I stared at the bell jar. It sat in my office for days. I wasnt willing to touch it considering the unfortunate fate of its precvious owner. I heft mightly uncomfortable with it anywhere near me, but Mrs. Cloddhoffer was eplicit in her will that I was to have it. I kinew not why, but that's niehter here nor there at the moment.

Flashforeward: I’m sitting in a small cafe with Beelzebub. Not the real Beelzebub, but a character written up by the author. He laughs at the prose at the start of my story. I have to agree with him (it?) that the writting’s damn silly. I mean “that’s neither here nor there at the moment” is not my voice. It’s obvious that the “author” (or is it “Author” capital “A”?) didn’t have a clue about who I am. Does “he” (“He”?) have any kind of clue? Beelzebub tells me that it’s for a writing competition of some kind. Like golf. It’s a speed thing: words per day. I mean what the hell? is it okay that he writes this crap? Does it count?

I’m slamming down another coffee, black, strong, deadly. I get a rush. Thank the gods I’m fictional, or I’d have died long ago.

It shimmered. Not the belljar, but the metel foil: gold? Silver? Some exotic metal or substance I coild not fathom? I couldn't tell you and I still can't. I tried a few times to remove the cover, but it was seald quite well with wax at the base. I stared again I stared at the floating thing gossomer thin and shifting in the breeze that wasn’t there. I was tired. I knew I needed to be home at a reasonalble time to get some shuteye before I considered anything more. Besides, I had a mountain of paperwork due to the botched McCenzie case. Both alcoholics if you ask me. Freaking beer guzzling maple loving America Hats.

So I got up and turned to grab my hat and coat. In so doing, I sealed my fate. I heard the clink behind be and turned with my hat and coat in hand. I must have tipped the jar over when I was fiddling with the coat tree. There it was, rolling toward the edge of the desk. I felt the urge to drop everything and grab it before it fell, but what can I say? I don't like to get my hat and coat dirty, so in my clumsy fasion, I lurched around the desk and reached for the jar.

Flashforeward: Okay. McCenzie. The guy with the pen needs to look up the name. What? Oh. Beez (That’s what I call him now) says it’s a movie reference. I don’t think it’s very funny. And “In so doing.” No. I sound like a windbag. I’m NOT a windbag. Go find some literate old man to say “In so doing I accomplished the sipping of the tea. Ehem.” Fuck me. Pardon my French, anyone who’s ears are kinda’ delicate. But, you all gotta get a feeling for my voice. I’m the damn narrator, so my voice is going to to everywhere. Guess what that means? No purple prose! If I say “permeate,” it’s going to be me reading something, quoting someone, or using the word wrong. Yeah, I know what it means, but it’s not my freaking voice. Beez wants me to go to the club with him. I tell him I’m game.

I expected shattering, crashing, something dramatic. But, all there was was a 'tink' and the jar lay on its side rolling back and forth. The foil inside making the same jentle undulations as if nothing in the world could disturb it. I bent down to pick it up when I noticed the crack. Not in ht glass top or the wood bottom but in the wax that sealed the thing. I lifted it, and I felt the glass pull away from the base. The foil fell away and into my hands. It was light as the air and light as the sun peircing my eyes. Filling me momently with something at once terrifying and peaceful. And, I was not.

I heard a shattering as the glass fell out of my sight onto the floor. I ran around to see the damage, but there was nothing. I looked back on the desk, and there was nothing, save the pile of unpaid bills and last year's taxes. I was dreadfully confused. The world seemed smaller to me. I'm not sure how. But, I just tried to shrug it off. I know it was real. I remember staring at it for hours on end every day. I shook it off but stopped. I put my jacket back up on the hatrack and sat down to run through my case files. Paged paged paged. “Cloddhoffer.” Where was it? I'm not always that organised, but I'm pretty good with my cases, so I was surprised to find that the file wasn'tin the cabinate. I looked all over my desk and – nothing. I finally sat down, dejected. Maybe I was imagining it all. “Maybe I'm imagining it all. Damn,” I said, “I'm talking to myself again.”

I finally got up and put on my hat and coat. The flurries were gonna be accompanied by some nasty cold weather, so I'd better be prepared. I remember my footfalls. Top tap top tip top tup clack. The clock on the wall accompanied my march with its own metric cadance. Lights off. Door locked. Building dark. Time to go home. The cat needs a bath.

Now, leaving the office shouldn't be a worrying experience, but today it is. I walk through the lobby, braced for a blast of cold air, and hit – Summer. Summer. Summer. I rememebr looking around frantically thoroughly confused about what was happening. I saw men in light suites, few with hats, and women in sharply tailored outfits, ready for the office. It felt like everything was right, but I knew otherewise. How else would I be wearing my trenchcoat (heavy one), hat, and gloves? There was no reason at all for my dress othere than I might be certifiable. This worried me no end. I look at my watch, and the time is half past five. It's dark, or it should be. Outside it's bright. The sun is high in the sky. Too high for summer. Nothing was right.

For a moment I forget myself, I look out from between thelines and spy the author, God?, no.. he, she, it's just as dumfounded as I am. What the hell? He's eating what? Yogurt? Man. Get something better than that. I know damn well, no author of me's going to be a health nut. Then I see the “I'll” and there're so many things happening . I see all sorts of readers, but they're all at typwriters or something. They're reading me on a typwriter? No. That's not right. Where are the books?

“Hey!?” I say.

The author shrugs. The several? Million? (can't tell) readers just read. A few shrug, some laugh and shake their heads. What's up with the dame and the weird metal things. Is that jewelry? In the mouth? Is this a sci-fi book?

“Hey,” I say again. “HAY!”

The author jumps.

“Yeah!” I say. “I'm talkin' to you, you unkempt git. I mean, my gods! Can't you shave? That beard's gotta have an eco-system in there somewhere!.

I waited in the existential dark, then he (He?) came back. “More yogurt?” I asked.

“Same yogurt,” he said, or typed or types (I'm not sure). “I just added sugar.”

“What's the healthy in that?”

“Just dudn't want it to go bad. Now, do you think you can go back to being a character?”

I shrugged and ran to the – no – I hailed a cab. Yeah. Imagine it's a fancy place like New York. The yellow car pulled up and I got in the back. “123 Left Hanger's St.”

The cabbie nodded and I was off. I sat and wondered about the address. Was this my actual address? Did the author care? I just couldn't trust anything anymore.

We finally arrived at the address and I see a house. Small, green, almost no yeard. Pait peeling. It looks right. I even see the sheets of plastic in the window. The sheets I put up a month ago at the end of fall. “What's the date?” I asked. I tried to sound bored.

“The 5th, I think,” the cabbie said. I wanted to ask the month, but figured it wouldn't quite make snese to.

“What do I owe ya'?” I said.

The cabbie looked back at me and smiled with her ruby lips. Wait. What? “Dinner.” She handed me her card. Card? Since when do people hand out cards? Since when to WOMEN hand out cards? This is supposed to be nior, right? Or something like it, right? No? I was sure this cabbie was a surly guy. Someone I could pour my troubles on like a bartender or my cat. But, a dame? Sheesh! Well, I'll take her card (I took her card), anyway. Might be good for a “good time.” Or do I need euphamisms here? Can I refer to sex in this thing? Are we allowed sex? Man, I hope so! My character may be all kinds of experienced, but the reality's a bit different. Right. Now, let be out of here. I'm, oh, hay..

“Hey! New paragraph please,” I shout quietly to the heavens. I imagine seeing the author shrug and nod. “Cool,” I say, anachronistically (I think – damn author should do some research).

Anyew, I'm on my way up the walk to my house and hear the cab drive off. I glance at the card and read the name twice to be sure. “Emmanuel Cloddhoffer.” Horrible last name for a lovely lady like that. Same last name as my missing file. Glance up to the heavens. “Discordia? Giving me a heard time or good one? Or are they the same? Damn double entents, I love 'em.”

So I put the card in my billfold and fish my keys from my pockets. The keys stick a little, but I'm able to get the door open. The house is chilly. I check the thermostat, and turn the heat up to 68. I look outside through the wavy plastic and see the dark street illuminated by a lone streetlamp. There's a dusting of snow on the ground with a flurries coming in every few minutes.

“So,” I say, to no one in particular, “This is really odd.” I walk to the front door and open it to a summer mid-afternoon. I close it and look out the window to a cold winter night. I look closely and can see the tracks of the cab in the thin snow along with my foot prints coming up the walk.I look at the floor near the door and at my shoes and coat. Not a sign of precipitation. Damn. This ain't right.

I walk to the kitchen and grab a can of soup – the condensed kind, not that modern canned stuff where the water's included. I mean, that's in the future anyway I don't actually know it exists. I guess that's the author's way of putting me in my time (incompetent author) – to throw in the pot. I needed something warm, and I was fresh out of Rotgut (Yes, I stole that.). I contemplated using the microwave, but remembered that that wasn't available commercially for another decade or so, depending on the time I actually live(d).

The cat took his or her? I remember it's a 'she.' Named Clarisse. Ask the author why, I sure as hell don't know – something to do with fava beans, I think. Anyew, she took her time coming out to mew at me. I was glad to see that she seems to be the way I remember. I sat at the table with my bowl of soup, and my cat curled up in my lap. I was warm and happy. Even with the strangeness of the day I felt strangely calm. I knew I was going to sleep well. I threw the dishes in the sink and walked off to bed with my cat following.

I think I have a good sleep tonight.

My sense of things seems to leave me on occasion. no. maybe often. I recall Miss opper’s face looking back at me in the cab as I fall asleep. Clarrise’s purring moves o tiny snores. One of the few lovely things i can still appreciate. I rightly don’t know what else I have. I do know that I’m dreaming of those ruby lips They hold me. swallow me like any predater. SHould I be worried? Wary? I don’t know. I just want it. I crave it. My author’s an asshole for keeping it from me. If I ever get out of here, I’ll give him a peice of my mind. No doubt about it.

The heart of it. What heart? the heart of the cave I find myself in. Dripping water in a subterraneam pond? unless I’m in a flooded basdement or other building. I’m in the dark. I know i should be dreaming, but I don’t know it. it’s all so real. I’v had dreams, lucid I think that’s the term. Lucid dreams. I should be aware of that. I test, but it feels so real. I have to get up, but I slide on slick rock sirfaces. Lucky I’m wearing normal clothes instead of my jammies.

“Hi,” I whisper. The echo’s barely audible. I wait a moment.

There!

I walk, no, pick my way toward what sounds like the shore. I see a glint in the distance. It’s above the ground, I think, but I’m making my way there. I hope there’s something for me. I just don’t know. A way out? a person? a nap? I trudge closer and the glint’s right over my head. I can almost touch it. It’s big too. wiggling like a slow motion worm. I see the light around me brighten over time. luminescent things glow brighter, casting pale blue around me. I can’t dicern color, but I see shape. above me is a great ribbon of shiny, suspended on an invisible something. Rope? Not sure. but, it’s undulating like there’s a breeze, but I don’t feel a thing. I’m not sure what to make of it other than to shrug. I know it reminds me of something, but I’m not sure what. I walk around inder the strange artifact for a while. Now I notice something odd. I’m walking on dry land. But, it’s not rock. There’s a strange thump with my footsteps, I see it now. No, I feel it. It’s wood. The floor is wood here! I start walking in circles to find the limit of this material. It takes time for while the light from the living things is good, it’s not enough for me to see clearly. After a few mintues of spiralling, I find the edge, or rather, it finds me.my head bangs up against somethign codl and smooth. I touch it with my hands. Glass? I walk the perimiter of my space and find that I’ve circled a great many feet before returning to what I think is my starting point. Now, I am rapped. I am confused. I’m tired, so I sit down and fall asleep. I feel my heavy lids take over and I sleep.

Awak, I sit up. It’s still dark outside, my cat is gone, her nest is cold. I get up and look out the window. The world is still cold and snowy. I’m sure the kids’ll love it. I look at the clock. It’s six in the morning or thereabouts. I guess it’s suposed to be dark. I rouse myself out of bed andtromp to the kitchen to make coffee. Clarrise is there watching me wth those intense eyes. I’m still falling asleep on occasion, but still working hard to keep awake. The coffee takes all of five minutes to prepare. The percolator makes plupping sounds when I put it on the stove.

I hear a soft thump on the doorstep and walk to get the fresh paper.I open the door and feel the summer heat invade. It’s dark here too, but it’s a warm dark, not at all what it’s like looking out from the house. I don’t see the paper. I go back inside, dissapointed. On a whim, I look outdide the door’s window and can barely see the paper on the stoop. I open the door, and the paper’s gone.I do this a few times before I give up and wast my time petting the cat. What else can I do without a newspaper?

I finger the business card. I feel oddly warm when I think about her lips. I can’t rememberthe rest of her. I’s as if the lips were floating without the rest of a person. Strange thing, that. I debate whether I sould go out when I feel like it or when the outside world thinks it ‘s time. I figure that I should wait at least until the paper arives outside to pick it up.

I fall into a fitful sleep on the couch. At one point, I hear a scurrying. I get up and look outside. I see the distrubance in the snow leading away from the stoop. I see the nwspaper is gone. I open the door and feel the warm night breeze. Again , no paper. An hour later, I see the paper boy coming. I wait outside and wave to him as he passes. His throw is impeccable, I hold op my hand and catc it. I wave the paperboy off.

The paper feels nice andcomforting. I close the door and set the paper down. I read through the obituaries first. I figure it’s good to check on potential clients.

The one name that stuck out was “Nigel Bently.” I gafawed. Of course, that couldn’t be right. I’m right here.

But I can’t be sure about anything. I shake my head and get ready to head outside. It’s light from inside the house, but it’s still dark outside. I take my time getting ready. this time I put on a tie and my luky number “23” tie-tack. And, I’m off to the office, Clarrise’s food bowl looked plenty full, so I got out of there moste hast.

The fresh suburban air. A joy to smell and feel the breeze on my face currents of air around brisk, but not so when theoutside worlds is summer. Oh, but it's still dark. It's still warm. Ah! I remember! I peek at the date. June 14th, 1957. Normal, but several months off. It's the future. The future? But what about winter from inside my house? What about the office? I'm flummuxed. It's next to no time that I'm at the bus stop. I stand, coin in hand, waiting for the no. 6 to arrive. I have my jacket over my arms in case the world turns upside down again. Those lips would turn me upside down. Lips aside, I have questions. The bus stops. A nice satisfying shreeeeeesh huuuuush screech and the doors swing open. I walk up the steps and plop my coin and walk to the back of the bus. I'm in no mood to banter, so I give a cursury smile to the driver, whom I don't recognize. I sit down before I realize that it's suddenly light out, and there's snow on the ground. I crack open the window nearest me, and it's dark out. I move my head back and forth in disbelief. Again, this world is turning out to be a very strange place. I wonder to myself it I'm losing my mind. But, I've known that for far too long. It was supposed to be a joke, but I guess it's – well – yeah. Somehting.

I watch the snow breezing by. My watch says it's 11:00, but outside looks much to dark for that when I look out the window crack. The bus jolts me on occasion hitting a pothole. I finally get up at a stop a few blocks from my office. I glance at the paper, which nearly forgot about, and it reads January 14th, 1957. I turn quickly to the obit. My name's not there. I wave goodbye to the driver and walk out. The paper says June 14th again. I tried to watch it happen, but it happened without my seeing it. I looked at the obit again, and my name was their. No description. Just me. I glance at my watch. No change. I fold the paper under my arm and walk down the street toward my office. I take a detour at Pegg's Diner. I was in the mood to see snow and I figured that I might as well get a cuppa. I skimmed that paper while waiting for the waitress. I saw her auburn hair in the back, Lucinda, I'm sure. Gams up to heaven button nose, and a sway that gets me warm in all the wrong ways. She stops by and smiles. Her's are full lips, much subtler than the cabby's. She asks for my preference. Before I speak, my mind plays my preferences in pornographic detail. I answer, “the usual, black coffee's fine for me. If I feel hungry I'll flag you down.”

She hesitates. “Okay.” Did she blush? I didn't say anything, and I've got a poker face that none can rival. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She looks back toward me and toys with her hair before continuing to the back room. Damn strange. I hope I didn't let on that I was attracted to her. That'd be uncomfortable for her and awkward for the both of us. The snow outside turned to rain. It looked like mid morning. I looked at the diner clock and it read 11:30. My watch reads the same. At least that seemed consistent. Wonder why my watch doesn't change but the paper does? Speaking of...

I open the pages and sift through them. Nothing exciting. The usual stuff. I'm not that excited, but I figure I will be when I go outside. I mean, the future? Can I bet on the future? But what about the obit? I'm lost and confused and excited and sad and scared half out of my wits. Shit. I need to get laid. Again with the images in my mind. Lucinda and Emannuel was it? Ruby Lips. Yeah. Lucinda and Ruby. Naked. All over me. A crap. Now I can't stand up. Fucking libido. Need to get laid. Need to get gelded or whatever it's called. Then I won't have to care about it. That sounds almost worth it.

I'm done with the coffee and finally “relaxed” enough to get up to leave when Lucinda comes over.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“Yes?” I say.

Her hazel eyes peer into my own. I feel like I'm falling for a moment. We kiss. Alone in the diner, our lips just touch. It's electric. It's soft. No movement. We step back, both without expression. We're synchronised. She and I turn our seperate ways and walk. I step outside into the dark summer warmth. I look back and see her putting on her apron and setting tables. She doesn't see me. I decide not to call her attention.

I taste her on my lips. No lipstick. I breath her in. I want her like nothing else. I walk down the street oblivious to the rest of the world. I cross at the wrong time and almost get hit by screaming moterists on three different occasions. I don't care.

My watch says quarter to twelve when I reach my building, but I know that it's much earlier than that outside. I walk in and make my way up the steps but not before I look back to see that the snow has stopped and the clouds seem to be clearing. The building's a bit chilly, so put on my jacket and continue up stairs. I don't bother with the elevator. It's better for my health.

I fiddle with my keys and open the door with a commotion. Always neeeded to fix that damn lock, but the super. Doesn't want to bother with it. Pain in the ass. Whatever. I need to get my shit together. I walk in to the smell of coffee. I'm the only one in the office, or I should be. I silently curse myself for leaving my piece at home. I never liked carrying it because I feel like it invites trouble, but I'm really wanting it now. If there's an intruder – even a coffee making one – I'm sure as hell nto going to be at his what clutches? Pleasure? I need a better word. Well, I pick up a letter opener on an end table near the door. Of course, I realized that anyone should have heard the ruckus I was making to unlock the door → once more, the damn super's got to do something about it. Freaking lose my life over this.

I changed my mind. I actually picked up a wooden something. I'll have kept it near the door in a place that's not easily noticed. That way I can have access to that sort of security when I need it. Fantastic. Back to the show. As I said, I grabbed the stick and made my way toward the door in the back of this office. That's where the kitchenette is. It used to be shared among several offices, but the adjacent ones closed leaving me with the whole facility. While the outer doors were locked, the doors between offices were easily opened by the unscrupulous and adventuresome. I, of course, had opened them long ago.

Okay. I'm off to the kitchenette. I have the stick in my right hand and the letter opening hidden up my left sleeve. I heard a faint clammor as I approached the door. I stopped to listen and heard a faint clanking noise. I imagined a burgler cleaning the silverware. There was that wavy glass that kept me from seeing what was actually there. I just noted some movement. I steadied my breath and pushed open the door.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here, Nigel.”

Adrenaline kept the stick held high. “What are you doing in my office?”

“Isn't this shared space?” she asked. “I thought all us office folk got to use it.”

“You got office space?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Since this morning.” She proffered a cup of coffee. “Sure beats the cab business, right?”

“Right.” I stopped short. How did she recognize me? She drove me in the future, didn't she?

“You still got my card?”

“Uh, yea.”

“Don't lose it.”

“Uh. Fine.”

“I'll be in my office if you need me. Toodleloooooo.” That ooooh lingered on her tongue like honey. I melted a little then and their. She went out a small door near the opposite corner to mine. One of the offices I never got the thourourtly investigate. It meant that her office entrance wasn;t adjecent to mine. The shape of the building was such that she her entrance was opposite to mine. Man, that's pretty awkward, but that's that way it is.

I sit down and sip the coffee gift. I sit and stare at the empty space that once held the bell jar. Bell har. That's right\! I walk through the kitchenette and cross to her door. I open it. It's locked. I knock but no answer. I wait and there's nothing. I build up my resolve. I get out of my own office and sprint around the corners to the door that should be hers. The frosted glass shows no light. I knock. Nothing. I wait. I knock again. Nothing. I try the door. Locked. I fish around my pockets for my kit. I get it out and start fiddling with the lock. Takes a good twenty minutes to get it open. I open the door and the place is musty as hell. Nothing. No office space worth having. I try the lights, not working. I stroll to the kitchenette. The door is stuck shut. Rust. It hasn't been open in forever. Is this the same phenominone as my time traveling? I was lost. I walk back to my office dejected. If she weren't there, then who made the coffee? I saw somehing on my mug. The imprint of ruby lipstick. She was here! Even after evaperating, she holds me to her ample bosom. Damn, what a bosom. Need6500

I sat down and paged through the newspaper. The obits for january weren't that interesting. He was late.. No. I was late given that I like to be in the office my 7 AM. Bleh. As they say. The clock and my watch both read about half past one when my office door swung open. A young man, harried and confused (by his looks (no, i'd say “by the look of him” (less confusing))). Is hat in hand he walked toward me, almost stumbling on the tile floor.

“Sit down?” I gestured to a chair on his side of the desk.

He sat without acknowledgement. His face never changed expression. He rang his hands over and over again. Or he squooshed his hat. Something like that. Hey, author.. make up your mind. I need to have a good talk with you about this so-called novel of yours. Okay, back to the story.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

He handed me a photo. Black and white shot of a smiling child. Looked like a bright and happy little boy in the summer time. The photo was crumpled up like it had been left in a coat pocket among keys for weeks. “This is my son, Alex. Can you find him?”

“Tell me your story.”

“My wife. She's from Ohio. We moved out here a few years ago. We found out she was pregnant soo after. My boy was born four years ago today. My wife's been having trouble ever since Alex was born. She's started getting depressed. Last week we had a terrible fight. She parely spoke to me since. This morning, I woke up to find her gone. Alex is gone too. Most of their clothes are gone. I'm so scared Mr. Bently. Can you help?”

His words spilled across the desk reflecting his fears like quicksilver. It made a mess. Gestured for him to be patient while I grabbed a towel and dustpan to sweep up the metal before it got everywhere. Concentrated worry. Worse than concentrated anything, next door to concentrated evil (though many don't realize this).

“I'm sorry,” says the man. “I didn't mean to make a mess.”

“It's okay. Truth is this happens often. I really should be more ready for it.”

I grabbed my new client some coffee and had him follow me to a small table in the corner of the office. “I want you to sit here. I'll be with you some of the time, but I need you to do a lot of this yourself. Here's a legal pad and here's a little cheet cheet to help. I want you to write the details of the events of yesterday and this morning. Start with this morning and work your way back. I want to to write back until you get to the big argument. I have a typewriter if you'd prefere.”

“No. This is fine.”

“Good. I almost forgot to ask. Did you talk to the police?”

“Yes. They opened an investigation, but I don't know if they'll be good enough for this.”

“Okay. Let's pretend we went over my fees because the Author doesn't feel like doing the research.”

The man nods.

“Oh,” says Nigel. “I forgot to ask you your name. Silly of me I know.”

“It's Nathan Clodhoffer.”

My jaw drops. (why was I in thurd person for that moment last? I mean seriously. Tense shifts are disconcerting enough, but third person complutely turns me on my head. Stop it!)

The Author nods, or at least I sense it though can't see it.

“thanks,” I say.

Nathan looks at me. I see hi's confused. “Don't worry,” I say. “I just talk outloud when I'm in the zone.”

He doesn't say anything and goes to filling out my report. I go back to my desk and sitwith my chin on my steepled hands. “Clodhoffer.” I doubt it's a coincidence. I wonder. I will ask for a photo of his erstwhile(?) wife as soon as he's done. Will I see Ruby Lips? I wonder. This is all too strange. It's evident to me that this is not coincidental, but it's something planned. Does this mean that the Author has a plan for me? Gods forbid. Seriously. Unless it means lots of wealth. I flip through my rolodex (when was that invented? Does it exist for me? Author! Research dammit!) and find my gPD contact.

I dial him up. “Hey,” the voice on the other end is oddly comforting. One person who feels normal.

“Hey Clara.”

“I haven't heard from you in a while.”

“Well, I've got an interesting one on my hands. It's not just for the paycheck.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Did you get any missing persons cases coming up?”

“I shoulda' known. Okay. Listen. There's a bit of a bruhaha about that. Evidently, some higher up muckymuck deicded that he wanted in on the gig. You ask me, and you'd better, I think there was some hanky panky going on twixt' the wife and the mucky-muck.

“I'd believe anything.”

“Yeah, you would. Listen. Let me get some of this paperwork done. A lot of it's about this case. I 'll give you a call back soon as I can. Or, you want me to send it post?”

“I had to drop my answering service this month, so post is probably better.”

“Fine.”

“I owe you one, Clara.”

“You do.” There was a quiet to her voice.

“Later.”

“See ya.”

I was watching Nathan while talking on the phone. He didn't appear to slow his progress during my conversation. Looks like he wasn'tlistening. Good. He's concentrating on what he needs to do. Bad. He may not have been listening to his wife when he should have been. Nothing to do but go after things as best I can..

:Mrr. Clodhoffer.”

“he looks up. His eyes are red. I wonder what he was writing. I'll find out soon enough.

I say, “Do you have a photo of your wife?”

He looks far off for a moment in obvious thought then shakes his head. I don't remember.

“You have to have a picture somewhere.”

He shakes his head. He's nothing but confused. It's like I told him he was a space alien, and he half believed me. This concerns me.

I keep on speaking. “If you turn something up, call or bring it in, okay?”

“Sure.”

His face relaxes. He's much calmer now.

“Can I visit your house later?”

“Yes.”

Shit. How do I do this? It's the future outside. If I knock at the door, what will happen. Maybe I can get someone else to visit. Maybe I can sneak in. I'm tired. My head is swimming with the “time” business.

“when do you won't to cmoe by?” he asked.

“Let me look throug my schedule. I'll get a hold of you when I'm sure when.” This is cramping my style. “I'll need work and home phones. I'm discreet.”

Nathan writes those detailn in his file.

“Thanks,” I say. “Now, I’d like to visit your home at your convenience.”

“Oh?”

“I would like to get as much information about your family as I can. Forgive my saying this, but an outside set of eyes can sometimes see things that an insider misses. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I do.” He heaved a sigh of asbolute dejection. “I can’t see how this happened. I can’t imagine where they went.”

“Hey. Let’s go for a walk let off some of that energy. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Nathan nods. I can tell he’s not quite with me. And then I about smack myself. How can I go with him somewhere when I keep moving through time?

Right. Damn author wrote himself into a corner didn’t he? Or she I guess.

He.

Heh. serves him right!

“Nathan. I forgot that I have a meeting to get to. I’ll. . .” I have to figure out what to - ahh. “I’ll be down in a bit I meant a phone call, you see that diner a block east?”

“Yeah. I’ve been there before.”

“Good. You think you can wait for me there? I’ve gotta deal with some business on the phone. I’ll try to follow up on a few leads then meet you down there. Sound good?”

“Sure,” he says. His voice is stronger than it was, but it’s wavering. He needs something stronger than coffee. Doesn’t matter though. He’s on his way out the door. I look outside and watch a gentle snowfall. I open the window and peek through at the summer morning. I walk to the kichenette and grab a mug. I fill it with cold coffee and sit down at the table to down it. I must make an awful face when I do that. I lean back in the chair and slide my hands down the sides of the steering wheel. The road winds up the hillside in front of me. Wait. What happened to the cafe? No, diner. whatever.

“What?” says my passanger. Nathan looks at me with half closed eyes. I try to keep my eyes on the road. The sun’s set and twilight’s quickly fading. I check to see that Nathan’s sleeping and crack open the car window. Cold. Late evening. No time change. No time travel. Okay, that’s fine. But, what happened? Why am I hear. Where the hell are we driving to, oh “San Fransisco.” What the hell? That’s one hell of a road trip. Sheesh.

The twilight’s gone and all I see is my headlight on winding road. I feel the engine straining against the mountain. Pain in the ass, this. It’s a good while before I feel the car pitch down more often than up. Not long after that, we’re out in a valley headed, I think, past Sacramento. I’ve never been in California, but I feel like I know where I’m going. So, I just go.

The fog is nasty. I can barely see. I’m wide awake, and I can’t tell what’s what. I’m driving around in circles.

BBBBBRRRRAAAAAAUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNGGGG

“Shit!” I almost crash the car. I pull to the side and get out. Nathan slept through my outburst. It’s tough to see, but some streetlamps show a pile of papers in the back seat. I get in and page through them. Lot’s of reciepts. Phone records (Hey, did those exist in the 50’s? if not, then the author’s got some continuity issues). A letter, written in her hand. How did I know that? Well, the address is around here somewhere. Looks like it never got sent. Fine.

BBBBBRRRRAAAAAAUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNGGGG

Jumps me out of my skin, and I hit my head on the doorframe of the car. Gonna be a bump there. I smell the ocean. At least I think that’s what it is. I’ve never seen it before. Man, this better be worth it. My stomach growles. I’m deep in my own thoughts. I’m trying to suss out why things are happening they way they are, or if I’m losing touch with reality. I’m pacing, as usual. Clarise! I turn around, suddenly worried about my poor cat. I walk back to the car -- or, wait, where is it? The car. I can’t find it. I walk up and down the street and can’t find the car. I can barely see ten feet in front of me in this pea soup. I wander slowly back and forth. A panic sets in. I run back and forth. I shout. I shout. I shout. I listen. nothing.

BBBBBRRRRAAAAAAUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNGGGG

It’s so close, it hurts my ears. I’m stumbling. Where’s my hat. I step on it and curse under my breath. Got it. I lost my sense of direction. I’m so fucking angry at myself. I’m an idiot, incompentent, stupid, nobody who can’t get it straight.

I stumple over invisible barriers. I trip here, fall there. Finally, I find some kind of railing. It’s rope. I walk up some steps. The feel very small, almost like toys. I’m getting a touch of vertigo, I can’t seem to keep my balance. I’m at the top of the stairs and I step forward. Still blinded by the fog. Stillness all around. I here my breathing. Now, I notice the sound of water lapping. I must have been hearing it for a while, but I never really notedd it.

I’m prone to talking to myself when thinking. “Okay. Walking now, right?” And I step forward. the ground beneath feels a little wierd. It’s a little uphill feeling. I kneel and touch a smooth surface, much like an indoor court. I can’t see at all, but I can trace the grain with my fingers. The wood’s texture is barely there under what must be lacquer. I hold myself still and that’s when I realize that I’m still moving. it’s hard to percieve, but it’s there. I’m being rocked to sleep by a very slow giant.

I must be on a boat. Crap. One more thing to worry about. If I fall in and drown, there’ll be hell to pay.

And here we go. Rain. My hat’s on, my coat’s good for this weather, but the rain’s going to beat down on me like nothing else. I crawl on my hands and knees so that I can feel my way to avoid the edge. I find a structure, or it finds my head is more like it. After that little thump, I feel around it for a door and find one. It’s easy to open. I pull myself up and walk through. I close the door behind me and breath a sigh that the damn weather isn’t likely to kill me afterall. The crack of thunder startles me, but I feel safe, even in the cramped space on a boat.

I feel around and realize it’s some kind of broom closet. Doesn’t matter. I’ll wait out the storm.

There’s yelling outside. It’s still pitch black, but I open the door anyway. The light makes me squint. It’s no longer a black fog, but a bright fog, nearly as thick. It’s hard to make out, but I notice several men run past. Is it an emergency? There’s urgency in the air, but I don’t sense panic. But, I feel panicky. I work up the courage to call out when a voice booms from over head. “Strike the foils and hoist the main O’beam and ready the all lift sailplan!”

A dozen “Aye’s” fill the air, and the men move faster if that were possible. My panic is in full swing. The boat -- no, ship -- is gently vibrating. It’s rocking front to back, not side to side. We’re moving. We’ve got to be moving! What about Nathan? Oh gods, what have I gotten myself into! A man stops mid run and turns to me. “Eh, sir. Are you workin’ or dallyin’?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Hid out from the storm last night. I didn’t know we’d be out to sea!”

“A stowaway?” he shook his wrinkled head. “Beats all. Well, stay put. Yuh don’t wan to be getting in tha way. And DON’t fall off! We don’t have tha nets strung under the gunals, so you go over for good. Best yuh close the door and wait. ‘Kay?”

I nod as I try to decipher that man’s speech. It was damn weird. I notice that his clothes look a bit like something out of a Errol Flynn movie. Did I just see a sword? I go to make a comment, but the man’s off the other direction barking indesipherable orders.

I hear the sounds of fabric moving above me. It’s muffled. The wind picks up, though the vibrations settle. The sound of the water sloshing become slow and rythmic rather than fast and choppy. The sounds of footsteps approaching frighten me. They’re heavier than the others. They sound solid and sure and imposing. I stand in the dark closet waiting for what comes next.

The click of the door knob is followed by the creek of its hinges. Again, light floods in and I squint.

“You there!” A voice, booms from the light. “Outside, on the double!” It's the calling voice from before.

I clamor forward. “I'm very sorry. I--” I stop myself before babbling like an idiot. “I can explain myself.” I stand just inside the closet.

“I trust you will.” The voice is smaller now. It belongs to a gently used face in an oversized beard. I can't decide if his eyes are kind or severe. I think both at once. He continues. “I can't imagine that you are comfortable in that closet.” He speaks so that each syllable stands out, like some immigrants I've helped in the past. “Follow me.”

His voice is compelling, and I feel at ease doing as he says. I walk back out on deck and follow him along with a few other crew members along the the center. I think we're walking to the front of the ship. The man who found me earlier limps beside the compelling voice. Again, I notice the clothes. All of them wear pants that balloon at the legs. Some wear hats of all sorts. I see stocking caps, a stetson, a fedora, a tri-corneredTK  hat straight from the American revolution which the voice wears, and several variations of kerchief-turned-headgear. It was a mishmash. Oh, and swords. Every last one of them, those walking with us and those we pass, carries a sword. And, several carry pistols. Maybe I'm tired, but my head won't stop swimming.

We near the front.

The voice faces me. “My name is Vincent Elcro, First Mate of the Nonce Morning Star. Look about you to the horizon, as much as you can see of it.”

I look around me and see nothing but ocean. The fog is less dense, but I can't see very far.

“We are a tight knit lot,” he says. “and we rarely accept newcomers but staying very wary. In our line of work, it pays to be clear about things.” He points to the water. “People who don't know how to be straight and clear about things end up in there.”

His voice never wavered as he spoke. I saw the unbidden image of a man thrown overboard and sinking into the depths. I haven't pissed my pants. Yet.

“What is your name?”

“Nigel Bently.” I see is expression shift for a moment. Maybe I'm imagining it.

“Why are you here?”

I fought hard not to let the words tumble out, so I took a breath or two and spoke carefully. “I drove to San Fransisco with a client of mine. We were looking for a family member of his. Last night it was foggy. I lost him. I ended up on your ship without knowing it. It was so damn foggy. It started raining, so I looked. Well, felt. I felt for some shelter and found that closet. I guess I fell asleep because the next thing I knew, there was yelling and commotion. And, here we are.”

“Is that all?”

“The story's a lot longer than that, but that's pretty much it except for details.” I figure it's best to be honest. I hope these folk aren't completely insane. But, based on their dress, maybe I shouldn't hope to much.

“Fine. But, I'm afraid I can't get you back to shore. We are too far out to leave you on a shingle and have only a short time to deliver an important cargo.”

“But – “

“Unfurl the beam!” He shouts toward the back of the ship. I look up, expecting to see sails, but there's nothing. Not even a mast. I thought this was a sailing vessel, I didn't hear or feel engines. Then I hear the sound of fabric, but, again, where are the sails. None of the crew look at all concerned. I don't say anything because I'm afraid to look foolish. The First Mate walks to the railing on the left side of the ship and looks back. I notice that the deck is curved, like we're on the top of a giant tube. I look where he's looking. What the hell? There are sails alright. The masts are sticking out the sidesTKital of the ship!  It only takes a few minutes, and great squares of fabric stick out both sides and facing the the water. This Vincent looks satisfied.

“Engineer!” He yells.

“Yes?!” A voice calls from the middle of the ship.

“Charge three pieces! All deliberate slow! The main on the beam! The stays on the mizzen beam! The stays on the forebeam!”

“Three pieces! All deliberate slow! Aye!” came the reply.

“Aye,” came several voices around me quietly.

The wrinkle headed man came and stood by me. “Do yuh prefer Nigel? Mr. Bently? Something alse?”

“Nigel's fine.”

“That's ahsy then.” He picks his nose. “Yuh'ver been on an athaship?”

“I've never been on a boat before.”

“Oh, dear. Then, hold on. Stay in tha middle, until we're free'n'clear.”

“Of what?”

He looked at me and shook his head. “Hold on, sir. Stay in tha centerline of tha ship, and she will take care of yuh.” He spoke to me like I was a child. By the look in his eyes, I figured he wasn't being condescending. I nodded.

The voice shouted from the middle of the ship. “Charge is one eighth!”

Vincent looked over the side expectantly. I looked and saw the sails start to billow, like the ocean was blowing up into them. I didn't feel much wind. I notice smaller sails sticking out the front of the ship. Large triangles, they were stretched like a great wind was blowing straight up.

“Charge is one quarter!”

The big sails stop billowing and stretch like the wind is blowing into them. I don't feel any wind.

“All hands!” Vincent shouts. “Prepare t'up!” He steps back toward the middle and grabs on to a loop of rope.  I see the others do the same. I find a loop and hold on. What are they doing? The wrinkle headed guy gives me a quick thumbs up. I hear a great creaking sound that comes from the heart of the ship. No one's surprised or concerned. Then, the ocean lapping stops. I barely hear the water at all. In fact I barely hear anything. Am I deaf?

“Charge is at one half!” shouts the voice. I guess I'm not deaf. I look out onto the ocean, but I can't see it. I just see fog. I hear a little creaking, but nothing else. I force myself calm. I don't want to make a scene. They've all got big knives, and a few have guns.

How long has it been? The wind is blowing down on us.  At least it's keeping my hat on my head. The fog's lifting. Seems to be less of it. I can see the blue sky – No. Wait. The sky's awfully dark blue. I've never seen it look that way I look out over the ocean. There's no ocean. The fog's under us. Wait. Under us?

The wind seems to be gone. I feel a little light headed. Everything's lit with stark shadows.

The First Mate shouts back. “Engineer!”

“Yes!”

“Bring mainsails on the beam to full charge.”

“Mainsails on the beam to full charge. Aye!”

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Let's bring Mr. Bently to the conference room. Can you do that Mister Clark?”

“Yes, Sir,” said the wrinkle headed man.

“Thank you, Mister Clark. The rest of you to your stations.

Mr. Clark motioned for me to folllow him. We walked away from the edge of the ship toward the middle. He walked down some fairly steep stairs. I nearly tripped a few times as I followed. We passed by a number of sailors (I think) who were busy stowing equipment and making inventories. At one point, My hair stood up on end. We were on a footbridge of sorts. When I looked down I saw a big metal tube leading toward the front and back of the ship. I hair slowly lost its frizz after we passed that area. Mr. Clark opened the door and ushered me through. I offerend me a chair near one end of whatI think is a meeting table. He sits down beside me. “You're the second Nigel that We've picked up lately.”

“Really?” I ask.

He says, “We don't often have stoaways, but to have two named Nigel is kinda' funny.”

“Listen.” I say, “I don't want to sound like a rube, but where are we?”

“Well, I don't have charts with me, but I think we're over the Pacific about six miles out and two up. Give or take.”

I keep my poker face. “Two miles up.”

“Yahp. That's about right. I think we'll be raising tha full rig in another hour. Tha Captain likes to avoid the wind if possible. All inefficient  otherwise.”i

“We're two miles up.”

“That's what I said, and yuh said it before.”

I feel a little out of sorts. I don't believe any of what they tell me, but I have to humour them so I don't have any trouble with them.

I hear footsteps. The First Mate and other crewmembers take seats around the table. It turns outI'm next to the First Mate.

The First Mate says, “Mr. Bently. Forgive us if we are suspicious of your motives.”

“I'm not sure why it matters, but okay.” I don't get all the worry. Everyone's eyes scream anxiety and suspicion. What do they have to be afraid of? Maybe my being here isn't just a bad thing. Maybe, it's a very bad thing.

“To that end, Mr. Bently, we would like to ask some questions of you.”

“Of course,” I say. “Fire away.”

“I'm not sure that I'd use that turn of phrase if I were you, Mr. Bentley.”

I shiver inwardly. I'm trying my damnedest to keep a poker face. “Go ahead and ask then.”

“Right. Mr. Cardiff?” I young man at the other end of the table looks at some notes he's apparently been scratching out . He says, “Nigel Bentley, what's your line of work?”

“I'm a private investigator and consultant. I do work for individuals and, on occasion, law enforcement.” I regret having said that last bit. If they're on the run, then the law isn't something they'll want to deal with, otherwise they would have already. Or did they? At any rate, the group didn't appear surprised or worried. Unless their poker faces were damn good.

Mr. Cardiff continues. “So, what were you doing at the port?”

“I was looking for the missing wife and daughter of my client. The daughter more than the wife. It's believed that the wife took her in the night.”

At this, I saw reactions. To a man, faces lost their luster, and eyes narrowed in a small show of anger.

“Do you think the wife was in the right to do this?” asked another crewmember.

“Mr. Chien, please let Mr. Cardiff finish his questions first.”

“Right. I apologize to all. I let my thoughts get ahead of me.”

“Actually, that was pretty much my question,” said Mr. Cardiff.

I hesitated for a moment before answering. I wonder if that's been noticed? “I don't really know. I do want to get to the bottom of things. If I can talk to the mother and child I hope I can determine what's been going on.”

“Is that all, Mr. Bentley?” The First Mate does not look patient. I think he knows that I'm not divulging everything. How much can I tell these folk?

“There are details that I cannot divulge due to client privileges.” I shrug. “I mean, the client – well, all clients – want to work from some level of safety. Security. You see what I mean?” There are murmurs around the table.

A funny hollow whistling noise comes from some tubes behind the first mate's chair. He turns toward them and lifts the top to one. He speaks loudly into it. “Command.”

A tinny sound comes from the tube. “Navigation.”

“Go on, Navigation.”

“We are deep in the well. We will be free and clear in minutes if we aren't already.”

“Good. Thank you. Do you have a solution?”

“We have two. One is to make way for the pole. Our inital latitude has only taken us about ½ minutes toward the south.”

“That is the reasonable solution. Tell me your second.”

“We have a strong current running nearly straight east. It's both broad and tall. If we raise the full rig, we'll be on the well in about 2 hours.”

“Thank you Mr. Hundley. Set heading by the westerly current. Raise sails full rig in the well. Bring up sail charge all deliberate slow.” I wish I understood what the hell these people were spouting.

“Aye. By the book, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hundley.”

“Gentlemen, I'm afraid that we do not have the time to talk to Mr. Bentley. Mr. Clark, you and, eh, Mr. Lopes can find him a berth. I want it next to the formids.”

“Yes and aye, sir,” says Mr. Clark. “Come with me.” He waves me out the door. “The crew has work to do, so it won't do anyone any good to dawdle.”

This time, we walk out another door and onto the deck. I feel vertigo and nearly fall over. Clark grabs me and holds me against the wall until my breathing eases. I sky is full of stars. So many that I can't count them. I've been in the boonies before, but I've never seen this. I catch my breath and look past the railing and don't see water. I just see an expanse of blue sly beneath me. I feel nauseous. I'm hyperventilating. Oh gods I'm going to faint. Or die. Or fall off. I have to get off. Don't hold me down! “Oh gods, what's this.” I'm whimpering. The wrinkly man calls out for help. But, they're not going to keep me on this deathtrap. I push him off and stumble to the side. I'll swim for it! I stumble to the railing and look down so far down that I don't see the bottom. We're in nothing. The fucking sky! Why aren't we falling. I'm fainting. “Mr. Bentley!” Who's shouting that? Got to run and got to get far away. I'm faint. The sensation of free-fall is bliss. I watch the Nonce Morning Star slip away into the dark as I slip from it. Maybe I slip into my own dark. Dark Dark Dark. Bliss.

THUNK

“Ow!” I'm slidding along a wooden floor. I see hat hat land a few feet away so I get up to get it. The floor is really curved. It's hard to walk on it. I get my hat and put set it on my head. Feeling better I turn to try to figure out where I am. There's a post sticking out, oh, it's sails. What am I doing on a – Oh. I look up and the sky is really far away. I look around and see stars.

“Mr. Bentley!” I turn around, but I don't see anyone.

“Hello?” I shout.

“Oh thank goodness you're alright! Stay right where you are, we'll send someone to get you.” It was Clark's voice. I'm feeling woosy, so I sit down. Its dawns on me that I'm on an upside down boat – in the sky. Is it flying? How? And why aren't I flying. I hear the fabric of the sails above me shifting. I look to see the sails billow. Why are they sticking out from the bottom of the ship? There's something else. Where's the wind? There's no wind, yet the sails are starting to stretch as if they were bing blown on harder and harder. I hear a clack behind me and turn to see a rope a few feet away. I see a man apear from over the side of the ship, but he's climbing down. But I'm up, aren't I? “How are you upside down?” I ask him.

“Hang on sir,” he replies. As he gets to me, he straightens up and stands upright in front of me. “Sir, I'll need you to follow me carefully so we can get you back topside.”

“But, that's upside down, right?”

“Sir, around here everything and nothing is upside down. So, unless you want to spend the next week out here, let's go.”

I give up and let him lead me along the rope. I go first. “I'm right behind you,” he says.

I feel silly at first. Then I start feeling pulled back to where I came. I started climbing like I was going up a wall. By the time I was at the railing, I was struggling. Mr. Clark helped me the rest of the way up.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don't know. I looked at all that,” I gesture, but avoid looking out into the whatever it is, “and got vertigo and panicked. Look I don't know what the hell's going on here. Are he on a boat or a freaking spaceship?”

“Well, sir,” said Clark, ”I think we need to get yah something to calm your nerves and let yah sit down with one of our engineers. Some of them are crack teachers when it's about their passions.” He pats my back. “Come on. Time to get something in yah.

Next thing I know, I'm in a narrow room full of benches and tables. Clark sets a couple of metal cups in front of me. “Mr. Bentley, this is water, good and pure, from a local body, and this one's yuhr basic rum from ol' Terra Firma.

I down the rum in seconds, gobble up the cracker things in front of me, then down the water. “Oh, dear. I think I'm feeling a tad sick.”

“Stay put.” He grabs me a big spittoon looking thing. “If yah need to retch, here you go.”

“Are we really flying?” I ask.

“I guess by yuhr reckoning, sure.” He chuckles to himself. “We won't be flying by our reckoning for at least a day.”

“I don't get it.”

“Engineers and navigators can give yah thah details. Basic is we fly when we can leave thah Major Well without getting caught by it or crashing into it.”

“Major what?”

“Well. Right now, that's thah big hunk of rock we just came from. We stop catching aether, we go splat.”

“Right.” I decide to pretend I'm satisfied. I don't want Clark to feel too depressed at his not so smart student.

As an aside, I realize on talking to Clark I'm thinking without a strong noir voice. I think that's got to change for the narrative to get traction in the minds of readers and the author, who needs to get his ass in gear. I think “his” because I recall a vision of him eating yogurt. He has a beard in that vision. I could be wrong, but, for the moment, I'll call him a he.

I'm finished and feeling better. Clark waves me up and we're on our way toward the front of the ship. “We're berthing you up ahead. It's not the most spacious of quarters even for a boat like ours, but it'll give you a place to call your own for the time being.”

A man's standing next to the door to my quarters. He opens it for me and smiles as I enter. “I'll help you anyway I can,” he says. I interpret that as TkitalWe're watching youTKcloseital. I don't blame them. I guess this really is a fucking spaceship. I don't know if I can take all this wackadoodle smack to the common-sense lobe of the brain. I take off my shoes, coat, hat, but leave on the rest – no need tempting fate, especially if I need to get out while the going gets.

I fall asleep to the soft creaking of the wood planks around me. The silent wind pushes us along somewhere I can't imagine. I'm lost in a hundred ways, and I can't begin to find my way back. Maybe I am gone – dreaming – far off. Maybe I'm dead. Maybe I'll get me some forty winks.

Ruby sits forward. Her low cut dress yawning at me from across the table. “Sweety, are we going to order or are you going to admire my breasts?”

“Can't a man do both?”

“At least get on with the ordering.”

I smile. I can't help it. My body feels warm like I've drunk a bottle of red. I haven't had a drop. I wave the waiter over. We discuss wine and dinner options. We settle on a house risotto and a Carpagio red. The food's yet to arrive, but the wine gets to the table quickly. We toast our health and our healthy evening. The wine is sweet.

The risotto is smoky and creamy. The room's a little off center. I take Ruby by the hand and lead her upstairs. She undoes a snap behind her neck and her dress falls to the floor, leaving nothing to the imagination. I'm frozen. She walks up to me and presses her lips to mine. She wrapps her arms around me and whispers in my ear.

“My heart will ache for you for all crew to action stations.”

I let out a hoarse “What?”

“Shush.” She bites my ear. “Let me satisfy you.”

I hear yelling outside the door. “What's that?” I'm whispering.

“Don't worry my love.” Her voice sends shivers to parts better left unsiad. “It's confirmed that we are closing with three ships of the line. Now lets get these silly clothes off you okay?”

She bends down and unbuttons my shirt with her teeth, from the neck down. I'm feeling very warm. She looks up at me with welcoming eyes and whispers, “Get out of that bunk and get downstairs.” Her voice is suddenly older and with a tad more testosterone.”I said, come on!” Okay, that was full on old man voice!

I fall out of the hammock and thump my head on the floor. A quiet grown is all  Ican make. Clark kicks at me with hi foot. “Come on, yuh fool. We're in a heap of trouble, and we need ALL hands.”

I get up and rub the back of my neck. “Gawds! What are you yelling about? I'm next to useless around here.”

“You make your self useful. I'm sending you to the computer room. They need hands to ferry their results to the navigators and the engineers.”

“I can do this?”

“You'll learn. Now get going. Out the door, to the right. Down the steps keep going until you get to a big blue door. Open it and tell them you're there to help.”

I nod my head. I might as well try. I'm out the door and joggin down the hall until I see th steps down. Others go up, but I'm not interested in getting lost or in the way if we really are in some kind of trouble. I feel a lot more sure footed now than I did before, so I practically slide down the steps and jog until I come across a stursy looking metal  door painted blue. I try to open it, but it won't budge. Either it's stuck or it's locked. I knock on the door and wait. I only need to wait for a hald second before it cracks open and a face pops out.

“Me. Clark sent me,” I say. “I told me to tell you that I'll be able to ferry useful things to the navigators and ensgineers.”

Someone pushes the door open wide. “Quick, get in here then. We don't have time to dawdle.”

I stoop a little when I enter.The place is claustrophobic.

"Who are you?" Came a voice from behind a giant two sided drafting table. No 'sir'.

"I was sent here top be useful. I think I'll an extra pair of hands."

"Fine. Stay out of the way." The voice sounds like a boy. I walk around the table to meet the owner of that voice. She's definitely not a boy. I start to speak. "Pardon my interruption miss."

"Wait a few minutes before you interrupt me. And, on a ship, you want to refer to me as mister. It's convention."     

"I never knew that."

She looked me up and down. "You're not a sailor are you."

"Long story, but no."

"Well, there are a few ways you can be helpful. I'll have you ferry things to navigation and back. We have a pneumatic system for papers, but we often need to move equipment back and forth."

"Okay, fine."

Three young men and another woman shuffle in from the far door. They give a perfunctory salute to the person I was talking to and take up residence at the table. they pull on large rolls of paper set at the peak of the table.

The first woman lifted the lid of one of those communication tubes and blows into it.

A tinny voice replies, "go for navigation."

"Navigation, Chief Computer James speaking. I have the combat solution for the vessels on approach."

"Shoot."

"Minimum in seven hours three minutes plus. Location at minimum will be on our starboard 10 hours 15 minutes 13 seconds. Altitude minus 1 hour 7 minutes 1 second. Distance will be 17 and ⅜ nautical miles. The information we have on their guns gives a little over one minute to evade fire.”

“How fast are their cannon?”

“1600 feet per second with a solid round. Reload will be about two ½ minutes. If they shoot nets, we’re looking at about 900 feet per second. That’ll give us more than two minutes to evade.”

“Thank you Mister James. Send the solutions to navigation and the cannon master.”

“Aye. Closing the lid.”

“Same.”

I feel a headache coming on from all the jargon. “Is there any chance someone can explain what’s happening to me? I don’t mean to pester --”

“Not at all.” The second woman spoke. “I will be copying the current solutions to the cannon master. I will give you the short version if that’s okay.”

“Yes please.” I’m relieved to start feeling a little less like a back country bumpkin. “Though I don’t know what to call anybody. The only computers I know work at the bank. Are you all computers?”

“Pretty much, but we’re trained to interpret engineers’ navigators, and cannoneers’ work. We could do those ourselves after a fashion.” She offers me a hand to shake. “My name is Marl Nueffnen. I’m a deck computer. You already met Chief Computer Linda James. The three boys are Alex Rodrober, Mark James, and Winston Mollencroft. They’re deck computers too. We all act as second computers as conditions warrant.”

“I wish someone could explain how we are flying.”

“That’s for an engineer, but Mister James there knows her stuff too. Do you travel on aetherships a lot? ”

“Never heard of them before today, or yesterday I think.”

“Really? Where the hell have you been?”

“Illinois.”

“Never heard of it.”