's favorite refreshment was not the reason for her sudden...perturbance.

"Why do refer to me as your wife?" Angelina asked, looking at him intently with her green eyes. "We were never married....officially, anyway."

She looked down at the noxious Vitaseed, her eyes were glazing over. She was feeling about 70%. Maybe she would pay Bob Mathias a visit at the end of her shift.

"Why don't you want to marry me?"

"Ahhhhhhh," Carter said without caprice. The noise emitted by his comlock reminded 'Ang of that incredibly undemanding, and simple-headed Magnavox video game, Pong. After checking the time, the pilot downed his coffee, and turned the empty cup face down on the table. "Drink up, tulip. I have to make a stopover in Main Mission. Afterwards, we can pick junior up, and go have a bite to eat.

"What do you say."

On the south wall of the hangar, Hugo Willet, and Ed Malcom climbed down the maintenance ladder. Willet saw 'Ang, and immediately reversed course--his boots broke the sound barrier, disappearing to the next level in a matter of seconds. Malcom was the wastrel, pausing for a long toothed moment to relish his boss' unhappiness. The moment they made eye contact, though, he too slogged back up the ladder. All the way, he could be heard cussing, and grunting, and wheezing like a stuck pig.

Angelina gave Ed Malcom a sidewise stare when they made eye contact. She could sense that he wanted to gripe at her, but she was in no mood for it.

She stared down at her Vitaseed again, mustering courage to consume it. Carter had uncharacteristically ignored her question. She should have been mad; she was hurt instead. She had no idea what was wrong with her. For the last few days, her emotional state was becoming more fragile.

"I suppose," she replied unenthusiastically. "I have to drop off a report anyway." She drank the Vitaseed in a few large gulps. Now she didn't know if she was going to cry because of his lack of response or from the taste of the horrible Vitaseed that lingered in her mouth, the smell wafting into her nose. Once again she somehow managed to hold back the dam of tears.

She did not say another word to him while they made their way to Main Mission.

*****

On the tenth floor of the tower, John Koenig had committed himself to hosing down Klaus Rotstein with white lava, and adrenalized furor. The assistant clenched his fists, and jutted his snout forward like a jackanapes. Victor Bergman rolled his eyes, and--dismissing himself--made his way towards the computer deck.

"???Are you high???" Koenig inquired politely, pressing his full weight against the desk. It was all he could do to keep from jumping over it. The space between the assistant controller's ears was ex nilo. "!!!First you say ten!!! Then you say fifteen!!! Which is it???"

"It's difficult to say." Rotstein said, the martinet rationalization glided expertly from his tongue. "The contacts aren't stationary. There's moment, and inertia, and...."

His prodigious whining knew no end.

John Koenig grinned. There was a glazed, farewell gimlet in his eye.

"That's fine, Rotstein." He resolved. "When we get creamed by one of those fifty megaton comets, that'll be your epitaph.

"!!!The math was too hard!!!"

He approached the stairs, hands on blustering hips. Winter's cowered like a wildebeest--his shoulders, and groin melted into balls of goop. He could dig it, sensing the perfidious crucifixion that was about to be performed on him.

"!!!Launch unmanned probe ship!!!"

On Launch Pad Three, the ascent thrusters fired jets of blue plasma. The robot separated from its undercarriage. As the fallout settled on the platform, the twin solar cells distended like wings, and the command module moved up, and up, and up--beyond the cyclotron of warring ions, and into the theoretical eye of the hurricane.

Pierre Danielle was watching the big screen, and gimballing the probe with the remote pack when Carter, and 'Ang stepped through the threshold. Carter paused for a moment behind Kate Bullen's workstation to study the departure.

Perhaps the unmanned probe ship could gain them seconds, perhaps not. All Angelina could see as she glanced momentarily at the ship on the big screen was more parts to be fabricated; another smashed up Eagle to repair.

She turned her attention to Tanya Alexander, who was manning the technical station. Ang had stored her report on the main technical section server. She placed her comlock into the docking port and keying a code, downloaded the report to Tanya's desktop. Tanya printed and placed the two-page report in a red flimsy as Ang reviewed it on the screen.

Angelina went to the computer deck to confer with Professor Bergman momentarily before seeing the Commander. She notice Alan talking with Koenig at his desk. Her disappointment from the unanswered question had passed for now. She was too busy to pout. Commander Koenig, who had been brooding, was now smiling rather coyly and glanced over at Angelina. Ang seized the moment to give the Commander her report.

"Care to share the joke?" she inquired light-heatedly as she approached them. "I could use a good laugh right now." Carter and Koenig were grinning like a couple of Cheshire cats.

"Joke?" Koenig reflected like a faithful choirboy, leaning innocently back in his seat. "Why, whatever do you mean, 'Ang."

"OOooooooooo," Carter whistled, wagging a cautionary finger in the commander's direction.

"What?" Koenig asked, with sham confusion. "Is she into control, or something?

"Tanya, Victor, let computer handle it. I need you two in here. We've got some important business to take care of."

He closed the big doors on Klaus Rotstein, who was drifting away from his board again. His offal concentration was going to get them all killed. Koenig was self-instructive enough to realize that if he didn't seek some sort of diversion, the obtuse assistant controller was going to end up with a gainful bootprint in the crack of his smart ass.

He swiveled around, almost devouring his own face with the width, and sagaciousness of his own smile.

"'Ang," He said, fishing. "Why did you ever marry this guy. The only dance he knows how to do is the limbo, and he's not very good at it. Before he met you, he thought it was a sexy morsel for the ladies to watch him do the herky jerky under a bamboo rod.

"Personally, I found it embarrassing to watch. And frightening. How about you, Victor?"

"Oh, I agree one hundred percent." The professor testified. "If he fell on his head it was worse.

"Sorry, Alan."

Carter shrugged.

The whole limbo comedy was lost on Angelina. All she could think, as her expression became neutral, was the answer to the question 'why did you ever marry this guy?'

'As a matter of fact, sir' Angelina thought, 'we are not really married and with all due respect you have just dumped the contents of an entire salt shaker into the wound.' Angelina was marveling at herself how well she managed to fume on the inside yet maintain a blank expression outwardly when she noticed the commander pick up the ceremonial ledger.

The realization hit Dr. Angelina Verdeschi like a truck. She looked from the Commander, to Victor and Tanya, convenient 'witnesses', then to Alan.

"I...uh...Alan?" she stammered. "Are you going to make me a honest woman? Now?" It was now a monumental feat to contain the emotion.

Carter merely took her hand in response as Koenig stood up and opened the ceremonial ledger to page 45. The ceremony was quick, simple and just as meaningful as any cathedral style wedding.

*****

Most of the personnel in Residence Building-D were either on duty, or dancing--elegantly, and inelegantly in the recreation room. Several people had voiced their lemming desire to have the newlyweds be the officiators, shaking hands, and smiling at people as they entered the hall. The groom laughed, and laughed, and said fuck a bunch of shaking hands, and smiling.

Clare Bradford-Profitt came out of the lavatory with a surly gleam in her soft baby blues. She was wearing an laundry issued, white towel, and nothing else. She floated like a nymph across the gray industrial tile, resting her left knee on one of the beige, futurama pretzel chairs.

"When I'm good, I'm very good." The data analyst evoked, beckoning him with her finger. "When I'm bad, I'm better."

"Oh." Profitt said, dropping his cup of Glucose-A.

Then she dropped the towel, and cupped her bare breasts beneath her palms.

What followed was a scrumptious, full thrust boinking. Most of the time, Profitt was salivating like Pavlov's dog. Clare moaned sweetly. After it was over, he dismounted, and held her while she snoozed beside him on the floor. Profitt hugged his bride, and stared up at the hail of fire, and ice beyond the vision ports. A tetrad of square lights reflected against the transparency. While he whispered beauteous promisories to his napping wife, the tetrad took the liberty of entering the room. It floated clandestinely across the floor, up his hairy leg, across the thermal quilt, and along his perspiring jaw line. To the neutral observer, it would have looked like an article of punk jewelry--a lip ring, or a piece of S&M chin art. Profitt relaxed while the Doric columns, and Grecian urns rose from the floor. A blue sun appeared in a noxious, green sky--an abandoned platitude, vomited up by an uncaring god.

His love for Clare was momentarily supplanted by the expression of the day:

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~Sin=? opp/hyp~

The technician's eyelids fell like blocks of iron ore. In his dreams, he boarded the wooden stormbreaker, wearing his yellow, oil skin coat, and hat. The main sail was rigged, the mast turned towards an outcropping of rock shaped like a woman's breasts. His handling of the situation was club handed, and befuddled, and his crew was about to keel haul him.

Then the alarm went off....

*****

Paul Morrow was walking back to his quarters to change into his uniform to go back on duty. Entering his quarters, however, he felt like it was not his quarters: his head began to swim and he felt himself falling down to his knees. With his right hand over his eyes, he soon became aware that there was a bright light that was shining through. Standing up he held his hands to where they would help protect him as if shielding him from the unknown. Slowly the brightness began to disappear and he was able to see a little more clearly. He was no longer in his room, but in Main Mission. Dust was everywhere and wires hung down from the ceiling.

'What happened', he wondered silently to himself as he turned around in a circle. Where was everyone, and why was he there when he remembered entering his quarters? Running up the steps he looked out the view port to see that it was still foggy and there was a strange haze.

'Why can't I remember what happened he thought to himself'. Looking back at the room he noticed more than he did earlier. All the furniture was gone; there was nothing absolutely nothing except rubbish and debris. Running back down the steps, feeling his heart beating faster, he headed for Medical. If there were a problem the answer would surely be there. On the way he found the corridors as empty as Main Mission. Standing in front of Medical he reached for his comlock and found it was missing. Punching in the code the door slid open allowing him entrance. Rushing inside he found it deserted as well, wires hanging down from the ceiling and dust and debris all over the floor.

'Something was terribly wrong,' he thought to himself. Wiping the sweat from his face he left medical sprinting back to his quarters. He was alone totally alone on Alpha. Panic began to rise up in his throat and his heart beat faster and faster.

Entering his quarters he found them to be bare also like Medical and Main Mission. He noticed the flashing light on the CommPost in the room. Walking at a slower rate he punched it up and suddenly there was Commander John Koenig's face on the screen. Pushing another button the screen began to play the recording.

"To those who find this barren place, know that this was once Moonbase Alpha. A home to 300 souls who were marooned here due to an accident from the nuclear waste dumps. It took us away from our home world known as Earth." Paul noticed how old Koenig looked and how tired his face appeared. "We the people of Earth finally found our new home just four days ago when we entered a new solar system. Sending down a reconnaissance team we thought it was what we wanted and needed." Again Paul noticed the look of grief now on Koenig's face. "Unfortunately, when the team came back to Alpha they brought with them an unknown disease, that immediately began killing my personnel,wiping everyone out within a day. Dr. Russell and I are the only ones left besides Paul Morrow who seems to be the only one who has immunity but lapsed into a coma 12 hours ago. My only fear is that when he wakes up and realizes he is the only one left on Alpha. Dr. Russell had us eject everything out into space in hopes it would slow the disease till she found a cure. Again no luck for us weary ones. So to you Paul, I am sorry, we hoped you would have come around before now. Each one of us have faced possibility of death since we broke away from Earth. Yet your death is the worse on imaginable as you will be faced in living a life on Alpha alone. For that I am truly sorry. My only hope is that you find a home and take Eagle 4 with the rations that were sterilized and you will find a new home and some type of companionship. Good Luck Paul." Suddenly the screen went blank, and Paul fell down on the floor to his knees and he began to scream and cry.

Shaking his head, Paul heard the beeping in the background. Raising his head back up he quickly noticed he was back in his room, only this time everything was there. Standing up he went to the door and opened it with his comlock, which was on his belt. People were walking back and forth in the corridor and the bustle of Alpha was alive and real again. Stepping back into his room, Paul leaned against the coolness of his door and found that was one nightmare he never wanted to see.

*****

Velma Hill, Assistant Chief of Security, shut the water off; the bathtub was now 3/4 filled. She stepped into the warm bubble bath and slowly sank back. Velma closed her eyes as she wet her face and took in the imitation rose fragrance of the bubble bath.

Velma was weary like everyone else on Moonbase Alpha. The murder of Dave Reilly still was not solved and Pierce Quinton had "loaned" Velma to detective Truman Starns to assist him. Velma was doing a tremendous amount of research and background checks for Truman both on the psychology of the killer and potential suspects. However, anyone on Moonbase Alpha, except Jackie Crawford and Nicky Carter, was a suspect; Big Dave Reilly was obnoxious, obstinate and obtuse. His record possessed the highest number of complaints and reprimands for sexual harassment on Moonbase Alpha. He was even stupid enough to sexually harass Velma Hill; and act which caused him to end up in the brig for a week, Velma mused.

Truman had chosen Velma because of her experience on Earth dealing with violent crimes and working in the homicide division as a junior detective. She was in a special unit: she dealt with crimes committed specifically against children. The last case she had worked on involved the kidnap, rape and brutal murder of 6 year old Amanda Haggerty of Olathe, Kansas. Halfway through the investigation, Velma's assignment to Moonbase Alpha was approved and she had to quit the case. To her knowledge, the murder was never solved. At times, Velma felt guilty for not following the case to completion, though there were so few clues that it would likely have been filed in the drawer marked "Unsolved: Open".

Velma sank deeper into the tub, not realizing the air temperature had dropped at least 30 degrees. With eyes still closed, she also did not realize there was steam drifting into the air from the water. Velma Hill reached for the loofa sponge, turning her head and opening her eyes.

Little Amanda Haggerty of Olathe, Kansas stood less than a foot away, holding out the loofa for Velma, smiling sweetly at her. Little...dead...Amanda Haggerty, as she was when her body was found. Velma saw her in tunnel vision.

Velma once again saw the bruises and blood on the small legs and arms..... the pale yellow, blood stained shirt, ripped nearly in half through the "Daddy's Little Girl" embroidered writing across the chest. Her face was bruised and caked with dried blood as she smiled at her with bright blue eyes through swollen lips and missing teeth; her brown ponytails disheveled and matted with blood. The small, delicate neck still had the cable, that ultimately caused her death, wrapped around it with the bruises and lacerations prominent beneath it.

Velma could not scream. She could not cry out as the little girl leaned toward her with the loofa.

Velma Hill awoke with a start, sitting up and splashing cold water out of the tub. The bubbles were long gone. She was all alone.

*****

The glitter ball bathed the room in techno-glitz. The four Dolby speakers boomed, and reverberated, causing the loud amp to ricochet from the tabletops. Bram Cedrix did an artsy two-step, and pulled his partner back in. The concrete cracked, and crumbled, and at long last, Carolyn Kennedy found something worthwhile about the act of smiling. Without warning, Cedrix butterflied. He dropped Kennedy to the waxed floor, and slid her over to Dac Capano, who scooped her up, and continued her erudition in the ways of Arthur Murray. Many others formed a circle, dancing around them. Many just stood by clapping.

Yul Ostrog released his saxophone, and approached the mic. His Isaac Hayes imitation was blindingly perfect.

Comin' to ya on a dusty road,

Precisely on queue, Victor Bergman opened up all three valves on his Conn Trumpet. Observing from a table to the side, Kate Bullen shrieked.

I'm a soul man ............I'm a soul man

Pierre Danielle wasted that bad boy base in 3/4 time. He winked to Michelle Cranston over his drumsticks. She was looking mighty fine. At the center table, Velma Hill dragged a reluctant Bob Mathias to his feet, and mixed the two inequalities together: Grouch, and dance floor.

I'm a soul man .............I'm a soul man....

Michelle clapped, and waved excitedly to Alan, and 'Ang as they entered the recreation room. 'Ang was carrying Nicky, who immediately became the inspirational center of the universe, and who loved every minute of it.

Good lovin' I got a truck load

And when you get it, you got something

So don't worry cause I'm coming....

Nicky Carter and Jackie Crawford were the most popular "men" in the room. Nicky reached for Tanya Alexander, surrounded by a couple of other women, and Angelina, handing him to her, mused that would not be the last time her son would choose another woman over his mother.

Nicky was not content sitting. At 10 months old, Nicky could "cruise": walk sideways as long as he could hold onto an object. He had yet to master real "walking" but was certainly working on it. Nicky cruised around the table, bouncing and boogying to the music, beguiling his audience with his laughter and charm. As he went around and around, grabbing female thighs and backsides for balance without a single reprimand from the women, Ed Malcom looked on enviously.

Alan and Angelina were not the best of dancers but that did not matter to Ang. She was having a grand time. The music and the ebullient and festive mood were infectious. It was obvious Alan was enjoying himself as well.

The door to the recreation room opened, and Helena Russell entered, covering her ears against the stereophonic cacophony. She strolled across the dance floor, clapping her hands, and waving to familiar faces. Andy Dempsey, and Ann Delline--the bliss having totally evaporated from their faces--were a pair of corner lurking killjoys. Dempsey stared turgidly into his Fruit Mix. Raul Nunez was attempting to do the Macarena with Dorothy Sullivan. Risque, yes; presumptive, yes; without talent, also yes. Russell tipped a duck-billed cap at them which bore the slogan ANATOMY IS MY BUSINESS.

The door to the recreation room opened, and in stepped the ghost. The bright fluorescence in the corridor became ashen. The glare returned just before the hatch closed again.

"How are things upstairs." Bergman asked Russell during the rift.

"So far, so good." The physician said, looking around. "John's keeping close watch over the scanner, and probe data. I just came down to say 'hi.' I'm supposed to meet with him in about twenty minutes."

Seeing Angelina Carter, she cast a congratulatory smile, and waved hello. Just below her knee, Nicky Carter was walking in dazed circles with his sipper cup. His eyes never leaving a 3' X 3' swatch of barren tile in the center of the room. Gooseflesh sprouted on the physician's neck.

"Can I get you anything."

Bergman shook his head, and on the next bar, returned to his sheet music.

Nicky's bottom lip quivered. He grabbed Bergman's flares to regain his equipoise, while tears suddenly welled in the corners of his eyes. Without warning, he threw his sipper cup at that sterile quadrant of the dance floor. It landed with an inaudible splat, leaving a trail of grape juice in the shape of a pitchfork.

"I've got an idea." Carter suggested from across the room. 'Ang was leaning against the beverage dispenser, and snapping her fingers. "Why don't you, and I go get up to dickens somewhere."

His salaciousness was unaffected by the sudden, drastic drop in temperature. From Comfort Zone 60, to 45 degrees in a matter of seconds. That was when everyone went cold turkey on the hard stuff, and switched back to coffee.

He had purposely accentuated his Australian accent when he propositioned her which, he had discovered a long time ago, she found very erotic. Angelina smiled seductively at Alan, his form and handsome features a visual feast for her.

"That's a good idea," she cooed, "Where do you want to go?"

As she glanced over his shoulder, looking for Nicky, she saw that Helena Russell had picked him up. Whatever had captivated Nicky's attention seemed to be gone now: Angelina, though, had missed the sipper cup tossing but had a feeling something was wrong. Nicky was resting his head on Helena's shoulder, rubbing his eyes with small, balled fists. The doctor was rubbing his back while she chatted with June Akaiwa and he seemed comforted by her.

"Uh, what about Nicky?" Angelina inquired, temporarily halting her display of lust. "We can't just leave him..."

Sue Crawford, and Joan Conway were standing next to the Japanese Maple. On stage, Pierre Danielle caught his drumsticks on the flip side as the quartet struck up "Sweet Home Chicago." Then the Profitts entered, holding hands, and to a stadium round of applause. Stellar Cartographers Miranda Darvin, and Carroll Severance trailing shortly behind. Severance was a Fabio clone. Generally regarded by the ladies as the greatest, to-die-for, drop-dead hunk on Moonbase Alpha, his overall appeal was estimable to that of the Greek god Zeus.

"Cool chick." Ed Malcom proclaimed, suddenly appearing beside Sue Crawford. "Oh, melt in my mouth like Swiss cheese." He articulated his hands poetically. Slapped aghast, Sue's face was an introduction to nausea. Joan Conway grabbed the beach ball by his face, and pushed him away.

Come on

Oh baby, don't you wanna go

Come on

Oh baby, don't you wanna go

Back to that same old place....

"Helena's got him." Carter double checked. "That's the curse of beauty, babe. I can't keep my hands off of you. He'll sympathize when he gets old enough."

After another glance at Nicky, Angelina left quickly yet discreetly with the Captain, disappearing through a side door.

Commander John Koenig appeared through the Recreation room doors and Bergman immediately motioned to him, good naturedly chiding him for being "late". The quartet, Yul Ostrog on sax/voice, Carissa Englebert on sax, Pierre Danielle on drums and Victor Bergman on trumpet became a quintet as John Koenig picked his trumpet up from the case. The Professor was going to sing at this point as the crowd, laughing and talking waited for the next set.

The Commander took the opening notes and everyone burst into applause as soon as they recognized the tune.

Victor Bergman could have been a great Cab Calloway.

Hey folks, here's the story 'bout Minnie the Moocher She was a low  down hoochie-coocher.

The crowd was ebullient...The phantom made its way around the crowd, leaving an iciness in its wake....it was looking for...someone...

Hi-dee, hi-dee, hi-dee, hi

"HI-DEE, HI-DEE, HI-DEE, HI!!!" responded the crowd

Ho-dee, ho-dee, hodee-ho

"HO-DEE, HO-DEE, HO-DEE,HO!!"

Tim O'Connor suddenly felt ill; then, just as suddenly he felt OK. He shook his head, smiling at Eva Zoref and cheered during Koenig's horn solo. Nicky Carter, in an uneasy sleep, shifted in Helena Russell's arms.

Then the wardrobe department entered. Helena Russell shook her head, and blushed as Von Carns approached the stage with a cardboard box. The resident optician handed out Raybans for each of the band members to wear. Victor Bergman looked like a vice admiral in the CIA. Ostrog, and Danielle looked like pistol packing, card holders with la cosa nostra. Koenig flipped his on, and gave an enthused thumbs up, never missing a beat.

Andy Dempsey's jackanapes blurt was half-heard over the uproar of R&B. Ann Delline walked miserably to the wall mounted waste disposal hatch, and deposited the rest of her drink there. He followed behind her, arguing as the doors closed behind them.

The universe toiled on its linear axis. Ed Malcom searched the Moon over, looking for sex, but found none.

Alan, and 'Ang Carter found a closet.

In Main Mission, Klaus Rotstein decided that he didn't really like people. No surprise, here. The feeling was mutual.

Marcus, and Clare Profitt were as happy as they had been in a good, long time.

Ghostface narrowed down his choices, and anxiety spread throughout the room like the Bubonic Plague.

Paul Morrow found a few moments to sneak away from Main Mission to go back to the party as so many others had done throughout the evening. Standing in the doorway he heard the band play and smiled when he noticed Commander Koenig was blowing on his trumpet. The Commander very seldom relaxed and Paul was glad that everyone seemed to be having a good time. It was a nice change of pace for everyone. Sensing someone he turned around to see Sandra Benes next to him also taking a break from Main Mission .

"Well I see the party is still in full swing Paul" she said smiling as she looked over the room.

"Yes it is. Would you care to dance with me before we have to go back on duty?" he asked her extending his hand to her. Grateful she took his hand and they eased out on the dance floor passing Helena Russell as she still held Nicky Carter. Winking at her Paul noticed the look of surprise in her eye to seeing him dancing with Sandra. As both of them twirled around the room Paul noticed the thumbs up the Commander gave him.

Bending down to whisper in her ear as the music stopped and the people clapped.

"Would you like a drink?" Paul asked her .

"Sure but make sure it is not alcoholic I have to get back to my station soon."

Nodding he left her standing next to Marcus and Clare Profitt. As Paul walked over to the punch bowl, a cold icy feeling in the air brushed against him. It was almost eerie, and it made Paul shiver as he stood there. Pulling his comlock from his belt he hit the temperature button and saw that the temperature had dropped significantly. Shivering slightly again he took the punch and went over to where Sandra wrapped her arms around her shoulders as if trying to stay warm. Thankful to see Paul come back she reached out touching his red sleeve.

"Paul, did you feel that coldness in the air as if death just passed by?" she asked frightened.

"Yes, I did and I checked the temperature and saw it had dropped a few degrees. Something weird is going on, I will be back soon" handing her the punch she watched as Paul went over to where Professor Victor Bergman and Commander John Koenig were standing in conversation.

"Commander, I am sorry to bother you but there is something wrong almost an eerie feeling in this room" Paul said to them both.

Nodding at Paul "Yes I felt it earlier while I was playing , are you heading back to Main Mission anytime soon?" John asked him.

"Yes in about twenty minutes Sandra and I both are on break right now. What do you want me to do?" he asked knowing the Commander had something in mind.

"Look I want you to monitor the temperature all over Alpha, if it drops again notify me immediately and send security to that section."

Snickering a little more to himself Paul downed the punch and looked at them both "Our ghost is back Commander?"

"I hope not Paul, I truly hope not, but I won't rule anything out again" John patted him on the back and Paul went back over to where Sandra was talking to Dr. Russell.

"Sandra, sorry Dr. Russell, I am going back to Main Mission you want to join me or stay a little while longer?" he asked her.

"I will join you now, see you later Helena" she said.

"Alright bye" Helena replied as Nicky Carter stirred in her arms ill at ease.

As Paul and Sandra went into the corridor she could tell by his step that something was wrong very wrong.

The Carters returned, smiling and holding hands. Ang retrieved her son, who whimpered slightly in his sleep as Helena handed him to her. Alan Carter was diverted by a group of men where Gordon Cooper was telling a bawdy joke. Ang studied Nicky's face with a little concern. He looked like he was having a bad dream or perhaps was in pain. Michelle Cranston suddenly appeared next to her.

"Where have you been?" Michelle asked coyly, with a wicked grin.

"None of your business, Michelle," Ang smiled and answered good-naturedly. Alan, grinning broadly, would glance at Ang occasionally and wink. "Are you having a good time?"

"Oh, the best!" Michelle answered. "We should do this every week!" Michelle hugged herself rubbing her upper arms. "Geez, it's cold in here, don't you think?"

Angelina wrapped her arms tighter around Nicky. His hands felt cold. "Yeah, it's really weird. We've had that same complaint all day, yet the heat systems check out fine. Maybe you need to warm up and get up and dance. Or some other activity, perhaps?"

She glanced briefly at Pierre then back to Michelle. Michelle Cranston blushed.

Before she could answer, Nicky whimpered followed by a series of moans before stopping and quieting again. She looked out on the dance floor and saw Marcus and Clare Profitt beautifully executing a fox trot, mesmerizing their audience. They were definitely the best dancers on Moonbase Alpha.

Ghostface stood by, glibly observing the mores of folks from the protozoic phlegm. Watching Carroll Severance hug Miranda Darvin was interesting enough to warrant experimentation. The elemental walked up, and parlously "hugged" Joan Conway. The technician's face turned dead white . Beads of sweat hot flashed down her forehead, and cheeks. Her stomach barbed, and constricted from the force of the dry heaves. Her vomit cometh up.

During the lead break, John Koenig honked out a Count Basie tune. Helena Russell stood up on a chair, turned her cap sideways, and pretended to be his USO Girl, hands on hips, and throwing her legs high into the air. Grinning mischievously, Koenig pulled the stir stick from his coffee cup, and nailed her with it. Helena removed her hat, and threw it over the bell of his horn.

He chased her around the room with his trumpet, threatening to goose her to the tune of "The Boys In Company C."

"You're good." Bergman remarked when they returned.

"Thanks, Victor." Koenig smiled, with his arm around Helena, who was getting her second wind.

"Oh, I don't know if I'd be thanking me. You aren't that good. You're better at nuclear physics."

"Your mama, Victor." Koenig rephrased it, and consulted the lunar time. "Listen, I'm due back in Main Mission. Your welcome to stay here, and blow your little horn."

"I've got your horn, John." Victor said dryly, preparing for the next set. Koenig hooped it up, then exited with Russell through the double doors. Carroll Severance removed his cherry wood, acoustical guitar from its case, and took Koenig's seat on stage. The lights dimmed as they struck up the refrain. Severance did his best Eric Clapton, applying careful fingers to the wooden fret board. An easy listening pop progression issued forth. Couples drifted hand, in hand, onto the low ebb floor.

Pierre Danielle handled the singing chores during the slow dance.

My sweet lord.

Hm, my lord.

Hm, my lord.

Severance's guitar pick was a magic guitar pick.

I really want to see you.

Really want to be with you.

Really want to see you lord,

But it takes so long, my lord.

My sweet lord.

Hm, my lord....

Watching the couple slow dance, Ghostface was entranced by the Dolce Vita of it all. Their warmth, and pulchritudinousness. Watching the almost mathematical evolution of their ballroom two steps brought a tear to his eye (or would have, had he possessed tear ducts). It was precisely the rara avis that he had been looking for.

The decision was incontrovertible.

Michelle Cranston, gazing at a sleeping Nicky, was feeling maternal.

"Hey," she motioned, noticing Alan Carter cross toward Ang. "I'll hold him while you guys dance."

Angelina handed the sleeping babe to Michelle. She was still concerned but she could still keep an eye on him from the dance floor.

The Commander's idea of a dance to boost the already low morale seemed to be working. After months of long hours and hard work by all the Alphans to repair their damaged base and their entrance into The Orpheus Wastes, the people of MBA needed some recreation.

Angelina Carter, gazed into the Captain's eyes. If they were on earth, the celebration would have been a reception of monumental proportions: an old fashioned, Italian, Catholic monstrosity of excess type of reception. This dance, not dedicated to anyone in particular but for all of the Alphans, was perfect; they had each other, today, and that is all that mattered. As Alan pulled her towards him, Angelina smiled and glanced at the other newly married couple on the base, gliding over the dance floor like professionals.

Profitt led Clare in the classic, two-step meringue they most familiar with. He twirled her elegantly, and swept her across the room towards a well trimmed island of Sweet Williams. He spoke the words in an honest way, and she responded. The glissade carried them past the bulky, DVD-ROM Cabinet. Ordinarily, it would have been a geanticline eye sore, but now it was part of the staging, and therefore, proforma. They pirouetted towards the row of vision ports, and the furnace of sacramental, rectolinear gases beyond. Clare reheard him.

Alan Carter abruptly stopped dancing, and rubbed his shoulder blades vigorously.

"'Friggin cold in here." He explained to 'Ang, who understood.

I really want to know you...

...really want to go with you...

...really want to show you...

...but it takes so long, My Lord....

It took real panache for Pierre Danielle to keep going. It felt as though some had dumped their Creamy Whip into his jock strap. Carissa Englebert's lips were numb. Yul Ostrog considered pouring the hot coffee over his head, or maybe having some one else pour the coffee over his head. Victor Bergman became disaware of his hands. Carroll Severance--the only other musician who was still performing--was cool as a moose. Nothing bothered him.

"'Ang, what the devil is going on with the heat situation?" Mark Winters bleated from the speakers of her comlock. His intonation was fast, smartass, and accusatory. "The temperature's down fifteen degrees all over the base."

In the background, Rotstein made unsavory snorting sounds.

Nicky Carter abruptly sat up, wide eyed with his lower lip quivering. He became transfixed on Marcus Profitt. Suddenly he let out a piercing shriek that could have shattered crystal, never taking his eyes off Profitt and screaming "Mama!!!" repeatedly. He wiggled out of Michelle Cranston's lap, arms outstretched, screaming with tears pouring down his cheeks. He attempted to step away from Michelle to meet his mother who rushed toward him: and he fell to the floor face first.

Profitt retrieved Clare for the sweetheart's hug. Taking her hands safely in his, he began to spin her around, and around, and around. The stage, and its players zoomed past them in a high speed blur. Kate Bullen, no longer having the slightest bit of fun--lost in the revolution. Alan Carter, mouthing unheard obscenities about some one's mother. He, and 'Ang now holding an inconsolable and shrieking child disappeared into the flash of self rising dementia. Faster, and faster, and faster, and faster. Past the vision ports, and the rows of tall bookcases, quacking voices who knew alot about very little.

Past the Hostas, and the Violets, and the Purple Pear Tree.

Past the library cubicles, and the yellow wall panels, and the crummy commstations.

Clare began to scream, as the dark ferris accelerated.

Past the reputing synapses; past the epidermis; past the pressurized portals.

Cash for the merchandise,

Cash for the buttonhooks.

Cash for the cotton goods,

Cash for the hard goods.

Cash for the noggins,

And the pickins,

And the frikins.

Cash for Marcus Profitt's soul, which was opened up like a can of Hormel Corn, and emptied into a bowl, only to be

replaced by the head with two mouths. His consciousness, smeared against the impossible gravitational forces, a roller

coaster into oblivion that turned his world gray, his world grayand (his world gray)

!!!WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING!!!

But becausethe head had two mouths, it sounded like Bob Mathias saying

!!!DEMPSEY, GIVE ME A HAND!!!

But the piggins, and the friggins, and the melting pastiche, funneling into schizorama feeling because Clare's hand was gone,

and her number was SIN= alt !/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/ SIN= alt!/

I AM BEE, AND BEE KNOWS ALL....

Marcus Profitt's heart, and lungs convulsed like the flares of a resurgent sun. Everything about him shrank to a miniscule white dot, as he toppled forehead first into the vault of reliquary bones.

*****

At seventy-five kilometers, perigee, the unmanned probe flotilla rode the rapids into the throbbing, pleural sack of Orpheus. The closer it moved towards the pulverized, compression of mesons, the more it was subject to the photoelectric exhaust, and the violent incorporation of atoms, whirling their dervish until a head on collision assimilated the sum of each part into the whole. At the remote pack, Marilys Sing listed the probe ten degrees starboard to avoid an exploding shaft of hot vapor. Fifteen degrees port to avoid a super heated outwork of rocks, and Ordovician flotsam. The probe's dust shields were now covered with oxidized sand. The stack antennae looked like a melting flag pole. The L/V Interface was barnacled with hot metal conglomerates that spread out from the main in an asterisk shape.

In the Tactical, and Defense Network, every day was a cancelled party. The shock canons near the perimeter stations were fully manned. Their barrels were filled with enough conventional firepower to level an entire mountain. The gunners manning the turrets peered through the 100 % cloud cover, allowing the smaller NLO's to pass by; waiting for the larger, Dinosaur crushing, extinction bombs to hove across the sensor wipe.

Above the Main Mission Tower, eruptions of heat, and cometary residue crisscrossed the boiling sky. Lars Manroot pulled the register tape, and considered the results in the cold light of his gooseneck lamp:

NL437...43K

NL1009...69K

NL568762...10K

Not exactly a fortnight away, on the furthest reaches of space, these big, damn rocks.

"Generating Area, give me an update." John Koenig said, seated at the technical section workstation. 'Ang's arguable status report lay dog-eared atop the keyboard "What's up with that power loss?"

Helena Russell stood near the main beam on the computer deck. Somewhere along the line, she traded in her funny hat for a major frown.

"Proximity alert, commander." Manroot appended. "More debris is heading our way. Right from the business end of the Orpheus Effect."

"Sorry, sir, we're just not seeing it." Carter Jackson said over the comm speakers. "From where I'm sitting, the core is stable. Capable of full power. I'm not reading any heat loss."

"I thought we were supposed to be in the eye of the storm." Rotstein bitched to Lars Manroot.

"Electrons can only move in one direction." Manroot retorted wearily from the mainframe desk. "There are hundreds of billions of particles out there. Each one is charged with enough kinetic energy to blow the Moon back to Earth. It's not predictable, it's chaotic.

"Sorry, if that ruins your day off, Klaus."

The commstation at Winter's desk be-booped and Dr. Bob Mathias' face appeared on the monitor.

"Dr. Russell, please," a concerned looking Mathias requested. The cries of a child could be discerned in the background.

Helena Russell bolted toward the monitor. "Yes, Bob? What's going on?" The child's crying was getting louder.

"We had an emergency in the recreation room. Marcus Profitt has passed out," Mathias paused then raised his voice to be heard over Nicky Carter's wails. "Could you come to Medical right away?"

"I'm on my way," as Russell answered with a raised voice into the commstation. "Bob, what's wrong with the baby?" she asked with wrinkled brow. The wails had changed into full tilt screams and were reverberating through Main Mission.

"We're running tests now!! We haven't found anything yet!!!" Mathias immediately cut the link. Somehow, that answer did not surprise her.

"John," Helena Russell looked up.

Commander Koenig nodded as she left the room. He leaned back in the low-rider, plastic chair, shook his head--effectively rolling the migraine from one side of his skull to the other--and started examining the main power grid again. The inch high, jiveass gremlin perched atop his scalp with his pick axe. His lunch break being over, he proceeded to mine for gold again.

"Winters, locate Professor Bergman, and Joan Conway. Tell them I need them in here--STAT."

*****

Dr. Helena Russell rushed through corridor 15 to access a side entrance to Medical Center, straight into the patient monitoring room. Dr. Mathias was standing at EEG and EKG monitors labeled "CARTER"; his face was a mask of studious curiosity. Beyond the observation window, Angelina Carter was holding and gently rocking an unconscious Nicky Carter; red and blue monitor leads from his temple and his chest draped over the sides of the chair connected to the medical computers in the wall behind her. The baby would grimace, twitch and whimper intermittently. Alan Carter, expressionless, was pacing nervously in front of her.

Helena immediately walked over to the monitors labeled "PROFITT". The EKG and the EEG readouts, both current and within the last 1/2 hour did not show anything abnormal. In the observation window beyond Profitt's monitors, Marcus Profitt, sitting up relaxing in bed, was holding the hand of his wife Clare.

"What's the diagnosis on Marcus Profitt, Bob? What happened to him?" Helena asked as she queried baseline brain waves and heart rhythms to overlay on the monitor graphs for a comparison study.

"Absolutely nothing." Mathias said, neatly tucking several sheets of notebook paper into a black, hardcover volume. "There's no record of any diabetic, or epileptic seizures in his medical history. If I didn't know his boss as well as I do, I'd say it was exhaustion. There was some decreased motor activity when he first woke up, but no worse than your average tech-head who's been pulling twenty hour shifts."

Mathias removed his glasses, and capped his ink pen.

"I can run a second neurological series on him if you like; maybe an arteriogram. I think we'll just be wasting our film. Drilling holes in his brain, and stomach is all well, and good, but I think we ought to try letting him have a good night's sleep first. If that doesn't work, then we can pull out the corkscrews, and do the medieval torture thing."

Mathias gripped the tome's glue binding with both hands. On the front cover, there was an illustration of a golden pyramid in the trackless desert. Beside the pyramid, there was a riderless camel, nodding off beneath a palm tree. The overlay showed three blue corneas, with Betty Boop eye lashes, angling to form a triangle. God save them, for the world it almost looked like one of those cheesy, sensationalistic, books on the occult that Time/Life had so shamelessly huckstered on Earth. The type with huge photo inserts, and a semiliterate, totally unsubstantiated text that was printed in sixteen point typeset.

The book's title was in raised, gold leaf letters. The Third Eye, by Robert Spotiswood.

"No," Helena agreed, reviewing the blood work results. "That will not be necessary. I would, however, like to keep him overnight and continued monitoring him." She finished, making a notation in his chart.

Helena did not like "mysteries" in medicine; all tests showed there was no reason for a 30 something man in excellent health to just collapse. Angelina had taken extra steps to ensure her people received adequate time off when they pulled extra long shifts. Dr. Russell did not believe the "exhaustion" theory; there had to be a cause for the effect. Right now, though, she could not even speculate on a reason.

Helena moved to the monitors designated for Nicholas Carter. Her eyes widened slightly when she read the EEG, though, in case Alan or Ang looked in her direction, for their sake, she kept her expression neutral. The human brain normally emitted primarily alpha waves and sometimes beta waves. Another wave type, lambda variant was seen very rarely. Lambda variant waves had been linked to individuals who claimed to possess extraordinary mental and psychic abilities. It was so rare to see lambda variant waves that most medical professionals were only familiar with the pattern in standard textbooks.

Nicky Carter was making medical history; at that moment the presence of the lambda variant wave patterns was nearly as predominate as the alpha wave patterns, despite his unconscious state.

"Good Lord," Helena murmured, perusing the results of the CATscan and, of course, finding no physical abnormality.

"Well, Bob, what do you make of this?" Then, motioning to Ang, who was still rocking the baby and stroking his hair, and Alan, who was still pacing, "Have you told them?"

Mathias was about to ratiocinate when Marcus Profitt took to rapping on the transparency. With his hung over mop, and blue karate pajamas, he looked like the loser in a kickboxing match with Sonny Chiba.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," The physician said adorably.

("I'm leaving.")

Marcus Profitt declared, his voice muffled by the Plexiglas.

"What's that?" Mathias asked, tilting his head. "I say--kind of hard to hear you, old chap."

("I said 'I'm leaving.' I feel okay. Thanks. For the celery sticks, and cheese.")

Profitt's eyebrow raised suspiciously, as if he couldn't decide whether he was being patronized, or not.

"Oh," Mathias p'shawed. "Don't mention it."

Afterwards, he promptly closed the privacy screen. The Welshman was due for an enema in about fifteen minutes. He'd love that. There was no urologist on Moonbase Alpha; at least not in the strictest sense of the word, so they all took turns performing the art. Parker lost the coin toss, so it was his imbroglio. Clare would desire to stay, but Mathias suspected she would find the inner chutzpah to pry herself away for that one.

"No, I haven't said anything, yet." The physician said, coming back around to Nicky Carter. "It's speculative, at best. I'd rather exhaust the somatic possibilities first."

"Agreed," Russell again nodded, now studying Nicky's chart. "I see that he is scheduled for an MRI in 30 minutes. You've also given him the maximum dose of Adavain for a sedative but that does not appear to be helping."

Russell flipped the page of the chart, reviewing the results of the tests so far.

CATscan...normal

Skull series x-ray....normal

Brain thermalgraphic plate .... normal

Abdominal series thermographic plate...normal

CBC ... normal

Electrolytes ... normal

"He'll have to be given electrically induced slumber to keep him perfectly still for the MRI." Helena paused. "It has never been done on a child so young but we really have no other choice, do we?"

At that point, Helena Russell turned toward the door leading to the ward. Alan Carter had step inside; he was not looking pleased and in fact, exuded anger and extreme annoyance.

"What's it all about?" He inquired, politely enough, though his unrequited rage chipped at the dam like a claw hammer. Illuminated only by the lights of the surrounding panels, his face looked wizened, and old beyond his tenure. The look of a man who had grown weary of word searches, and jigsaw puzzles. A sub rosa conversation passed between them, and Helena Russell was reminded not to hand him one. "Why is he in here?

"Hmmm?

"What's wrong with him, Helena? Why is he all doped up? What's up with those electrodes? Huh?" They reminded the pilot of an old B-Movie he once saw called Gorlak's Brain, only it wasn't for chrissake Gorlak in there. It was his boy. "Why is it that you, and Mathias have suddenly lost the power of speech? Under normal circumstances, that asshole never shuts up.

"Are my questions too hard for you? Is that it? No need to answer. That blank stare tells me everything. But there's more to the story. For the past couple of hours, you two have run around here like morticians. You act like I'm one of your psyche patients--too stoned to know the difference between honesty, and a put-up job.

"Well, doc, I regret to inform you, you're wrong. As a matter of fact, I'm not leaving here until I get some answers.

"Decent answers. Not Dr. Bob's smart-aleck bullshit; not Sullivan trying to decoy me by telling me how milk is nature's most perfect food. You're the physician attending my son, and at this time, I demand to know what your diagnosis is."

Carter folded his arms over his chest, and waited trenchantly.

'What the hell,' Helena thought. 'He won't believe it anyway; actually, I'm not sure I'm believing it either.'

"Alan," Helena replied in her most calm and professional demeanor. "I understand that you are upset. Nicky has been sedated because his crying and screaming was so strong, so forceful, that I was concerned he would permanently damage his vocal chords."

"The results of the tests we have run so far do not reveal a physical cause for his distress. An MRI is going to be done in about 25 minutes, but, frankly, I would not be at all surprised if it turns out to be normal."

She motioned him to the EEG monitor. "The problem is his brain wave patterns are not normal in the conventional sense. He is producing the normal alpha and beta type waves but he is also emanating a very rare waveform called lambda variant. These wave forms have been associated in individuals with mental or psychic abilities: paranormal powers."

She waited for his reaction, waiting for it all to sink in.

"Paranormal powers?" Carter enunciated, trying the phrase on for size. He looked up at the ceiling, and counted to ten. An ounce of sanity, teetering up, and down, in the back of his mind, assured him this was a joke. When he looked at the physician again, she would fess up; admit that she was pulling his chain; acknowledge his common sense by justifying her horrendously awful punch line. The pilot had a dreg of sympathy for the head of Moonbase medical. She had obviously become a cold freak in the scuttle for life. She was bereft of a sense of humor, and her attempt to master the art was pitiful, and unhilarious. Helena Russell was weird.

He thought Mathias was a patronizing SOB. In retrospect, Carter didn't know when he was well off.

"Paranormal?" He repeated, grinning fatuously. "Paranormal, as in Tarot Cards, and Oujia Boards, and crystal balls.

"What gives?" He said, waving to Pierre Danielle as he walked by in the corridor. "Are you saying that when he grows up he's going to have his own TV Show--'Crossing Over With Nick Carter.' I like it. Hey, maybe he can help bring peace to some huggermugger by letting him talk to his dead parakeet one last time. At the same time, he can lard the dole on the old man, eh?

"No offence, doc, but your sense of humor sucks."

While the Chief of Reconnaissance was expressing his disbelief in the supernatural and telling the Chief and Assistant Chief of Medical that their diagnosis was full of shit, the Chief of Technical Operations held her son tightly, her cheek against his, as he moaned and whimpered. Her eyelids were weighed down by stress and fatigue.

The mob emerged from the fog. The dark skinned man, hands bond behind his back, pleaded and begged as the beings covered in sheets pushed him toward the tall Cottonwood tree. The leader of the gang threw a rope over the strongest and tallest branch while another fit the noose over the man's head and pulled the knot against his neck.

The man with the noose dropped to his knees, crying, praying and begging for mercy. The gang pulled the rope from behind him.

The man wheezed for air and cried out as they pulled him up, then let him fall quickly, stopping just inches from the ground. He kicked and struggled, as his tongue protruded and his eyes bulged; a river of blood issued from his nose and ears. They pulled him up s-l-o-w-l-y...then let him drop to within one foot of the ground....the sickening "pop" as his neck broke was amplified 1000 times.

The man on the rope and the mob disappeared. A faceless thing in tails and top hat, motioned to her with a white gloved hand.....come...come to me.....

Angelina Carter flinched, wide eyed and disorientated, staring at Dr. Russell.

"Ang?" she shook her gently. "Are you OK?"

Angelina looked up. A nurse had taken the baby, prepping him for his MRI.

"I...uh..." Angelina was terrified. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Just a bad dream...just a bad dream."

*****

Tanya Alexander was drying her hair, and negotiating the open floor between the lavatory, and her living room. A gossamer cloud of cigarette smoke drifted between the lamp post, and her coffee table. She saw the outline against her print of the Grand Banks Of Nova Scotia. Too late, she realized as the claw seized a hank full of her sultry, Berliner brown hair. She wailed in pain as she was dragged backwards onto the couch.

"Sensitive tonight, aren't we?" Sloven said, taking another harsh drag from his Camel. It took a special occasion for him to light up. No gold, or silver jubilee had revived his addiction. He was in a good mood tonight. He just felt like a butt.

He blew it in the assistant controller's face.

"!!!Bastard!!!" Tanya cried. She half tempted to use her bath robe belt as a garrote. "???How did you get in here???"

"Sensitive, and disrespectful." Sloven decided, tapping an ash onto her floor. "You know the score, pie. I've got a purple sleeve. I can go anywhere I like."

In the throw-away, neglected tubes of artificial light, he looked like the millenium's answer to Adolph. The Rhineland, and Munich, both forthcoming. Tanya stood, backing away from the Orwell-loving security guard. He sat poised on the couch, smoking, and eyeing her like a Playboy Bunny. His concern for her concern was half of a half. She noticed disparagingly that it was her comlock he was holding.

"What do you want?"

"What planets are out there?" Sloven asked thoughtfully, all ears, and portentousness.

"Idiot. There are no planets." Tanya relaxed, brushing her hair back with a perfumed hand. "The Moon is in a slow zone. No planets, no stars, no nothing. Just that electrochemical vomit you see out the window."

She pointed towards the viewports.

"Even if there were, why can't you wait to find out? The same as everyone else?"

"Let's just say, I like to be ahead of the game. Would you like me to leave, and never come back." He proposed. The ash fell upon her couch, and broke apart into a billion, infinitesimal pieces. His glare ran quivers along her lonely mid-section. Later, after he was done enjoying himself on her, she would purge herself before the porcelain deity.

"Why?" She smiled.

"Why not?" Sloven said.

"I'll tell Commander Koenig."

"Fine." Sloven nodded, acceptance poured from his gizzard like sweat. "Do it...and I'll let him know one, or two things about his command staff that he also needs to be aware of."

"No. No, you wouldn't." Tanya said uncertainly. He saw her panting.

"Who's your puff daddy?"

The assistant controller crashed against the bench seat from the force of the blow. She slid across the table, and landed on her lower back. Her robe was stained with Vegetable-A, and a cracked cartridge of India ink. When she reported for duty the following morning, she would have a major hematoma on her left thigh, and trowels of foundation makeup to cover the shiner on her left cheek. Bob Mathias would be avoided like an outbreak of leprosy.

Eventually the stars, and the birds, and the pound signs dissipated. When she finally found the gumption to look over the table, the security guard was gone.

*****

Angelina Carter sat at her desk in technical, staring at the 21" monitor as the graph plotted from the data she inputted into the spreadsheet. The power levels were steady. There was no indication that the problem with the intermittent perceived drop in temperature.

The results of the pareto chart for the primary cause was dismal and unsatisfactory: External Forces. This explanation was almost as bad as "Miscellaneous" or "Other" in the world of engineering problem solving. Ang shook her head; the Commander and the Professor would not be pleased and frankly, she wasn't pleased either.

Angelina was alone in the main technical section and it was late in the evening. After Marcus Profitt's fainting incident, she cut everyone's hours back to a reasonable limit of 50 hours per week. Her people, for the most part, were too gung ho in repairing the base, perhaps desiring a return to a sense of "normality." Angelina mused that if she didn't pull the reins of common sense, her people would be dead and never see the ribbon cutting ceremonies of re-opening Residence Building B and Launch Pad 3.

The Chief of Technical Operations rubbed the corners of her eyes. She was worried about Nicky and his diagnosis of "paranormal brain wave patterns." She was more concerned about Alan; he was not taking this diagnosis well at all. Actually, he refused to believe it, referring to Dr. Russell and Dr. Mathias as "those incompetent quacks". Oh yes, he used other descriptive expressions, that were not nearly as kind. She powered down her PC.

As she walked out of her office, the doors from the reception area to the main corridor spontaneously closed. Ang tried her comlock. They remained closed. She tried the key pad on the wall. They remained closed.

As Angelina approached the compost, the "Technical Section" wallpaper on the monitor disappeared and was immediately replaced by static and snow.

"Paul?" She hit a button on the commstation.

No response.

"Main Mission. This is technical. Do you read me?"

No response.

Angelina unclipped her comlock from her belt. "Paul?"

No response.

She started to become nervous. She speed dialed another code. "Alan?"

No response.

Suddenly, all of the lights went out in the room except for the snow and static on the CommPost monitor. The red emergency lights did not automatically activate. The solitary glow from the CommPost cast long shadows on the black wall panels. Angelina suddenly felt an arctic like blast of cold air as the temperature of the room plummeted at least 20 degrees. She began shaking uncontrollably and her teeth chattered as a million and one icy knives cut into her, through her clothing.

Then she heard the footsteps.

"Who's there?" Ang peered into the darkness, as she felt her way to the wall housing the emergency alarm button.

"!!!!Who's there?!?!" Suddenly she felt overwhelming anxiety....fear...TERROR!! "Who's there!?!?!?! DAMMIT! ANSWER ME!!!!"

The lines between reality and imagination suddenly became a blur. She fancied her soul beginning to detach itself, abandoning her physical body, as she felt she might black out. Angelina was certain that she was about to die. Rigorous training from long ago caused her to unconsciously recite The Hail Mary.

The footsteps came closer and closer.....Gasping, she squinted. The faceless thing in tails and top hat with white gloves...beckoning her...

"No," she whispered hoarsely, and turning, abruptly activated the emergency alarm.

As alert klaxon reverberated through the room, she felt a pair of hands slide about her waist. She screamed, as she defensively elbowed her assailant hard in the ribs with her elbow. Her attacker lost his balance, falling backwards and knocking over a cart with a microscope and a box of cross sections.

Angelina, stumbling in the dark, dashed to the door.

"Help me!!! Help!!! I'm trapped inside. For God's sakes, help me!!! There's someone in here trying to kill me!!!!"

*****

"Don't expect me to explain it." Rotstein caterwauled proudly:yet another shovel full of earth onto his ever deepening grave. The deputy's self-involvement was audacious, to say the least. In praise of me, was Rotstein's crux. To the neutral observer, he was Edward, The Great, and Edward, The Black Prince--joined together at the DNA level. The fact that he was riding a wheelchair into Mount Vesuvius seemed a source of great distress to everyone, except himself.

John Koenig almost herniated himself with laughter. Only the temperature bursts from the ion sea beyond the vision ports could bring him out of it.

"Sweet, Rotstein." He replied, his gorge growing buoyant. "I don't expect diddley skunk from you.

"Victor?"

The commander stood drumming his fingers against the technical workstation while Bergman studied the ancient reflection on the big screen. The image was upper blue, and black, fading to moss green in the center, framed in the familiar orange diadems. There was no accompanying audio byte. The blasphemed demigods of The Orpheus Wastes had fallen silent. There was only light, and sharp, dramatic peaks, followed by a sudden plunge into the forever chasm. Andy Dempsey watched, transfixed at the foot of the screen with his clip board. The linkage from spaced-out mind to pen had long since disengaged.

"Better get Helena up here." The professor demurred, carefully rubbing the back of his head. "It's a little out of my field," he explained. "But I can tell you this--it's a brain wave. A human brain wave."

"Coming from some one on Alpha." Koenig conjectured. His cogent waned.

"No...it's coming from our unmanned probe ship." The professor said, turning to face him. "That feedback is emanating from the outboard sensor array."

He nodded persuasively three times. The odd ball complexity was stultifying, but there it was.

At that point, Angelina Verdeschi's alert was given hearance.

"Security Alert in Technical Section." Winters reported over the flurry of warm bodies that betook to their heels in response.

"Get a unit in there now." Koenig said, moving around to the commstation. "Contact Technical Section. Find out what their status is.

"Andy, find Dr. Verdeschi, and tell her to meet us there."

On the big screen, the preternatural zigzag impulse blibbed, and blibbed, and blibbed. It crushed supposition in the same way that the exterior voltage melted down the raw matter, and fused it into comets. A Pliocene, prehistoric telegram, demanding an answer to a question that no one could hear, much less understand.

*****

She felt herself swept up in a funnel cloud of horror, a frightening chasm of death. The pungent odor reminded Angelina of a slaughterhouse. The smell of death was so pervasive, she could taste the vomit in the back of her throat.

Angelina weakly pounded on the door but she could not longer speak; the cold and the odor caused her to have an asthma attack. As she gasped and wheezed, she dared to look behind her and the figure, the faceless thing in top hat and tails, shook its head as it retreated, floating backwards into the far wall. Everything around it appeared one dimensional, as if she was suddenly watching a television show.

"Stand back!!" Pierce Quinton yelled on the other side of the door. Having tried his comlock unsuccessfully, he unholstered his laser and aimed for the door lock.

Quinton deftly fired on the key panel, which arced and exploded. Pierce Quinton and Truman Starns threw themselves against the door, sliding it open. Angelina, who was clinging to the door, emerged and dropped to her knees. She wheezed, crying hysterically between gasps, unsure what was real and what was not; her eyes were tightly closed and her face was wet with tears. She shook uncontrollably all over her body.

"Medical! This is Security. I need a team in the Main Technical complex now!" Quinton called in his commlock. He motioned to Velma Hill, "Stay with her."

Quinton motioned Starns toward the door. The minute Quinton stepped inside the totally disarrayed room, he felt the sub-Arctic chill and sniffed at the lingering smell of death and decomposition.

LaBeque, and Pound arrived for reinforcement. They entered the room like Garret'sRaiders, immediately having their breath sucked away from them by the forty below zero air. The mercury froze to a white, cauliflower, and cracked. Quinton turned slowly on his heels, and scanned the waiting room, his laser extended. His tunic was streaked with a Zorro of melted sealtite. To his referential right, the hatch leading to the office compartments was still sealed. To the left, the radiation doors leading into the garage, and lab areas was open, with a flicker bulb coruscating against the frosted glass, and molding.

"You, and you." Quentin said to the two harness bulls. "Jump."

LaBeque took the high road into experimental levels. Pound drug his feet into the Olympic obstacle course of paper jock cubicles. He muttered something analogous about some one's mother.

"Echo Leader to Section." Quentin said into his comlock. His ears, and cheeks were turning blue from the cold.

"Copy." The dispatcher droned dolorously.

"Commence pneumonic grab. Present location. Five hundred meters. Punch it."

Quentin retreated from the building just as the x-ray filaments began to glow, showering the complex from stem to stern with an advancing wall of EKG metaforms.

Dr. Helena Russell instantly recognized the characteristic wheezing of an asthma attack. Velma Hill had put a blanket around Angelina's shoulders and an oxygen mask on her face from the nearby first aid station. Ang was sitting upright, leaning against the wall panel with knees slightly raised, rasping loudly.

"Epinephrine," she instructed Jerry Parker, who immediately handed the physician the laser hypo as he took the pulse.

Angelina felt the pressure of the laser hypo against her neck. Within 10 seconds, she felt her lungs expand like a balloon as the smooth muscles of the bronchi relaxed.

"Deep breaths, take it easy, you're going to be OK," Russell calmly assured. Ang was moving air but her sobbing, her hysteria did not improve.

The instant headache and the nausea from the sudden rush of the adrenaline-like medication did not help stem the tide of tears; if anything, they became worse. Without being prompted, Jerry Parker handed Dr. Russell another laser hypo loaded with Seconal.

In less than 30 seconds after the second injection, Ang was washed over with a sense of apathy. Her tear stained expression became blank as her eyes took on the glazed quality of a sedated person. It was at this time, as she rejoined reality, that she noticed and heard the Commander talking with Pierce Quinton. How long he had been there, she had no clue; in actuality, he had arrived less than 2 minutes before, but for Angelina, time had been distorted until this point.

The Commander crouched down beside her. Dr. Russell gave him a disapproving look. "Not now." She simply stated.

The Commander ignored her. "Ang," he said gently,"are you OK?"

"I think so, Commander," Angelina replied after she pulled off the mask, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.

"Can you tell me what happened?" He asked.

Angelina looked up at him. She began to remember the horror. Through the Seconal fog she remembered the image of the faceless thing in tails and top hat. A look of torment flashed in her eyes as they filled with tears.

"No, sir, I can't," she whispered, as she drew her knees to her chest and lowered her head. Above her sobs, Angelina heard Helena angrily rebuke the Commander, "I told you NO, John."

Koenig's back straightened just as Carter rounded the bend. The jokes were becoming more elaborate, and more verbose, but they still weren't funny. It struck him like a meat cleaver to the brain that maybe this wasn't a joke. The commander grabbed Russell by the elbow, and pulled her to the side as Bergman entered the complex, followed by Quentin, and Starns. The detective uttered a freeze dried, but audible 'brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr as they stepped into the surveillance sweep. Quentin blew his nose, and kept going.

"Helena, it's crucial that we find out what's going on here." He said, annoyed with her. "We've been having problems with the temperature. You know the situation. That reactor was jury rigged. If it gets any worse, we're in some major, major trouble. All the duct tape in the universe won't bail our butts out.

"It'll be celest la vie for everyone."

He modulated his tone to a whisper as the medical team arrived. Helena Russell looked at him straight in the eyes.

"Do you honestly believe that the "cause" of everything that has happened around here since we've entered the Orpheus Wastes is due to Reactor 2 going haywire? It was working fine until we entered this area of space. Don't you find THAT odd? Remember, other strange events have happened that have nothing to do with nuclear reactors and power. Besides," she fumed impatiently," I have been paying attention during Command Conferences and I know Reactor #3 is scheduled to be online next week." Helena mentioned this fact because even if Reactor #2 went down at that minute, they would still have sufficient solar batteries until Reactor #3 came up in 5 days.

One of the irritating characteristic Helena Russell determined about John Koenig was his tendency to exaggerate and become melodramatic, particularly in an argument. She was not sure if it was innate or if it was a result of his command position. In any event, she would protect the welfare of her patients first: John Koenig would just have to wait until later. She knew, however, he would not go down without a fight.

Helena glance at Angelina, who had taken to grasping Carter's neck instead of her legs. Although she was shakily attempting to stand, the blank expression with a hint of fear never left her face.

"So, in your estimation, I just fell from the turnip truck." Koenig said, his left eyebrow raising askance. "Fine. Doctor, I'd like to remind you that if we don't find a way to reinvent the wheel, if that second reactor doesn't power up--we'll eventually overload the extant grid.

"Also true.

"Maybe my nostrils are clogged, but it occurs to me that there's a guilt-edged priority to investigate anything, and everything that might have a bearing on what happens in the generation area. If I trollop all over your bedside manner in the process, so be it."

"John." Victor Bergman motioned with his finger from the entranceway. Quentin, Pound, and LeBeque--polar bears all--gradually began to regain their normal complexion. "Better have a look at this."

The professor led him inside. They moved past the commstation, and the receptionist's desk. Acheronian shadows played across the floor from the dying power cell. Bergman shivered, folding his arms across his chest for warmth as he nodded towards the salt water tank. 'Ang's Tomato Clown had retreated to the castle for warmth. Ed Malcom's starfish had attached its acicular suction cups to a solitary strip of coral, totally unbothered by the fact that it was freezing to death.

Koenig made a half circle around the transparency, examining the acme that was imprinted on the frosted glass. The image was identifiably a human face. A pair of dark, ovate circles, three inches apart, and diminishing to beveled edges. There was the impression of a nose, and an oblique pair of lips, cracked, and runneled. They framed a yawning mouth that had, perhaps, died shrieking. Acidulous blurs marked the spots, two feet apart, where the person's shoulders had pressed against the tank.

*****

Angelina yawned and slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. She disliked drug induced slumbers because there was always a residual feeling of sleepiness hours later. She glanced at the lunar clock. It had been 5 hours since her "problem" in technical.

Angelina looked at herself in the mirror. In her estimation, she was a wreck. Her bloodshot eyes protruded from her sallow face, cheekbones prominent. Her hair was uncombed and she wasn't exactly wearing a ballgown. Normally preferring the Alpha Karate pajama pants with a tank top for bedtime attire, this time she had donned a sweatshirt and sweat pants ensemble to warm up from her earlier freeze. On the front of her very oversized sweatshirt was a faded screen print of Garfield the Cat, justifying his excess bulk with the statement, "I'm not overweight: I'm undertall!"

Overweight was not an adjective which could be applied to Angelina Verdeschi Carter. Once upon a time, before breakaway as a graduate student, Angelina had been about 25 pounds overweight. Getting to and maintaining her "ideal" weight of 140 lbs on her 5'8" frame was an effort and a struggle. The bottom line was Angelina like to eat; Earth offered endless possibilities to tantalize the taste buds! Of course, they were now far, far away from the bounty of Earth and stuck with the bland stuff that passed for "food" on MBA. One month ago Angelina weighed 115 lbs; 25 lbs underweight. Bob Mathias had a fit and prescribed "supplemental nutrition drinks" after subjecting her to a long and drawn out lecture on the dangers of being too thin. If she didn't get to 130lbs in three months, he threatened her with a feeding tube.

Angelina went to the kitchenette area and pulled out a "delicious" imitation chocolate flavored nutrition drink from the refrigerator as Alan Carter entered their quarters.

"Hey," she smiled groggily. Then, in a half-assed attempt at putting on the 'everything's OK' demeanor, she continued, "Medusa would be a better sight than me right now. If you were a man of taste, like my late brother, you would turn around and leave. I'd understand."

Carter smiled lovingly, and walked across the floor.

"How are you doing." He said.

His day was good. Especially now that he was with Angelina. He dreamed of the day when they would have a huge family. The risks involved in being an Eagle pilot suited his need for adventure, but he also wanted to settle down. A lovely, six room cottage with a garage. That would be nice. No more evil aliens wanting to conquer them.

He took Angelina in his arms, and never wanted to separate from her. Even if Nicky was gifted with powers he could never understand, he would always love him forever, too, and never question his good luck.

His love and caring touched her deeply. She kissed him tenderly.

"I'm so blessed," she whispered breathlessly. She kissed him ardently again but this time past the point of no return.

Forty five minutes later, Garfield the Cat was staring smugly at the ceiling from the sweatshirt and the rest of their clothing, crumpled in a pile on the floor.

"There's something heinous on this base, Alan," she began from the security of his strong embrace. "I saw it twice. Once when I was holding the baby in medical and then when I freaked out in technical."

She looked up at him. "Let me guess. I suppose security came up with nothing searching technical, hmm?

"No, but they're good men." Carter said, wanting to crush the enemy with his bare hands. His love for Angelina gave him a strength times ten. "Don't you worry you're pretty head though, sweetheart. Anything that approaches you has to go through me first. My caring is stronger than any heinous power."

He was torn between knowing he should be in an Eagle right now, and staying by Angelina's side. To the devil with the Eagle, and any one who got in the way of their love.

She held onto him tightly and closed her eyes. Alan Carter was not a great believer of things not of the physical world. He was a pragmatist and there was a logical explanation to everything. Granted, there were some things out here that defied logic, but he had a preference for the concrete. However, there was not another person whom she felt closer to anywhere.

She related her terrifying experience in technical, starting with being trapped and not being able to call for help. She told him about the blackness of the room and the sub-Arctic chill. She trembled slightly while telling him about the horror of being grabbed by someone and fighting him/her/it. Her voice cracked when she told him she felt certain she was going to die and described the sight of the faceless Fred Astair with white gloves, the 'heinous' presence.

"I know this is difficult for you to believe," she concluded while massaging his neck. "I wish it was just a nightmare. I have to tell the Commander what happened. I swear, this is the truth and nothing but the truth."

Carter winced, turning slowly away from her, and placing his left fist in his right palm. He was trying to be egalitarian, but his empathy was running out of gas. Mathias' diagnosis concerning Nicky, and Russell, and Sullivan's hidalgo medical defense made him want to 'yak. The buffalo pie of mumbo jumbo went beyond the need for boots. So, that was round filed. . Nomenclated to the nearest paper shredder. He refused to give that any more thought, inquiry, analysis, and ratiocination--you supply the term.

However, if 'Ang was being menaced by an Alphan who had grown to be several cans short of a six pack--that was another thing entirely.

"What do you mean he had no face. You mean his face was in the shadows."

"No," Angelina shook her head resolutely, on her stomach and looking down at her hands. "I mean it had no face."

"Someone grabbed me and whoever it was fell backwards when I fought back. When I turned around, whatever it was had no face...blank. It floated backward into the back wall and disappeared. It was like a..a ghost."

Angelina groaned inwardly as she lowered her head into her hands. Maybe "ghost" was a poor choice of words. Actually, "ghost" was a poor choice because she knew Alan didn't believe it. She also knew that there was no way he would let her go to the Commander with that story.

"Don't tell me you don't believe in ghosts. It is possible." Angelina look up. "You haven't forgotten meeting Dan Mateo's spirit, have you? Afterall, you were there..."

Carter made a peculiar groaning sound, and turned away shaking his head."No, you didn't see a ghost." The pilot uh-uhhhh'ed, the needle dipping further, and further towards "E" with each implausible, unrealistic explanation. "Come on, baby, I need you to think straight. What did the guy look like.

"Hair dark? Eyes? What color were they? Tell me what you know, but I don't want to hear about any fucking ghosts. We've got a son who has problems to baffle every single medical urchin on this base. I don't know about you, but to me--that's enough.

"Fire up the brain cell, and tell me something."

'Ang's side of the pancake was minced with a single stroke of the sword. Angelina stared at him, blankly and silently for at least 60 seconds. She sat up.

"I know you're upset about Nicky and perhaps you blame me for his 'problems'," she retorted with a slightly raised voice.

Angelina had been racked with guilt about her son, thinking perhaps that her professional fondness for nuclear power and radiation had somehow contributed to her child's condition. Mathias and all had assured her this was not the case but she felt guilty nevertheless.

"But I don't have to take this shit from you, Alan," she finished angrily.

Ang turned without another word and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She took a shower and despite the soothing warm water on her tense neck and shoulders, she began to sob quietly. She was completely disgusted with herself for being unable to control the tears.

*****

According to the encyclopedia Britannica, Orpheus played the lyre so well that flowers, birds, and trees danced around him. No, it is not known whether, or not they did The Wild, Wild West, or The Electric Slide. History is remembered, after all, and not created. According to mythos, his aptitude with strings is what saved his better half, Eurodyce from the kerosene, horndog pits of Hades. It was his punky mouth, and his propensity to gloat that lost her again. It was his indiscretion that led to his decapitation at the hands of maenads. The legend, handed down from generation, to generation, is that his head bobbed, and floated across the high seas. When it came in with the evening tide, at the Isle Of Lesbos, it was still singing.

A shrine was cast, in Orpheus' image, and using his head as a rubric. The monument is dust now, but his cocksure carillons, and his libretto lived on in the stellar discombobulation that was named after him. His overtures blinded the Viking landers of Earth in the late seventies, and early eighties. They blurred the Hubble Space Telescope, and at a time when deep pocket politicians, and various appropriations committees expected to see the sucker spin on a dime, and do the hambone for the yellow press. Out of his gullet came Comet JV79873459800. It was thumbnail sized, and upon inception, weighed less than .000,000,000,1 of a gram. Accelerated to hyperluminal speeds by the Orpheus Effect, it became a little bit heavier. It careened out of the lightning, and fog, and crowned the 164 diameter, Mons Pyreneus on the Moon. The impact blew it's stack, like Bluto in a Popeye cartoon. Big enough to rend mountain tops.

Small enough to shake Yul Ostrog's coffee cup. He pinched both cups in one hand, while using his comlock to open the door to the fueling station. The smells of Nitrosine, and Tetroxide pryed his nostrils wide. The metier, extreme cold sent moles up his spine.

"Break time." He said to the pumps, and gauges in the otherwise empty facility. "Bayledon, where are you at. Front, and center, or I'll drink it all myself."

No answer. The hose commando was no where to be seen. Ostrog crossed over to the open office door. With only the gooseneck lamp to light the engulfed room, he failed to notice that the high impact, observation glass was shattered. The Eagle mechanic entered, and immediately dropped his coffee cups.

The mid plate of Edgar Bayledon's skull was covered with an ichor of red petroleum. The blood hue faded somewhere around his temples. His body hugged the plastic chair, where it had landed, presumably, after he was hurled through the window. The floor, and desk were strewn with plastic pie wedges. Rose curlicues drizzled down his cheeks, and forehead from the open ablation to his scalp. A grisly, pink stalk dangled over one eye. Slit, vacuous retinas beheld the floor where his own hemo dripped into a broadening figure eight pool.

Yul Ostrog lacked brinkmanship, lacked a definitive course of action. His mouth contained not a single molecule of spit, so he ran. He ran for his life, out the door of the pumping station, and up the maintenance ladder to the map room. Yul Ostrog ran, away, away, away. He exited the launch pad area as if all of the dogs of hell were at his heels. Down Corridor-C, cross connecting to Corridor-J. Past the hydroponics complex, past the experimental labs, past the physics labs.

Twenty minutes later, his flesh was still screaming.

*****

Marcus Profitt collapsed in the pretzel chair, with the hot bulb warming the back of his neck from the floor lamp. Mathias had been kind enough to parole him from Medical Center, with a prescription for Adivan in tow. While he fastened the Velcro belt to his waist, Clare offered her regards to 'Ang Carter, who sat in the isolation ward, her child snoozing uneasily in her lap. Profitt waved, but otherwise, he was emotiveless, and speechless. He boarded the travel tube with his wife, feeling a dull, throbbing at his temples. His mouth tasted like a copper. They made a pit stop at the commissary, where Gonzales had slopped their palates with miser soybeans. The technician ate half of them, and offered the rest to Big-P Danielle.

Now he was alone in their quarters. Clare had resisted returning to duty, but Profitt finagled her into leaving. With cheerful--but not altogether ignorant--promises of intimacy, and succor, she left the Residence Building, and headed for the tower. Beyond the fiery transoms lay The Orpheus Wastes. The living room occasionally, and suddenly lit up in the after glow of minor comets impacting against the ancient lunar monuments.

"No...." Profitt whispered to the shadow in the open closet. Beads of perspiration filled the wide open creases of his forehead, and upper lip. At first he had assumed that the elongated spire was from Clare's tennis racket. He looked away for a moment to finish reading Blake. The poem was "The Hammer Of Los." He was up to the point where the dark, satanic mills were erected by Urizen. Your horizon. You reason. No, it was Urizen, who chuckled, and farted over the loss of mankind's romantic mind.

Profitt looked up, and saw that a second black appendage had joined the first. The silhouette was black--black as hell. It's configuration was precisely defined. There was no gentle tapering as it advanced towards the tap light inside the closet door. It was a darkness that no dawn could ever expiate.

The technician froze. Enthralled by the death of stars, and reason. As a boy, in Monmouthshire, South Wales. He remembered Castle Usk. Erected in the blood, and sinew-strewn soil by 12th century Normans.

"Noooo...."

By day, the sheep grazed in the field, but the shadows from the Garrison blocks never withdrew. At high noon, they became even more pronounced. Slowly, one, by one, by one, the sheep were sacrificed to the shadows. Hurled through the portal to a place of treacle, and damnation. Something awaited them on the other side. An entity outside of this universe who waited with hideous elan for an opportunity to get back in. It waited, patient as ether. The evil umbra of an eclipse, waiting to cancel out the sun. Like a pizza delivery-boy who just knows that some one will eventual answer his beckon. An inmate in Miskatonic Sanitarium, who knows that the bonnet-clad warders will eventually make their great, and penultimate mistake.

"Noooooooooooo...." Profitt quaked uncontrollably, the veins in his neck turning blue. A third formation united with the other two.

It was unspeakable.

It was blasphemy.

*****

Koenig walked through the burst of flash bulbs, and forensic technicians, his boot heels gritting through the splay of broken glass. The only one with a colorless sleeve was Lieutenant Truman Starns, whose profundity of crime scene notes threatened to exhaust his legal pad. The lights were up in the fueling station again.

Yul Ostrog gave Pierce Quentin a general statement of what he knew. The summation of what he knew ended in a negative integer. So, Quentin harangued him. He didn't know crap was what it came down to. He had stepped over to the beverage dispenser for coffee. He heard the echo of circuits clicking on, and off from the power junction, and the augury of pouring lava from the nearby metallurgy plant. He returned maybe three minutes later in an upbeat mood, and found the technician's head ripped open. The security chief pointed an unprevaricating ink pen in the mechanic's face, but to no avail. The river of knowledge had seized up with Edgar Bayledon.

"Victor." Koenig regarded the professor with an informationless stare.

Helena Russell pulled the zipper over Bayledon's face as MHT Parker struggled to contain his ripped victim nausea.

Professor Victor Bergman stood up and approached Koenig, after briefly looking over the body and talking with Truman Starns. Although the professor's mechanical heart shielded him somewhat from the anxiety inducing effects of adrenaline, he was not immune to the smells of death which caused his stomach to somersault. As a reflex at death, Bayledon's bowels and bladder spontaneously emptied. Combined with the overpowering odor of blood and the spectacle of the gory body, even those with the strongest stomach were mouth breathing to avoid passing the putrid odor through their nostrils; and risk tossing their lunches.

"Of course we won't know until the autopsy is completed." Victor nodded to the body bag being loaded by Parker and another orderly onto the gurney. "But Truman Starns thinks the one who killed Dave Reilly may have committed this homicide too. The MOs appear to be the same."

Koenig watched as Parker bumped the gurney containing Bayledon's remains from the room. Helena Russell returned her comlock to her belt and waited until the hatch was completely closed before approaching them. The commander paced alongside a solid state panel that featured four wall monitors. Each one was nearing OFF MODE. Snub Cube screen savers revolved like brain ingrams awaiting a connection.

"He might think that," Koenig conceded. "But if you ask me, it makes no sense whatsoever. First we have 'Ang Carter--attacked right in the middle of the Technical Section Reception Area. Whoever the attacker was retreated towards what should have been a dead end.

"We turned the place upside down. I mean guards on top of guards, but whoever it was managed to get away.

"Five minutes later--on the other side of the base--Yul Ostrog goes out for coffee. He's gone no time, and then comes back to find this." He said, pointing towards the fragmented vision port. Sloven was on the other side, using a whisk broom to remove tissue samples from the blood caked desk.

"Now, assuming that the killer is human, and not some gas monster that can pass through solid steel, where does that leave us."

The answer was as obvious as it was ghastly.

"Obviously," Bergman began, cupping his chin with his right hand, "because of the time constraint, these incidents were done by two different people...or things." Bergman raised his eyebrow.

Velma Hill was dusting for fingerprints on areas of the desk that were not blood stained. She loaded another memory card into the digital camera, putting the full memory card containing 20 images in the side pouch of the camera case.

"Dave Reilly and Edgar Bayledon appear to be murdered in the same gory manner. Unlike the attack in Angelina's case, there was not a precipitous drop in air temperature in the murders, though. Computer has confirmed it." Bergman scratched his sideburns. "Did you get a chance to talk to Angelina yet about what happened to her?"

Bergman glanced at Pierce Quinton, who was still in Yul Ostrog's face continuing the interrogation. It was quite clear the interrogator and interrogat