IN DEVELOPMENT - "Local Event Chapter 6"

Part 2

AMAZON

Local Event – CHAPTER 6

"The Strike: Coincidence or Conspiracy?"
Charles Dexter, Third Coast Press, 2036.
from Chapter Two

In 1982, during his expedition to the Amazon, oceanographer Jacques Cousteau made a declaration that, in light of what we now know, sounds like a premonition. He said, "Today, the world is concerned about nuclear war, but this threat will disappear. The war of the future will be between those who defend nature and those who destroy it. The Amazon will be the eye of the hurricane."

Of course, the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 forever changed the nuclear threat. Though not extinct by any reckoning, the shift to only one superpower in the world meant the end to "mutually assured destruction" as a means of international peacekeeping. In short, it led to the rise of the New World Order, and, not coincidentally, made room for all sorts of new things for people to fight about.

The Green War. The Brazil wars. Amazon police actions. Whatever we called it, we all felt the impact of it. Whether you simply experienced it through the direct transmissions of WNN reporters or actually had a loved one involved in the fighting, no doubt you have an opinion about the United Nations Military Alliance and its fight to save the Equatorial Rainforest of Brazil. Not since the United States of America battled its way to a loss in Viet Nam has a military activity divided so many. While people all across the planet demonstrated for and against it, the level of acrimony reached its peak in the USA, just about twenty years into the new millennium.

At that time, UNMA had sacrificed over 11,000 lives to the "salvation" of the rainforest, many of them U.S. citizens. Yes, it was a voluntary force, at least as far as the US was concerned; though not every nation was so enlightened. But, rumors of the conditions suffered by, mainly, the infantry were rampant at the time. And, of course, we now know those rumors to be true. The Amazon had only two seasons, then; the rainy season and the dry season. During the dry season, from July to November, temperatures would range from a "low" of 78F (26C) to a blistering 104F (40C). The "relief" of the rainy season, from December to June, existed largely in the press releases of the UNMA. Rainy season temperatures ranged from 73F (23C) to 86F (30C). Not much difference on the low end, and, perhaps, more insufferable on the high end due to the increased humidity.

Between the weather, the flora and fauna, jungle diseases, the battles themselves, the difficulty in maintaining supply lines, and the seeming impossibility of knowing just who was and who was not an enemy, victory was looking like less and less of a sure thing. Funding for the UNMA began to waiver. More and more of the UN client countries were pressing to withdraw.

Then, The Strike.

The multiple Amazon strikes made it an ideal target for increased UN attention. The UNMA, already on the ground, found itself the agent of first resort with orders to occupy and assist ... for humanitarian purposes, of course.

That much you probably already know. Did you know, however, that virtually all of the Amazon strikes were outside UNMA controlled territory? The effect of The Strike on the indigenous Amazonas Militia was devastating. No other country received anything close to the number of strikes documented for the Equatorial Rainforest. A very convenient solution to a most thorny problem. Almost as if the heavens favored the UNMA. For all intents and purposes, The Strike marked the end of the Green War.

####

“ Old English Village“
The Farmhouse
The Hearth Room

David Ashby sat by the oversized hearth, luxuriating in the waves of heat pulsing out from the fire burning within it. The chills were past, now. But having been cold many times in his life, he kept close to the fire. He never wasted warmth. He laughed silently, suddenly remembering that it was the heat which was, in part, responsible for convincing him to join the Green War. And he had made that decision on a night with weather a lot like this.

Above the crackle of the fire, he could hear the steady applause of the rain pelting the roof and the periodic prum-prum of distant thunder. This building was nowhere near as old as it seemed. No expense had been spared to make it look, sound, smell like a real farmhouse in a real old English village. Ashby had been in true buildings from the target era and he could safely testify that this is how it sounded in the rain. The builders of OEV wanted its visitors to have the most life-like experience possible. Despite his personal feelings about The Chosen, Ashby had to admit they built well.

He sat so that he could keep an eye on the man now known as Samuel Jones, but who, two decades ago, had been John Beauchamp, his superior officer and his best friend.

Ashby was not comfortable with the reversal of roles; he was having to be in charge. His Mama had often told him he made an excellent “cook’s helper”. Even as a child he understood this to mean that he was not the leader type. His Mama was not a mean person; she just called ‘em like she saw ‘em. And, he had to admit, the term seemed to suit him. He much preferred to be the number two guy. He truly excelled at carrying out orders; he luxuriated in accomplishing the mission, effecting the resolution. What he hated, and especially now, was to have to make the decisions, to be the one to decide the mission, to make the plan for others to follow.

He understood that there was a lot riding on what he did and said over the next several days. There were plans, really big plans, and his part was a really big part of those plans. It nettled him that he had to be in charge of such an important part. He’d been told all about it, told how important his part was, because they thought that would help. They didn’t know just how much it didn’t help. And he couldn’t tell them, could he?

He also understood that those people who kept track of John Beauchamp would be moving heaven and hell, so to speak, to find them. And, if his intel was correct, those folks would find them. If he and Beauchamp stayed in one place long enough. The only advantage he had were the jumps. Unless they knew where to look, it would take the trackers some time to determine just where Beauchamp was. Jumping took care of that. And, this rain was helping to keep Beauchamp from being found. Ashby seriously doubted they had tech sophisticated enough to find Beauchamp in this kind of weather, not without first knowing where to look. Of course, once they realized he was off the scope, there might just be someone smart enough to think to look under the storms. But, then it was a numbers game, a matter of probability. Ashby let himself relax a little, just a little. He had some time.

Jones/Beauchamp was lying on his side, stretched out along the cushions of an overstuffed couch, and covered with a very large, down comforter. He was still unconscious. It seemed to Ashby that Beauchamp should be awake by now. It had been several hours since he and the two women had wrestled Beauchamp into the house and up onto his temporary bed. Could the sedative have been too strong or the dose too large?

Still, Beauchamp's coloring looked good; better than it had before they jumped. For the most part, except for some nausea, people who jumped seemed to be in better health after the jump than before. One theory suggested that the post-jump vomiting might be the body trying to dispose of unhealthy materials. Then, remembering the two women, Ashby was suddenly sad. Not the same for everyone, though.

It was one of the mysteries of the jump, its affect on health. It was not something Ashby spent much time thinking about. He was no scientist, he didn't understand it, and he couldn't control it. And, he thought, with a few very notable exceptions, it has been benign. He was much more concerned about the time factors involved. That, he worried about.

But, it was an old worry. He temporarily set it aside to so he could worry at a new problem; the fact that they did not arrive at his chosen destination. Usually, he formed a mental picture of his intended destination, then jumped there. He knew the simplest explanation; here was safer than there. That was probably it. Of course, even if that was the reason, it still left unanswered a pretty big "why?” Nothing quite like this had ever happened to him.

He had made what he called "reaction jumps"; leaping before he looked, so to speak. But they had always occurred when he was in danger, or at least, when the 'fight or flight' response was stimulated by something. In those cases, he had always ended up somewhere he felt safe; always somewhere he had been happy. If this was a reaction jump, he thought, surely I would have ended up almost anywhere but "English Village". But this had not been a reaction jump. He had intentionally picked the Paris park, envisioning a little copse of trees near the north end, well away from the entrance. That way, they could arrive unobserved, regardless of whether they did so in daylight or darkness. Paris would have fit the requirements of both safe and happy.

"English Village" might no longer be the former, and would never again be the latter.

With one more glance at Beauchamp, Ashby stood and walked into the hallway, headed toward the kitchen.

###

Ashby's stockinged footfalls echoed softly off the hallway's wooden floor, the muffled thumps diminishing as he padded away. Exactly sixty seconds after the last of these sounds had died to nothing, Beauchamp's left eyelid moved just enough to open a tiny slit. His breathing remained exactly the same as before; save the eyelid, nothing else moved. He continued to lay like that for another five minutes, left eye taking inventory through its slender peephole. His ears had been busy for close to twenty minutes before he brought his eye into play. At the end of five minutes, having heard no sounds since Ashby's departure, he allowed the other eyelid to slide open to an equal aperture. Able now to see everything that lay before him, Beauchamp allowed himself to believe he was alone in the room. He sat up, waited a few seconds to let a mild vertigo run its course, and then tried to stand. And that was his first mistake.

####

The Kitchen

The farmhouse kitchen was everything a tourist would expect. It looked like something right out of mid-twentieth century. The floor was covered with linoleum. The table's high-reflection chrome legs swayed up from the center of the floor to brace a large rectangular top, also linoleum. It came with four matching chairs. The cabinets were enameled metal. The gas stove looked to be the same as the cabinets. The table settings were melamine. In the center of the table was a large bowl of wax fruit.

Of course, none of it was really those materials. Faux linoleum. Faux melamine. Faux chrome. Faux faux fruit. It was the rare tourist who could tell the difference between what was in this room and what had actually filled kitchens in the 1950's. The only thing close to the original was the gas which fueled the stove, but only in that it was a gas and combustible.

Ashby took all this in from just outside the door, hidden from view in a shadowed slice of hallway where he'd stopped, not wanting to go in just yet.

The two women sat, facing each other across the tabletop. Their chairs were pulled up close and they spoke in very low tones. This was not an uncommon arrangement for them. In fact, they spent almost every waking moment together. They did not like to be apart, and only allowed it when no other option was open to them.

They were very different from each other. Ashby could easily point out numerous differences between them. One was tall and athletic, while the other was two heads shorter, and spare. Some things were deceiving about the pair, however. The tall one looked considerably younger than her actual years. Most people thought her to be somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties. This was well short of the mark. On top of all that, she was beautiful, the kind of woman who turns heads when she walks by. Her skin was flawless. A close observation would have revealed that she never wore makeup. Her hair was long and shiny; natural highlights nestled among deep auburn.

The shorter one was, in most ways, the opposite. Her skin was wrinkled and her hair was mostly gray. There was nothing remotely athletic about her too thin body. She appeared to be much older. So much older, in fact, that people often assumed she was the mother of the other. She tended to be, Ashby knew, fairly unperturbed by this. One time, one of the women in the nearby hamlet remarked to her on the beauty of "your daughter." Her response had been a wry half smile, a little snort of breath, and the quiet declaration, "She's not my daughter."

It was not such a bad guess for someone to make. Anyone having plenty of time to watch them walk, and talk, and gesture would have noticed similarities. With a little squinting of the eyes, it might be that they looked enough alike to be mother and daughter. The truth, however, was far from this. A scientist might have seen it, or maybe a medical doctor. Certain people laboring in the child development field might have been quicker than any others. Actually, if it weren't for the obvious differences in appearance, anyone would have seen it. They were identical twins.

####

The Hearth Room

David Ashby looked at Col. John Beauchamp, United States Army, Retired (sort of), former operative detached to the Intelligence Division of the United Nations Military Alliance, former deep cover NSA spook, and in recent years known as Samuel Jones, Federal Investigator. He could see that Beauchamp, though now sitting up, was still shaken by the jump.

Though long ago dried by the warmth of the fire, still roaring in the grate before him, Beauchamp pulled the blanket tighter around him. He could not seem to get warm. "Frazzled" was the word that came to Ashby's mind. The events of the past several hours had to have affected his friend, maybe even causing some mild shock. He knew that if he didn't push the matter they would never talk about it, and he was anxious to get started. Despite the possible fragility of Beauchamp's mental state, Ashby would have to press.

"Colonel? I think it's time we talked about what really happened to us in the Amazon. I know you think we were, somehow … that somehow that piece of space rock changed us."

Beauchamp looked uncomfortable with Ashby's suggestion. "Yes. I know that is what happened."

"And, I know different," Ashby said, cryptically.

"What do you mean, David?" Beauchamp's face flushed with a return of the anger he had shown earlier. "You keep hinting at this mystery, and I have tired of it."

Ashby crossed the room, took a long, silent look out the window, as if he was reading something written on the scrim of rain masking the night sky. Finally, without turning away from the view, he said, "Colonel. Think about it. Where did I go? Why did I disappear? Why couldn't you find even a trace of me after the strike?"

"Well…I guess I always thought you were killed."

"Right. Now you know I wasn't killed. What does that do to your conclusions?"

"Well, then, you were changed like the rest of us were changed."

"Sure. I changed. You changed. All of us changed…in the twinkling of an eye. But, I was the only one who couldn't be found. Didn't you ever think I might have deserted?"

Beauchamp continued to stare at the fire as if it were a viewport into the past. "Deserted? David, you were standing right where the biggest chunk hit! So many strange things happened immediately after the strike…so many missing people. You know. It was a long time before that 'strike site' cooled enough for excavation. When we didn't find a body, I decided that you were just vaporized."

The Colonel looked up from his reverie, staring at Ashby's back. "Wait. What was that you said about 'twinkling'? Was that a quote or something? It sounded like something I have heard before."

"It's from the Bible."

"From the…" An odd look slipped across his face.

"It's a phrase used in the Bible," explained Ashby, "to describe an instantaneous transition from the earthly body to the heavenly body. It was written to assure the readers that, when the time came, nothing would prevent them from going on to be with God, not even this earthly body. They would all be changed, instantaneously, in the twinkling of an eye."

"You have been reading the Bible?!"

Turning back to face him, Ashby's smile was all irony. "You said it yourself - a lot of strange things happened after the Strike." There was silence between the men, tethered between the irony of the one man and the amazement of the other.

"Look", continued Ashby, "let me tell you something about myself, something that, I think, will help me explain what it is that really happened to us down along the Amazon."

The other man just nodded, still in awe, and unsure of his voice.

"When I was twelve, I went to spend the summer with my great-grandmother. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to say I was sent to spend the summer there. I was quite a handful when I was young. And reaching puberty didn't help things. I had always been a big kid. But, I was getting bigger; taller, thicker. And, I had this rage thing. I couldn't stand to be teased. Of course, that's like a beacon to a bully. The seventh grade had been tough on my parents. I kept getting into fights. Actually, though it didn't seem to matter much to my parents, the truth is that the fights came to me; just plain old stimulus-response. I wasn't bad. I just had this button, and if you knew how to push it, well, 'Katy bar the door!'

Catching the look on Beauchamp's face, Ashby hurried on. "I spent the summer at Memmi's. You know, in all the years we had been going out there for holidays and family gatherings, I don't think I had ever seen her smile. Old people didn't smile much in my family, so I don't remember thinking anything of it. She just never smiled. She was 84 that summer. There was more than a 70 year gap in our ages. I remember realizing that she was past 70 when I was born. Man! She was old!

"Now, I'm not sure, exactly, what it was I had been thinking would be her reaction to me spending the summer. All I know is that, once I go there, it was pretty clear she was not happy about it. Apparently, my grandparents, and 'the fam', had decided she needed to have someone with her. To be fair to all of them, she did live alone, on a farm, without indoor plumbing. Well, there was a cold water faucet in the kitchen, but that's the most technology that house had ever seen. Kinda hard to believe, hunh?

“What I didn't know was that this plan to have me stay the summer was just the opening salvo in their battle to save her from herself. By the end of the summer, they had managed to assume control of her assets. The very first thing they did was to install an indoor bathroom. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

"At the time of my arrival, all of that behind-the-scenes stuff was unknown to me. I was never the most perceptive person, especially when it came to subtleties. All I really understood was that a mistake had been made. I was not going to spend the summer with some old woman who didn't want me there. It took my mother about an hour and several very unsubtle references to 'military school' before I finally just shut up and accepted it.

"The plan had been, and it pretty much played out this way, for me to pick apples at a nearby orchard. That way, every day, I could earn a little money while getting some exercise (more important to my parents than the money). Then, I would spend each night at Memmi's. That part of the summer was hard. But, I wouldn't trade it, now. I won't bore you with details. Suffice to say, I rode out every morning about six on a rickety old girls bicycle, spent my morning picking apples, ate the sack lunch Memmi had packed for me, spent the afternoon working in the ciderhouse (we loaded an 18-wheeler almost every day), rode the bike back to Memmi's at the end of 12 hours, and spent my evenings on the front porch watching the sun set. Today, these are all good memories. Then, it was hard.

"I tried out different bedrooms. First, I slept in the bedroom next to Memmi's room. This had been my grandmother's idea. She thought I should be nearby in case Memmi needed help in the middle of the night. See? I didn't realize it, but they were expecting Memmi to keel over just about any time. No way would I have stayed if I had known that. Probably why they didn't tell me. Anyway, that arrangement lasted exactly two nights. Man, could that woman snore! The next stop was the couch. But, that didn't last any longer. The thunder just followed me.

"So, that's how I ended up sleeping in the attic. It was an unusually cool summer, for Kentucky. So, the combination of the feather mattress and the natural accumulation of attic heat produced a pretty good situation for me. And, on the rare nights when it was too warm, I just opened the window on the other side of the bed. Cool air from the cellar would jet up the stairs, across the bed, and out the window, keeping me cool. And, more important than any of this was the wonderful advantage it had in distance. I heard nothing but the crickets and the occasional hoot owl.

"By then, I really needed a good night's sleep. The days were hard, and I couldn't keep dragging into work. Luckily, Mr. Holloway gave me a little time to get accustomed to things. He could see I wasn't doing too well. But, his only comment was an occasional, muttered, 'city boy'.

"Life shook down into a routine. I got up at 5:45 (man, that was really hard, at first), ate breakfast, did my apple duty, then relaxed on the porch until bedtime, which came earlier and earlier as I settled into the rhythm of that life. Memmi and I reached a sort of truce. We weren't ugly to each other. We just weren't really friendly to each other. We 'soldiered on' like that for many days. I'll never forget the morning she said, 'Have a good day'. I almost fell off the bike! It was so unexpected. I think I grinned all the way over to the Holloway's.

"Okay. Back to the attic. Once I got past the toughening up stage of the summer, I began to wish I had something to do with my evenings. I would get home around 6:00 PM, eat a quick supper, then have nothing to do until bedtime. It's kinda funny, now. I was well into the second week before I even missed television. I hadn't been allowed to take anything with me. No music. No computer. No game console. Nothing. Suddenly, I was very aware of the time on my hands. Two, three hours can be a very long time to a 12 year old.

"So, I began to explore. Within a few days, I knew Memmi's farm, intimately. It was really cool for a city boy to discover all that stuff. Ever been in a corn crib? The interesting thing was that I became aware that I was discovering things on a farm where I had already spent many a long Sunday afternoon. I thought I knew the place pretty well. I was surprised to find so much more.

"It wasn't long before we hit a rainy day…along about the end of the first month. I knew there would be no work that day. Nobody would be picking apples in that downpour. Memmi was nervous. She wasn't used to having me under foot. Our truce depended, in large part, on my not being there most of the day. So, that's how I ended up exploring the attic rooms.

"And, that was the day I found the books."

"There were hundreds of books in Memmi's attic, not a one of them new; some of them were more than 50 years old. There were so many! There were books by Orson Scott Card, Madeline L'Engle, C. S. Lewis, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, and Diana Wynne Jones; mysteries by Josephine Tey, Max Allan Collins, Sue Grafton, and Arthur Conan Doyle; adventures by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert Louis Stevenson, Harry Turtledove, and Dorothy Dunnett. I can't list them all, but I think I've remembered most of them. There were biographies of great people, like Albert Einstein and Amelia Earhart. And, there were the science fiction books; Asimov, Heinlein, Gibson, Brooks, Vance, Smith, Lawhead, Wilhelm, Willis, on and on. Starting from that rainy day, I worked my way through as many as I could that summer. It was a special time for me.

"As it turned out, these were Memmi's own books. It wasn't long before we started discussing them. By the end of the summer, we had become true friends. All of this changed how I thought about life, and it changed how I thought about my family. One of the greatest benefits of that summer was that I came to see the family from Memmi's perspective. I understood why she resisted the changes they were trying to foist on her. I joined her side."

"David." Beauchamp's annoyance cut through Ashby's memory.

"Okay", Ashby said, "to the point. One of the books I read that summer was a short one by Steven Gould called, "JUMPER". It's the story of a boy named Davy who, while avoiding a beating from his abusive father, finds he has "jumped"…teleported!…to the local public library. It was a great read, and it got right at that thing all teenagers struggle with - 'How do I get away when I can't get away?' Davy never really learns where the power came from, but he does, eventually, figure out that he can only "jump" to places he has seen before. And, that first jump took him to the library because that was the place where he spent most of his time and where he felt safe."

There was no mistaking the impatience in his voice when Beauchamp interrupted. "David, this is all very nice. It is even interesting; a nice story. What does it have to do with our Amazon experience? You have drawn me away from an important investigation. You have put me though a very difficult ... experience. And, now, you have me sitting in a house somewhere in the English countryside listening to a story about your childhood. WHAT IS ALL OF THIS ABOUT?!"

"John, please, sit back down."

Beauchamp was surprised to find that he was standing, rigid, hands clinched at his side. He recognized that this was not his usual behavior. What was going on here? Where was the cool, calm, collected person he usually was? Forcing his hands to open, he sat, trying to make himself relax.

Seeing his friend work to control his emotions, Ashby went on. "This story is important. Unless you hear it, you won't be able to understand what comes next. Please. Trust me. I know it seems round about, but it is really the only way to make sense out of things."

He paused, seeking the understanding in Beauchamp's face, or, at least an acquiescence. Beauchamp met his stare and gave one short, sharp nod. Now, Ashby was becoming frustrated.

Maybe, he thought, a change in approach.

"Look. Remember the Amazon setup?"

"Yes, of course I remember the Amazon setup," snapped Beauchamp. "What does that have to do with this story of orchards, and great-grandmothers, and books?"

Ashby calmed himself, then speaking evenly, said, "Let’s go over the setup. You had us strung out along the trail to reduce the number of potential targets. You were in a very foul mood, even for you. I was walking point."

"Yes. Yes. I remember it clearly," interrupted Beauchamp. "As usual, you had volunteered to walk point. You had no business doing that. You were my second in command. You should have been with me."

"I volunteered because Blaisdale had everyone else spooked."

"Blaisdale." The way Beauchamp said the name made it clear that he thought little of the person. "I remember we were walking along when Blaisdale let loose with another one of her comments about 'having a bad feeling'. I always hated it when she did that. It put everyone on edge. That day was no different. All of you placed considerable confidence in her hunches, too much so in my opinion. All a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. But, that day … that day, she was right to 'have a bad feeling'."

Neither of them was talking, now, that day replaying in their minds, separately, but much the same, even after all these years.

####

"There was that single 'pop'," recalled Beauchamp. "We all thought it was gunfire. So, we got as flat as we could, fast. I could not see you from where I lay. You were too far ahead for that. I could see everything else, though. The 'pop' turned into a string of them, and those turned into a long thunder. Three pieces! Three pieces struck our position! I thought we would all die. In the seconds between when we saw them and when they struck, I could not move. I could not speak. All I could think was that I was going to die without ever finding out where Adele had taken the children.

"And, then, it just stopped. They looked like they were coming right at us, but they were really ahead of us. As soon as I realized that I was still alive, I ordered everyone to form on me. But, of course, no one could hear me. We were all temporarily deaf. It didn't seem to matter, though. Everyone came to me, anyway … everyone except you. We were all so shaken. It took a few minutes before I realized that you weren't there."

Looking up at Ashby, Beauchamp's voice conveyed both apology and wonder. "We looked for you, David. We looked all around the area. We got as close as we could to the trenches. They were hot for a long time, you know. Several fires started as a result of those three. We never found you. There was not even a trace. As best we could figure, you were directly in the path of the second one, the nearest one. They recorded you as MIA, though I don't think anyone really believed you lived through the strike."

Both men were silent, memory overwhelming them.

After several minutes, Ashby broke the silence. "With the first noise, I hit the ground. It sounded uncannily like a gunshot. Who knew? Anyway, I grabbed dirt. I wouldn't have even looked up if not for Blaisdale. Glancing to see who was near me, I saw her about 20 yards away. It was just one of those odd openings in the bush. I couldn't see anyone else. Before I could get her attention, I saw her look up. Colonel, that was before the next series of popping sounds. Somehow, she sensed something coming. I always thought that was creepy, how she could know something was about to happen. Anyway, when I saw her look up, I looked up. There it was shooting down towards us! At first, I thought it was coming right at us. I got into a crouch to move. Then, I could see that it was veering away, or at least looked that way. Sure enough, it hit well wide of our position. Relief swept through me. Suddenly, I felt weak, all over.

"That's when I looked back over at Blaisdale. She was on her feet and yelling something, pointing at me. I couldn't hear her, and she realized it. Then, she started pointing at the sky. And there it was. Coming right at me. Only, this time, it wasn't veering away. All I could think was that I had to get out of there. But, all I could do was watch. It was coming in fast. My mind filled up with the noise. And then, I knew. It was too late. I could feel the heat as the flame roared toward me.

"Then, it was absolutely silent. Everything had gone black. I couldn't see or hear. It was like there was nothing at all; no light, no sound, no sensations of any kind. Somehow, this was more frightening than the roar and the flames. I began to think that I might be dead, that maybe this was oblivion, or, maybe, this was Hell. I have no idea how long I stayed just that way, trying to comprehend what had happened to me. Though I had no way to tell, it seemed like a very long time. Then, I had a thought that frightened me even more; what if this was eternity?

"Then, almost as if that thought had triggered it, my eyes began to adjust to the darkness. Very slowly, I began to make out shapes. To my right, a window began to form, and I could see dim moonlight coming through it. Then the moonlight was a smudge on a floor of narrow wooden slats. Other shapes began to form. There was a large bed directly in front of me. If I had taken a step when I was still blind, I would have stumbled right on to it.

"And that's when it hit me. As if waiting for realization to dawn, my legs gave out at that moment. I fell across the bed, rolled on to my back, and stared up at the inverted "V" of the ceiling above me, and I started to laugh."

"I don't understand", said Beauchamp. "What happened? Why were you laughing? Where were you?"

Ashby's face was aglow with the wonder of the memory.

Grinning, he said, "I was in Memmi's attic."