Tag: #sciencefiction

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The Dumbest Planet in the Universe

A world without sin or strife or pain.
Scott Passer III, “Trey” to his friends and family, went in for a routine heart ablation. He woke up in a spaceship little bigger than a coffin and going … where?
He finally crashes on an idyllic planet many galaxies away the locals call Oolod. They put him back together and begin to show him a world where no one even knows the meaning of lie.
And hovering over all is a mysterious figure Trey can’t see. He can’t even hear the being’s name when others speak it. Who is this strange being, and was it him that brought Trey across the universe?
And why?

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A mysterious figure Trey can’t see. He can’t even hear the being’s name when others speak it. Who is this strange being, and was it him that brought Trey across the universe?
And why?

Sample Chapter

I went into the hospital for just a routine ablation. I mean, as routine as those things can be. They are attempting to get an out-of-whack heart back in whack by searing it and causing scar tissue in just the right spot. Yeah, it’s as crazy as it sounds, but it works.

And since you’re looking up what it is on line anyway, I’m not going to knock myself out explaining it to you.

As far as heart surgeries go, it has a history of success. A lot of people are back at work within weeks, sometimes days. For some people it takes a little longer, but not usually too long. Not like a lot of the other heart surgeries.

And I had had it done before. A couple years before I had had it done at a hospital in Oak City. The thing was, though, they could only do so much of it at one time, so they did (according to them) about ninety percent and then the plan was to get the remaining ten percent “in a couple years” after I was completely healed. (Yeah, I know I said that they said that most people recover quickly, and on the first round I had. I had gone back to my job as an accountant after a couple weeks—part time—and then full time by a month later. Not like I was playing pro sports or prone to ridiculous amounts of jogging, so I didn’t have a problem.)

I just had to get the job finished. Afterward, they told me, I would be back up to full strength in no time. All the old fatigue gone, better sleep at nights, a new man—if you didn’t count that I was rapidly leaving fifty in the rearview and hadn’t been a stud on any field or court since, well, ever. In Little League I was the kid you stuck in right field, in adult softball I was the man you put at second base or catcher—the two places least likely to harm the team in a no-slide league.

So maybe, with that final ten percent taken care of, I would at least be able to go on a long, brisk, walk without feeling light-headed or nauseous.

When I had it done before, I went through all the pre-test junk we’ve come to expect, filled out a ream or two of papers, then showed up at the hospital on the day in question. I was well-rested because my insurance had even sprung for a decent hotel room near the hospital for the night before and after the surgery. I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in twelve hours when I walked through those hospital doors and, pretty soon, I was laying in a hospital gown on a hospital bed, thinking hospital thoughts.

They had wheeled me into the operating room and then this nice lady had told me she was going to put some stuff into my IV which would make me go to sleep. I started counting backward from a hundred, got to about ninety-seven … before waking up in recovery and being kind of sore and tired. It turned out, they had stopped short because the anesthesia had been wearing off and they couldn’t have continued without putting me in serious pain, the kind of pain that would have complicated my recovery.

That’s what I was expecting, then, for round two: count to three, wake up in another part of the hospital, everything hunky-dory.

Anytime you go under, though, there’s always a slight chance you won’t come back up. Or that you might have a wild dream while under the influence. The kind of dream that seems so real you will never be convinced by anyone that it was not.

The Journey

I’ve always been a man who followed his instincts. When I woke up, then, and my first instinct was to scream, that’s what I did. Instincts two through six were remarkably similar, so I followed them as well. Instinct seven was to call ineffectually for help, so I did that, followed by more screaming.

You see, I had expected to awaken to the visage of the anesthesiologist who had put me to sleep—or one as like that one as to be no matter—and then get the usual questions like “How are we feeling?” and “Would you like something to drink?” When I didn’t wake up to that, I think my responses were quite called for.

At first, I thought I was still asleep, for it was all darkness about me. But then I realized my eyes were open for I was seeing a little. Dim shapes and faint lights were all about me. Hence the screaming, though, for I appeared to be in a box. My first thought was: coffin. “I died on the table and now my heart has re-started on my own but they’ve already chucked me in a box for shipping back to … where would they ship me?”

I was born in Flomot, Texas—wait, that’s not right. I was born in Lubbock, TX, but that was because there was no hospital in Flomot. One of my first sensations upon awakening from the anesthesia was of movement, which is what helped lead me to the conclusion that I was in a coffin and someone was taking me back to Flomot for burial. I didn’t have any special affinity for Flomot, but I guess I never had made any “final wishes” known, so it made sense to bury me near my mother’s plot. They could have buried me near my father, but he was a veteran and accorded such honors, so I would only have been in the same pasture, not right next to him.

Once past most of the screaming, it came to me that if I were in a coffin, there wouldn’t be any lights. I had seen coffins advertised that were insulated so you could buy them before you needed them and use them as coolers at parties before you checked out, but I had never known of one that came with lights. And these lights didn’t seem close enough to be inside the coffin with me. Where were they coming from?

Trying to calm down and think about the problem, I hit on the idea that maybe I was inside an iron lung. I had never heard of winding up in one being one of the possibilities following ablation, but then I also had no idea what an iron lung looked like from the inside or out and, thus, the theory was no better or worse than any others I might have come to.

I tried to move my arms and legs, but while I could move them a little, I was clearly packed into some sort of … something? Box? Coffin? Shipping crate? I think my mind liked the iron lung idea because it at least connotated medical care whereas all the other options led one to think of abandonment.

Maybe it was some sort of hyperbaric chamber, I suddenly thought. I had heard the term and, while I didn’t know any more about what one looked like than I knew about iron lungs, the idea seemed more reasonable. Didn’t they use them to immerse someone in a very sterile, pure environment? Maybe, I reasoned with my still-panicky self, there had been some hint of infection and they needed me in a completely clean environment as I recovered.

With that thought in mind—and realizing it could still apply to what little I knew of an iron lung—I decided that maybe I was looking through a glass window at a darkened room in the hospital. Not one hundred percent dark, but just mostly darkened. Why would it be so? I asked. Perhaps it was late at night. Or maybe it was just part of providing a calm world for the patient to wake up in. Bright, garish, hospital lights can be rather unsettling, I knew, when one first woke up.

But then, I realized the lights were moving. And that there were a lot more of them than I had at first thought.

Stars!

I was looking through a window at stars!

And either they or I were traveling very fast.

I actually calmed down then, for it became instantly clear to me that I was having a dream. It didn’t feel like a dream, but I just guessed that to be because of the drugs. As I noticed the stars (or me) moving faster, I laughed to myself that the anesthesia should have included some Dramamine.

I also got the sense that I was accelerating away from Earth—flat on my back and feet first. I couldn’t turn around and look, of course, but that was just the idea that came to my mind. I looked for Saturn, but was already outside the solar system and moving away quickly—or so I calculated (with no available facts).

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Noiné’s Child – Martyr’s Fire – Book One

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(Published Aug 13, 2022)

5225 A.D.

…
It has been three millennia since the last of the great wars.
Two thousand years since mankind emerged from the little pockets they had fled to, trying to avoid the poisons.
Ancient tribes, politics and allegiances are all forgotten. Science? Religion? Philosophy? Engineering? Gone. Forgotten. Without a trace.

…

In the aftermath of the murder of her family, Noiné emerges from the ashes of her home, clinging to an ancient and mostly-forgotten faith and determined to make things better for herself, the child she hopes to have, and the sister who may yet live.

Cover book one

Sample Reading

Noiné was seventeen when the raiders came.

She had been out in the fields, in a little depression that made her invisible from the house. On such days it was hot—not just warm, but hot—yet she still liked to go there when her chores were done for it was the closest thing to solitude she could find in her life. No parents or grandparents and, especially, no siblings. Just far enough away that she could barely hear the normal goings-on of the farm, but close enough that she could hear should someone call out.

She liked a little time alone now and then. She wasn’t quite so enamored of solitude as her nearest sister, but she did like to take a few moments now and then to just revel in silence. A person from the city might have said she lived always in silence, but Noiné didn’t think so. There were always the noises of a farm: the clink of metal, the stomp of hooved feet, the turning of the windmill. Add in the noises of her youngest siblings, who never stopped talking! and it became overwhelming at times. She would move off to where she could hear if called, but have a little peace. Sometimes she prayed, sometimes she sang little ditties and hymns to herself, and sometimes she just sat and barely thought about anything.

Therefore she heard the scream.

Noiné popped her head up cautiously, thinking her mother had perhaps seen a mountain lion and not wanting to draw attention to herself from the cat as she was so exposed. What Noiné saw was a handful of men on horseback, attacking the farm. One of them was riding away with Noiné’s mother across the saddlebow in front of him. She thought she saw her father—or maybe her father’s father—lying facedown in the yard. She saw her grandfather—her mother’s father—try to charge the raider carrying off her mother and receive the lead from some sort of percussion weapon full in the chest for his troubles. He slumped to the ground and moved no more as Noiné watched.

Noiné was too scared to make a sound. She lay facedown on the prairie grass, feeling its warmth against her skin, and wept as silently as she could. When she could get her hearing back, she lay still, listening for sounds from the farm. There were still hoofbeats and footfalls, though no more screams. And then she heard the crackle of flames and each pop was like seeing her grandfather shot again. Her heart heaved in her chest and she was afraid she would make a sound that might be heard. It seemed to her as if her heartbeats could be heard!

Would that be so bad? she asked herself. Wouldn’t I rather die with my family than survive alone? A voice inside her head told her she was a young woman, thought pretty by some, and the men who would carry off her mother would do the same to her and worse. She clutched at handfuls of the prairie grass as she thought of her mother. She prayed her mother could escape.

Or die quickly.

Her wits returned in conjunction with the setting of the sun. She left her little depression and made her way to a nearby draw, hunched down and, hopefully, unseen. Once in the draw, she made her way towards town. It was all of six miles and likely seven, but she was sure she could make it—even if it turned dark before she could get there.

The dress she wore was a light brown, simple thing, which would help her blend in with the surroundings as the sun sat. Her long brown hair she had twisted into a single braid down the center of her back, as was the custom for a woman of her age among her people. She fingered it lightly as she set out, the feel bringing her both comfort and sadness for her mother had braided it for her. For the last time? she wondered.

She had only gone a few steps when she turned back. She crept back to where she had been hiding and peeked over the roll in the fields. There was no movement around her house, and her house itself was just a smoldering ruin. In the fading light she could see the lump in the dirt where her grandfather had fallen. She saw another, similar lump near the ruins of the barn and had to cover her mouth to keep herself from making an anguished sound aloud. She felt the sound in her throat and chest, though.

Noiné topped the small roll and made her way to the remains of the house. When she was close, she whispered the names of her siblings but heard nothing in response. Where were they? In the house? Had they been taken by the bandits to be sold as slaves or something even worse? She stepped over toward the barn and saw that the lump was her grandmother, and near the barn her other grandfather. She wanted to fall down into the dirt and lay there with them until she died, but her legs continued to walk as if by their own volition.

She found no sign of her father. She guessed him to be wherever the children were, for he would have protected them to his last breath. How would he have done so? He was not a fighting man. Strong, resolute, and a harder worker than any two other men, he would have fought back with his hands if he could. He might have retreated to the corn crib, which was close to the house but had solidly built walls. She had a vision of him trapped in the house with the little ones and suddenly it became clear: if that were how he died, while the house burned and crashed around him, he would have been holding her siblings close and saying prayers over them and telling them the stories of their family’s faith that he knew so well.

She made herself stop and say one of the prayers he had taught her and her siblings. It gave her a little strength, and then she began to walk. Five miles to town? she asked herself. More like seven, she thought. And she had never made the journey in the dark—she had made it rarely enough in the light. But she was convinced she could find the town. Would she find help? Her family had never been shunned in town, but neither had they been regulars, coming in only twice a year: once to buy seed and once to bring in the harvest. Even doctoring, they did themselves.

They were not without friends, though. There was the family named Trook to the east, but that was in the wrong direction. And what if the raiders had hit them, too, for the one who rode off with Noiné’s mother was heading that direction.

There were other farming families they were either friendly or acquainted with, but were mostly in the wrong direction as well. The ones that weren’t, were off the path if she were to make straight for town. Oh well, she thought, maybe I’ll at least see one of them if I somehow get off the track.

An hour later, she was sure she was still on the right track but was wishing she had brought some water. She thought she recognized some of the landmarks even in the wan light of a fading moon, and thought old lady Deen’s farm might be nearby—and she had a good well, one of the best around—but Noiné was afraid that if she got off the track she might not find it again. And she had seen no lights on the horizon to indicate a campfire or even a lantern, so the path seemed her best bet.

She had cried much that first hour, but then it slowly faded and she just became an automaton, putting one foot in front of the other, thinking of nothing except staying on the path—which she imagined looked rather silvery in the moonlight. At least, she prayed what she was seeing was the path. She wasn’t sure what anyone she came to could do, but she just kept telling herself she had to make it. When her mind began to get numb with the exhaustion and darkness, she kept herself alert by reciting the prayers her parents had taught her. She even smiled as she realized that she was subconsciously saying the prayers to the cadence of her footsteps and, if she wanted to increase or decrease the speed of one she had but to increase or decrease the speed of the other.

She did. Her shoes—which hadn’t been much to start with—were torn and her feet were bleeding when she finally came to the outskirts of the little village the locals called Forest (though the forest it was named after was little more than a few old, gnarled, wind-blasted stumps anymore). She had fallen once—she wasn’t sure why—making her clothes dirty and the palms of her hands wet with blood and sweat. She had a tear near the knee of her skirt from the fall but she told herself to be thankful for that because it let a little cool air in on what was a surprisingly warm night.

She had run almost mindlessly at first, then settled to a walk when her lungs and side commanded her to, not knowing what sort of help she might find in town for her family only had the minimum amount of contact with the people there. Noiné knew why that was, but also knew to not talk about it, even within her family. Still, she hoped there would be someone there who would be willing to help, for weren’t the raiders a problem to all?

As she approached the town, she wasn’t sure where to go, but then she saw a slew of horses tied up before one building and decided with what was left of her mind to go there. Some men were standing around on the porch before the building—which she thought might be a public house of some sort—and one of them made a half-hearted effort to stop her as she burst through the crowd and into the building.

Inside, before her eyes even adjusted, she called out, “I need help! The raiders have attacked my family.”

Someone nearby put a hand on her arm and said something like, “You need to get out—”

But then a voice spoke from the middle of the room and all other sound disappeared. “What is the problem, young lady?” a voice of command asked. She looked and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and the dark paneling inside, she saw a tall man standing up and coming toward her. As he stepped into the light she saw that he was a man of regal bearing, taller than most and with a strong face. He reached out to her with large hands, which she took nervously and found them calloused.

She said, the words flowing quickly, “I live just northeast of town, about seven miles. Raiders attacked our farm. I saw one of them carrying off my mother. I saw my grandfathers laying on the ground, dead. I—I ran.”

The man came closer, then commanded someone to his left, “Get this young woman a drink, and food if she can take it.” He helped her to a chair and asked her in kind tones, “Now tell me exactly what you saw and how we may get to your place.”

Noiné took a sip of the proffered drink, then related all she had seen—little as it was—and directions on how to get to her family’s farm. The man listened intently, then turned to another man who stood nearby, a man with the darkest skin Noiné had ever seen, and said, “Yarfan, I want the men mounted up and ready to ride now.”

“Understood, my lord,” Yarfan, the dark and very thin man who nevertheless looked to be made of long muscles, said. He turned smartly on his heels and followed his men, who were already heading outside.

The man who was clearly the leader took one of Noiné’s hands in his own and said, “Rest assured: we will find who did this.”

“May I—may I ask who you are?” she managed to reply in timid voice.

He smiled, a very nice and warm smile, and told her, “I’m the king” with a good-natured chuckle. Then, standing to his full height, he turned to a stout woman nearby who was apparently the keeper of the inn and said, “Take good care of this young lady. Provide for her needs. I will be back and will settle up for her expenses as well as our own.”

“Yes, my lord,” the innkeeper said, nodding obsequiously.

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Saving Time – The Legend of Garison Fitch – Book 2

Book Two of The Legend of Garison Fitch

Two years ago Garison Fitch traveled through time and rewrote history. An accident in the eighteenth century created a whole new world, and even gave Garison a wife he had never met before. Now, he’s got a daughter and he’s coming to enjoy this world he created. Until he’s attacked by men masquerading as Indians, and a funeral procession from out of the past enlists his help, and a tree grows from sappling to full-grown in a matter of minutes, threatening his daughter’s very life. Time itself is unraveling and Garison’s trips through time seem to be the cause. Garison must go back in time once again and keep himself from making the original trip that started the problem. But he can’t use his time machine to go back. How does one sew up a rip in time?

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The Legend of Garison Fitch begins in “First Time” and concludes in “i“. Read all three books!

…

Reading Sample

Prologue

June 12, 1897

The concussion rocked the walls of La Plata Canyon far away from the blast site. There, fire and smoke careened out of the hole and added more soot to the already blackened cave mouth. Deep within the mountain, one could hear the rocks reestablishing their equilibrium. It was as if the mountain were alive. To further the illusion, one could hear the mountain rumbling long after the blast, like an awakened grizzly settling back into sleep.

Jeb stood up from behind his barricade and watched as the last of the smoke seeped out of the mine. It looked like a fire-breathing dragon sleeping, snoring smoke through one open nostril. Jeb liked the thought for he remembered fairy tales from his childhood which told that dragons’ bellies were covered with gold and jewels. Jeb grabbed his lantern and pick and prepared to head back into the dragon.

Jeb had been prospecting for over thirty years. He had missed the big strike in California, shown up too late for the one in Alaska, and was just barely in the right century for the Colorado strikes. He had been late for the strike on the Blue, just missed the boom on the Tarryall, and had shown up in La Plata Canyon about twenty years late. And while some might argue he didn’t know it very well, prospecting was the only life he knew.

Not that he hadn’t had a couple moments of glory. For three days once he had been a millionaire–on paper. That had been up near Tincup, or was it Alma? He couldn’t rightly remember. But three ladies depicted on stiff paper had forfeited his millions to a man holding four monarchs depicted on similarly stiff paper. Jeb always held that it had been a blessing–that all that money had encumbered him–but the truth was that he sometimes wished he’d never gotten into that last hand. Jeb’s life could be summed up with the phrase, “If only I’d left earlier.”

On the other hand, he’d never stayed too long. That was something, he guessed.

Down in the bowels of the mine shaft, he set his lantern on a ledge and set about to survey his most recent prospects. He had won the claim in a came of three card monte; which should have tipped him off. If the claim had been worth anything, the dealer (whose winning streak had reached uncanny proportions) would have held onto it. Jeb was beginning to suspect–no, be assured–that the dealer had lost on purpose.

Jeb had found the claim easily enough, having been late for the La Plata Canyon once before in his life. The claim was located near where the Lady of Spain Mine had once stood and that gave Jeb hope. The Lady of Spain had struck a pocket of gold and its owners had been richer than the dreams of avarice–until they hit the other side of the pocket. They blew their fortune trying to reestablish a vein that didn’t exist, and the Lady closed down. Jeb was hoping he might find just enough gold to get him a stake. With that, he could head to South America, or maybe even Alaska again. There was a valley he had seen when he had been there before that he’d been aching to try again.

As the dust settled in the area most recently blasted, Jeb swore. He knew better than to expect the mother lode to just appear before his eyes, but he had hoped for something promising. Anything. The early returns weren’t good.

He began sifting through the rocks, clearing a space to put up some more shoring timbers, when a glint caught his eye. He picked up the rock in question, and–holding it close to his lantern–spied just a hair of gold. He eyed it closely, not wanting to trust even his own sight until he was absolutely sure. This mine had disappointed him before, and he wasn’t going to get his hopes up again.

After roughly an hour of work, he had collected maybe twenty pounds of ore with traces of gold. He had even found where along the wall they had come from, but he hadn’t located the vein. But, even though it would mean putting a bend in his shaft where he hadn’t intended to have one, he figured it would be worth a look-see. The current path of the shaft sure didn’t seem worth sticking to.

The end of the day proved that there was a very thin vein of gold in the new direction, but it wasn’t enough for Jeb to get rich off of. In fact, it was probably just enough to make him poor–what with the expense of digging it out.

As Jeb sat in his shack, picking at the little gold he had found, he wondered if it would be enough. He knew it wouldn’t get him to South America or Alaska–or even California–but then again, it might. He had known men to get a lot further on a lot less.

Word had it there was a greenhorn easterner over in Durango who was buying up old claims. “Speculating” they called it. Jeb had heard that the city dude had bought Shorty Dillon’s worthless mine for far more than Shorty deserved. If the greenhorn were still around, Jeb thought, and if he could convince the man that his claim was worth something. It might mean salting the claim, but all’s fair, right? he thought absently.

The more Jeb thought of the idea of leaving and getting on the trail again, the more he liked it. Jeb decided he needed some supplies, anyway, and might as well head into Durango and see what he could find out. He tossed a crust of bread over to the marmot that often hung around near his door, then turned out the light for sleep.

Jeb awoke to a sound he had never heard before and, just for a moment, figured it must be Satan coming with some hell-spawned machine to take him away. He had done a sight worse than salt a claim in his life, after all. It was a powerful, low, rumbling sound, like the machines at the smelter–only more refined, more steady. To Jeb, that made the sound more ominous.

He sat up in bed and grabbed for his rifle. Slipping on his boots, he stepped outside into the night wearing only his dungarees and flannel underwear. He was shaking in his boots and sweating even though the night was as cool as any in a month. Slowly, he slipped outside.

The noise was coming from some sort of machine, all right. Jeb slipped on his spectacles for a better look–even though they weren’t much help in the moonlight. Whatever it was, it wasn’t much longer than a buck-board, but it was made of metal and glass. It ran on four black wheels with silver centers that gleamed in the moonlight. But what fairly took Jeb’s breath away with fright were its eyes. It had two eyes in front that shined brighter than day, lighting the way ahead of the beast–or machine, or whatever it was.

The beast began to turn in Jeb’s direction and he dove behind the woodpile as the bright lights swept near where he had been. There were trees between he and it that might have blocked him from its sight, but he didn’t want to take chances. It occurred to the back of his mind that he had no idea where the woodpile had come from, but the thought died of loneliness.

The beast rolled a short way through the forest then came to a stop maybe fifty yards from Jeb’s shack. Against his better judgement, he decided to crawl closer and get a better look. If he were going to die or get carted off to Ol’ Scratch’s hideout, he aimed to see what would be carrying him. Holding his breath, he moved toward the machine–creeping through the forest quieter than a cat.

He got close to the beast just as the light in its eyes went out and the fearful rumbling stopped. Then he watched in horrified awe as the sides of the beast opened up–almost as if it had doors built into its rib-cage–and two people got out. Jeb all but stopped breathing as he saw what appeared to be a tall, dark-headed man, reach back into the beast and pull out a blonde-haired little girl. She was little more than a baby. The man said something to the person who had gotten out of the other side of the beast and the reply–though Jeb couldn’t quite make out all the words–sounded as if it came from a woman.

The trio began to walk away from the beast and it was then that Jeb saw they were walking towards a house. It was a great log house, with a light on the porch that didn’t flicker and another light or two inside. Something in Jeb’s brain registered that the lights were coming from those new-fangled “bulbs” he had seen in town, but that wasn’t what occupied his mind. What occupied the parts of Jeb’s mind that hadn’t been completely frozen with fear was the idea that a house was there at all. He had walked that land just the day before and nothing had been there–not even a stick of cut wood. And now there was a house and people and–

Not planning his actions too far in advance, Jeb carefully skirted the fierce beast and walked up to the porch of the house. The yard was carefully cut, there were flower bushes planted all around, and the walkway to the front porch was made of some sort of perfectly laid and cut stone–as if of a single giant slab. All around was evidence that the house had stood for not just hours, but years.

He crept up to a window and saw that the woman somehow made the whole interior of the house light up by touching a little square on the wall. Jeb fell backwards from the window, his hair literally standing on end. What sort of magic was this? When he had caught his breath, his curiosity got the better of him and he peeked in again.

The man and the little girl were nowhere to be seen, but the woman was standing not ten feet away from Jeb. She had dark hair that hung half-way down her back and she was, Jeb thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. He gulped as he looked at her. Not only was she beautiful, she was wearing the least clothes he had ever seen on a woman who wasn’t dancing in a saloon. She wore a blue cotton shirt with no discernable buttons and britches that looked as if they had been cut off at mid thigh, revealing a more shapely pair of legs than he had ever seen before. He swallowed hard again and rubbed his eyes to make sure it wasn’t all an illusion.

The woman bent over a little table and picked up a little black box. She held it before her and, suddenly, a large black box on the other side of the room seemed to spring to life. It glowed with a thousand colors and sound came out of it. Jeb watched in horror as the woman somehow manipulated the big box with the little box. His breath now only a memory, he saw the faces of people who were trapped in the big box. Some were laughing, some were crying, and some seemed to have somehow been drawn. Like moving art.

The box went dark as suddenly as it had lit up and Jeb screamed. It was a heartfelt scream from the bottom of his soul as it escaped his lips. Clutching tightly to his rifle, he fled as fast as his old legs would carry him. Back to the shack he went, just barely remembering to avoid the horrible hell-beast the demon people traveled with. As he skirted it, he prayed it wouldn’t come to life and eat him.

Reaching his shack, he bolted the door, piled whatever he could find in front of it, then sat cowering on the bed with his gun cocked and ready. When he finally fell asleep, it was to visions of the beautiful woman coming to him. She wore next to no clothes and beckoned him with long-nailed fingers and a sultry gaze. He fought against her advances for he knew she had come to take his soul and trap him for all eternity in her box.

When morning came, Jeb was surprised to find himself still alive–and not living in a box. He gathered up what he could carry, including some of the gold, and headed for his mule. He hastily loaded the animal up and started for town.

He cast a glance at where the house had been the night before and found only an empty meadow. Taking an earlier than usual swig from the flask in his pack, he steadied his nerves and decided it was time to get shut of La Plata Canyon. He’d heard a man named Stillwell say the place was haunted, and Jeb was thinking the old prospector had been right. If he could sell his claim to that greenhorn–Wilson, he thought the man’s name wasfine and dandy. If not, he’d just cut his losses and head for Leadville or Georgetown.

He was sure it hadn’t been a dream. The valley was haunted and he wouldn’t spend another night in it. Let someone else deal with the demon woman.

…

Chapter One

With gloved hands, Garison looped the newly strung strand of barbed wire through the come-along. Nodding to Heather to back away a bit, Garison began to work the lever and bring the two strands closer together. He had almost lost an ear one time when a line of barbed wire broke and he didn’t want her near in case the incident repeated itself.

“A hundred years ago,” Garison told her, “We would’ve had to do this all by hand. Working and pulling until we got the new wire tight enough to nail down–then it would still have been far looser than we can get today.”

“But you said the tightness in the wire also contributed to it’s demise.”

“‘Demise’?” he chuckled.

“Breakage, whatever. You knew what I meant.”

He nodded and said, “To an extent. This wire’s a lot stronger than anything we would have been stringing a hundred years ago. My point is, though, with all the things I’ve invented, I’m not sure I’ve ever invented anything just as flat-out practical as this come-along.”

“That’s not true. If you could ever get The Box licensed, that would change the world.”

He winced slightly and reminded her, Please don’t say that. I’ve already changed the world once, remember?”

“That was an accident.” Trying to cheer him up–or at least get the conversation on another track–Heather told him, “If you could license The Box, the world would never know another energy crisis. Besides that, it’d probably just about get rid of smog. And think of all the waste we produce now that The Box could eliminate.”

He nodded, but remarked, “And think of how quickly Garison Fitch would be eliminated.”

“What?”

As he finished cranking and began to tie the two strands of barbed wire together, he explained, “Even if I got the thing licensed, I wouldn’t stand a chance. We’re talking about a self-contained nuclear fusion reactor small enough to fit into the trunk of a compact car but powerful enough to supply all the electricity Denver needs. The oil, gas, and electric companies would never let me make it even if the government licensed it.”

“But all the good it could do–”

“Doesn’t compare to all the money they’re currently making. Almost twenty years ago a guy in El Paso figured out how to make his Lincoln Continental get eighty-five miles to the gallon–with the air conditioning going. It was environmentally safe and easily manufactured.” Garison looked at Heather with a rueful smile and asked, “What happened to that car?”

When she shrugged, Garison told her, “The guy sold the plans for the car to one of the major oil companies for several million dollars so that they could ‘research it’. That was the day it was guaranteed that car would never see the light of day. Oil companies are in the business to make money and a fuel efficient car would kill them. Remember the Tucker automobile? What do you think would happen if I suddenly showed the world that the oil, gas, and electric companies can all be circumvented by an inexpensively produced unit they could install themselves in the back yard?”

Just when Heather was afraid her new track would be more disastrous than the previous one, she decided to ask anyway, “So what happens to The Box? You’re not just going to bury it, are you?”

He shook his head and said, “Not entirely. I applied for a permit to convert our house over to a generator.” He smiled and added, “I’m just not going to tell them that my little generator has more power than the entire La Plata County Electrical Co-Op.”

Heather laughed and Garison thought to himself how much he had come to love that laugh in the last two and a half years. Hers wasn’t a loud laugh–Heather was rarely loud about anything–but it was a laugh that seemed to fill her whole body. Her mouth, her eyes, and–somehow–her entire self laughed together.

Heather Dawson Fitch was an uncommonly beautiful woman. With long, dark hair and the face of an angel, she could have been a model or an actress or–Garison thought–anything she wanted to be. An All-American volleyball player for Southern Methodist during her pre-law years, she had remained athletically active since and, when she had given birth to their first child eighteen months before, she had quickly regained her figure. Now, unless one saw her with her daughter in hand, one might think she had never given birth. With young Sarah sporting the blondest hair imaginable, many who saw Heather guessed her to be watching someone else’s child. However it is that mothers are supposed to look, Heather didn’t strike most people as looking like one.

Garison, however, was an obvious father. Though he, too, sported dark black hair and a matching mustache, he positively doted on little Sarah. A big man who might have appeared incapable of tenderness at first glance, Garison had to be reminded by Heather that Sarah wasn’t made of china. He also had to be reminded not to spoil her, but that lesson often went over his head. Like his first daughter Helen–dead almost two hundred years when Sarah was born–Sarah had quickly learned that her father was tightly wrapped around her stubby little fingers.

Garison looked at Heather standing there by the fence row, grabbing her hammer and preparing to nail the latest strand of wire into place, and winced slightly. He had no doubt that Heather could do the work, but all morning long she had been working far too hard. Each fence staple was hammered in with a vengeance and the next one was attacked in record time. He had tried to get her to take it easy, but she would only slow down for a few minutes before stepping the pace up again.

“I know you hate the idea of ‘man’s work’ and ‘women’s work’,” Garison began, “But I still don’t think this is the kind of work for you. Call me a sexist pig, but this seems like awfully rough work for a woman.”

“Well, sexist pig,” Heather laughed, “I enjoy it. I never got much chance to work with my hands as a child. I like helping you with your wood-working and stuff like this. This stuff, especially, makes me feel like a cowboy or something.”

“Believe me,” he chuckled in assurance, “No one will ever accuse you of being any kind of a boy.”

Garison started to admonish her about working too hard again, but he knew it would do no good. He knew Heather was working so hard because Sarah was staying two nights with her grandparents in Denver and Heather was trying to take her mind off her worry with hard work. Garison knew it wasn’t working because Heather’s work was getting harder and harder. He just hoped he could find some more work for them to do when the fence was done or he was afraid Heather might have a nervous breakdown before having a physical breakdown. He figured a physical breakdown might be easier to recover from.

They were conducting what was a yearly ritual for most of the residents of the La Plata Canyon–and, indeed, almost all of the rural west. While barbed wire could withstand the elements for quite a few years, it couldn’t withstand the sharp hooves of deer and elk. As they jumped the fences, the animals would often clip the top strand with hooves as sharp as any wire cutters. The result was broken top strands that had to either be repaired or replaced all around the property every year. If not for the fact that his barbed wire helped to keep neighboring livestock out, Garison had thought more than once about just letting the wire go. But, like Heather, the work kind of made him feel like a real, old west cowboy, too.

He was about to say something when they heard a car coming from up the canyon. They both looked up, as vehicle traffic in La Plata Canyon was fairly rare. They knew the vehicles of everyone who lived in the canyon and often waved when they saw someone they recognized. Heather had once groaned that they had become true country hicks–looking up at the sound of passing motorists–but the truth was she loved the friendliness after growing up in Dallas’s most haughty suburb.

They looked at each other with interest when they saw that the car going by was an old one. While Garison wasn’t a car buff exactly, he knew enough to spot that the car was from the late 1940s. He was about to remark as such, showing off his limited knowledge of vintage autos, when Heather said, “1947 Hudson and Terraplane. I haven’t seen one of those in years. Looks like it’s in great shape, too.”

“I’d say so,” Garison nodded in more agreement than he really had. He was still marveling at the fact that Heather knew the car.

Heather caught the look on his face and snapped playfully, “What? Did I wound your chauvinistic pride? Don’t think women can be motorheads?”

“No,” he hastily replied, “But in the two and a half years I’ve known you, you’ve never said anything about cars. I mean, what little work we’ve had to have done, I did it or we took it in. I thought you were just into planes.”

“I am,” she laughed. With a chuckle she added, “My brother Hank’s a car freak and I went to just enough old car shows and a few junk yards with him to pick up a little. He had a car like that at one time.” Heather looked down the road where the car had already passed around a bend and added, “Although his was never in that good of shape. He would have liked to have seen that car. Someone’s really been keeping it up.”

At the sound of another car coming from up canyon, Garison looked up. He remarked with surprise, “He’d probably like this one, too.”

Heather turned her gaze in the same direction as Garison’s and asked, “Is there an old car rally up canyon somewhere?”

“Not that I know of. Who would hold an old car rally up there where the road becomes dirt? Not the best way to protect your custom paint job.”

The car in question was a hearse. It had a big Pontiac symbol on the hood and looked to be from the same era as the previous car. And, like the Hudson, it looked to be in excellent condition. Almost new, in fact.

Just as Garison was about to ask what year it was, Heather told him, “By the grill work, I’d say this one’s from about ‘46. That hood looks a little strange, but maybe it’s because it’s a hearse. I’ve never seen one of those before. Not from that era, anyway.”

As they were looking at the hearse, it pulled to a stop in front of them. They watched with interest as a tall, solidly built, middle-aged man got out. He smiled up at them and ascended the short incline between them and the road.

At the fence, he extended his hand and offered, “Stuart Jameson, at your service.”

Garison pulled off his right-hand work glove and took the man’s hand. He suddenly realized the man had the largest hands Garison had ever encountered. The man’s hand wrapped completely around Garison’s own rather large paw almost as if taking an adolescent’s hand. For a brief moment, Garison thought the man could probably touch Heather’s elbow while shaking her hand. Besides just the hands, though, the man was big–probably six-four or better, Garison mused.

“Garison Fitch,” he returned. “And this is my wife, Heather.”

Stuart Jameson nodded and said, “I hate to impose on you like this, but I’m with Holt & Jameson, the funeral parlor in Durango. Anyway, we just interred a young man on his parents’ property and, well, my man hasn’t shown up here with the digging tools. I wonder if I might trouble you to help me, um–I really hate to even ask this. Could you, um, help me fill in the grave?”

He had a deep voice, much like what one would expect the voice of God to sound like. It was deep and sonorous, yet oddly soothing. Every word he said was in the tone of voice one would use when comforting bereaved loved ones. It occurred briefly to Heather to wonder if he talked like that all the time. She guessed that he did since he was talking that way to ask for help filling in a hole.

Heather and Garison shared a puzzled look, then Garison replied, “I guess so.” They picked up their shovels and followed the man to the hearse.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to all squeeze into the front seat,” he apologized.

“No problem,” Heather quickly answered, shuddering as she even thought of riding in the back of the hearse.

Walking to the car, Stuart Jameson was whistling something Garison couldn’t quite place. After a moment, he realized it was “American Patrol”. Odd, he thought, that the man would whistle a tune from the same era as the car.

As they got in and Stuart started the engine, Heather complemented, “This car is in remarkable shape.”

Jameson cast her a somewhat puzzled look, but replied, “Thank you. I only got it a year ago–so it hasn’t seen much use. Ordered it direct from the factory.”

“Doesn’t look like a kit,” Heather mused, drawing another puzzled look from Jameson.

Garison was only listening with half an ear. What he was paying attention to was the fact that the man’s clothing was fantastically out of date. Jameson was wearing a conservative brown suit, but the lapels were too wide, the tie was too short, the pants were cut all wrong and the material was some sort of heavy woolen weave that looked like it would weight fifty pounds. Below the pants the man wore brown leather shoes that were polished but obviously worn. Even in their worn condition, though, Garison couldn’t imagine that they were comfortable. The thought popped in his mind that they were the type of shoe formerly referred to as brogans, but he wasn’t sure.

He was shaken from his study of the man’s attire by a quick turn to the right. Garison looked up in surprise to find that they were taking a dirt road that followed along just outside his northern fence line. He had walked the selfsame road just two days before when checking his fence and it hadn’t been in nearly as good shape. He figured someone must have grated it for the funeral, but was surprised he hadn’t heard the equipment doing it. The sound of machinery often carried well in the La Plata, partly because it was so incongruous.

They pulled up to a little clearing neither Heather nor Garison recognized and got out. At the edge of the clearing, a small man in another outdated suit stood next to an open grave and a pile of dirt. He was tapping his foot and looking impatient, until he saw Heather. She was just dressed in faded (if tight) blue jeans and an old sweat-shirt, but he gulped and watched her legs like he’d never seen such a sight. Heather noticed the look and edged closer to Garison. She was used to men watching her, but this man was looking at her like she was a space alien . . . or a chorus girl.

“If you could just give me a hand,” Jameson said, taking Heather’s shovel and motioning for Garison to join him. Garison nodded and began tossing dirt in on what certainly looked like a casket. They could hear the hollow thump of the dirt on the wood and the sound gave Heather an uneasy feeling. For his part, Garison was noticing that it was a wooden box, and not the fancy metal ones he was used to.

Heather watched for a bit, then opened, “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you burying and why are you burying him here? Him or her. It’s so far from a cemetery and all.”

Jameson first said, “Harris, spell Mister Fitch for a bit, won’t you?” Harris nodded and took the shovel like someone who had never worked one before. He was little help and Garison was thinking Heather could have done a much better job.

Jameson explained, “It is a young man in the grave, Mrs. Fitch. His name is–was–Guy Wilson and, sadly, he was killed in France during the war.”

“What war?” Heather asked suspiciously.

Harris looked up with surprise and spoke for the first time, “World War Two, of course.” He said it like he was talking to someone who had to be a moron.

Heather looked from Harris to the grave and queried incredulously, “And they’re just now bringing his body home for burial?”

Jameson nodded and replied, with practiced sadness, “Things move slowly after such a devastating conflict.”

Taking the shovel back from the slow-working Harris, Garison said, “But this has to be some sort of a record.”

Jameson shrugged and said, “I just hope he’s the last for me. I have buried far too many from this conflict–or arranged memorial services for those whose remains were never recovered. A sad, sad business.”

Heather mumbled, “I don’t think there’s much chance of any more coming home. Not if they haven’t come home by now.”

“Let us hope so,” Jameson nodded. Heather and Garison shared another puzzled look. After all, did he really expect any more bodies from World War II to be found sixty years late?

“So, why here?” Heather reminded them of the second part of her earlier question.

“Ah, yes,” Jameson nodded. It was a warm day and he stopped to remove his coat and wipe the sweat from his brow. It drew both Garison and Heather’s attention that he still wore his tie. He finally told her, “This land is owned by the Wilson family; as you probably know, since you live nearby.”

“Actually, I didn’t,” Garison told him. “I mean, they call it the Wilson place, but no one’s lived here as far back as I can remember.”

Jameson nodded and continued, “The Wilson’s haven’t lived here in, oh, must be ten years by now. The family had lived here for many many years–since Carlton Wilson struck gold here back in the late 1800s, in fact. Guy and his brother John grew up here–in the old house up the road.”

Heather and Garison shared a look that meant, “What old house?”

Jameson looked puzzled by their question, but went on, “But when the boys graduated from high school and left home, Lydia talked Harold–he was Carlton’s grandson, I believe–she talked him into moving to Denver. They haven’t been back until today, I believe. You may have seen their Hudson going down the road ahead of me. I believe Guy had said he wanted to be buried in La Plata Canyon. Boyhood memories of happiness here, I suppose.” He said this in a voice that conveyed infinite sadness and sympathy.

“Interesting,” was all Garison could say. Heather just nodded, confused and bewildered.

When the grave was filled in, Jameson looked at his watch and said, “I can’t imagine what has happened to Phil. It’s not like him to be late. I hope he hasn’t met with any misfortune. He was supposed to be here by three, and here it is almost four.”

Heather looked at her own watch and said, “It’s not even noon, yet.”

Jameson smiled and offered, “Your watch must have stopped.” Showing her his own watch, he said, “I have fifteen ’til four–and my watch is running.”

“So’s mine,” she returned, shaking her watch as if that would change anything.

Garison looked at his own watch and said, “Huh, mine matches Heather’s. You sure yours is right?”

Harris looked at his watch and showed haughtily, “See, a quarter of four.”

Garison shrugged, then put his shovel over his shoulder and said, “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for him in case he shows up later. Folks always have trouble finding our house even when I give them directions. Maybe he just got lost in the canyon. Took the wrong dirt road or something.”

“Perhaps,” Jameson nodded. Harris made a motion that indicated he thought Phil had had to much to drink for lunch, but Jameson shook his head and said, “No, I don’t think so. He’s been dry ever since he came back from the south Pacific.”

“Why was he there?” Heather asked.

“It’s where the Navy sent him,” Jameson replied, wondering if Heather and Garison might possibly be mental. “In fact, I think he was on Iwo Jima.”

“That was a while back,” Heather mumbled, though something about the whole conversation bothered her. It was as if she and Jameson were having two spearate conversations that sort of met in the middle–but didn’t.

Jameson extended his massive hands and shook those of Heather and Garison. He smiled and said, “I certainly appreciate your help, Garison, Mrs. Fitch. Sometime when you’re in Durango, allow me to buy you dinner.”

“That’s not necessary,” Garison shrugged.

“Yeah, we were planning on spending the day digging and working, anyway,” Heather smiled, though still uncomfortable about the whole interchange. “This just took us away from working the fence.”

“Ah, I’ve taken you away from your work,” Jameson apologized.

“That’s fine,” Heather smiled. “No one ever got mad about missing out on stringing barbed wire.”

Jameson nodded with a deep chuckle and reminded, “Well, the offer is still open if ever you’ll take me up on it. Thank you again. Now, can I give you a ride back?”

“No, thank you,” Garison replied. “We can walk back. I want to look at the fence again, anyway. We may have to get a surveyor out here for a couple sections.”

Jameson nodded as they set off.

When they were out of earshot, Harris remarked, “Where’d they get those clothes?”

Jameson shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Mrs. Fitch certainly fit well into those dungarees, didn’t she?”

“It was shameful,” Harris replied snootily.

“Not so shameful that you refused to let your eyes bug out at her every move, I noticed.”

Harris harrumphed and walked to the hearse. Jameson chuckled and followed along behind. He hated to admit it, but Mrs. Fitch certainly had fit well into those jeans. And there was something about that torn patch on her thigh . . . He checked his watch and wondered if his wife were home, yet.

When they were out of earshot, Heather asked, “What did you think of those clothes?”

“Little outdated, weren’t they?” Garison nodded.

Heather, her voice low, agreed, “Very. I don’t know fashion as well I do cars, but I’d guess those suits came from about the same era as the cars.”

“That’s what I was thinking. And I don’t know if you noticed it, but that guy was whistling an old ‘big band’ tune. Granted, music’s eternal, but–” He stopped walking just as she did and asked suspiciously, “Are you thinking now what I’m thinking?”

“I am if you’re thinking about sneaking back, waiting until they’re gone, and finding out what was buried back there.” He nodded and she looked at her watch, suggesting, “Let’s give them a few minutes then slip back.”

They walked quietly through the woods back to the little clearing. They hadn’t heard the car drive away, but they hoped it had. If not, they figured they might spy for a while and see what the two men did alone.

They crept up to their fence and slipped through onto the old fenceline road.

There was no hearse, no funeral director, no Harris, no grave, and no clearing.

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First Time – The Legend of Garison Fitch – Book 1

What if history didn’t happen that way the first time?

Garison Fitch was a scientist and something of a celebrity in the Soviet Americas in the early 21st century until dropping off the map to pursue his theories in the remote La Plata Canyon.

An experiment with such travel surprised him when he landed him in 1744. There he discovered a primitive world of somewhat suspicious people, but a freedom he had never experienced before–which may have been most frightening of all.

When he tries to rid himself of his time machine by sending it into the future, however, it took him with it. Now, he finds himself back in the twenty-first century where a woman he has never met claims to be his wife and the country he grew up in is gone, replaced by something called “The United States of America”.

Should he live in this new world, or try to travel once more through time and return the world to “normal”? As he becomes convinced he can’t return to the past, he’s not really sure if he can live in this new world he created, either.

Order today on ebook (in many formats) or paperback!

The Legend of Garison Fitch continues in “Saving Time” and concludes in “Lost Time“!

…

Reading Sample

With a flash of light and a complete absence of noise, Garison found himself swept out of the eighteenth century. He had just begun to have the beginnings of a thought that would have turned into wondering where he was going when the trip ended. In all, he had traveled for a length of time that would have registered on his body as less than a nano-second. To the world, however, the trip took longer. Still, it was not as long as Garison would have guessed it to be.

Garison and the interdimensional machine-come time machine reappeared in his laboratory inColoradoapproximately one point three seconds after it had left. With a pop that signified the nuclear core had just melted all the circuits then collapsed in on itself into a ball of radiation with a half-life of a few millennia, Garison found himself dressed for the seventeen-forties and standing in the early twenty-first century.

He was suddenly assaulted by a woman who threw her arms around him before he could get a good look at her and exclaimed, “It worked Garison! It worked! You were gone and now you’re back!”

There were so many thoughts and so much confusion going through his head that all he could do was stand there limply while she hugged him tighter and tighter, kissed him on the cheek, and went on and on about how proud she was of him and how she just had to congratulate him and how she wanted to hear all about it.

When she had worked her way across his cheek and was on the verge of kissing his mouth, he finally got his wits about him enough to push her away and stand back a pace himself. He backed into a bench and turned to look, momentarily surprised to find a work bench where there wasn’t supposed to be one. He also spotted the tarpaulin under his feet, and kicked it away in anger.

The woman looked at him strangely and asked, “Garison? Is something wrong?”

He looked around the room without answering. It was his lab all right, but it was different. The windows were in the wrong places, but only by a foot or so. The workbenches had been moved and the place was, well, decorated differently. His lab had been strictly utilitarian while this one had curtains on the windows and some sort of wall-paper border half-way up the walls.

But, he told himself, the cameras are in the right place. There were four video cameras, one mounted in each corner of the room, but their lights were showing red instead of green. While the workbenches were in different spots, the tools on them were laid out just as he would have laid them out and there was the right number of workbenches.

Then he looked at the woman. She was beautiful. She stood almost as tall as Garison, probably five-eleven or six foot he estimated. She had shoulder-length black hair, done in loose curls such as the women had worn in the twenty-first century he remembered. She had green eyes like Sarah’s, but was dark complected like someone who spent time out in the sun. Her figure was astounding, and quite shocking in a sweater and form-fitting pants made of, it looked like, the sort of material he had once seen warm-ups made of. On her feet, she wore white leather tennis shoes much like the shoes he had once worn himself.

He looked up at her and noticed that his confused scan of the room somehow troubled her. He looked her over from head to foot once more and asked, “Who are you?”

The look of confusion turned to fright as she stepped forward and started to put a hand to his head, “Are you OK, Garison? Did you hit your head?”

He brushed her hand away angrily and stepped to the side. “No, I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine. Who are you?” In fact, he thought to himself, the concussion symptoms of moments before and the dizziness were completely gone.

She looked as if she still wanted to touch him, but kept her distance. Then, it was as if she were seeing him in a whole new light as she said, “Wait a minute, you’ve changed. How did your hair get so long in two seconds? How did you grow a mustache that quick? And those clothes? Except for that jacket, you look like you’re…from the revolutionary war or something. And you look older.” She looked extremely concerned as she implored, “Garison, what happened?”

He demanded more forcefully, pronouncing each word carefully and distinctly, as if she might not have heard him before, “Who are you?”

“Heather,” she replied, as if it were something he should know. She took a step closer, but he took a step further away, backing down the workbench, keeping one hand on the cabinet as if it would steady him.

“Heather? Heather who? I don’t know a Heather. What kind of name is that, anyway? A plant name?”

“You don’t remember me?” she asked, seeming totally at a loss—and looking genuinely worried.

“Why should I?”

“Heather Fitch,” she told him. “Heather Dawson Fitch.”

“Fitch? You’re not related to me. Just what are you trying to pretend here?”

She reached out to touch him again and again he slapped her hand away, this time with more force. As she brought the hand back, seemingly shocked that the slap had stung, she said, “I’m not just related to you, Garison. I’m your wife.”

“My wife?” he replied with a forced laugh. He stood there and stared at her, wondering what this woman’s game could be. A spy? he wondered. The KGB had been known to use some pretty elaborate schemes to learn information, but he had never heard of one like this. Did they think just sticking a stranger in his lab who claimed to be his wife would make him tell some secret? There had to be more to it.

“All right,” he smiled, “What’s going on? Who put you up to this?”

She reached out again and asked, “What happened to you, Garison?”

He stood there rigidly as her fingers reached out and touched the side of his face very lightly. Did she really think that the touch of a woman would make him break down? He almost smiled as he thought of the futility of her actions. Still, he wondered what the point to her actions were. She seemed to have a point, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be.

She came a little closer and looked intently at him. After a moment, she touched the corner of his right eye and asked with something that sounded like genuine puzzlement, “What are these?”

In spite of himself, he mumbled, “Huh?”

“These lines around your eyes. You never had these before.” She pivoted slightly to look at both sides of his head and said, “And you’ve got gray hair that wasn’t there before you left. How do you turn gray in a couple seconds?”

“I’ve been turning gray for—who are you? Tell me the truth!”

“I’m Heather Fitch. I’m your wife.”

Garison had to give the girl credit for acting. She certainly seemed convinced of her part even if her part were ridiculous. In fact, it actually seemed like she believed what she was saying. Could it have been possible that she had been brain-washed or something into believing what she said? If so, he wondered, what was the point? She had to just be a very good actress, he thought. The whole charade was too stupid to accomplish anything.