Floppyshop 2/Floppyshop - 2.zip/Floppyshop - 2.iso/diskmags/0022-3.564/dmg-3413/news.txt/athene.asc

Text File | 1989-04-05 | 84KB | 1,656 lines

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 ******   *****            The Online Magazine              ***********
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 ======================================================================

                             February 1990
                           Volume II, Issue 1

                                Contents

 Etc...  ..................................................  Jim McCabe
                                                              Editorial

 Cops, Cabs and a Decent Pastrami Sandwich  .........  Craig Schlechter
 -----------------------------------------                      Fiction

 Ouroboros Annie  ........................................  Jason Snell
 ---------------                                                Fiction

 Trade Agreement  ......................................  Phillip Nolte
 ---------------                                                Fiction


                 ATHENE, Copyright 1990 By Jim McCabe.
                   Circulation: 532 (18% PostScript)
 This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge under the
    condition that it remains in its entirety.  The individual works
    within are the sole property of their respective authors, and no
     further use of these works is permitted without their explicit
   consent.  This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe,
                 using the Xedit System Product Editor.
  Subscriptions: Athene is available in PostScript and ASCII form, and
   is distributed exclusively over electronic computer networks.  All
          subscriptions are free.  To subscribe, send email to
 [e-mail], with a message inicating which format (PostScript
                         or ASCII) is desired.




 Etc...
 Jim McCabe
 [e-mail]
 ======================================================================

 Some of you may be wondering just what happened to January, and why
there hasn't been an issue since mid-December.  After all, this magazine
is supposed to be monthly, right?

Excuse number 1:  Winter Break.  I lost a couple of weeks of good
word-crunching time while I was away from school, visiting my family.

Excuse number 2:  The New Look.  The PostScript edition of Athene now
is greatly improved over the older style, and the changes took about one
week to complete.  For one thing, I started using a newer release of the
publishing software, which was substantially different from the older
release.  So I had to learn how to use all of its now features, and
also learn the new ways to accomplish the old familiar tasks.

Those who read the flat text versions will probably not notice too
much of a difference -- there is only so much one can do with straight
ASCII.  Sadly, about 80% of the subscribers never see how nice the
laser-ready magazine looks.  The PostScript version is the form I consider
the "true" Athene, and I start working on the ASCII version only after
I have the ps release available to serve as a model.

So, this issue was delayed long enough to make it more like a February
release, and that's how it will be labeled this time.

I can foresee this style of journal becoming very popular in the
near future, now that high-resolution printing and display devices are
becoming so commonplace.  At the moment, I am only aware of one other
magazine that is distributed preformatted, in some page description
language like PostScript.  That magazine is Quanta, a close relative of
Athene that specializes in science-fiction-related topics.
But there seems to no reason to stop at just fiction journals.  It would
be nice to see all sorts of magazines distributed this way, catering
to a fantastic variety of interests.  There is really no reason why this
shouldn't happen over the next few years.

In any case, here we are today with the first issue in a new volume of
this magazine.  I hope that, with occasional feedback from the subscribers,
we can set a standard for excellence that will help to make this medium
more commonplace and respected.




 Cops, Cabs and a Decent Pastrami Sandwich
 By Craig Schlechter
 [e-mail]
 Copyright 1989 by Craig Schlechter
 ======================================================================

      It was midnight, and Gabrielle and I were standing on the corner
 of Grant Avenue and 79th Street.  She had the umbrella, and I was
 soaked.  I was standing against a building, but that didn't stop the
 rain from hitting me.  I pushed my suitcase further towards her, to
 keep it dry.  A car in the distance shone its lights on the back of
 her head, making her hair glow with a bright yellow aura, while hiding
 her face in shadow.  I wasn't ready for this, and the first thing it
 reminded me of was an image of the Angel of Death from some late movie
 I'd seen.  Then the car drove by, and I could see her smiling,
 wide-eyed.  It was midnight and raining and we'd been waiting for a
 bus for the past hour, and still she looked so happy, like there
 wasn't anything else in the world she'd rather be doing.

      Gabrielle was a strange girl.  I'm not talking specifically about
 her looks, although they were a bit unusual.  She had a very round
 face.  Not just the shape of her head, but the cut of her hair, the
 curve of her cheeks.  Even the concave slope of her nose seemed to add
 to the roundness.  And especially her huge dark eyes, circled by
 round-framed glasses.  I couldn't tell you if the rest of her body was
 similarly round, because she always wore layers of formless, baggy
 clothes to hide her figure.

      What I really found strange about Gabrielle, though, was her
 outlook on life.  It was as if she had been in a coma for the entire
 time between her eighth and eighteenth birthday.  Nothing seemed to
 get her angry.  She could get condescending and preachy if you didn't
 agree with her, but she would never argue.  Of course, that's because
 she would never listen to what the other person had to say.  Before I
 met her, I'd never known anyone who sincerely believed that God looked
 out for the `pure of heart'.  I'm Jewish, and to me, the existence of
 this kind of naivete in the 1980's is nothing short of incredible.
 One of the first things I learned, back when I was seven and our pet
 collie got sick and died, was that life is not fair.  That's the
 cornerstone of Jewish belief.  So when I see that someone has written
 a novel about "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People," I just have to
 laugh.

      I remember being invited to a party her roommates were throwing
 for her.  It was her nineteenth birthday, and I had been invited even
 though I didn't know her all that well.  I made her a gag gift.  I had
 taken a "Beware of Dog" sign and switched the letters so that it read,
 "Beware of God".  She loved it.  She put it up outside her house, and
 it's still there.  I guess she thinks anyone who tries to break into
 her house will get struck by lightning or something.  Well, the only
 thing I really remember about that party was that during a lull at the
 beginning, when everyone else was getting everything set up, Gabrielle
 said to me, "So, Craig, are you eating right?" I asked her what she
 meant, and she said, "You know, three square meals a day." I assured
 her that I was.  She said this was good.  I was tempted to ask her why
 she wanted to know, but then some guests arrived and the party got
 started.

      So what was I doing there, soaking wet, staring up into the
 street lamp, waiting on that corner with Gabrielle?  Well, I hadn't
 planned on it.  Thanksgiving Break was over, and I was returning to
 school.  My train had gotten into the station five hours later than
 scheduled due to some blockage on the tracks.  I happened to run into
 her at the station; she had just come in from South Carolina.  Her
 parents had seen her off, and she had brought explicit written
 instructions on which bus to take to get back to our campus.
 Unfortunately, her train had arrived late also, and the bus on her
 list, the 44B, didn't run after ten o'clock.

      I suggested we get a cab.  She said that she didn't have enough
 money, and it was foolish to pay ten dollars each when the bus could
 make the trip for a dollar and fifty cents.  I couldn't just leave her
 there, so I said okay, we'll take the bus.  The guy at the information
 desk told us about another route we could take (the 49A), with only
 two transfers required (the 45C and 44A.) She wrote it all down on
 that little piece of paper, which I noticed had her name and address
 in gold lettering at the top.

      I had a bad feeling as I got off that first bus.  The driver
 seemed surprised that we were asking for transfers.  I could have
 sworn I heard him laugh as he drove off, but Gabrielle assured me it
 was the sound of exhaust from the bus.

      And an hour later, we were still there, on the corner of Fifth
 and 79, waiting for a bus I knew in my heart would never come.  I was
 now certain that the 45C existed only in the imagination of the
 Department of Mass Transportation.  You know, like the Flying Dutchman
 or something, a bus spoken of only in whispers, that appears out of
 the fog, then rolls off into the distance.  I pictured Charon the
 Ferryman from the Greek myths, who ushers dead souls across the River
 Styx to the underworld, I could see him in the driver's seat.  He had
 a blue bus driver's cap covering the shiny bone at the top of his
 skull.  His hand, like a misshapen cluster of Kellogg's Rice Krispies,
 pointed down the aisle, and a voice like steel scraping steel said,
 "Come on in, Craig.  Plenty of room."

      "The bus is real late," Gabrielle said.

      "Yes, it is," I said.  Cautiously, I added, "Look, there's a taxi
 down there."

      It was really easy to catch any movement on the streets, since
 the only thing out that night besides Gabrielle and I was the rain.
 Off in the distance, I could see a yellow car approaching, the rain
 glistening in its headlights.  Actually, I could tell it was a taxi
 before I saw what color it was, simply by the way he was driving.

      "Um," she said.  I knew what that meant.  Every time I even
 hinted that we give up waiting and find a cab, she refused.  She was
 downright indignant about it.  When I asked her why, all she would say
 was, "If God had meant for me to take a taxi, there wouldn't be a bus
 route leading right to my door."

      It didn't really make much difference, anyway.  The cab I saw was
 off-duty.  For the past half an hour, all the taxis that passed by
 were off-duty, or full of passengers.  That's the way the city works.
 The three things in the city you can't find when you need them are
 cops, cabs and a decent pastrami sandwich.  It never fails.

      I was getting tired of standing in the rain.  The only sound was
 the splatter of water and the hissing of cars in the distance.  It
 would have been easy enough to start up a conversation with Gabrielle,
 but to tell the truth, I was afraid to.  Talking to Gabrielle is like
 playing verbal Russian Roulette.  Sooner or later, you're going to say
 something that she will find offensive, and your conversation turns
 into a sermon.  It could be anything, from a food that she finds
 `yucky' to a book she thinks is `blasphemous'.

      I yawned, and when I opened my eyes, this taxi was pulling up in
 front of us, nearly running into the lamp post but neatly avoiding it.
 I had no idea where it had come from.  Actually, just calling it a
 taxi doesn't do the car justice.  It was a jalopy.  I don't know much
 about cars, but I can tell a jalopy when I see one.  Dark orange rust
 coated the bottom of the car, like diseased fringe.  The front fender
 was completely missing, and it had taken the headlight with it.  There
 was a huge dent in the back door, and a piece of clear plastic was
 taped across the window.  It had the typical checkered pattern along
 the side, but the sign on the roof had been smashed off.

      The driver leaned over to the passenger window and rolled it
 down.  He was a thin-faced man, wearing a ratty sheepskin coat.  His
 hair was slicked back, and two gold teeth flashed out from a
 carnivorous grin.  He had thick eyebrows, and his eyes were set so
 deep, you couldn't see them.

      "You two need a ride?" he asked.

      I nearly burst out laughing.  As far as I was concerned, it
 didn't matter if this guy were pulling a rickshaw.  I'd be damned if I
 was going to wait out in the rain for another hour.  Here was my
 ticket home, how could I refuse?

      As I opened my mouth, Gabrielle piped up.  "No, thank you,
 mister," she said.

      "Hey," the man said.  "A nice lady like yourself shouldn't be
 standing out in the rain this late at night.  Come on, I'll take you
 anywhere you want to go."

      I could see she was starting to stretch her lips, forming the
 word "No".  If she used that magic word, our ride to safety would
 disappear, leaving us stranded.

      "Listen, Gabrielle," I said.  "It's late, I'm cold and I'm wet.
 All I want to do is go home.  Now.  I'll pay for the taxi, the whole
 thing.  I don't care anymore.  Let's just get out of here.  Okay?"

      She stood there, thinking.  I tried to look as wet and miserable
 as possible.

      "Well, alright," she said.

      The driver popped the trunk open and I put our suitcases in.
 Gabrielle sat in the front seat, I took the back.  I wasn't surprised
 at the condition of the interior.  The seat covers were torn, and
 graffiti was scribbled all over the back of the seats.  There was a
 plexiglass divider between the front and back, with a small opening in
 the center.  The plexiglass was covered with stains I didn't even want
 to try and identify.

      I was a bit surprised that the driver had allowed Gabrielle to
 take the front seat, but I wasn't going to argue.  It was like now, I
 didn't feel obligated to act like I was having a good time.  Every
 time I saw her smiling on that bus stop, she seemed to be saying,
 "Aren't you having fun?" After just five minutes of it, I was ready to
 ask her "What's so goddamned fun about this?"

      The driver turned around and asked me where we were going.  I
 didn't even get a word out.  Gabrielle told him the name of the
 college, and the nearest major street, and several of the larger
 intersections near campus, until he said "Okay, I know where that is."

      I looked through the hole in the plexiglass, just to make sure
 there wasn't anything vital missing up front, like the steering wheel.
 That was there, but half the dashboard was gone.  Something else was
 missing as well, but I couldn't quite place it.  It wasn't until he
 started the engine that I realized that the cab didn't have a meter.
 There wasn't even a CB radio on what remained of the dashboard.

      So, I said, "Uh, excuse me...how much is this going to cost?"

      "Oh, twenty-five dollars," he said.  That was a little more than
 what I had expected, but I wasn't about to go back to waiting in the
 rain for the Phantom Bus 45C.

      And with a screech of tires, we were off.

      I had learned my city etiquette lessons a long time ago.  Number
 one was, when you're walking down the street, never make eye contact
 with anyone.  There's crazy people out there who will yell at you if
 you look at them `wrong'.  When I was fourteen, a friend and I were
 just walking along, minding our own business, when this old man walked
 right up to us.  He started yelling at my friend, "You got a problem
 or something, you got a problem?" All my friend was guilty of was
 looking at this deranged man as we walked past him.  So, I learned
 that rule really well.  The second rule, and I'm not sure who taught
 me this, was to keep conversation with cab drivers down to a minimum.
 I think it's because the less you open your mouth, the less chance
 you'll reveal that you're just a tourist, that you don't live in the
 city.  This is important, because there are plenty of cabbies out
 there who will try and cheat passengers who don't know any better.

      That was why I was keeping my mouth shut, not to mention the fact
 that being sealed off from the front seat as if I were in a police car
 didn't encourage conversation.  Unfortunately, Gabrielle's from South
 Carolina, and hadn't even been to a large city until she was eighteen.
 Right after she fastened her seat belt, which even the driver hadn't
 done, she proceeded to start up a conversation.  We soon learned that
 our driver's name was Chico.  He told us rather emphatically that he
 didn't work full-time as a cabbie.  He only needed to make an extra
 hundred dollars or so to pay for his car insurance.

      Meanwhile, I looked out the windshield, and noticed that he was
 driving on the left side, on the wrong side of the road.  He breezed
 right through a red light, and I saw headlights in the distance,
 coming straight towards us.  I remembered the taxi's broken headlight.
 The car ahead honked, God knows how he saw us coming, and Chico slid
 calmly back to the right side of the road, completely innocent, as if
 he were just changing lanes.

      Chico was still talking, he didn't even break rhythm.  He said,
 "No, most of the time, I work in movies.  I'm an extra, you know, for
 those action movies.  There's this company called Toughs, that's where
 I work.  Whenever Stallone or Schwarzenegger needs some bad guys, you
 know, some enemy soldiers to kill, they go to Toughs.  It's great, I
 was in Raw Deal.  It's just there's not a lot of work right now, so
 I'm doing this."

      And all this time, I was thinking, only a hundred dollars for
 this maniac's car insurance!

      By now I felt like I was on some demented carnival ride.  The
 whole situation, with Chico the Cannon Fodder at the wheel, driving as
 if he was the last person alive in the entire city, was almost
 surreal.  I couldn't believe it was really happening.  I was expecting
 to see little cardboard pictures of Mr.  Badger and the Weasel gang
 pop up, like in Mr.  Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World.  Only it would
 be cutouts of women with shopping carts, businessmen dropping their
 attaches, all with crazed looks of horror on their faces.  That's why
 I wasn't afraid.  I was so sure that any moment, the car would stop,
 and the doors would automatically open, and we would step out and be
 home.

      "This is the turn-off, up ahead," Gabrielle said.  I looked out
 the window.  We were almost home.

      "Okay, that'll be fifty bucks," Chico said.

      I reminded him that he had said the trip would only cost
 twenty-five dollars.

      "Each," Chico said.

      "That's crazy," I said, "I won't give you fifty."

      "Stop at the blue house," said Gabrielle.  "The one with the big
 bright light on in front."

      "You want to go home, it's fifty bucks," Chico said.

      "Look," I said, "you told us twenty-five dollars.  I wouldn't
 have done this if you had told us twenty-five each."

      "This one this one this one here on the left," Gabrielle said.

      "No, man, it's fifty."

      "Sorry, I ain't giving you fifty."

      Chico slammed his foot to the floor, and we sped off.

      "You passed it!" Gabrielle said.

      "Fifty bucks," Chico said, "or I take you right back to where I
 picked you up."

      I really think he meant it, too.  I think he would have driven
 all the way back and left us there, if Gabrielle hadn't been...well,
 hadn't been Gabrielle.  She started insisting that he turn back around
 and let us off.  He shouted back about how we shouldn't have gotten
 into the cab if we were going to try and cheat him.  He was paying
 almost no attention to the road, just driving in a straight line, away
 from her house.  They yelled back and forth, and I was lost.  I mean,
 I still thought that this was a big amusement park ride, but now with
 a bigger price of admission.

      I think that if Gabrielle had kept quiet, he would have gone all
 the way back into the city and left us.  Instead, he turned into an
 alley and screeched the car to a stop.  I sat there in the dark for a
 moment, still not sure if this was really happening.  I looked up at
 Chico.  He was holding something, a dull grey metal thing.

      "Have to do things the hard way, right?" Chico said.  I leaned
 forward to get a better look, then flew back.  It was a gun, and he
 was pointing it at Gabrielle.  "Okay, lady, drop your purse and get
 out.  And you too, asshole.  Just throw your wallet through the glass
 here and get out." He tapped on the plexiglass angrily.

      It took a moment for me to realize that I was staring through a
 sheet of plexiglass at a short greasy-haired man holding a gun.  My
 first thought was, is that a real gun?  I quickly decided that I
 wasn't going to find out.  The next thing I thought was, is this
 plexiglass bullet-proof?  It didn't matter.  He wasn't pointing the
 gun at me, only at Gabrielle.

      I've been mugged before, but never at gunpoint.  Being robbed by
 guys with knives isn't as frightening.  It's a lot easier to kill with
 a gun.  I pulled out my wallet, and popped it through into the front
 seat.

      "Okay, lady," he said.  "Let go of your purse."

      She didn't.  She looked him right in the eye and said, "You can't
 do this.  You just can't."

      "What are you talking about?" he said, a bit taken aback, "I can
 do whatever I want."

      "No, you can't mean this.  Put that away, you don't mean this."

      He lifted the gun out the window, and fired a shot like a
 thunderclap.

      "He means it!" I said, as I shoved the door open.  "Give him your
 goddamn purse."

      Gabrielle flew out the door, and landed on the sidewalk.  I
 barely got my leg through when Chico drove off, down into the heavy
 darkness of the alley.  In a second, all you could hear was his motor.
 I sat there in a daze, listening to it fade into the distance.

      Gabrielle was going to be furious, I knew.  After all, this was
 all my fault.  If I hadn't insisted that we take a taxi home, if we
 had just waited for the bus like God had intended her to, this would
 never have happened.  Now, she had lost not only her purse, but her
 luggage as well.  I remembered something Buster Keaton had once said,
 "The best way to fight a woman is with your hat.  Grab it and run." I
 was considering the merits of this solution when I heard Gabrielle
 start to cry.

      I looked over to her.  She was sitting on the sidewalk hugging
 her knees, and trying unsuccessfully to hold back her tears.  "Oh,
 God," she said in a shaky voice, "Oh God, oh God, oh God..."

      She fell silent, and I couldn't think of anything to say.  I felt
 like I should say, "It's alright," but it wasn't alright.  We had both
 been robbed and dumped here, and she was getting all wet now, and it
 was not alright.

      Oh, God," she said, and I thought that would be it, but she
 added, "What happened?  God, what happened, why?  What did I do?"

      And then I understood.  Here was a girl who had lived such a
 sheltered life, she really believed God was watching over her.  She
 did all her work in school, and got very good grades.  I had met her
 parents one time when they came to visit her.  They were almost
 stereotypical God-fearing southern folks.  For nineteen years, her
 Lord provided for her, gave her good parents and let her get into good
 schools, made good things happen.  But now, to her mind, God had
 turned.  God let her get into that car.  God let Chico take everything
 she was carrying.  All the crime and death going on in the world
 around her, and none of it had actually touched her until now.

      I suddenly thought, "About time something like this happened to
 her.  She had to learn what the real world is like sooner or later."
 And I believed it, but I hated myself for thinking it.  She hadn't
 deserved it.  Neither had I, for that matter.  How could I possibly
 tell her that this was for the best, that it was a learning
 experience?  A chill ran down my back, and I shivered.  I had to say
 something.

      So I said, "Look, there's Center Avenue.  Come on, let's get out
 of here.  We'll go to your house, and call the cops."

      I offered her my hand.  She wiped her eyes and looked up.  I
 helped her to her feet.  A neon sign across the street blinked, then
 went out.

      "How," she started to say, then choked up.  She cleared her
 throat.  "How can you take this so...so easily?"

      I said, "Listen, we Jews have been suffering for thousands of
 years.  In Ancient Egypt, we were slaves.  In the Middle Ages, we had
 the Inquisition.  In World War II, we had the Holocaust.  This is a
 piece of cake."

      She laughed, then looked across the street.  There was a deli
 over there.  It was open until the wee hours of the morning, since it
 was so close to a college campus.

      She said, "You know, I'm really hungry all of a sudden."

      I reached down to my ankle.

      "Rule number three of city etiquette," I said, "is to always
 carry a spare ten dollar bill in your shoe."

      I pulled the crumpled bill out, and waved it in front of her.
 She held her nose and said, "Ugh, don't get it too close, if it's been
 in your shoe all day it must stink!"

      "Come on, wise guy," I said, "Let's get something to eat.  Just
 don't order pastrami."




 Ouroboros Annie
 By Jason Snell
 [e-mail]
 Copyright 1989 by Jason Snell
 ======================================================================

       OUROBOROS: The mythical serpent which eats its own tail,
                  a symbol of the unending cycle of the universe.

      Where Annie went, it seemed, she left a trail of broken hearts in
 her wake.  It wasn't as if she didn't care, wasn't as if she had no
 feelings about the men who fell in love with her-- in fact, she loved
 them, too, in various ways and varying degrees.  It hurt Annie, when
 she left them.  It had always been her doing-- she was the one to
 sense the end before it came, the one who felt life pressing on her
 back like a five-hundred-pound weight.

      The end hurt them, all of them, and Annie was always the one who
 caused the end.  It was their pain-- that was what hurt Annie.  It
 hurt her deep down inside, in the part of her heart reserved for love,
 for tenderness, the part of her heart she treasured the most.  At
 times, it felt like her heart would break.

      But it didn't.  Though it hurt like hell sometimes, she always
 got through it.  Again, and again.  She knew the hurt would always
 come at the end-- but she did it anyway.  The hurting part of her
 heart had to heal, and love was the only thing that could heal it.
 The problem was that love was what caused the damage in the first
 place.  It was an endless cycle-- Annie loving, them hurting, her
 hurting, and then Annie loving again.

      At least, it seemed endless.  It wasn't, really.  I'm afraid that
 I was the one who saw to that.  There is no such thing as an endless
 cycle.


      I've noticed something funny about love, about people and
 attraction-- sometimes, the people you always expect to end up with
 you, the ones you @know@ will end up with you, don't.  And the ones
 you don't expect at all, they're the ones that do.  It was kind of
 that way between Annie and I.

      Have you ever heard of instant attraction?  "Love-At-First-
 Sight," as the movies call it?  I was thinking about that very subject
 when I met Annie.  One night I was at a party, talking to a friend,
 when this woman, fairly nondescript, with brownish hair, walked up to
 me.

      I was definitely thinking about love at first sight.  Actually,
 my precise thoughts were: "I wish I could experience love at first
 sight.  Instead, all I meet are women like this."

      Annie and I didn't hit it off.  She was a nonentity to me, and I
 was a nothing to her.

      The next week, at another party hosted by the same group of
 friends, we were introduced to each other.  And, several times that
 evening, we were forced to speak with each other.  It turned out that
 we had quite a few mutual friends.

      So I got to know her better.  And I actually liked her.  She
 seemed very confident, like she knew exactly what she wanted.  I had
 no reason to doubt that.  And I noticed something very funny about
 her-- she wasn't nondescript, after all.  She was actually somewhat
 pretty.  And her brownish hair had a slight red tint to it.

      We were the last people to leave when the party was over that
 night, and as I walked her out to her car, we kept on talking.  About
 all sorts of things.  And, somewhere in our conversation, Annie
 changed again.  It wasn't as much of a physical change, this time, as
 much as a personality change.  When I started talking to her, it was
 clear to me that Annie knew exactly what she wanted from life.  But
 then she softened.  And I saw her as being vulnerable, as being a
 confused woman with a lot of wide-eyed little girl running around
 loose inside of her.

      I guess that's how she does it.  Time and again, the softening
 will do it.  I know that as soon as I saw that girl, I wanted more
 than anything to let her escape from the self-confident wall that
 Annie had built to protect herself.


      I got the little girl out, finally, after talking with Annie on
 the phone any number of times, going out to dinner with her, and
 spending a lot of time with her.  We were good friends-- good enough,
 anyway, for her to drop her confidence and let me see who she really
 was.  The self-confidence was a part of her, of course.  But there was
 something more.  I wanted to see all of her.

      And, one night, while we were sitting on her couch talking, a
 beautiful little red-haired girl popped out of nowhere.  It was then
 that I saw all of Annie-- the nervous, curious, childlike wonder of
 the little girl and the sensual, self-confident woman.

      And when I kissed her, I felt a shudder of relief come from her
 body.  It was as if the last barriers, the final layers of protection,
 had fallen away from her.  And as they fell, a wave of fear-tinged
 passion flooded into her.  We both clung to each other, like two
 sailors clinging to the mast of a sinking ship, hoping that each
 other's company could save us from the rest of the world.

      In that embrace, we were safe from the world.  Nothing could hurt
 us.


      It's funny how strange the human mind is.  It strives for things
 it can not have, and refuses anything but perfection.

      We were looking for perfection.  We were looking for protection.
 And we couldn't have either.

      My mind went about telling me that we couldn't stay the way we
 were, that we weren't really protected.  It only took a few months for
 me to realize that we were vulnerable.  For Annie, it took a little
 bit longer.  I guess that was the first time that she'd been beaten to
 the punch by her partner.  I don't envy her the feeling of being first
 to the realization-- it always happened to her like that.  But it only
 happened to me this once.

      My mind started suggesting to me different ways that our
 relationship couldn't work.  It started pointing out other women,
 women who were different, women where there was more of a chance of
 perfection.  It slowly became obvious that what I had with Annie
 wasn't perfect, and I needed to move on.  Maybe, if I kept going on
 long enough, the relationships would get more and more perfect.

      It was an endless cycle, all right.  Lather, Rinse, Repeat.  If
 you always follow all three steps, you'll be in the shower until your
 fingers shrivel away.  I'd be looking for the perfect relationship
 forever.

      So why didn't anyone tell me about it then?  I wish someone had.


      I told her.  Not all at once, and not straight out, but the exact
 words really didn't matter.  I said things like "it's not working out"
 and "maybe we should see other people", but they were just words.

      You're not perfect, and I can't accept that.  That's what I was
 saying.  Once I've gone, you'll find someone better.  You'll find
 someone perfect, or try.

      I looked for the little red-haired girl, and she was gone.  I
 tried to look in her eyes, deep down into her soul, looking for that
 girl.  And, if I found her, maybe I would want to take her in my arms
 and hold her again.

      There was nothing in her beautiful golden-brown eyes.  At least,
 nothing that I recognized.  The emptiness was a wall, stronger than
 her wall of self-confidence, and I had a feeling that I was the one
 who had helped built it.

      Maybe the little girl was back there, the innocent little girl
 who didn't know love and, therefore, didn't know sadness.

      But I'm afraid that all that was back there was pain.  Because of
 me.  I was the one who ended it.  I should have known that it was
 coming, and I should have avoided hurting her, but I didn't.

      How many times had Annie gone through what I was going through?
 How could she take it?

      As I drove away for the last time, away from what we had been, I
 felt that this was the end.

      I was tired of loving, and I was tired of pain.  I was tired of
 feeling them, and I was tired of causing them.

      The end of the cycle.


      So I'm in this dance club, a few months later, and I meet this
 girl.  Nondescript.  Nothing special.  But we dance, we talk, we get
 to know each other, and now I'm sitting on the couch in my apartment,
 talking to her, noticing how beautiful her eyes really are.

      And I'm praying for a little girl, hoping there's one somewhere
 inside of her, one that I can bring out.

      And I find myself wanting the same things, all over again.  And
 I'm planning the same things, all over again.

      When I find that little girl, though-- what then?

      Love.  Pain.

      And then, begin again.


           ---------------------------------------------------
           Jason  Snell  is  a  sophomore  at  UC  San  Diego,
           double-majoring in Communication  and Writing while
           serving as  the Associate  News Editor of  the UCSD
           Guardian newspaper.  He  wrote "Ouroboros Annie" as
           a birthday  present for a friend  who, according to
           him, "closely resembles the  character of Annie" in
           the  story.  Snell  is currently  spending lots  of
           time  studying,   and  is  trying  to   complete  a
           "cyberpunk" science-fiction story.
           ---------------------------------------------------




 Trade Agreement
 By Phillip Nolte
 [e-mail]
 ======================================================================

      Traffic on the crosstown freeway was a little heavier than usual
 this fine summer morning.  Brad really didn't mind all that much, he
 would still have little trouble getting through it.  A small gap
 between a Buick and a Toyota became evident over in the passing lane
 and he slashed into it in an instant with a quick twist of his right
 wrist and slight lean to the left.  He was past the ancient
 rust-colored Pontiac in a heartbeat.  A lean back to the right and
 another twist of the wrist and Brad had a quarter-mile of open road
 ahead of him.  The speedometer needle was touching seventy-five before
 he backed off.  Brad smiled inside his full-face helmet, it was going
 to be a great day!

      These morning rides to work on his Kawasaki Ninja were often the
 most enjoyable part of the day.  The ritual of suiting up in a heavy
 leather jacket and strapping on a full-face helmet were sort of like
 getting ready to do battle.  For a motorcyclist about to experience
 heavy traffic, the simile was perhaps uncomfortably accurate.  Still,
 it certainly was a great way to start the day and by the time he got to
 work, he was definitely awake.

      "Work" was no longer an unpleasant situation for Brad, since he
 and his friend Peter had started their own business.  They called
 themselves "Offworld Specialties" and they sold a whole line of
 science fiction products.  Name it and you could get it, anything from
 old paperbacks to posters to stuffed aliens to Star Trek T-shirts.
 Most of the their business was mail-order, but they did occasionally
 have some walk-ins.  Both men had been working for the same
 agricultural chemical firm when they met and discovered a similar love
 for science fiction.  Over a sack lunch one day they had dreamed up
 the idea for a short line of products with a science fiction theme.
 It started out as a mind game but, within a month, they had decided to
 go ahead with a modest ad in one of the fanzines.  A year later they
 had both quit their regular jobs and were devoting a full- time effort
 to their fledgling enterprise.  The money wasn't nearly as good as
 their previous jobs had been but the business was their's and it did
 seem to be growing.  Neither man regretted his decision.

      Brad could see Peter's battered old Chevette already parked
 outside the ancient building in downtown St.  Paul that Offworld
 Specialties called home.  Two different philosophies: Peter got up a
 little earlier than most people and drove sedately through light
 traffic to get to work, while Brad lounged around in bed, got up at
 the last minute and rocketed to work dicing with traffic all the way.
 He pulled the big bike inside the building through the open overhead
 door in front.  After a couple of blips on the throttle he shut it
 off, put down the sidestand and dismounted.  He unstrapped and then
 removed his helmet as he left the garage area and entered the main
 building.  "Good morning," he called out as he set his helmet down and
 removed his leather jacket.  Peter's muffled voice came out from
 somewhere in back.

      "Finally decided to come to work, huh?"

      "Jesus, Pete, are you in the can again?" Brad said, smiling,
 amusement in his voice.

      "Just get started on that pile of mail orders and don't be so
 damned worried about my bodily functions!" Peter replied, with mock
 anger.

      Brad chuckled and moved to comply.  There was a satisfyingly
 large mound of letters on the long table that they used for handling
 orders.  Each letter contained an order and, more to the point, a
 check or cash.  Brad smiled, it was a great job, kind of like
 Christmas every day!  He had gotten through three of them when Peter
 finally came out of the john.  "That's better," he sighed.  "Mornin',
 Brad."

      The men were both in their mid-thirties.  At six feet, Peter was
 at least half-a-head taller than his friend.  The dissimilarities
 didn't end there.  Peter Breck was slender with an unruly shock of
 blond hair and a pair of ice-blue eyes that reflected his Scandinavian
 heritage.  In contrast, Brad Weller was stocky and muscular with
 dark-brown hair and green eyes.

      "Isn't it about time for some coffee yet?" asked Brad.

      "You bet!  Julie put some on, it should be done drippin' about
 now." replied Peter.  "Besides we've got some business to discuss."

      "What kind of business?"

      But Peter wouldn't say any more until they each had a cup of
 coffee and had sat down.  He set a medium-sized cardboard box down on
 the table between them.

      "I got a phone call yesterday," he began.  "It was from some
 character who claims that his firm can supply us with all of the
 products that we have right now at about half the price we're paying."

      "Sounds like bullshit to me," said Brad.

      "It gets better," his friend replied.  "Not only will they be
 cheaper, the guy said the quality would be better too."

      "Really," said Brad.  "Let me guess.  Is that what's in this
 box?"

      "Yup!"

      "Well, what have we got to lose?  Let's take a look."

      Peter cut the tape along the seams and filled Brad in on a few
 more details.

      "He said his company could supply some of the items in our little
 mailer catalog right now.  We could expect samples of those products
 today.  He wants us to compare them to our present stuff." He fished
 around inside the box.  "Hey wow!  Take a look at this."

      He held up a Star Wars T-shirt.  At first glance, it looked
 exactly like the ones that Offworld Specialties were selling.  A
 closer examination revealed that the fabric was subtly softer and
 shiner than their current product and the colors in the transfer were
 much more vivid.

      "This looks like nice stuff!" said Brad, taking his turn at
 rummaging around in the box.  "Oh my!  What have we here?" He grabbed
 it and pulled it out.

      What they had there was the new version of their dashboard
 blaster.  Their present blaster looked a lot like a radar- detector.
 It was a black rectangular box with some buttons on the front of it
 and there was a suction cup that mounted it to the dash of the
 customer's car.  If the customer was stuck in traffic or pissed off at
 some idiot at a stoplight, he could vent his frustrations by
 pretending to blast the perpetrator into the next galaxy.  It was
 powered by flashlight batteries and, in actuality, all that it did was
 make some nifty sound effects.  It wasn't a big seller but at $19.95
 they made just over eight dollars on each one they sold.  The new
 product looked like nothing more than an old-fashioned, art-deco ray
 gun with an outlandishly large cross-hair sight on the back of it.  It
 was made of a very tough-looking plastic and the quality of the fit
 and finish was excellent.  There were several other new versions of
 their wares in the box; each had some noticeable improvement over the
 old.

      "What kind of prices did he say he'd give us?" asked Brad.

      "I'm sure he said it would be only half of what we pay now,"
 answered Peter.

      "It sounds great and this stuff looks wonderful," said Brad,
 shaking his head.  "But I can't help thinking there's a catch of some
 kind.  You know what they say about a free lunch."

      "Yeah, I know." He put the blaster back into the box before
 continuing.  "Well," he shrugged, "the guy is supposed to call on us
 this afternoon, around one or so.  We should at least meet with him.
 What do you think?"

      "Won't hurt to talk to him, I guess.  Meanwhile we might as well
 try the stuff out." said Brad, as he slipped off his tattered
 University of Minnesota T-shirt and slipped into the new one with the
 vivid, multicolored Star Wars emblem splashed across it.  The shirt
 felt cool and light on his skin; it was very comfortable.  "This feels
 great!  I don't know, Pete," he said, shaking his head appreciatively.
 "This is good stuff!"

      The two friends went back to work and didn't talk too much more
 about their pending business deal.  But that didn't mean they weren't
 thinking about it.  Finally, at quarter-to-twelve, Peter suggested
 that they take a break for lunch and go to the bank to cash and
 deposit the morning's receipts.

      "Good idea," said Brad.  "Shall we take the bike or the
 Chevette?"

      "The bike or the car?" said Peter.  "Give me a break!  I'm taking
 the car." Peter headed for the door.  Brad stared to follow him but,
 as an afterthought, he went back for the new products.

      "Just a minute," he called out, "let me grab that box.  We can
 take a closer look at some of the new stuff over lunch." He scooped it
 up off the table.

      "Julie," Peter called out the their part-time secretary, "mind
 the store.  We're going to get some lunch and go to the bank."

      "Okay," she called back cheerfully.  "But remember, I've got an
 appointment at one-thirty today.  I'll be gone by one."

      "No problem," said Peter.  "Just leave the place open if we're
 not back.  We won't be long."

      "And don't forget the phone guy is coming in tomorrow to fix that
 noisy line," she added.  "The phone will be out for a while in the
 morning."

      "Great, it's about time!" said Peter.

      Moments later they had left the old building and were heading
 towards downtown St.  Paul.  Peter was needling Brad about his
 motorcycle and how impractical it was--again.

      "You and that stupid crotch-rocket.  Damned thing sure is
 worthless; can't even carry two people and a couple of bags of money!"
 he said.

      "Hey Pete, ease up a bit, would you," said Brad.  "I used to be a
 lot worse.  At least I gave up road racing when I got married.  Look,
 the bike is my one indulgence, and I couldn't afford a Ferrari, Okay?
 Besides, I take great pleasure in knowing that my Ninja will kick the
 ass of any Ferrari or Porsche or Corvette made.  You know what, Pete?
 That bike's the closest thing to an x-wing fighter on the planet."

      "X-wing fighter?" asked Peter, dubiously.

      "You remember the scenes in 'Star Trek' and 'Star Wars' when they
 make the jump to warp speed?" asked Brad.  Peter nodded but still
 looked puzzled.  "Well, that's about how it feels to twist the
 throttle on that Ninja.  Zero-to-Sixty in less than three seconds,
 quarter-mile in eleven flat, top speed one-sixty-plus!  You bet,
 Peter, it's the starship of the 1980's!  And I own one!"

      Peter smiled and shook his head.  "You're an incurable
 motorhead!" he said.  It didn't matter, they had had the same or a
 similar conversation a hundred times before and, as usual, it was all
 just good-natured banter.  Each man had his own turf and each
 respected the other's opinion, even though that opinion might be
 radically different from his own.  No doubt this was one of the
 reasons that their friendship had worked so well.  It was a good
 cornerstone upon which to build a successful business.

      Lunch was a quick soup and sandwich at the Center Street Deli.
 They took the opportunity to play around with some more of the
 potentially new products in the box.  Brad was especially enamored
 with the stuffed animals.  They were cute, cuddly and seemingly
 covered with real fur!  Peter liked the little dragon with the ivory
 (?) teeth and the incredible iridescent skin.  Neither man had any
 doubts, it was all first-rate merchandise.

      Lunch was followed by a trip to the First National Bank to
 deposit the fifty or sixty checks that had come in that morning.  By
 12:45, the two friends were on their way back to work.  As usual, the
 downtown traffic during the noon hour was heavy and slow-moving.  The
 poor little Chevette was so underpowered and sluggish that they were
 more-or-less at the mercy of the slowest vehicles on the road--mostly
 more.  Finally they got stuck behind a UPS van that was double-parked
 to make a delivery.  Not a soul traveling in the middle lane had the
 common courtesy to let them get around the van and so there they sat
 until the driver came sauntering out and moved it.  Brad shook his
 fist and hollered at the guy out the window.  The driver just smiled
 and flipped him off.  Brad was furious!  Two blocks later the Chevette
 was stopped for a red light.  Across the intersection they saw the van
 stop and the driver get out and go into a store.  Again the van was
 double-parked.

      "I'll fix that son-of-a-bitch!" said Brad.  He fished around in
 the cardboard box.  "I'm gonna blast his sorry ass!" He quickly found
 the new blaster, dusted off a spot on the dashboard with his elbow and
 licked the suction cup to mount it.  After a brief examination, he
 flipped a switch on the side of the Buck Rogers-looking ray gun,
 centered the back of the van in the outsized crosshairs and pulled the
 trigger.  To his utter shock and amazement a blue beam the size of a
 pencil shot out of the gun.  "Ka-wummp!" With a loud report that shook
 the ground, the back of the UPS van jumped two feet off the street and
 went up in a searing ball of blue-white flame!  The two friends looked
 at each other in horrified shock.

      "Let's get the hell out of here!" shouted Brad.

      Peter, his face white as death, complied by turning right and
 flooring the accelerator.  Mercifully, it was only a short distance,
 maybe five or six blocks, back to the store.  Brad rocketed out of the
 car as they arrived and opened the overhead door.  With a quick glance
 up and down the street, Peter pulled the car inside, barely missing
 the big Kawasaki, and Brad pulled the door shut.  Peter, still
 shaking, got out of the car.

      "Brad, what the hell happened?" He was shouting.

      "That God-damned ray gun blew the shit out of a UPS van!" Brad
 shouted back, his voice quavering with excitement.  "Jesus Christ,
 it's a good thing the driver was in the store, we might have killed
 him!  Where the God-damned hell did that stuff come from, Pete?"

      A calm and whispery voice interrupted.  "You are in some way
 dissatisfied with the new products?"

      Both men nearly jumped a foot off the floor at the sound.  They
 turned to see a short man in what looked like a strangely- styled,
 two-sizes-too-big, cream-colored leisure suit.  It had no lapels and
 was secured in front by two huge, sparkling crystal buttons.  He was
 also wearing a matching, outsized fedora hat with a floppy brim.  A
 pair of gaudy Elton-John sunglasses added the finishing touch to his
 outlandish costume.  In the darkness of the garage area they could not
 make out any details of his face.

      "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?" Brad nearly
 shouted.

      "Your attractive secretary let me in before she left," the man
 lisped.  "And, as you may have already guessed, I represent the firm
 that is offering to sell you all those fine new products."

      There was something definitely odd about him.  Brad also had to
 seriously question the guy's taste in women; Julie was heavy set, had
 bad acne and was anything but attractive.

      "Man, you can't sell a functional ray-gun to people by mail!"
 said Peter.  "We're God-damned lucky we didn't kill somebody!"

      "Perhaps we misinterpreted the purpose of the weapon.  From your
 brochure it was apparent that it would be used to rid the streets of
 idiots.  As you can see, it will be very effective for this purpose.

      "You're God-damned right it will be effective for that purpose!
 We damned near killed a UPS driver!  Okay, the guy was an asshole," he
 admitted.  "But that's no reason to kill him.  Who are you anyway?"

      Both men felt their knees turn to water as the short man stepped
 out of the shadows and removed his hat.  He was obviously not from the
 earth, meaning that he was humanoid but certainly not human.  Without
 his hat, he was even shorter than they had thought at first and he was
 very thin which made the oversized zoot-leisure suit look even more
 outlandish.  His head was hairless and sported a pair of delicate and
 very ornate ears which stuck out sharply.  His skin was light-blue,
 almost white, and looked smooth to the touch, like doeskin, and his
 lips were thin around a small mouth.  Yet, for all of his
 differentness, there was no air of menace about him.  At that moment,
 the mouth was apparently in the alien version of a smile.

      "I am called Roton and I represent the Coalition of Worlds," he
 lisped.  "We are certain that we can provide you with products
 superior to those you now sell and at a lower price." He removed his
 Elton-John sunglasses, revealing a pair of liquid, aquamarine eyes.
 "Who is your current supplier anyway?  Is it Deneb?  Sirius?"

      "W-we get our stuff from many different outlets," Brad managed to
 stammer as he backed towards the door.  Peter stood his ground.

      "Hang on, Brad," he whispered, grabbing Brad's arm to slow down
 his retreat.  "This is starting to make sense."

      "It doesn't matter," said Roton.  "We can still do better.  The
 Coalition represents over a hundred civilized worlds!" He looked at
 the two friends, seeming to finally notice their near- flight
 attitude.  "What is wrong?  I mean you no harm.  You look as though
 you'd never seen a Coalition agent before."

      "To be truthful...," Brad began.  Peter interrupted.

      "It's been a while," he said.  "Why have you contacted us
 anyway?"

      "We wish to open new markets for trade in your solar system and
 your firm is perfect for this purpose.  As you can see, we can already
 provide certain items that you can use by modifying some of our staple
 goods and certainly there are many products of your world that we can
 use also.  We are very interested in doing business with you but we
 have to be very careful not to alert the competition that we are here.
 In fact, we have purposely not used some of our most sophisticated
 probing devices for fear of detection.  Instead, we have been
 monitoring what you call 'radio' and 'television' broadcasts for some
 two weeks now and with the aid of a learning booster we have absorbed
 enough about your culture to communicate.  We found your firm in
 something called the 'yellow pages'.  You know, 'let your digits do
 the walking'!  The (untranslated expletive) Denebians would never have
 looked there!"

      "Good, good, I'm glad you found us!  Umm...Would you excuse us
 for a moment?" said Peter.  "My partner and I have to talk a little
 business.  Have a seat.  You do sit, don't you?"

      Roton nodded.  "Of course, my physiology is very similar to your
 own."

      "Good," Peter continued, scanning the room for something to
 occupy the little alien for a few minutes.  "How about some coffee?"

      "If you mean the beverage made by straining hot water through
 partially burned vegetable matter; no thank you," he said, making a
 face.  "Do you have any Coca-cola?" Peter nodded cautiously, Roton
 continued.  "Excellent!  That is a product we simply must have!  The
 aroma, the bouquet!  I know of ten worlds where we can sell all that
 we can get!"

      Peter got him a Coke out of the small fridge in back and got him
 settled down in a chair.  The two friends went into the office to
 talk.

      "Give me the phone!" said Brad, in near panic.  "We gotta call
 the cops, the Air Force or somebody.  That's a God-damned alien out
 there for Crissake!"

      "Hang on a second," said Peter, grabbing his shoulders and gently
 pushing him into the desk chair.  "This is different!  This alien
 wants to do business with us.  I don't know, there must have been some
 kind of mistake somewhere, but it really doesn't matter.  What does
 matter is that they've come to us, you and me--first!  Do you know
 what that means, Brad?  We will be the first humans to have dealings
 with another civilization!"

      Brad cocked his head.  "You're right," he said, starting to calm
 down a little.  "This is our chance to be famous."

      "There'll be fame and notoriety, sure, but that's only the
 beginning.  Think of it, Brad!  It means new products from over a
 hundred different worlds and we, you and I, have sole rights to sell
 them in this solar system!  Brad, Brad!" Peter shook him.  "We're
 talking heavy-duty, major-league wealth here!  Can you imagine how
 many people would stand in line to buy something from the stars?  And
 what about all of the stuff made right here on good old earth.  You
 heard him, they want to buy Coca-cola for Chrissake!
 Coca-fucking-cola!  If we play our cards right, they'll buy it from
 us!  We'll be two of the wealthiest people on earth.  We'll need dump
 trucks to haul all of the money to the bank.  You can buy that
 Ferrari...Hell, you can probably buy Italy!" He paused to let the
 impact sink in before continuing.  "Unless, of course you'd rather
 call the cops or something."

      Brad swallowed and sat back, his face contorted from the effort
 of the mental battle that was raging inside his head.  To his credit,
 he thought for only a moment.  "You know, you're right," he said, as
 it dawned on him.  "We certainly could take advantage of this
 situation."

      Brad had always demonstrated a gift for understatement.  They
 gathered what self-composure they could and went back into the
 mail-room area to confront the alien.  Roton had just finished his can
 of Coke and was sitting with his head thrown back, eyes closed,
 apparently still savoring the aftertaste.

      "Mr.  Roton," said Peter.  "How do we go about setting up to do
 business with you?" The alien blinked and brought his head down to
 face them.

      "Truly an excellent beverage!" he proclaimed.  He looked into the
 empty can forlornly before setting it back on the table.  "It is
 really very simple," he lisped.  "We will draw up a standard contract
 with you as our sole agents for T-shirts, dashboard blasters and
 stuffed animals along with some choice products for us from your
 planet.  But that is only the beginning, from there we can go on to
 some serious business.  You might say that the stars are the limit!"
 he chuckled, a sort of bubbly hiss.

      "How long until you can have a contract ready, Mr.  Roton?" asked
 Brad.

      "Just 'Roton' will do," he replied.  "It usually takes only a few
 hours.  We could do it more quickly but there are always some special
 details for each world we deal with."

      "We've been talking this over and we're very interested," said
 Peter.  "But, I think we may need some time to settle a few things.  I
 think we could be ready by tomorrow morning.  Would that be alright?"

      "Not at all irregular.  It will be fine.  I shall return tomorrow
 to answer any questions you may have.  We can have a contract ready
 at, say, nine o'clock for you.  It can be signed at that time."

      "Good, Good!" said Peter.  "Until tomorrow, then?"

      "Actually, there is one more thing," said Roton.  "The landing
 craft that brought me here will not return until tomorrow.  As I said,
 we do not wish to alarm the Denebian or Siriusian competition so we
 have operated only clandestine flights."

      "Probably not a bad idea," said Peter.  Good, he thought, no one
 else has seen him.  He was even more positive that he and Brad had
 made a good decision.

      "Indeed," said Roton.  "The question is: Could you direct me to
 an establishment that will accept a Coalition credit cube?  I need a
 place to spend the night."

      "Um...There aren't any near by," Peter managed to stammer.  Shit,
 he thought, we can't have this alien roaming the streets!  Could ruin
 everything!  Thinking quickly, he came up with a solution.  "Why don't
 you spend the night with one of us," he said, managing to stay
 outwardly calm; meanwhile his mind was racing.  He himself lived in a
 large apartment complex, no good, too many people.  Brad had a nice
 two-story with attached garage--perfect!  They could probably get
 Roton into the house without anyone seeing them.  "Brad would
 delighted to have you stay with him."

      "Huh?" said Brad.

      "Wonderful!" Roton was almost gleeful.  "I should tell you that I
 am an amateur sociologist.  I would like to study a human family unit
 to gain some insight as to how they work.  You know, relationships and
 such.  This would be an excellent opportunity!"

      "Well...okay," said Brad hesitantly, definitely not convinced
 that it was going to work.  "As long as we're going to do business
 together, we might as well get used to it.  Yeah, what the hell!  Come
 to my place tonight.  I'll talk to my wife right now.  It should be no
 problem." He almost choked over the words "no problem".

      Roton got a small transmitter out of his breast pocket and spoke
 some unintelligible syllables into it.  After a couple of exchanges,
 he announced.  "The arrangements have been made.  Valtex will come
 down tomorrow with a contract.  And I am free for the evening!"

      They got Roton another Coke and the two friends went back to the
 office to call Brad's wife.  They looked at each other for a moment,
 neither wishing to break the spell for fear the dream would end.
 Finally, Brad broke the silence.

      "Pinch me, Pete!  This has gotta be a dream!"

      "If it is, I hope I never wake up!" said Peter.  "Brad, we're
 gonna be rich!"

      "Yeah, and I invited an alien over to my house.  'Gee Honey,
 guess who's coming to dinner!'" They both cackled excitedly.  They
 didn't accomplish much for the rest of the day.  In fact, most of the
 day's orders remained unfilled.


      Nancy Weller was a reasonable woman.  During the time she had
 known Brad, she hadn't pushed him at all.  In the beginning, she had
 waited and worried, silently, until he decided, on his own, to give up
 the extremely dangerous sport of motorcycle road-racing.  The worry
 had been worth it.  Since it was he who had made the decision, he had
 no trouble living with it.  Later, when her husband had informed her
 that he was going to quit a secure, fairly-well-paying job to start up
 a science fiction business with Peter she had been worried but, again,
 hadn't voiced any objection.  A year later it looked like Brad may
 have made a good career move.  However, she had balked a bit when he
 announced that he was bringing an alien home for dinner.

      "You mean a migrant worker, Dear?"

      "No, I mean an honest-to-God, not-from-this-planet space alien."

      "What the hell are you talking about, Brad?" she asked sternly,
 her voice tinged with worry and more than just a trace of anger.  "You
 guys didn't have another one of your famous four-beer lunches, did
 you?"

      "Not this time, Honey.  I'm dead serious.  Believe me, this is
 the opportunity of a lifetime!  Hell, five lifetimes!"

      She decided to humor him, it had always worked in the past.

      "Great, what do I fix for supper?"

      "He says that his physiology is almost like ours.  What the hell,
 make your lasagne.  Better make a lot, because he's going to ride home
 with Peter--I can't bring him, I'm on the bike--and Betsy will
 probably stop over after work." There was a silence on the line.  He
 added.  "I love you, sweetheart.  Thanks a lot."

      They say behind every successful man stands a good woman.  By any
 measure, Nancy Weller was truly a magnificent woman.  With her behind
 him, Brad was practically guaranteed success!


      Dinner went splendidly.  Roton had two generous helpings of
 Nancy's excellent lasagne and washed it down with a two-liter bottle
 of Pepsi.  No doubt about it, there was trouble brewing.  Roton liked
 Pepsi even better than Coke.  Brad caught himself thinking of what a
 great TV campaign it would make, sort of an ultimate Pepsi Challenge.
 Move over Bill Cosby, make room for Roton!  And he might have been in
 a gourmet restaurant the way he reacted to the meal.  Even before
 dinner had ended, he had charmed both women completely.  The rest of
 the evening went just as well with Brad, Peter and Roton talking about
 potential products and swapping stories about life within their
 different societies.

      They had a few after dinner drinks.  To further their amusement,
 they discovered that something in the Pepsi, the carbon-dioxide maybe,
 affected Roton much the same as alcohol effected the humans.  The
 slightly tipsy and very personable alien was great entertainment.
 Finally ten o'clock came around and Peter announced that it was time
 for he and Betsy to be going home.  Roton agreed that it was time to
 quit also.  Members of his species didn't sleep as such, but they did
 have a similar state, and he was feeling like he needed to partake of
 it right then.  By that time, Nancy and Brad had no reservations about
 having their new friend and business associate spend the night.

      Brad didn't sleep much that night but when he did, he dreamed of
 two-wheeled starships and short, dapper aliens who looked like Truman
 Capote.


      Morning found them all in good spirits with, fortunately, no ill
 effects from the previous night's activities.  All, including Roton,
 had overslept a bit so they were running a bit late.  They served up a
 normal, midwestern breakfast just like any other day.  Roton took a
 particular liking to Wheat Chex.  Brad mentally marked off another
 product that could make millions for Offworld Specialties.  With
 breakfast finished, there was coffee for Brad and Pepsi for Roton.
 Brad decided to double-check the morning's agenda.

      "When do we sign the contract this morning, Roton?" he asked.

      "Unless I am mistaken, I believe it is at nine." He consulted a
 cube from his pocket.  "Yes, my colleague Valtex will come to Offworld
 Specialties at nine with the contract.  I am very excited.  I haven't
 told you this yet but this is my first assignment for the Coalition."

      "Your first?"

      "Yes, but I think it is going rather well, don't you?"

      "Ah...sure, but there is one thing that puzzles me," said Brad.
 "Why did you guys pick us to do business with?"

      "Your's was the only firm that we could find which had some
 experience working with extraterrestrial civilizations," said Roton.

      Roton had admitted that this was his first assignment; Brad
 figured he that owed a confession also.

      "But, Roton, we don't have any experience working with aliens."
 said Brad.

      "How can that be?  On the telephone, yesterday, I asked your
 partner if you were the firm that worked with other space-faring
 civilizations and he replied 'yes'!" said Roton.  There was an edge of
 concern in his voice.

      "Roton, we get thirty or forty calls a week where someone asks us
 the same question," said Brad.  "We tell all of them 'yes', they
 expect it, it's part of the game."

      "But the name 'Offworld Specialties?' said Roton.

      "We chose it because it fits with the illusion that we have some
 contacts in outer space.  But none of our customers really believes
 that we do."

      "Oh, this is most unfortunate!" said Roton, agitatedly.

      "It's a kind of joke!" said Brad.  He looked thoughtfully at
 Roton for a moment.  "Maybe you just don't understand our humor.  That
 would make sense." A light went on in Brad's brain.  "Sure, like that
 damned dashboard blaster.  Ours was never intended to work, it was
 just a toy, a noisemaker.  Your's blew the shit out of a UPS van!
 Maybe we should talk a bit more, Roton."

      "You mean you admit that you lied to a Coalition agent?" Roton
 was really getting worked up."

      "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it lying," said Brad.  "I'd say
 that you guys kind of jumped to some conclusions."

      It may already be too late!" said Roton.  "What time is it?"

      "It's twenty minutes to nine," said Brad, looking at his watch.
 "I'm going to have to leave for work pretty soon."

      "You must stop your friend from signing that contract!" said
 Roton.  "There are severe penalties for lying to a Coalition agent."

      "I said I was leaving for work in a few minutes.  Surely they
 won't sign the contract without both of us there!" said Brad.

      "Now it is you who do not understand.  In our society, time is
 inviolate.  If the contract is to be signed at nine o'clock, that is
 when it will be signed, believe me!"

      "Look, we certainly didn't mean any harm," Brad began.  Roton cut
 him off.

      "The last time someone lied to one of our agents we retaliated by
 destroying the entire planet." said Roton, in near panic.

      "What!" Brad stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over behind
 him.  "Jesus, Roton, isn't there anything we can do?" The panic was
 infectious.

      "No problem, if we get it straightened out before he signs that
 contract," said Roton.  "Otherwise..."

      "I know, why don't you call Valtex on your communicator and tell
 them not to sign before we get there!"

      "Good idea," said Roton, with some relief as he reached for his
 breast pocket.  His face fell as he failed to find the device.  He
 stood up and frantically felt the rest of his pockets.  "I...I cannot
 find it!  Let me think.  I used it in Peter's vehicle on the way here
 yesterday.  I...I must have left it there!  If you remember, I had two
 Coca-colas before we came here yesterday.  I get a bit disorientated."

      "I'll just call Peter myself," Brad said as he picked up the
 phone and dialed the number.  That failed too.  "Oh shit!  I forgot!
 The phone is down this morning!"

      It seemed there was only one possible solution.

      He hollered to his wife as he grabbed his leather jacket and
 full-face helmet.  "Nancy!  Call the police and tell them to meet the
 maniac on the Ninja at Offworld Specialties.  Tell them it's a life or
 death situation.  Get Roton in the car and follow me down as quickly
 as you can."

      He had the jacket, the helmet and his gloves on before he opened
 the garage door.  He had the key in the ignition and switched on
 before he even threw his leg over the bike.  He stabbed the starter
 button and, as usual, the engine roared to life immediately, throbbing
 with power.  There was no time for the customary pre-ride
 inspection--the future of mankind was at stake!.  He pulled in the
 clutch with his left hand, snicked the shift lever down into first
 gear with his left toe, blipped the throttle with his right hand and
 let out the clutch.  The rear tire left a six-foot long stripe on the
 concrete floor as he launched the bike out of the garage.  He slowed
 down only slightly and took a left into the street--right into the
 path of a Buick!  He ignored the squeal of brakes and the angry curses
 of the driver as he straightened out the handlebars and twisted the
 throttle to the stop.

      Engage warp drive!

      In less than a heartbeat the awesome power of the two- wheeled
 beast was unleashed.  The bike lunged forward, the front wheel
 skimming a couple of inches off the street, the rear tire clawing at
 the asphalt.  The tach soared to redline in first gear accompanied by
 the soulful howl of the big, inline four in full song.  The guy in the
 Buick stopped in mid-curse as the big bike with its obviously
 psychotic rider seemingly evaporated down the street!  With the
 throttle still at the stop, Brad snapped the clutch in and out while
 lifting his left toe simultaneously, accomplishing the shift into
 second gear in less than an eyeblink.  The front wheel again lost
 contact with the road.  The process was repeated for third gear.  Brad
 was now a mere eight seconds away from his driveway.  His speed was
 already 102 m.p.h.  and climbing.  Four intersections shot past, Brad
 silently thanked God no one was coming!  Too quickly, it was time to
 slow down for the crosstown freeway entrance.  After a quick pull on
 the brakes and a downshift to second gear to lose a little speed, Brad
 shifted his weight over to the left, "hanging off" to insure proper
 cornering attitude as he banked the streaking bike over into the
 curve.  The rear wheel slipped a couple of times but he managed to
 successfully negotiate the carousel onto the highway at just over 70
 m.p.h.  Brad's heart was in his throat, even in his racing days, he
 had never done anything quite that dangerous!  Race tracks have
 generous runoffs and hay bales if you make a mistake.  On the street
 there are nothing but hard things and sharp angles.  Not to mention
 cars.  Thousands of cars, all crawling along at 65 m.p.h., or less.
 There were trucks too, big, heavy, ugly trucks that clogged the road
 even better.

      Out on the highway, and he was on the throttle again, hard!  The
 Ninja again lunged forward, eating up the road ravenously, like some
 lithe, hungry, two-wheeled predator.  Brad tucked in behind the short
 bubble windscreen of the sportbike's full fairing as he weaved in and
 out of the traffic like a madman on amphetamines.  The tach hovered
 near redline in fourth gear as he and the big bike screamed down the
 dashed lines in the middle of the two-lane one-way road and flashed
 between a moving van in one lane and a tow-truck in the other.

      The noise of the wind tearing at his helmet and clothing was all
 that he could hear but he could feel how hard the engine was working
 by the urgency of the tingling vibration he felt between his legs and
 in the handgrips.  Brad realized once again that riding a big powerful
 bike really fast required CONCENTRATION!.  Things happen at an
 alarming rate at 130 m.p.h.!

      Don't try this at home, kids!  he thought, as he shot over to
 pass a dirt-covered Cadillac, skirting by it by going out on the
 shoulder.  Not surprisingly, most of the people he passed were shocked
 and angered and were making all kinds of gestures at him.  At the
 speeds he was traveling and in his state of total concentration, he
 barely saw them.

      The engine was singing soprano and the speedometer indicating 135
 m.p.h.  as the exit for downtown came up on the right--fast!  Brad
 grabbed a handful of brake with his right hand.  It was like hitting a
 brick wall.  The powerful twin discs on the front wheel of the
 streaking black and red bike were so strong and the need of the rider
 so urgent that the back wheel came up momentarily from the force of
 braking.  He downshifted twice, fourth to third to second and coasted
 down the ramp and out into the street at half-throttle.  There was a
 tiny opening in the traffic; Brad put the hammer down!  The warp drive
 kicked in again and the big bike with its white-knuckled rider clawed
 its way around a red Dodge Omni and flashed through the tail-end of a
 yellow light, speed: 80 m.p.h.  Just five more blocks to go!  Then
 four, then three...Again the squeal of car brakes from a near
 miss--unheard.  The "Offworld Specialties" sign came into view.  Brad
 again hit the brakes so hard that the back wheel came up off the
 street.  He slithered the bike to a stop in front of the building,
 slammed the sidestand down and ran inside, screaming for Peter as he
 clawed at the fasteners on his helmet.  He rounded the corner into the
 mail-room just in time to see Peter and another alien by the desk.
 The clock on the wall read 8:59.  Peter had a pen poised above a large
 formal-looking document.

      "Peter!" Brad shouted.  "For God's sake don't sign that
 contract!"

      Peter looked up at him with a kind of bewildered stare.  Brad
 didn't even stop.  He continued his headlong rush across the room and
 snatched the pen out of Peter's hand.

      "What did you do that for?" asked Peter.

      Brad was out of breath from the exertion of piloting the big
 bike.  Or maybe it was because he hadn't breathed for most of his
 incredible trip--He wasn't sure!  He sat shakily down in a chair and
 put his head in his hands.  The enormity of what he had just done, the
 saving of mankind and the personal risk he had just taken, was
 beginning to dawn on him.  It would be a while before the adrenaline
 wore off.

      "We have to talk a bit more about some of the details of the
 contract," said Brad, calmly.  "That is, if we want to stay in
 business for very long."

      Within minutes, the building was surrounded by police cars which
 were full of confused and angry policemen.  A short time later Nancy
 and Roton arrived.  The spacecraft on the roof and the alien on the
 ground were enough to convince the cops that a momentous event was in
 progress.  Besides, they weren't sure who had jurisdiction over the
 matter.  Roton and the two friends made a few minor (but extremely
 important) changes in the wording of their contract and, with the
 stroke of a pen, Offworld Specialties really did have contacts with an
 extraterrestrial civilization!


                                 * * *

      It had been a truly fantastic banquet with delightful and exotic
 cuisine from all over the Galaxy and the lush appointments of the
 formal dining room were opulent in the extreme.  Red velvet draperies
 and gold brocade adorned the frescoed walls.  The table was covered
 with the very best Denebian linen and was set with "china" from
 Sirius's most famous kilns.  Around the table, three friends raised
 their expensive Rigellian crystal goblets in a formal toast.  Two of
 the goblets contained the finest champagne, the other contained the
 finest Pepsi-cola.

      "To the first five years of our prosperous partnership, Brad,
 Roton," said Peter.  "May there be many more!" They clinked their
 glasses together and tossed down their respective beverages.

      "Where to now?" said Roton.

      "Oh, I don't know," said Brad.  "How about Barnard's Star.  I
 hear they had a fantastic year for Sardinarian Brandy."

      Roton disappeared into the control room.  Minutes later the sleek
 gleaming starship that was the property of Offworld Specialties came
 majestically about.  After a short countdown she flashed into
 hyperspace.  With her wealthy merchant crew and her cargo of precious
 goods, the Offworld Ninja was off on another foray as trader to the
 stars.

           ---------------------------------------------------
           Phil is a research specialist in Plant Pathology at
           NDSU in  Fargo, North Dakota.   He is also  a Ph.D.
           candidate  at the  same  time.   He's been  writing
           science  fiction  for  about three  years  but  has
           enjoyed reading  it all his life.   He comments, "I
           got interested  in the  writing end because  of the
           many  disappointments  I've   had  while  attending
           science  fiction movies  and coming  away wondering
           how they could  have spent so much  money on actors
           and  special effects,  and  so damned  little on  a
           decent story!"   This story marks Phil's second ap-
           pearance in Athene.
           ---------------------------------------------------





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              ______________________________________

              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
              ______________________________________

 Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.
 Published monthly,  each issue contains short fiction,  articles and
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 publishes  in  two  formats:   straight  ascii and  PostScript*  for
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  The Magazine of the Dargon Project         Editor:  Dafydd <White@DUVM>

     DargonZine is an electronic  magazine printing stories written for
 the Dargon Project, a shared-world  anthology similar to (and inspired
 by)  Robert  Asprin's Thieves'  World  anthologies,  created by  David
 "Orny" Liscomb in his now retired magazine, FSFNet. The Dargon Project
 centers around a medieval-style duchy called Dargon in the far reaches
 of the  Kingdom of  Baranur on  the world named  Makdiar, and  as such
 contains stories with a fantasy fiction/sword and sorcery flavor.
      DargonZine  is  (at  this  time)  only  available  in  flat-file,
 text-only format. For  a subscription, please send a  request via MAIL
 to the editor,  Dafydd, at the userid  [e-mail]. This request
 should contain your full userid (logonid and node, or a valid internet
 address) as  well as your  full name. InterNet (all  non-BitNet sites)
 subscribers will  receive their  issues in  Mail format.  BitNet users
 have  the option  of specifying  the file  transfer format  you prefer
 (either  DISK  DUMP,  PUNCH/MAIL,   or  SENDFILE/NETDATA).  Note:  all
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