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Subject: {ASSM} Reversion {Varkel} (M+m+b+g+f+F+) [04/21]
Date: Sun,  3 Nov 2002 08:10:04 -0500
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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Summer, 2001



Chapter 4:  Alice


Mamma came in from the porch shuffling mail.  "Timmy, here's one
for you."

"From Aunt Clara?" I asked, mildly bemused, looking up from my
book.  I had yet to create a public persona.  Even the magazines
Dad had grudgingly ordered for me were in his name.  Only Clara
had ever sent me personal mail, usually a birthday card, though
months had passed since my birthday.

"No," she answered, drawing near and handing me a small envelope.
"This isn't from Clara."  She grinned.  "Have you made a pen
pal?"

It was addressed to Master Timothy Kimball in an almost familiar
hand.  Though the cursive was too neatly and uniformly composed
to be considered childish, it had nevertheless been written with
a pencil, probably Number Two, and was slightly smeared, perhaps
by a postman's fingers.  The envelope, greeting card sized, bore
no return address.  Mamma's grin widened behind me when I took it
out on the porch to open it in privacy.

The small note again was in pencil but the handwriting was fully
mature and very familiar.



Tim, you old man,

This is the address I memorized from your records.  Assuming you
are the Timothy Peter Kimball who remembers Alice Farnsworth, nee
Colsen, please call me in Chicago at 27-0564.  The address is
13077 Lemolion Place, Apt. 9, but don't write me here.  The
difference is incredible!

Alice, still your best friend



I was stunned!  I shuddered, breathed out and failed to inhale
until I gasped.  Alice had followed me!  How was it possible?
How had she determined the right universe?

My shocked mind was pleased to divert to that problem -- but the
answer was obvious.  When I reverted, how many other Timothy
Kimballs in other universes had done the same at the same moment
-- a million?  An infinity?  Likewise as many Alices had reverted,
too.  Each must necessarily proceed to a different universe, in
many cases one that exhibited far greater strangeness than the
shape of paperclips or the location of bathtub drains.  "The
difference is incredible!"  I wondered what she meant.

But god, Alice was here!  I whirled back into the house.

"May I use the phone?" I asked my mother in a distracted voice.

She looked at me queerly.  "Is something wrong, Timmy?"

"I need to call someone in Chicago."

"Timmy, you sound so strange!"

"Please, I need to make this call.  I can't explain."

I still spoke in a soprano voice but with the determination of an
adult who expects to be obeyed.

"Darling, if there's anything --"

I interrupted her sternly.  "Mother, I must make this phone call
now."

She looked at me, her pretty boy, as though I had been possessed
by an alien, which was close to the truth.  "Do you know how to
call Chicago?"

Oops!  She had a point: no area codes in this time and place.
But the youthful Timmy had paid attention.  "You just tell the
operator the city and the number, right?"

"Dial zero, first."  She sighed with a curious submissiveness.
"Go ahead."

She watched, an eyebrow cocked, as I told the number to the
operator in my best adult female voice.  After three rings a
woman answered.

"May I speak to Alice?" I asked, now using a sweet soprano.

"Who's calling?" the woman responded suspiciously.

"Bess, from school."

"Bess who?"

"Truman."  It was the first name that came to mind.

"Either you're crazy or I am," the woman declared positively.

"Why not both?" I asked reasonably.  "Will you please let me
speak to Alice?"

Apparently she extended the receiver to someone.  Her voice was
distant.  "The president's wife wants you."  She added something
else that I didn't catch, dealing with flying saucers.

A child said cautiously, "Hello?"

"Alice, this is Tim.  I gave my name as Bess.  Can you talk?"

"Oh good, Bess," the child answered.  I heard her take a deep
breath.  "Thanks for calling.  Did you note the homework
assignment?"

"I noted your address and phone number.  Is everything truly so
different?"

"It sure is, so much that I don't want to believe it.  Hold on a
moment.  Let me get my book and I'll read you the page numbers."

I waited, thinking that the timbre of her voice was
little-girlish but not the inflection.  In a moment she returned
but her voice was lower.  "Tim, I'm alone now."

"Alice!" I fumed, ignoring my mother's stare.  "How did you get
the right universe?  Why did you do this?"

"Tim, I can't explain it now.  Mom might come back anytime.  She
is totally unpredictable.  I need to see you, but I'm just a
little girl and I can't get away.  Give me your number.  I'm in a
terrible, freakish situation.  I fear for my safety!  I need to
escape."

"Are you healthy?"

"Yes, and you?"

"I'm twelve years old, Alice.  Can you believe it?"

At my recitation of the obvious her tone took on the impatience
familiar from years of working together.  "Of course, since I'm
ten!  You've got to come for me, Tim, and soon."

"I shall, Alice.  I don't know how yet, but I'll make it soon as
I can."

"She may actually kill me, Tim."

"Who may?"

"My mother."  She laughed bitterly.  "Would you believe she has
guessed part of the truth?  Here she comes.  Quick, give me your
number."

When we hung up, I shook my head in astonishment, wondering what
a ten year-old Alice looked like.

My mother snapped me back to the present.  "The right
_universe_?"

I looked into her eyes and sighed, then chuckled.  "Kids' talk,
Mamma."

Her eyes narrowed.  "The content, perhaps.  Why should anyone
doubt you're twelve years old?  But not the tone."  Her voice
firmed.  "All right, young man, I let you make your call.  Now
let me see that letter."

I studied her.  "It won't clarify anything."

"Let me see it!" she ordered.  I thought of defying her, but
curiously the old man reminded me that she was still my mother.

I passed it across to her.  Her eyes flew over it.  "_Old man_?"
she breathed, staring at me.  "This Alice, who thinks she's your
best friend, is _married_?"

I shook my head and plucked the letter out of her hand.  "I'll
explain it to Dad when he gets home tonight."  With a sigh I
added, "I'm going to need his help."

"For Alice?"

"Yes."

"What's happened to you, son?"

I nodded.  "That's the basic question, all right!"

She did not interfere as I went upstairs.



* * *



"What's the matter, Timmy?  Are Clara and I moving too slowly to
suit you?"

Dad entered behind the couch where I sat scanning the financial
pages of the newspaper.  I had heard his car arrive in the
driveway followed by the slam of the backdoor.  Mamma had
buttonholed him in the kitchen.  His tone of aggravation was not
unexpected, though trust Dad to put an uncommon slant on it!

I looked up from my paper as he came around the couch.  "What's
the matter is that some events are moving too fast, in this case
a stupidly unforeseen event."

"Meaning you should have foreseen it, eh?  What happened -- did
Airguidance bottom out?"

"Oh, no.  In fact people are starting to appreciate it.
Airguidance closed at ten and three-quarters yesterday."

"More than doubled?  Remarkable!"  He flopped tiredly in the
adjacent chair.  "Let's cease sparring, Timmy.  You upset your
mother today.  She was alarmed at your behavior.  I understand
you received a letter and then made a phone call to Chicago as a
result."  He took a breath.  "I assume it wasn't some frivolous,
childish stunt.  What's going on, son?  Whom do you know in
Chicago?"

I sighed.  "Her name is Alice Colsen ... and she desperately
needs my help."

I returned his stare earnestly.  He leaned forward.  "And she's a
married woman?"

"No, she isn't."  I sighed again.  There was no way to avoid
telling him the truth.  "Dad, the other day you asked me if I
could explain the difference everyone has noticed in me since
school started.  I regret to admit that I was less than candid
with you -- less than fully forthcoming, I mean.  I know exactly
what the difference is and what caused it.  But I wanted to spare
you that knowledge if I could.  It seemed best for you to
conclude that I had somehow enjoyed a sudden tremendous increase
in intelligence, which perhaps is the conclusion you reached."

His eyes riveted mine.  "Don't confuse results with causes."

I shook my head in admiration.  "You are _still_ a step ahead of
me!  You're right:  the knowledge I possess, of physical nature,
of human character" -- I stared at him fixedly -- "_of future
events_, is not available to twelve year-olds.  How I came to
possess that knowledge and ability is the real secret."

"And you know how it happened," he suggested dryly.

"Yes, of course.  I caused it to happen."

He sniffed.  "Well, then, perhaps you would care to share your
technique.  I could use a bit more --  Did you just claim
knowledge of _future_ events?"

"Yes, of major events that interested me."

"That interes_ted_ you?  The past tense for a future event?"  He
sat up straight.  "Are you aware of what that implies -- or was it
simply a mistake?"

"It was no mistake, Dad."

He studied me.  "Are you claiming to have a Wellsian time
machine?"

I nodded.  "It could be called a form of time travel."

He gripped the arms of his chair and stared at me.  "I want to
believe you.  You are my son.  But if the future is fixed, which
foreknowledge implies, then Determinism is the order of the
universe and that leaves no room for --"

He was after all a professional philosopher.  Apparently I was
stepping on some cherished theory.  I interrupted him.  "Don't
jump to conclusions, Dad."

He blinked.  "Have I overlooked something?"

"I've thought about this, too, perhaps more than you.  Events in
time are indeed deterministic, but only in reverse.  If it hasn't
happened yet, we can change it.  For example, sometime early this
fall you smashed your car at the intersection of Summit and Elm.
No one was hurt, but you faced such a repair bill that we had to
cancel the Thanksgiving trip to Grandma's, or so I was told,
which is probably why I remember it.  I bitterly resented missing
her chocolate chess pie.  Now, forewarned, you should be able to
avoid the wreck."

"I'll take the bus," he announced dryly.  "What else do you
foresee, Mandrake?"

"Hmm.  This is hard.  I think it was also early in the fall of
1947 that a scandal erupted at the university, concerning a
professor and his graduate student.  I remember it because they
published the student's photo and I sympathized with the
professor."

My father uttered a choking noise and glared at me in amazement.
"How did you hear about that?"  His voice rose nearly to a shout.
"It was revealed to the Faculty Senate just this afternoon!"

"So you believe me?  You accept the fact that I can see the
future?"

"Absolutely not!  You learned about this scandal somehow."

I sighed in regret.  "I wish I could convince you.  It would make
my explanation more acceptable, but I cannot recall all the
minutiae from 1947."

"Why restrict your crystal ball?" he asked more calmly.
"Something must soon occur that's important.  Something always
does."

I nodded reluctantly.  "Yes, very important, but something you
won't want to hear.  You inherited high blood pressure and
weak-walled cerebral arteries, yet you refused to see the doctors
about it, or so Mamma said, with the most serious consequences
... for us all."

"That's not very funny, Timmy."

"No.  It was not funny at all.  Even in 1947 they had drugs that
would lower your blood pressure.  See a doctor, Dad."

He looked into the distance.  "My blood pressure was why the army
rejected me."

"I didn't know that.  I wasn't told everything."

He took a breath.  "When, Timmy?"

I debated whether to answer.  Maybe it would do some good.
"December, 1949."

Again he took a breath.  "Good god!"

"But it's certain only if you do nothing."

He shook himself and straightened up with a grin.  "You're slick,
Timmy.  You had me going there.  For your information, Einstein
proved time travel to be impossible."

"In the same universe."

"In the same --  Do you claim multiple universes?  That's a
contradiction in terms."

"It depends on your definitions.  How about multiple space-time
continua populating still another dimension of reality?"

He stared at me.

I continued, "We can experience only our home space-time
continuum -- _universe_, if you'll accept a slight redefinition
for the purposes of this discussion -- because we cannot even in
principle build a device to investigate another universe.  But we
can project a personality -- knowledge and memories -- across
universe boundaries to a simpler, that is, younger and
less-cluttered version of the same brain."

He thought about it.  "Do you claim to have done that?"

"I have done that."

He raised an eyebrow.  "What happened to _my_ Timmy?"

"He's still here, sharing his body and mind with a 67 year-old
version of himself from another universe."

"67!" he exclaimed.

"67," I repeated.

Now his eyes were fascinated.  "I take it the universes are very
similar."

"These two, yes, though not identical.  I count it as luck.  They
could have been widely disparate."

"What persuaded you to ... do this -- come back to 1947?"

"The process is called _Reversion_.  I could say that I reverted
as an experiment to verify my theories -- which I did.  But it was
also because I inherited your vascular system.  I was facing a
desperate medical gamble."  I allowed a wry grin.  "I preferred
to gamble on my own skill instead of others'."

His tone betrayed his interest.  "So what did you make of your
life, Timmy?"

"I took a doctorate in physics from Chicago in 1967 and won the
Nobel Prize in 1988."

He jerked upright and almost fell off his chair.  His eyes
glowed.  "What was your discovery?"

I grinned.  "The title of the descriptive article was _Cognitive
Differentiation in Relative Space-time Continua_."

He thought about it.  "What was the gist?"

"It was almost Cartesian:  'I think and you think, therefore we
inhabit separate universes.'  It turns out that far from a merely
mechanical functionality, a consciousness capable of full
self-awareness is a fundamental component of all space-time.  I
was able, from certain unexplained anomalies in Quantum
Mechanics, to deduce the Thorn Equation, which integrates the
energy complexity we call consciousness into the mix of other
fundamental variables such as space, time and identity.  That
equation contains some mind-boggling implications.  The ability
to revert is only one.  Another, perhaps the most significant, is
that the purpose of all universes is to serve as breeding grounds
for consciousness, which may in turn imply that man's destiny is
godhood.  My discovery soon became more a question for your
specialty than mine."

"I see," he agreed dryly, "rather as the nuclear bomb is fast
becoming an issue more ethical than technical."

I shook my head.  "I don't think Robert Oppenheimer would object
to Reversion."

"How do you know about him?  He only recently moved to Princeton.
His horror at what we did to the Japanese is not well known."

"It was well known in 2002.  In a few years he'll register
himself in opposition to our next, more fearful bomb based on
nuclear fusion."

"Fusion!  You mean --"

I held up my hand.  "One disclosure at the time, please, Dad.
The reason that compelled me to divulge my secret grows
increasingly pressing."

"Your secret!"  He shook his head.  "You claim to be a 67
year-old version of Timmy from another universe who now occupies
my Timmy's mind, is that right?  I can think of a simpler
explanation."

"Can you?"

"Yes.  Your mother suggests you may have damaged yourself in that
bike accident you suffered a few weeks ago.  That's when all this
... _strangeness_ began."

"She's right about the date.  That's the moment I reverted.  I
was riding the bike and lost control because of the momentary
disorientation."

"Then you admit to brain damage?"

"Damage?"  I shook my head.  "I know the future, Dad.  Be patient
and check out what I tell you."

"I want you to talk to Dr. Sloan," he said with determination.

"No!" I retorted with equal determination.  "No one else can know
of this.  Can you imagine what trouble I'd be in, if this became
public?"

"Sloan is a psychiatrist, Tim.  He would be able to understand
this better than I.  You can trust him.  We've been friends since
kindergarten."

"I'm sorry," I said firmly. "No one else can know.  It would be
just too dangerous.  I'll write down some things I remember from
this time, inconsequential events like little Cindy Emmons
finding a fifty cent piece on the curb in front of her house,
like Jimmy Fowler breaking his ankle.  Those things happened,
will happen on our street perhaps very soon."

"Make your list, son.  I can't say I believe you, because that
would take a leap of faith, and you know I'm not a religious man.
So you're either telling the truth, which is improbable, or you
have a serious problem."

I thought of another approach.  "Your specialty is philosophy,
metaphysics, the history of thought.  Which school do you prefer,
Dad:  analytical, empirical or logical positivism?"

His eyebrows rose.  "It's a common mistake to compare positivism
to analytical philosophy.  They don't treat the same --"  He
stopped suddenly.  "My god!"

I smiled at him.  "Do you find a tremendous increase in erudition
consistent with brain damage?"

He stared at me, taking a deep breath.  "No, I don't," he
admitted.

"Or the judgment based on experience that your question about
tree bark revealed?"

"That's right," he breathed.  "A 67 year-old would have no
trouble with that question."

"Nor did he."

He studied me thoughtfully, musing, "An old man in a young man's
body."  Suddenly he chuckled.

"What?" I asked.

"It's just that I recall a saying about youth being wasted on the
young."

"G. B. Shaw said that," I replied.  "It's an old man's fantasy,
of being young once again with the experience of a lifetime."

"It's a fantasy all right, except perhaps for you.  I don't
consider myself to be an old man, though I can see the attraction
Reversion might hold when I get there.  That was another
consideration, besides your medical problem and proving your
theory, wasn't it!"

I thought about it.  "Perhaps so, but not consciously.  To be
completely honest, Dad, I didn't expect it to work."

"You what?"

Indeed for the first time I had just been completely honest --
with myself as well.  I had thought I was committing suicide!
But I doubted that Dad would sympathize.  To change the subject,
I leered and said suggestively, "You haven't mentioned the
strongest motive."

He chuckled slightly.  "Don't tell me it was twelve year-old
girls."

"You're talking about sex, of course."

"What else?" he grinned rather sheepishly.  "Twelve year-old
girls can be powerfully attractive, although one doesn't admit
that in public."

"Interesting that you should put it in those terms.  I find that
age has very little to do with it, supposing that one is old
enough."

His eyebrows rose.  "You have been investigating that point,
then?"

"Oh, yes."

"With what result?"

"In regard to age?"  I winked at him.  How old was Graden?
"Twelve to 66."

"66?"  He was appalled.

"Have you read Benjamin Franklin's remarks about age?"

"Something about gratitude?"  He shook his head with a wry grin.
"Son, I hate to see such cynicism in one so young."

"Dad, have you noticed that we've been conversing as adults?"

"Yes," he answered dryly, "for some weeks."  He shook his head.
"But tonight tops everything.  The analytical versus positivism,
indeed!"

I shrugged.  "I only learned enough about philosophy to be
comfortable with the epistemological reliability of the
Scientific Method."

He goggled at me.  "I confess it amazes me you even know that
word!"

I sighed.  "This is neither here nor there.  I'm still faced with
a major problem."

"This Alice?"

"Yes.  Alice Farnsworth, a brilliant woman.  She took her PhD a
few years after mine with an elaboration upon my thesis.  She
worked beside me for many years as a co-investigator and designer
of the reversion machinery.  She has reverted also.  The letter
was from her.  I spoke to her on the telephone today.  I don't
understand why I never expected her to follow me.  I never gave
it a thought, and that is the most bizarre aspect of this."

"Perhaps to you!"

"Well, yes."  I grinned, understanding his sarcasm.  "But tonight
in Chicago the mind of a talented woman resides in a child's
body, a ten year-old body with even less authority than the
pitiful amount I possess.  She told me today that her mother is
deranged, that she fears for her own safety.  I have to rescue
her, Dad.  I'm asking for your help."

"Does she love you, Timmy?"

I blinked.  "I suppose she must.  She killed herself for me."

"Killed herself?"  He looked at me aghast.  "Timmy, if that's a
joke it --"

"I killed myself, Dad.  That is the effect of Reversion upon the
old body.  It cannot live without its mind."

His eyes held an indignant glint.  "Suddenly this is becoming
macabre and ugly."

"Nevertheless we _have_ reverted.  Alice needs my help, our help.
We have to go to Chicago."

"I need a drink," he said wearily with a wave of his hand and got
up from his chair.

"I'd like one too," I said.  "Do you have any Stolichnaya?"

"What's that?"

"Russian vodka."

The confused, sweet man stared at me intently and then shook his
head in resignation.  "I can't afford a bar, Tim.  All I have is
a half bottle of Old Crow.  I'll bring it upstairs.  We have a
lot more talking to do."

* * *

"But why?" I heard my mother's voice as I came down the stairs.

They were in the kitchen, from which wafted the odor of coffee
and toast.

"You know why, Pat," Dad said.  "Tim has convinced me that we
truly must help him with this problem."

I paused just outside the door.

"His problem with this Alice, this married woman?"  Mamma managed
to sound both concerned and scornful.  Women are talented in
projecting emotions -- and detecting them!

"She's definitely not married.  That's clear."

"Oh?  Have you talked to her?"

"No, dear one.  But I shall, I promise you.  Before Tim or myself
actually gets involved I'll do a thorough investigation, believe
me."

"So where are you going?"

"Tim has the address in Chicago.  We'll stay at Alan's cabin on
Coldwater Lake for the overnight."

I came into the kitchen.

"Well, good morning, boy," my dad said with a smile, looking me
over critically.  I winked at him.  His unadulterated Old Crow
had not been my cup of tea, perhaps fortunately in view of my
relatively small mass.

Mom looked at me apprehensively, but I went to her as usual and
gave her a peck on the cheek.  She enclosed me in her arms and
squeezed me with an inarticulate cry.  Her eyes glistened.  "You
must be hungry," she said eventually.  "What would you like
before your trip?"

"Pancakes," I responded in my soprano voice and sat down at the
table next to my father, who returned my wink.

Like all men of that time, we waited to be served by the woman of
the house.

"Jimmy Fowler fell off his bike a little while ago, just in front
of our porch," Mom announced as she fussed at the stove.  "He
broke his ankle."

Dad's eyes grew huge and he stared at me in wonder.

* * *

The address led us to an apartment building at the intersection
of Lemolion and Woodlawn Avenue just north of the University of
Chicago campus.  I knew that neighborhood so well.

"We can't park on this side of the street," my father grumbled
and made a U-turn.

Black Muslims used to dominate this area and keep it safe in
their fascist manner, but the few faces I saw on the street were
white.  I suddenly recognized my logic error.  I was in the past
and remembering the future.

My dad was worn out from the trip and a bit on edge.  He had
refused to let me drive, despite agreeing that I likely had more
experience than he, because it was daylight and we had
thoughtlessly forgotten the cushions that might elevate me enough
to see over the steering wheel.

"Is this the place?" he asked in exasperation as he finally
pulled to the curb.

"Yes, I believe so," I replied in a distracted voice, wondering
whether this was the building I had visited in the future for a
seminar with a weird, brilliant professor who paced before his
students in his pajamas.

We got out of the car, walked around the structure to the door
marked with a battered brass nine and trudged up the half flight
of cement stairs.  I pushed the buzzer and waited impatiently.
Eventually the door opened to reveal a young girl, tall for her
age.  Alice, as an adult, was an inch taller than I.

Her eyes lit when she saw me but the light faded when they rose
to my father.  "Yes?" she inquired.

"Are you Alice?" I asked.  "I'm Tim."

Her mouth fell open most satisfactorily.  "Are you really Tim,
Timothy Kimball?"

I bowed slightly, ironically.  "The old man himself."

"Oh, you got here in time!" she breathed.  She stood in the
doorway staring at me, presenting an oval face that was almost
pretty.  Her light brown hair hung loosely, in need of a brush.
She was not skinny; her limbs were well filled out and shapely,
although her blouse betrayed nothing.  She was just a few inches
shorter than I.  Either she or the apartment had a sour aroma.

"Professor Kimball," she said finally, "you are a very pretty
boy."

"No prettier than you, Mrs. Farnsworth," I replied with a grin.

"My name is Colsen," she insisted.  "I'm not married."

"Good God, Timmy, what is this?" my father protested.  "She's not
ten years old and she talks like that!"

"I'm ten," Alice declared, "since last week."

"I told you, Dad," I warned.  "Excuse me.  My father, Dr. Frank
Kimball, this is Miss Alice Colsen, the future Dr. Alice
Farnsworth, also a world renowned physicist."

"How do you do, Dr. Kimball," Alice intoned, extending her hand
palm-down.

"I, ah, very well, thank you, ah, Dr. Farn-  I mean Miss Colsen."
Father had taken her hand but shook his head with a slight
chuckle, commenting, "This affair has its problems."

A blowzy woman appeared suddenly behind Alice.  She demanded
peremptorily, "Who are you people?"  But the haughty effect of
her high chin was ruined when she hiccupped loudly.  The
distinctive odor of whisky wafted from her hiccup, although it
was just four-thirty in the afternoon.

Dad took a cautious breath.  "Ma'am, we are --"

"I know who you are now," she declared positively, as if
recognition had just arrived.  One hand went uncertainly to the
doorframe for balance.

Dad began, "Did Alice tell you --"

"This one has told me a tissue of lies," she interrupted, nodding
at Alice.  "You're Martians just like her, aren't you! -- from the
same UFO?"

My father drew himself up.  "I'm sorry ma'am.  I'd like to
introduce us, if you don't mind."

"No need for that.  I know all about you.  You have green slime
instead of blood just like this creature here who was my daughter
before you took her over."

"Madam, please!" Dad countered.  "You are speaking unreasonably.
Could --"

"Un_reas_onably!  You find yourself a daughter with an old woman
in her head and _then_ tell me I'm unreasonable."

Dad's eyes widened.

She reacted with a feral grin.  "You know I'm right, don't you?"

He looked around but so far no one else had appeared to take
interest in our little tableau.  "Madam, could we perhaps come
inside and talk this over?"

"In my _house_?"  Her eyes popped hysterically.  She spat on
Dad's shoe and shrieked, "Get out of here, all of you!"

She pushed Alice onto the stoop, bumping into me, and slammed the
door behind her.

"Not one of her best days," Alice said with disgust.  "But it
couldn't have worked out better.  Can we go now?"

"Go?" my father demanded, eyebrows rising.

"Yes, Dad," I answered.  "We're taking her with us.  Obviously
she can't stay here."

"But Tim, how can I dare to do this?  It amounts to kidnapping!"

"An interesting point," observed Alice, looking up at Dad with a
twinkle.  "Is it kidnapping if the kid fervently wants to be
napped?"

His stiff back relaxed marginally.  "I don't think the kid is
usually consulted."

I took his arm lightly.  "Dad, let's get into the car and drive
away from here.  We'll work something out."

Despite my soprano voice and pretty, twelve year old body, he
knew I was old enough to be his father and was more accomplished
than he.  He took a deep breath and shook his head.  "I'll
probably be in jail tomorrow, but, all right, let's go."

I felt sorry for the man as we walked towards his pre-war
Studebaker.  He appeared to feel utterly defeated and weary.

"We need you, Dad," I said truthfully.  "You're very important to
us."

"You are aliens," he said somberly as he opened the car door,
"just as that woman insisted."

"You know that's not so, Dad," I responded weakly.

Alice and I got into the back seat of the car and my father
pulled away from the curb.

"How did you find the right universe?" I demanded immediately.

"I didn't," she replied shortly.  "That woman is not my mother."

I'm sure my shock showed.  "You're not serious!  Have you looked
in a mirror?"

She nodded impatiently.  "Oh, I'm myself, if that's what you
mean, in the same body I recall at age ten.  And that woman has
my mother's face and figure, but that's where the resemblance
ends.  As a child I never lived in Chicago at all."

"That different!" I commented, thinking again of my good fortune
to note only paperclips and bathtub drains -- so far.

"And I know what caused it."  Her voice developed a bitter edge.
"My father -- I started to say my _real_ father -- was only wounded
in the war.  He returned, fathered my baby brother and gave me a
happy girlhood.  In this universe he died of his wounds on
Okinawa.  My mother loved him so terribly that it affected her
mind.  She became a drunk.  When she read about the UFOs, she
decided that aliens had killed him."  Alice barked a laugh.
"They probably did.  He died of complications after battlefield
surgery: an infection by tiny little aliens.  I made the mistake
of agreeing with her on that."

I studied the frowning face, thinking it likely that she had
failed, as I had, to maintain conversations at a child's level of
understanding.  I shook my head.  "What a terrible difference to
fall into!"

She smiled slightly.  "Well, at least you and Dr. Kimball are
saving this Alice from the horrible fate she would likely endure
without you."  She leaned forward and touched Dad's shoulder.
"You have my heartfelt thanks, dear sir.  In my 77 years I don't
think anyone has ever done me such a great favor."

Dad turned his head enough for her to see his smile.  He seemed
to sit straighter.

I asked, "What do you mean, 77?"

"67 and ten is 77."

"But you are -- were -- 65!"

"It's been almost two years since you ... left.  I needed to know
more about this adventure you invented."

"Why did you come at all, Alice?  Did your health give out?"

"You know why I came, Tim," she retorted dryly.  "The reason for
the delay was an early discovery that while millions of the
possible universes contain copies of Timmy and Alice, they're
only a small subset.  By far the most are too different.  The
different ones contain no matrix for your scanner to fix on."

She laughed grimly.  "Don't tell the SPCA, if this universe has
one, but I killed a lot a rabbits.  Most of them reverted -- that
is, died -- on the first try.  I had a spotted one that took
three.  But my grieving brain finally tumbled to the facts.  I
needn't have worried.  I might find a copy of you with a few
moles or scars different, but you never showed me your moles and
scars, so it couldn't matter.  When you hit the switch, millions
-- only Gaea knows how many -- of other Timmies did, too, also 
when I hit it.  And I'm confident each Alice found her Timmy."

"I detect a flaw in that logic.  How could you be sure that all
the found Timmies would contain reversions?"

She grinned.  "I couldn't.  But it was worth the risk, even if my
Timmy was but a child."  She actually chuckled, leering at me.
"In some respects it might have even been better."

I said to the young girl sitting next to me, "I don't want to
pursue that, but I'll tell you this: you're not what I remember."

"I'm the same person, Tim, as you well know, the one who dropped
the beaker of mercury on your toe in 1991.  But aren't our bodies
so delightfully different?"

Alice snuggled close to me and offered her face for a kiss.  It
was an adult kiss, the kind that an old, loving couple would
exchange while they remembered their youth.

"I never touched you, Alice, for all those years."  I sighed into
her ear.  "I loved you when you were a dumpy, old woman, and you
loved me, but we never kissed."

"I would have pushed you away, had you tried, and I would have
been disappointed in you.  We both had lovely marriages."

"But we're dead now, in an odd form of Purgatory, and we can
realize our fantasies."

"We're hardly dead, Timothy.  And you now have a chance to relive
in a different way your experience with that girl who has always
nagged at your mind."

"You mean Sara.  I've already seen her, but Ritchie excites me
more."

"Ritchie?"

"Yes, my buddy since kindergarten.  I never appreciated how
beautiful he was until I saw him with the eyes of an old man."

"Timmy, you had better restrain yourself.  You could get into
trouble."

"How?  For having sex with a twelve year old, when I'm twelve
myself?"

"What I mean, Professor Kimball, is that you could get into
trouble with me.  I died for you, you know."

She glared at me ominously.  I averted my eyes in momentary shame
before realizing with an internal chuckle that she was laying on
me a guilt trip totally undeserved in one sense but richly
merited in another -- both at the same time!  I've noticed that
all females can do this.  Apparently it's an instinctive
mechanism.

"You're behaving like a little boy," she admonished me further.
"You're thinking only about sex, when we have a world to
conquer."

"Most world conquerors have had a hearty sexual appetite," I
suggested with a mischievous kiss to her soft cheek.  The sour
odor I noticed earlier did not emanate from her body, I was
pleased to note.

"I'm your woman, Tim.  I'll bear your children.  I know you'll
fool around in your youth, and maybe I will too.  But never
forget that you belong to me." 

* * *

Dad finally stopped during the twilight and bought Alice a pair
of pajamas and a toothbrush and me a pair of pillows to sit on.
He watched critically from the back seat as I began by
practically hanging my chin on the steering wheel to reach the
floor-mounted starter.  He visibly tensed when I edged out into
the traffic, but I worked gearshift and clutch smoothly.  I
slowed down going into the first curve and speeded up while
inside it.

"You've driven a car," he admitted, relaxing a bit.

"Several multiples of the earth's circumference," I retorted.

He heaved a sigh.  "I suppose so.  Watch your speed.  We can't
afford to get stopped, you know."

I laughed.  "You're right.  I left my driver's license at home.
It was issued in the year 2000 anyway.  Why don't you go to
sleep?"

Alice leaned against me despite the floor-mounted gearshift.  "I
remember cars like this.  But I learned to drive in my father's
Oldsmobile in 1952.  It had an automatic transmission."

"That early?  Yes, I guess it might have."

After a while she said, "Your father is asleep."

"Good.  He's tired.  Trips like these are hard on him."

"Ah.  You inherited his vascular problems, did you?"

"Yes."

"Is he stubborn as you about following the doctor's orders?"

"I hope not.  They could relieve high blood pressure even in
1947."

Suddenly she changed the subject.  "Tim, have you had sex since
your Reversion?"

I glanced at her.  She was serenely watching the oncoming
headlights.

When I hesitated, she asked, "Are you deciding to tell me a lie?"

"Have I ever done that?"

"Yes, you have!"  Her voice was hot.  "That $3000 hotel bill for
'Special Services' in Rome.  You said it paid for massages, for
back pain caused by the terrible chairs in the conference room."

"Hmm.  My god, that was twelve years ago!  What makes you think
it _wasn't_ massages?"

"Tonio went with you, remember?  _Fifteen_ girls, Timmy!  Good
god, what an appetite!"

I grumbled, "Well, they weren't all present at the same time.
Tonio!  He always talked too much."  Suddenly a light dawned.
"Tonio!  How did he tell you about it -- with his head on the same
pillow in Oslo?"

She giggled but sobered instantly.  "He was only the lab
assistant."

"Then!  As I recall he became the lab facilities manager shortly
after Oslo."

"Well," she purred, "he had such a glib tongue, so long and
flexible, so useful in several nice ways."

I had to laugh.  "Alice, you amaze me!"

"Because I'm a passionate woman?  _Was_ a passionate woman?  Now,
sweetie, I'm a passionate girl, as I hope you will soon find
out."  She laughed.  "That's funny, you know.  The first time
around I never had a sensual feeling until I got curious, at 14
like so many other girls, and let a boy feel me up.  I think I've
proven that it's all in the head."  She laughed again.  "That's
what set my mother off.  She caught me diddling myself on the
back stoop."

"Is that all you've done?"

"Huh!  I asked you first, if you recall.  But, yes, I'm still a
virgin in all orifices.  What about you?"

"Alice, I didn't tell _you_ a lie about Rome!"

"But you would have if I'd had the temerity to ask."

"I would not!  All right, yes, I've had sex, several times, with
several people."

"What kind of people?"

I took a breath.  In for a penny ...  "Girls, twelve and 16.  A
woman about 26.  And an old man of 66."

She digested that a moment.  Her next question was not about the
old man, as I expected.  "What about that lost childhood love of
yours -- have you done more than just _see_ her?"

"Yes, I have, but never again.  She was already Ritchie's
conquest before I reverted.  From her observed behavior, I
suspect the tales of her pulling a Mae West with the entire
football team may not be so apocryphal."

"A slut, is she?"

I could feel her gaze, apparently meant to gauge my reaction to
the accusation.  I sniffed.  "In the making, perhaps."

"I want to be your slut," she announced.  Her hand fell upon my
fly.  Her other hand joined it, fumbling.  "Where's the darn
zipper pull?"

"It buttons.  For your information a slut strips herself naked
and fucks anyone on demand and without hesitation.  Are you sure
that's what you have in mind?"

"No, at least not yet.  What I want tonight is only to be _your_
slut.  Oh!"

"I remind you, dear Alice:  I am yet only a boy."

"But enough for a 26 year-old woman?  How big does it get?"

"You'll find out if you keep that up."

"Hey!  Stay this side of the white line, please."  Suddenly her
hands began closing the buttons.

"I thought you were looking down."

"_That_ was by feel!  Just tell me how big."

"Big enough, I gather.  'One size fits all,' they say of women.
I think it'll work even better for you."

"_In_ me!"  She snuggled closer.  "How much further before I can
find out?"

I had to laugh.  "Who was just warning me about sexual
obsession?"

"That's not it."  She sat up primly.  "I want to establish our
proper relationship as soon as possible."

* * *

It was deep night when we reached Uncle Alan's cabin on the way
home.  Dad was fast asleep.  He awoke when the car stopped in the
driveway and sat up.  The headlights painted the familiar cabin.
"My god, who's been driving?" he asked.  I guess older people
have to exercise an idea awhile before it sticks.

His ambivalence about us became apparent when we settled into the
cottage and he assigned sleeping arrangements.

"Alice and I will have the two bedrooms, Timmy.  You'll have to
sleep on the couch."

"I'll sleep with Alice," I replied, raising my chin.

"What?  You can't sleep with a girl!"  His face reddened.

"I want Tim to sleep with me," Alice declared firmly.  "We've
been waiting for twenty-five years."

I thought Dad's eyebrows would climb past his hairline.  "But
you're just a child!" he bellowed.

"I'm a virgin child, that's true, but I'm older than you and I
want Timmy tonight."

The exasperated man shook his head and turned to go to his room.

"You're weird people," he mumbled before closing the door.

* * *

Alice seemed a bit skittish, when we were alone in the bedroom.

"Are you shy about revealing your body?" I asked.

"No, of course not, not this one.  But I would never have let you
see my old one.  It was a shambles."

"Then why are you so nervous?"

"Well."  She hesitated for a moment.  "I really don't want to
_do_ it tonight, although I know that's what you expected."

"I anticipated it, Alice, but I never expected it."

"Some difference!" she sneered, then sighed.  "I'll sleep with
you naked, Timmy, but I'm afraid of the hurt if you fuck me.  The
first time I lost my virginity was very traumatic."  Her eyes
widened slightly.  "Do you realize that no other women ever lost
it twice?"

"No woman has lost it twice _yet_," I pointed out.  "Don't worry
about it.  We'll work up to it over the next days or weeks,
whatever it takes."  I realized that I was secretly disappointed.

"That's so sweet of you, darling," she said, leaning herself
against me.  "It was just ghastly that other time with the
football player.  Joel Prickler was his name.  A girl doesn't
forget her first man, however poor a specimen.  To give you the
idea, he thought it was a great compliment when I told him he
should drop the _-ler_.  I was fifteen and he was a senior.  He
had an enormous prick that might have been wonderful if it wasn't
mounted on one."

I chuckled.  "You _are_ nervous."

She smiled.  "Am I talking too much?"

"On a subject you never once mentioned before."

"Well, it's been on my mind tonight.  25 years, Tim!  I used to
dream about sucking you off."

"You what?"

"I would wake up and brush my teeth.  Did you ever dream about
me?"

"As a matter of fact ..."  I shook my head.  "Alice, let's stick
with the present.  I have only a boy's cock but I do know how to
use it, although I won't tonight."

"I'm not sexually attractive, am I, Timmy?"

"You're a flat-chested ten year-old, Alice, although you have a
fine looking body otherwise.  You're like Chinese vegetables: not
entirely cooked.  May I undress you?"

"Yes, of course.  I'd like that.  We'll have pleasure tonight,
although my body may be too immature to feel the big ones."

"I'll give you a big one, before too very long," I promised as I
pulled off her shirt.

Of course her chest was as flat as a boy's, but she was not
skinny.  She had some heft, though Ritchie had more tit.  When I
had completely undressed her and laid her on the bed, she was
surprisingly lovely.  Aside from the chest she was definitely
arousing, especially the well-formed legs and hips.  The pudendal
pad was pronounced and the unfledged clitoris formed a narrow V
above the labial slit.  The old man in my head licked his
figurative lips.  A latent pedophile for females, too?

I undressed as she lay watching me.  When I turned to her, her
eyes fell to my partly aroused boyhood, then rose expectantly to
scan over my whole frame.

"You're beautiful, Timmy.  Is it perverted of me to acknowledge
it?  You're only twelve years old."

"And you're just ten," I replied as I stretched out beside her.

Alice fell upon me and kissed my face desperately.

"Let's go all the way tonight, Timmy.  Why put it off?"

"Because you're afraid it will hurt," I answered reasonably.

"That was only the little girl in me."  She chuckled.  "Do you
ever feel like two people, Tim, a child, then an old woman?"

"An old man.  All the time."

"I, too.  Sometimes my two halves have an argument."

"Mine, too."

"But in fact it's fun, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is...  Alice, I'm sure you've enjoyed cunnilinctus.  You
implied it earlier when you mentioned Tonio.  If you're in a
hurry, perhaps I could arouse you enough with my tongue to
prevent pain or at least reduce it."

"No, Timmy.  I want it to hurt.  Do it now."  She pulled on my
body and spread her legs.

"You _want_ it to hurt!" I repeated incredulously.

"I loved Joel, the prick, with all my heart for the next week
until he proved what a selfish one he really was.  With you I
think it will stick."

"You think the pain did that?"

"I don't know.  It might have.  It's complicated.  Come on,
Timmy.  At least I don't think you'll split me open so horribly
as he seemed to!"

But we faced an immediate impediment.  A lovely pre-teen pussy
lay with gaping labia before me, but my excuse for a cock had not
only shriveled, it seemed to be mostly withdrawn into my body.

"Ah, Alice ...  This is embarrassing."

She sighed.  "My old woman is a bit turned off, too, but she
knows how to fix your problem."

She rolled up in the bed with youthful alacrity and encircled my
hips with her arms and my cock with her lips.  Her tongue worked
me within a suction powerful enough to make slurping noises.  It
was a curious feeling.  This might have been a virgin orifice,
but obviously these lips knew how to suck cock -- probably from
sucking a lot of cocks.  This was Alice, the demure scientist?
Had she been a call-girl on the side?

In a jiffy I was hard as a boy can get.

"There!" she exclaimed, releasing me.  "Now make me truly your
woman."

She flopped back and I positioned my cock between her silken
folds.  Her nostrils flared in excitement.

"Do it!" she urged.

I pushed at her, producing only a groan.   I jammed it into her
and she cried out, but her hymen remained intact.  I began to
sympathize with monstrous Joel.  Grasping her hips and lifting
her body to meet my most violent thrust, I finally felt the flesh
tear.  She screamed in raucous agony.  I quickly withdrew and lay
beside her, gathering her head onto my shoulder.  Her moans
became whimpers, then sobs.  She kissed me and licked my face and
neck repeatedly.

"Thank God that's over," she murmured at last.

"I'm sorry, Alice," I said lamely.  "You had a tough one."

"Did I?  I'm so glad it was you, Tim.  I'll remember you
forever."

"Even though you now have _two_ names to remember?" I asked
playfully.

"This time I'll have _your_ name into my old age," she mumbled as
she kissed down my body toward my throbbing cock.

* * *

The next morning I awoke before dawn, contrary to my usual
custom.  The reason was a sharp little elbow thrust under my
ribs.  Light appeared around the window shades, enough to see the
sleeping face of my old-new love.  Female faces seem transformed
when the owners have been asleep for a few hours.  They have a
vulnerable softness, an infantile roundness, that tugs at the
protective instincts.  A blowjob from such a face is the more
stimulating, perhaps because of its emotional contrariness.
Alice had played my meat flute with remarkable skill a few hours
earlier.  I was sorely tempted to wake her up for an encore, but
her soft loveliness inhibited me.  More to the point, my bladder
was painfully full.  I arose and pulled on my clothing.

The birds were just recently astir, and so was my father.  He
stood at the end of the dock with a pipe in his mouth gazing
eastward where the sun would soon appear and proclaim a new day.
He saw me coming from the cottage and waited for me.

"Beautiful morning," he said laconically, and indeed it was.  The
air was crisp and fresh.  The lake lay quiet, disturbed only by
the splash of fish and shortly by my falling water.

I voiced my stray thought.  "It would be great to live here." 

"Not in winter," he retorted.  "My brother Alan and I went ice
fishing here one January when we were teenagers.  We froze our
butts and didn't catch a thing."

We stood silently on the dock and watched the bottoms of distant
clouds turn pink and orange.  The aroma of his pipe smoke was
delicious as burning leaves.

"I guess I'm committed to your story, Tim," he said quietly after
awhile, "that you and Alice are from the future of a different
universe."

I said reassuringly, "It will all turn out okay, Dad.  We'll make
sure of it."  I chuckled.  "Though in fact our reverted minds are
most probably not from the _same_ other universe."

He thought about it.  "Have you discussed that?"

"Only a little.  We have yet to look for differences."

"I see.  Have you noticed any differences between your, ah, home
universe and this one?"

I told him about the paperclips and the bathtub drains.  He was
very interested in the latter.  "But it saves the plumbers money
to locate the drain near the supply!"

"Does it?  I would argue that it's six of one and half a dozen of
the other.  In my universe drain and supply are totally separate
systems that run close together only under a small sink.  We may
even have the healthier arrangement."

He grinned.  "Doubtlessly you think I'm displaying a certain
provincialism."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"So you're from a science fiction sort of place with space ships
and death rays?"

"Some of that, yes.  But the biggest changes will be here on
Earth.  You know about the Autobahns in Germany.  Can you imagine
thousands and thousands of miles of such highways crisscrossing
America?  One of them, Interstate 69, will run right through
where our house is now.  It will destroy the neighborhood."

"So they shall build it!"

"Oh?  Where did you hear of interstate highways?"

"They were one of Roosevelt's socialist proposals that the war
superseded."

"I missed that one!  Then it's ironic that the likeliness of
another war, World War Three, was the impetus that finally got
the Interstate Highway System off the drawing boards.  Your
friend, General Eisenhower, who was elected president in 1952,
rammed it through.  He had been impressed by how much faster the
army moved once it reached the autobahn."

"My friend!"  He laughed sarcastically.  "As to house and
neighborhood, I won't miss them.  I wish I could afford a better
house, but I'm always broke."

"Alice and I can change all that.  We know what stocks will rise.
Caterpillar for example will surge because of the highways.  And
IBM is like found treasure today."

"That may be true, Timmy," the man exclaimed in resignation and
put his arm around my shoulders.  "But I just survive from month
to month.  I don't have any money for stocks."

"You probably ought to find some, Dad.  In me you have a unique
information source.  Once before you asked me to explain how I
could know the future.  Before my Reversion I memorized the New
York Stock Exchange's monthly high and low list for the last half
of this decade.  It's almost like having access to tomorrow's
financial section."

He took a very long pull on his pipe.  "I believe you, which
means I'd be a fool not to take your advice.  But let's talk
about something else.  There's certainly more to the world than
money, and I'm sure you'll excel in those important parts of it,
but money and sex are what motivate most of us humans."

"I'm not an alien, Dad."

"No, of course not.  I didn't mean to imply that.  But you are, I
must say, very strange.  You and that girl.  I heard her last
night.  It sounded like a difficult entry, but then she is just
ten years old."

"She's 67," I corrected him, "although her body is only ten."

"Tim, perhaps you see my difficulty with that.  You say you're 67
years old and you took the cherry of a ten year-old last night.
On the other hand you're a twelve year-old boy and you fucked a
woman of 67 who screamed like a ten year-old losing her cherry."

I grinned.  "I'm certain you'll get it straight soon.  Last night
two old people made love.  The fact that they occupied young
bodies just made it more delightful."

"It didn't sound like she was in delight.  Did she bleed a lot?"

"I didn't notice."

"Your mother bled a torrent on our wedding night."  Suddenly he
was embarrassed at his indiscretion.

"That's all right, Dad.  We're both adults."

I touched his arm affectionately.  He looked at me queerly and
shook his head, but he gave me a light squeeze.

"Where are we going to put Alice?" I asked.  "Can we take her
home?"

"You should have thought of that before we took the girl away
from her mother.  But I have an idea."

I saw the reluctance in his expression.  "Clara?"

He nodded.  "She's rich and has a very nice house.  I intend to
ask her, in your name, to keep Alice for us, at least until we
straighten out this awkward matter."

* * *

"Where's your father?"

Alice came out onto the dock, walking with her legs a bit apart.
She still hurt from the wound I had caused.

"He's gone into the village to make a call."

She breathed deeply and stretched her shoulders.

"It's so lovely here.  Can we stay a day or two?"

"Today is Sunday, Alice.  He has to teach tomorrow."

"What about you?  Don't you go to school?"

"No.  I passed the high school exams last week.  The school board
graduated me.  That is, they will when my diploma is printed.
We'll have to arrange the tests for you, too.  You'll have no
problem with them."

Alice sat down on the dock and splashed her feet in the lake
water.

"You look like a little girl," I remarked as I sat down beside
her.

"I feel like a little girl who has been violated."

"Was it so awful?"

"You'll never know, Timmy," she smiled and cuddled to me.  "But
I'm the one who asked for it."

"A girl once told me it was like smashing a boil."

She grunted.  "I suppose it varies from one girl to the next.  If
you want to know -- I wonder if it will make you proud -- you hurt
me every bit as much as monstrous Joel."

"I _did_?"

"Perhaps I had grown a bit by age 14.  The real difference, Tim,
was that you didn't keep pumping.  I'll bet no other twelve
year-old boy is half so considerate."  She kissed my neck.  "I
love you."

I pulled her tighter against me.  We sat in comfortable silence,
listening to the birdsongs.

I remembered my thoughts during the night with her head on my
shoulder.  "Do you have any ideas about our future, Alice?  It
just seems to be so awesome."

"I don't think we can do much until our bodies grow a few years
older."

"A few years.  Don't you remember the first time you were young?
A few years then lasted an eternity."

"Let's just enjoy it, Tim.  We can experience it this time with
adult minds.  I'm certain it'll pass much more quickly."

"Yes, I suppose.  But it'll be a daunting task, recreating
ourselves.  The first time was so spontaneous."

"Can't we just be kids again?"

"But it's not the same.  We know too much.  Sara and Ritchie were
so obvious to me in how far they would go.  I was astounded,
because I never had an inkling of that the first time around."

"You're talking about sex again, Timmy."

"But what else is on the mind of a pubescent boy?"

"I suppose, but ten year old girls don't usually get fucked."

"You wanted me to do it," I protested.

"Yes, of course, darling," she cooed and kissed my cheek.  "But
the female who wanted it last night was much older than ten."

"I feel like a pervert nonetheless."

"So do I," she giggled in a girlish way.

"And you took no pleasure at all," I pointed out, dropping my
eyes.

"I wouldn't say that."  When I looked up, her eyes were
sparkling.  She added with a smirk, "I told you: I've dreamed for
years now of sucking your cock."

I asked dryly, "Well, I'm glad your dream came true.  Was it
about what you expected?"

"Well, no, it was a good deal smaller than my dreams of it, but
I'm sure time will address that point.  What was unique, Tim, was
the mixture of tastes.  Though it's certainly unheard of, I
suppose I'm not the first in the history of the world to suck the
juice from the cock that just ripped through her hymen."

* * *

"This is Alice," my father said nervously as we crowded through
Clara's doorway, patting the girl on the head.  "As I explained,
we retrieved her from a difficult situation in Chicago.  And
Alice, this is Mrs. Clara Edgeworth."

Alice, too long an adult, bowed very slightly.  "I'm so pleased
to meet you, Clara."

"And I you, Alice."  Clara ignored the _faux pas_.  Wearing
casual blouse, skirt and ballerina slippers, she might have
stepped from the pages of a woman's magazine.  That was her
trademark, I recalled: every hair in place with makeup restrained
and evenly outlined.  Even when she and I had worked together to
erect a flower trellis in her backyard the previous summer, she
had remained crisp, cool and smelling of lavender.  She took both
of Alice's hands in hers and gazed at the girl intently.  She
then turned to me, gave me a one armed hug and kissed my cheek.
Perfect teeth gleamed behind her welcoming smile.  The more my
internal old man saw of her, the more impressed he became.  What
a remarkable woman!  How did she get so rich anyway, given that
she had been the wife of a professor comparable to my father?  I
recalled that a dead soldier was worth ten grand to his wife,
somewhat more than two years' salary for a professor in 1945.

"Come," she said, "let's go into the living room and relax."

Alice and I sat on a couch. Dad filled an armchair, and Clara
remained standing.

"Would you kids care for some lemonade?" she inquired and headed
for the kitchen before we could answer.

"May I use your phone, Clara?" my dad called after.

"Certainly, Frank," the woman answered from the kitchen.

Dad got to his feet and went into the hallway, obviously knowing
where the phone was kept.

Alice stared at the pictures on the wall and started to get up.

"Don't," I warned.

"But they're Mandelbrot views!" she hissed in obvious
astonishment.

"Coincidentally, I think.  I hope.  Clara painted them and she's
a bit sensitive.  I imagine some Cubist must have criticized
them."

Alice had been fascinated even more than I when the Mandelbrot
Set became famous in the late Eighties.  She had programmed the
lab workstation herself to investigate it at ever-increasing
levels of detail and magnification.  Now she crossed her arms and
glared at me.  "You haven't been back long enough!"

"Huh?  Long enough for what?"

"Didn't you say you arrived about six weeks ago?  You haven't had
time to describe it and criticize a painter to such accuracy."

"No, of course I haven't.  What are you talking about, Alice?"

She pointed to one of the paintings.  "That view is from what I
call the 'butt crack,' a quarter of the way up the rim, at
magnification 2000 or so.  It's identical to the printout that
has hung on the wall of my lab office for the last ten years.
You should remember it, aside from the colors, which are
arbitrary.  I titled it _Aladdin's Slipper_.  You stared at it
often enough."

By god, she was right!  Now that she mentioned it, I recalled
that picture.  This one, except for the color scheme, seemed
identical -- as closely as memory can tell with something so
complicated as a Mandelbrot view.  I stared from the painting
back to Alice.  "But how could that _be_?"

She made a disgusted face.  "I suppose it's possible in principle
that someone with enough dedication, who's willing to devote a
lifetime to the task, might create those scenes without a
computer.  The math is simple enough, but the calculation is
astronomical, and that's no exaggeration!"  She chuckled wryly.
"Do we dare to question her about it?"

"Why not?" I asked thoughtlessly.

"Because how do _we_ know about Mandelbrot?"

Just then Clara returned with two glasses of lemonade and handed
one to Alice with a smile.  When she offered me the other, she
leaned down slightly and gave me a stare, which I returned
guilelessly.  She then retreated to an armchair that faced us
with her eyes still on me.  "It seems you'll have another
companion for your visits next week, Timmy.  I'm certain we shall
have a very enjoyable time."  She turned her attention to the
girl.  "Alice, you'll be staying with me for awhile.  I hope you
won't be too bored."

"Oh, I don't think so, Clara."  She caught herself.  "I mean,
Mrs. Edgeworth.  You have such a fine house here, and your yard
is so large.  It should take me days to explore it all.  And then
all those books!"  She waved at the impressive bookcases.  "I
must inspect them too."

"The library has many more, Alice, but you may not find them
interesting.  They're mostly on scientific subjects.  They are my
late husband's collection."

"I'm good at science," Alice responded like a boasting child.

"Tim," my dad interrupted from the entrance of the living room,
"would you come here for a moment?"

I got up and left the room.  Dad pulled me aside.

"The police were at our house this morning," he whispered.
"Alice has been reported missing and your address was found among
her things in Chicago.  They want to talk to you."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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