Kate usually wasn't much of a drinker, but the beer they had later that evening was so good that she and Eli both sipped more than usual as they cooked, talked, argued, and ate. He'd promised her a story, but their conversation consumed them, and by sunset she was deep into her reflections on how her career might develop.

"So, that's why I've been thinking about maybe going on the convention circuit," she concluded after a long narrative.

"But the groping? The travel costs?"

"My agent says he can negotiate sponsors to pick up some or all of the expenses .... We'll see about that. But for the time being, I intend to just do the circuit on the West Coast. It isn't a huge amount of money, but every penny counts while I'm looking for other things."

"And the groping?"

"Oh, I can handle captain what's his face. Those Canadians are usually pretty manageable."

"So, not the kind of thing you could make a living doing?"

"Crap ... probably not. But who knows. Fans, especially sci-fi fans, can be really generous ... and really fickle. And you'd never believe what someone like me can charge for an autograph, especially on a piece of memorabilia."

"And all this, for what, fifteen episodes of a show you say you can barely remember?"

"It was almost twenty years ago, but I do still get the occasional fan letter."

"Do you think you'll be happy doing it?"

She'd come to realize that was a critical issue for Eli. For him, it wasn't whether a thing was simply profitable or even pleasurable. For him, a thing was worth doing if it left a good feeling after. She thought it might in this case. Conventions used to have a bad reputation, but she'd heard good things lately. And being in public might generate interest in seeing her in other media.

"I think so," she said. "At the very least, I'll have Georgie, my agent, write it up in a way I can get out of easily. I know it sounds a little creepie to the average person, but part of what I do for a living is sell myself."

She didn't know whether it was Eli or the cerveza, but something came over his face that made her want to giggle. She resisted the urge.

"Are you still hungry?" she asked. "I can get you some more chili." She knew that kind of food wasn't good for her but loved it and couldn't resist the urge to make it that night.

"No, I'm good. Thanks. Are you ready for a story? I gotta warn you, I'm not sure I have any more that are up to your standards."

She'd retrieved two new bottles as he spoke, as well as some bread on which to nibble ... another thing she knew she shouldn't be eating. And it was obvious that by, 'your standards,' he meant the supernatural or the fantastical. Bingo.

"I want to know about demons."

Eli suddenly looked deflated. "Please, not that. I really haven't kept up with that stuff since grad school. It was sort of a lark, anyway. Wouldn't you rather hear a war story? I have loads of those. How about the second worst thing I've ever done?"

"No, not unless it involves demons ... ya' pervert."

Her friend submitted gracefully, scratching his cheek as he sometimes did, a gesture she'd since learned was the result of a mortar fragment that years before had struck just below his left eye. The minuscule splinter had left no scar, but the underlying nerve damage resulted in a permanent tingle that sometimes even his great discipline wouldn't allow him to ignore. It was one of several such injuries of which Kate knew.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Are there such a thing?"

"Oh, I couldn't say. The person or persons who wrote the Regensburg IX document believed in them, but that doesn't mean much. There were all manner of strange and outlandish beliefs in Europe during that time."

"Like what?"

"Ah ... that's difficult to say. The thirteenth century was a manuscript culture, and most bizarre ideas didn't survive into the modern age."

"What do you mean? If they didn't survive, how do you know about them?"

"Hints in mainstream texts and stray documents like R. IX. Look, nowadays, we're used to the idea of picking up a book or getting online and learning things. Back in those days, paper was still a novelty in Europe, and most things written down were written on parchment with a quill pen ... that's to say, on animal skin with a bird's feather. And everything was composed by hand."

"That's not telling me anything," she said, giving him the stink eye but enjoying this glimpse at his pedantic side.

"Okay, think of this. Just say you're in the thirteenth century and you're one of those extremely rare people who can read and write ... most of whom, by the way, would have been men and members of the clergy. And imagine further that you discover something you think worth recording. What would you have to do? Well, parchment was expensive, so you'd have to spend a lot of money purchasing writing material, including parchment, quills, and ink. Then you'd have to devote a lot of time to simply sitting down and putting it down on paper ... by hand."

"I'm still missing your point," she interrupted. "What's this have to do with outlandish beliefs?"

"Okay, lemme try again. Say your great-great grandmother a few dozen times removed, one of the rare literate women in her age, was in her yard one day and looked up and saw a guy fly over. And she went inside to write it down, so she wouldn't forget. For you, the cost of a few dozen sheets of typing paper is negligible. For her, that much parchment would have been a substantial investment."

"And, like as not," he emphasized, "in a time when social uniformity was greatly valued, she'd be reluctant to write it down at all. If she did record it, she almost certainly would never share it with anyone she didn't know and trust, for fear of ... you name it."

"Burn her, she's a witch," screeched Kate in a passable attempt at an English accent.

"Exactly. But let's just assume, for the sake of argument, Granny Kate did write down what she saw and later wanted to share her reminiscences on the day she saw ye olde Flying Guy. What would have to happen? She'd either have to give her single copy of the Flying Guy manuscript to that other person, or she'd have to go to the expense and trouble of writing up a second copy by hand, because Xerox wasn't around then. She'd have to repeat that exercise for every new copy of the manuscript, compounding the expense and increasing the chance of drawing unwanted attention to the existence of a potentially heretical text."

"And that might be okay in the short run," he continued after a short sip, "but what happens to her manuscript and the copies she made after she or the owners of those copies die? Possibly, they'd molder in some corner somewhere because no one knew about them. I mean, people generally didn't advertise owning heretical books in those days. If Granny Kate's family found her original manuscript, they would probably either burn it, so the bishop didn't find out Granny was a witch, or ... and this is far more likely ... they'd sell it."

"Hold on," said Kate, "who would want to buy a heretical text? Well ... whoever they are, we're burning them."

"Parchment had a few great qualities," he said amid a long chuckle. "First, it was durable, and, even better, it was reusable. Old manuscripts could be scrubbed clean and turned into new ones. And since parchment was expensive, a lot of new manuscripts were written on such recycled material. A manuscript of that kind is a called a palimpsest, by the way, and there was a healthy market in such things during the Middle Ages, a period in which many an obscure or illicit thought got effaced so more popular and acceptable ideas could be penned into life."

"I get your point, now" she said. "Odd and dangerous ideas tended not to get widely circulated, and they were much less likely to survive over time compared to popular, socially acceptable ideas."

"I should have just said that."

"Nonsense. I love it when you drone on. Now finish the story."