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a Novel by Varkel
Fall, 2001



Chapter 8:  The Kidnapping


"I hear you don't believe in Gravitational Diffraction."

I looked up at the deep masculine voice.  It belonged to Dean
Peyton Dell, who was lounging against the jamb of an office door
that opened onto the corridor.  I had just left a review for the
seminar of that name.

"It's a chimera," I declared as I had done to Clara and to the
class.  No doubt the seminar professor had repeated my comments
to Dell.

He chuckled skeptically.  "How remarkable that a twelve year-old
is so certain!  You're finished for the day.  Stop a minute and
talk to me."

I shrugged and followed him into the empty seminar room, leaving
the door open.  He took a seat at the table and gestured for me
to do the same.  I set my books and clipboard on the table and
leaned back in the chair.  "Who picked it for me anyway?"

"You mean Gravitational Diffraction?  Professor Ellison said you
were interested in gravity."

I recalled our little exchange about the gravity focusing
experiment adjacent to a nursery.  I chuckled too.  "His idea of
revenge, was it?"

"Was he wrong, then?"

I waved a hand negligently.  "I suppose it's as useful to me as
any other subject.  Until Sirius explodes or we get into deep
space, no one is likely to build an instrument sensitive enough
even to _detect_ gravitational waves, must less separate them
into component wavelengths."  I grinned.  "And if Sirius
explodes, its gravity waves will be the least of our concerns."

"You are referring to the star?"

"Yes, a blue-white powerhouse about eight light-years away.  A
supernova there would sterilize the earth."

His eyes narrowed.  "Do you predict one soon?"

An interesting question!  I studied his expression.  What was he
after?  "We're all betting against it," I answered carefully.

He didn't smile.  "I ask that with something more than ordinary
curiosity.  Your knowledge seems remarkably complete.  I
understand that your fellows in the Medieval Politics seminar are
kicking themselves for not buying Airguidance stock last month as
you recommended.  Is it due to keep rising?"

Time to stop that.  Was I getting a reputation?  "I'd sell before
March first, if I were into it."

"March first," he repeated.  "And Ellison tells me something of a
most interesting nature.  During his examination he asked you to
estimate the atomic weights of fissile Uranium and Plutonium.
You responded to four decimal places, although at that time they
had only been published to two.  He made a note, and last week
when the government declassified that information and released
its own measurements, yours turned out to be exactly right."

Oh, shit!  I knew no good would come from that _faux pas_.

When I sat silently, he added, "Do you care to comment on that?"

I shrugged.  "It has to be luck.  Unless you're prepared to
believe a twelve year-old is an atomic spy."

He nodded seriously.  "I thought of that, and I'll grant it's
hard to credit.  But so is luck."

"Take your choice."

"I prefer a third explanation."

"Really?  What explanation is that?"

His eyes were penetrating but he said only, "I'm working on it."

I stood up and gathered my books.  "Excuse me, professor.  I have
another appointment."

He watched me through slit eyelids as I went out the door.

* * *

"It's for you."

I looked up blankly.  Alice stood in the hall, holding out the
telephone receiver in my direction.  I got to my feet in
surprise.  My first phone call in Chicago!

When I took the instrument from her, she frankly hovered nearby.
"It's a girl!" she whispered balefully.

"Hello," I answered cautiously.

"Is this Tim?"

"Rosalind!" I cried.  "Is something wrong?"

Alice glared at me.  Across the room Clara raised her head to
study my face.

The voice on the phone replied, "What?  Why should anything be
wrong?  I just got my telephone installed.  You're the second
person I called."

"Who was first?" I asked, thinking of her poet.

"My mother, of course, the one who's paying for it."

"Then I'm honored.  Congratulations, Rosalind.  I'm happy to hear
of it.  Your social life should certainly improve now."

"Perhaps it will.  But it was the lack of a vibrant social life
that gave me the telephone.  Isn't that ironical?  I had so much
free time I was able to put together that paper I told you about,
the one on the Indo-European _Ursprache_.  And guess what!  It's
been accepted for publication in _Philological Abstracts_."

I was impressed.  That was indeed an achievement for a mere
graduate student.  "Congratulations!  But how did this lead to a
telephone?"

"Mother gave it to me as a reward.  She also gave me some mad
money.  I thought you might help me spend it."

"I'm a lousy poet, Rosalind."

"Don't remind me of that awful person.  You were right.  He
dumped me in favor of a round-heeled little trick from the Design
School.  All I want is to invite you downtown for dinner next
Sunday."

"For dinner."

"For luncheon, I guess, a late one, say about two o'clock.  I
definitely want to be home before dark."

"You want to invite me to a luncheon," I repeated in wonder.

"Me, too!" declared Alice, her face not two feet from the phone.

Rosalind asked, "Who's that?"

"My, ah, cousin Alice.  You met her at the Christmas party."

"Tim, why won't you talk to me since that party?"

"Huh?  What do you mean?  I speak to you after every gravity
seminar!"

"Yeah, hello and good-bye.  Didn't you like what I did for you
that night?"

I lied.  "That has nothing to do with anything.  Sure, I'd like
to see you again, but why over luncheon?"

Alice moved a bit closer and laughed harshly.  "She wants to feed
you something, Timmy."

Rosalind must have heard.  She sounded irritated but said
reasonably, "Because I remembered what you said about German food
during the blizzard."

"German food?  You mean Holsteinschnitzel?"

"That's the stuff.  My mother likes this authentic German
restaurant downtown, the Spatenhaus.  It's in the Loop.  I saw
that dish on the menu."

I remembered the place faintly from 15 years later in time.  For
years I had fondly recalled Holsteinschnitzel, a runny egg on
breaded veal cutlet.  Yummy!

Staring at Alice, I said, "Sounds good.  And this is the chance
to introduce my cousin to German food.  Would you mind if she
tags along?  I'll cover her share."

Silence on the telephone and a sniff from Alice, though I could
see the interest in her eyes.

Rosalind took a breath.  "Didn't you say she's in the graduate
program too?"

"Yes.  Her dissertation is on Cosmology."

"I didn't get to speak to her at the party.  Sure, bring her
along.  I can tell the cab driver to drop her first."

So that's how the wind lay!  Some females get accustomed to male
gristle in short order.  I said, "A taxi, eh?  Your mother must
have been truly generous."

"She was.  I'll pick you up about 1:30."

"All right, Rosalind.  It's a date.  We'll be ready and thanks
for thinking of me."

"See you then."

When I hung up the phone, Alice thrust her face into mine.  "What
did she say?"

"You and I are having lunch with her Sunday at Spatenhaus.
You'll learn about German food."

"I've eaten German food."  Her lip curled.  "I'll learn about
Rosalind."

I turned, stricken, to Clara.  "Oh, I'm sorry, dear, for not
including you!  I'll get her number and call her back."

Clara waved a hand negligently.  "Don't bother.  If you like the
food I'll take you both down there again."  Her eyes fixed on
mine.  "But what does Rosalind expect after the luncheon?"

We sat on the sofa and discussed that in the reasonable tones of
adults.  Like hell we did!

* * *

Sunday arrived bitterly cold, made worse by a nasty wind blowing
off the lake, so I was glad that Rosalind had rented a nice,
heated taxi.  She may also have been concerned about our
security.  In the world's eye we were just two young kids, and
Rosalind's presence offered little protection against a possible
attack by muggers and the like.  My internal old man would have
smiled at that thought.  Did women and children have to worry
about muggers in 1948?

Rosalind didn't guess I needed no appeasement for her sexual romp
with the poet, that my hurt feelings at her admission were just
pretense.  I understood I could not keep her for myself,
especially after the promise to my "family."  Still, it was
useful for her to feel guilty about betraying me because she
might need to comfort me with her svelte, athletic body.  Also
she possessed one last virgin orifice I hoped to claim.

Alice would not normally volunteer to brave Chicago's winter
temperature, but she had admitted a desire to examine her
"competition" closely.  Rosalind had agreed to it, I think,
because she expected only to tolerate a pesky ten year-old.

I entered between them, the three of us tightly bundled against
the weather in the back seat of the cab.  Rosalind smiled when I
sat and would have kissed me on the cheek.  I turned and met her
lip-to-lip and tongue-to-tongue, though within two seconds I felt
Alice's sharp little elbow in my ribs.

I fell back in the seat.  "You remember my cousin, Alice."

"Barely."  Rosalind smiled across me with about as much warmth as
that winter day.  I have always enjoyed observing such feminine
gestures.  I dimly recalled losing an argument with Alice about
them fifty years in the future.  I had taken the position that
they were rank hypocrisy.  "How old are you, Alice?"

"Age as the criterion of maturity," the little girl retorted, "is
mere prejudice, don't you think?"

Rosalind's eyes widened and she began a laugh, quickly
suppressed.  Her face grew solemn.  "In many things that may be
true, but not in all.  You're younger than Timmie, I believe, and
he's only twelve."

"We have abilities that compensate," Alice snapped.

"You're probably the youngest graduate student in the country,"
Rosalind said, apparently trying to establish a friendly rapport.

"It runs in the family," Alice responded in a superior tone of
voice, taking hold of my hand possessively.  "Even Aunt Clara is
a genius."

"I'm sure she is. But you are both so young!  You must be
particularly gifted."  Rosalind grasped my other hand.

"We are, of course," Alice replied smugly, "and I hope we won't
bore you with our talk of particle physics and cosmology."

"And I promise not to weary you with a monologue on Julian the
Apostate." Rosalind chuckled lightly.  "Let's be friends and
enjoy ourselves this afternoon.  Spatenhaus is a famous German
restaurant that sits just across the street from the Bund hall."

"It remained open during the war?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes, although the waiters then all claimed to be Swiss,
Mother said.  The food is remarkably good."

I had meant the Bund hall, not the restaurant, but I did not
pursue the matter.  My hand had wriggled out of Rosalind's to
check out a memory of winter coats in this era.  Yes!  The
side-pocket on the young woman's overcoat was slit for the
wearer's hands to reach her body.  Did the manufacturer ever
consider that another hand might pass through it and caress her
belly through her blouse?

I found the bottom of her sweater and the waistband of her skirt.
Prepared to curse the inventor of petticoats, I was delighted to
discover none.  Had she foreseen this precise little adventure?
My hand darted under the elastic of her panties, fingers plunging
into wiry hair.

Her eyes, widening slightly, flicked across mine as she said,
"Alice, I understand Timmy is from Hightower in Indiana.  Is that
your home too?"

"We travel a lot," the girl answered, her fingers massaging my
palm.  "Tim tells us how studious you are, Rosalind.
Congratulations on publishing your paper!  It's good that men
don't distract you, isn't it?"

Rosalind laughed, a silvery sound with little humor.  "I only
recently noticed men, to tell you the truth."  She slid her butt
forward slightly, parting her knees.  "I met this dreamy poet in
one of my English classes who opened my eyes."

"Only your eyes?" Alice asked sweetly.

My finger found the moist clit.  Stroking it, I felt Rosalind
tremble almost imperceptibly.  She said brightly, "Of course I
came to know Timmy first."

Alice's hand closed tight on mine.

Rosalind laughed fondly, winking at me.  "He's the real
eye-opener."

"Knowing Timmy is an adventure," Alice declared dryly.

For the first time in my two lives I had occasion to wonder if
modern women use _know_ in the biblical sense!

Rosalind produced a more genuine laugh, "You must be right about
age, Alice.  You seem more like a diminutive co-ed, perhaps a
friend."

"Oh, yes.  You and I have more in common than one would think."

I now had two fingers well into Rosalind's cunt.  She was
thoroughly wet.  I performed a quick recall of dates.  The party
had been six weeks ago.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  No one
would catch me red handed.

It's a fairly long drive from the university to the Loop.  During
most of it two and sometimes three of my fingers soaked in
Rosalind's juices.  She developed a tiny twitch, masked from
Alice by the heavy coat and a surprising ability to expound
endlessly on campus gossip.  I sat silently with a raging hard-on
until I felt Alice's hand make the same discovery in _my_ coat
pocket!

Out of Rosalind's clothes I came with alacrity, hitched forward
on the seat and stared ostentatiously around.  "That was the El
back there.  How much farther, Rosalind?"

Old habit from my previous life was responsible for that
reaction.  I already had permission from my women, however
tearfully derived, to indulge myself in this third one.  We had
concluded that she represented a potentially useful social ally
and merely a diversion for me, not a threat to the family.

As soon as I had forestalled Alice's investigation, I regretted
it.  If she had discovered the evidence of my distraction, she
might have pumped a little.  The resulting wet jockey shorts
would hardly have mattered to me more than wet panties to
Rosalind, given that we would need to walk only a few steps from
taxi to restaurant entrance.  Of course, knowing Alice, she would
more likely have pinched than pumped!

It was just as well.  In two more blocks the vehicle pulled up to
the curb before a ramshackle exterior that did not suggest the
fine restaurant on the inside.  Rosalind paid the driver.  The
entryway beyond the front door was worn with age.  A large, buxom
woman with plaited hair pilled atop her head greeted us sternly.

"_Gruss Gott_," she said without a smile, almost as a challenge.
Evidently she was a south German.

She led us into a cavernous main dining room half filled with the
remains of the luncheon crowd. The wooden floors had been
scrubbed smooth over the years.  The decor was reminiscent of the
Weimar period.  The air was stuffy with food smells and a hint of
tobacco despite the room's very high ceiling.  Ancient male
waiters in dour formal garb shuffled between tables, some of them
lofting heavily burdened trays with unseemly ease.

Without a word the woman placed us at a table already set and
handed around the menus before departing.

"I want Holsteinschnitzel," I declared eagerly, placing aside the
menu without opening it.

"I don't suppose they'll let us have beer," Alice grumbled.

"Do you truly want beer?" asked Rosalind with wide eyes.

"What else in a German restaurant?" Alice sneered.

Rosalind giggled.  "Then I'll give you some of mine."  Her giggle
subsided to a patronizing smile from her pinnacle of 21 years.
"Where have you traveled that they would serve _you_ beer?"

I saw Alice open her mouth but hesitate.  She looked at me.  The
correct answer was all over the world -- beginning about 15 years
from now!  But she surprised me.  She smiled smugly at the young
woman.  "They'll serve me here."

Rosalind chuckled indulgently.  "No, they won't.  Not even an old
Kraut could think you're legal."

"Wait and see," said Alice confidently.

Rosalind turned to me and asked plaintively, "She won't embarrass
us, will she?"

Before I could answer -- assuming I might have found an answer --
Alice sniffed, "Act your age, Rosalind."

"My _age_?"

"You're not old enough to be my grandma."

The waiter, a thin old man with an Adam's apple bobbing above his
black bow tie, soon appeared and said to me, "_Guten Tag, mein
Herr_."  He rotated to face Rosalind.  "May I haf your beferage
selections, madam?"

"Colas for --"

"_Einen Augenblick_," declared Alice, raising her hand.  Suddenly
she was speaking fluent German.  "From the form of the name, I
assume Spatenhaus has its own brew.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, miss," the waiter responded, also in German.  "We have
produced _Spatenbrau_ for over 70 years."

"Excellent!  The young man will have a cola with ice.  We women
each desire a glass of _Spatenbrau_ to assuage our thirst."

"But, but ..."  The old man's eyes widened dramatically.

"What is it?" demanded Alice, glaring up at him.

"You are _underage_, miss!"

She lowered her voice and hissed at him, "You fool, I am a
_midget_!  Do not think to judge me by my size.  Adolf Hitler
couldn't gas me and Spatenhaus will not fail to serve me my
beer."  Her glare eased.  "Now end this impertinence and bring
our drinks."

The waiter glanced nervously around, possibly concerned that
other diners may have heard the reference to _der Fuehrer_.
Actually he needn't have worried.  That name is not pronounced
quite the same in German as in English, and Alice's accent was
better than mine.  I recalled that she had taken one of her
degrees at Heidelberg.

"As madam wishes."  He bowed obsequiously and whirled away.

"Wh-what was that?" asked Rosalind, staring from one to the
other.

I answered dryly, "It seems that Alice and you will be served
_Spatenbrau_."

Her chin was sagging.  She stared at Alice as if a demon had
possessed the small body.  "You speak _German_?"

"Yes," I answered for her.  "We both do."  I chuckled gaily,
hoping to divert the astounded young woman.  "She told him she
was a midget."

"A _midget_?"  Rosalind blinked but after a moment had to chuckle
also.  "A midget!"  Her chuckle became a laugh.  "You think it
will work?"

"I expect so."

She cocked her head at Alice.  "Why didn't you say Timmy was a
midget too?"

"Partly because he doesn't like beer.  Mainly because he's a poor
liar."

It worked in spades.  The waiter returned shortly with tray
aloft.  He poured for Alice  as if the brown bottle contained a
wine of great vintage.  She went through with the farce, tasting
the beer and nodding acceptance, though not without a mild
complaint.  "Green hops," she said distastefully in German, "but
you poor Americans cannot yet obtain the proper buds from the 
Ruhr.  It will serve.  Thank you."

"My lady is most gracious," the waiter fawned before setting
bottles and glasses before the rest of us.  He did not pour for
us.

When he departed, I grinned at Rosalind.  "He's eating out of her
hand."

The young woman's face was animated.  "This is exciting!"

Life chose that moment to become a lot more so.

Alice frowned to my left.  I saw someone approaching from the
corner of my eye, not the waiter to take our orders.  Two large
fleshy men came hurriedly to our table, both dressed in worn and
rumpled blue suits.  Apparently one sought me, the other Alice.
Mine leaned down close above me, exhibiting a varied crop of
blackheads at the temples, bad teeth and vile breath.

Taking a rough, cop-like grip on my shoulder, he hissed, "_Tvoi
otets zhdet ukhoda.  Esli tye ne poidesh sam noi sechas on
poumeriot_."

Unlike the child he took me for, I well knew how vanishingly
improbable it was that my father waited outside, whether
threatened with death or not.  Desperately squirming free of his
grasp, I fell backwards in my chair to the floor.  But with great
agility and strength he grabbed me up and swung me over his
shoulder.

"Leave us alone!" I heard Alice scream.

My man, already faced away, sprang for his exit.  Raising my head
from his back I was able to see Alice's further response.  She
had jumped onto her chair.  From there she leapt onto the
adjacent table, splashing the soup bowls of a dumbfounded party
of four across their suits, dresses and faces.  She leapt again
to the next table, rocking it, beer and wine geysering from
kicked glasses.  Rosalind sat still, mouth agape in horrified
shock, head swinging from me to the leaping girl.

The second intruder started after Alice, but distraught people
were rising to their feet all along her path from table to table.
He visibly gave up the pursuit and swung toward us.  Someone in
the crowd was thinking quickly, however.  I saw him go down just
as my bearer passed the kitchen door on the far side with me
squirming and shouting.  A shot rang out above the screams and
shouts behind me in the dining room.

My man shouted, "Make way!" still in Russian, and pounded through
the steamy kitchen past the glaring eyes of cooks and waiters.
We burst through the back door into the sharp cold air.  An
automobile sat there, engine running, the driver's wide Slavic
face peering through a window.

My captor ran around the car, threw me past the open door against
the driver and crowded into the bench seat beside me, compressing
my smaller body.  "Move out!" he shouted.

"Where is Ivan?" asked the driver, also in Russian.  Why were
Russians interested in us?

"FBI.  Move out before they get us too."

The FBI?  I dismissed that as paranoia.  The car lurched ahead,
hardly slowing at the head of the alley, and with clashing gears
roared out onto the street, fortunately clear of traffic and
pedestrians.

"What are you doing?" I asked, wriggling for breathing room.
"Don't you know that kidnapping draws death penalty in this
country?"

"You have pretty teeth," said my captor.

"Huh?"

He held up a hairy fist.  "Shut mouth if you want to keep them."

That's what I call a persuasive argument.  I looked around.  We
were running straight up LaSalle into the Near North Side.  The
car began slowing as it approached each intersection although we
had the right-of-way.  My captors stared hard at each street
sign.

"Not Voxsar," the driver muttered, again and again, finally
declaring, "A police car follows us.  Ah, he has turned out.  How
much further?"

The one on my right with the healthy blackheads scanned right and
left, craning his neck.  "Not very far," he muttered.

The driver caught his tone.  "You've been there!  Don't you
know?"

"Voxsar Road, 1309.  Of course I know!  Just keep driving."

Passing through another intersection, suddenly the driver applied
the brakes.  "That was it:  Voxsar Road."

"What?  How do you know?"

"You can still see sign.  Right over there."

I had seen it.  The cross street name was Boxcar Road.  Suddenly
I understood.  The Cyrillic _B_ is pronounced as the Roman _V_,
the _C_ as Roman _S_.  The other letters sound similar in both
alphabets.  Thus Boxcar equals Voxsar, assuming long Os.

By squinting my young eyes could make out the next cross street
ahead of the car:  Voxser Road.

"Which way should I have turned?" asked the driver.

"Left."

At that moment on a Sunday afternoon traffic was very light.  The
driver simply swung the car in a wide U-turn.  At Boxcar Road he
turned right.

Blackheads was studying the street sign.  "That's not right," he
said uncertainly.

"It's Voxsar," declared the driver.  "Spell it yourself."

We were in the 1000 block among rows of apartment complexes.
Parked cars lined both sides of the street.  In three
intersections we had reached the 1300 block.  We proceeded along
it slowly.

"Which building?" asked the driver.

"It should be right there," Blackheads answered worriedly,
pointing to an empty lot.

Indeed we had just passed 1305.  I could see the house number on
the next building:  1313, apparently an unlucky number for my
captors.

"What do you mean, 'it should be?'" demanded the driver.

"It is missing!  What have they done with it?"

That set off a debate that soon reached the shouting stage.  The
driver pulled into a bus stop the better to concentrate on his
arguments.  I gathered that people having the misfortune of birth
in Kiev did not compare in intelligence to those born in
Novgorod, though which group was superior remained far from
clear.

Finally Blackheads lowered his voice and said to me, "You are
American, yes?"

I answered, "Who wants to keep his teeth."

"Then answer with truth."  He took a small card from an inside
pocket of his suit coat.  "Where is street?"

It would have been funny under other circumstances.  The card
contained an address, printed in block letters: 1309 VOXSER ROAD.

"Turn left," I said.

"But do you know it?"

"Yes.  You picked the long way to get there."

A horn blew behind us.  A bus was waiting.  We proceeded quickly
to the intersection and turned left.  After awhile I told them to
turn right, then left again.  I didn't want them to spot the El,
but I wished very much to return to the vicinity of Spatenhaus,
just in case that had indeed been the FBI who interfered with
Alice's capture.

Though Blackheads grumbled a bit at the distance, I succeeded in
turning them onto the east-west street that crossed LaSalle at
the restaurant intersection.

The traffic light was red when we arrived.  Our little jaunt had
left plenty of time for the Chicago police -- and others -- to
gather at the scene of Alice's demonstration of broken table
running.

"What is this?" asked Blackheads, staring at the restaurant
between the parked police cars, recognition appearing in his
eyes.

The driver was waiting with his right foot on the brake.  I
slipped a foot beside his and stomped the accelerator, at the
same smashing the horn button with my hand.  Unfortunately in the
excitement I had forgotten that in 1948, few cars were equipped
with automatic transmissions.  The driver's other foot was on the
clutch pedal.  All that my stomp accomplished was to race the
engine.

But horn and engine attracted attention.  Several faces had
turned in time to observe Blackheads slap me down into the seat.
I didn't see what happened next, but someone in the small crowd
before the restaurant must have reacted swiftly.  Our driver
kicked my foot out of the way and popped the clutch to squall
forward, but here his alley luck deserted him.  A car coming
swiftly through the green light slammed into the passenger door
with the sound of huge garbage cans smashing together.

For a moment I was dazed, both from the slap and the crash that
had compressed my small frame between the two massive men.  I
shook the fog out of my eyes and tried to sit up.  Blackheads'
face was tilted oddly above mine, eyes staring upward.  As I
watched a rivulet of blood darted from the corner of his mouth.

The driver was fumbling in his coat, hampered by that arm's elbow
jammed between the spokes of the steering wheel.  He saw my stare
and snarled, "If we can't have you, they can't either!"

Men in business suits were approaching beyond the window.  "Don't
be a fool," I managed to advise.

His lips drew back as he cursed his mother.  Contorting his other
arm, he reached into the coat and came out with a pistol held by
the barrel.  In a moment he had reversed it, swinging it towards
my head.  I had time for one thought: This is it!

The window flew inward with the loudest crash yet.  I felt the
driver stiffen.  Simultaneously his pistol flashed a tongue of
flame past my face.  Something stung my forehead and earlobe.
The sound was indescribable aside from its sharp pain in my ears.
The driver's pistol bounced out of his hand to land on the dash
and fall back into the floorboards.  The man's body relaxed as
blood poured from his mouth and from the hole, gaping red and
yellow, where his right eye had been.

Though I could hear nothing, I knew I was alive and probably
unhurt.  Once again my luck held.  The powder particles that had
stung forehead and ear had even spared my eye!

* * *

Alice was hurt worse than I.  She had slipped in someone's dish
of _Apfelstrudel_ and fallen aspraddle the head of its consumer,
a bald elderly gentleman at that moment bending forward to slurp
up the accompanying sweet cream.  That fall bruised her thighs, I
gather, not a serious wound -- her thighs have been bruised before
-- but she somersaulted over his chair and sprained both her
wrists on contact with the floor.  I understand the old gentleman
was not dismayed at all, despite a stiff neck.  He took her up in
his lap to comfort her.

The shot I had heard while departing was actually two.  Alice's
would-be abductor had slipped to his knees in a fallen platter of
_Oxenfleisch_, only to be confronted by an FBI agent with drawn
revolver when he tried to rise.  He drew his own weapon.  Two
shots sounded as one.  The FBI agent, having steadied his aim
with both hands, was only too accurate.  Not enough remained of
the intruder's head to answer questions.

Of which I had two:  why were Russians trying to kidnap us and
why was the FBI in close attendance?

A doctor among the diners examined Alice and myself in the
Spatenhaus manager's office.  He taped her wrists after feeling
the bones.  Apparently X-rays were not so commonly required in
1948.  He looked closely at my forehead and earlobe.  My hearing
had returned along with a distant ringing that gradually faded.

"Gunpowder tattooing," he diagnosed and gave me a card.  "Come to
my office tomorrow morning and let me clean the ash from these
wounds, else you'll be marked for life."  He grinned in sympathy.
"Unfortunately they won't resemble honorable scars for the girls
to admire.  They'll look like blackheads."

"Thank you, doctor," I said.  His remark about honorable scars
made me wonder if he too had a Heidelberg degree.  "Then neither
of us needs the emergency room?"

His eyebrows rose.  "You can walk, can't you?"

Were people hardier then?  But I understood.  When the government
doesn't pay for medical care, a lot less of it is needed.

He chuckled at Alice.  "These waiters!  However did they get the
impression you're a midget?"

Alice regarded him coldly.  "I'm sure I don't know."

"Midget or not, you foiled your attacker spectacularly!"  His
voice held admiration.  He laughed.  "You bounded like a gazelle
from table to table, scattering food and drink right and left.
It was perhaps the most remarkable escape anyone could imagine!"

Alice did not smile.  "I suppose I should apologize."

"Oh, no!  You were running for your life -- and incidentally
giving us all the story of a lifetime.  For the restaurant this
is like money in the bank.  The reporters are already gathering."

The suited man standing silently by the door spoke up.  "Doctor,
do they need more attention?"

"Not at this time, sir."  The doctor was respectful to the
government agent.  Vietnam-engendered contempt was two decades in
the future.

"Then will you two please come with me?"  He actually grasped
Alice by the arm.  She immediately shook him off and stepped back
disdainfully.

"Are we under arrest?" I asked.

He blinked.  "No, no, of course not.  But you are minors in need
of protection."

"Protection that requires a jail cell?"

His eyebrows were climbing.  "A what?  Young man, I need
statements from both of you about what happened.  I'll take them
before a stenographer in the office downtown."

I studied him.  He looked fit, about 35, earnest with thinning
hair.  Though his gray suit was pressed, his necktie was
wrinkled.  I said, "Perhaps you'll tell us why the Russians were
after us and why the FBI was in such close attendance."

"Downtown," he answered flatly.  He gestured with his head.
"Come along, kids."

"The Russians wanted to take us to _their_ office at 1309 Voxser
Road.  Tell me the advantage of being kidnapped by the FBI versus
the Russians."

"Their office where?"  He whipped out a notebook and pencil,
scribbling as I repeated the address.  He looked up.  "The FBI
does not kidnap people.  Now cut out this foolishness and follow
me."

He turned, placing his hand on the doorknob.  We didn't budge.
He blinked and said to the doctor, "Are you sure they're all
right?"

The doctor's mouth had fallen open as he stared back and forth.
"Ah, uh ..."

I said resolutely, "We don't care to accompany you downtown,
thank you.  What have you done with our companion, Miss Rosalind
Cannell?"

"She is waiting outside.  Would you like her to come with you? --
though she cannot be present at the interview."

I sneered.  "No witness allowed: is that the rule at your
interviews?"

The man shook his head as if under attack.  He took a wallet from
inside his coat and held up an ID card with printing superimposed
on large, faint red letters: FBI.  "Take it easy, kid.  I'm with
the FBI.  You _know_ we won't hurt you."

Alice moved closer and took my hand.  I said, "I don't know
anything of the kind.  I repeat: we shall not go voluntarily with
you.  We ask that we be reunited with Miss Cannell."

The doctor spoke up.  "Perhaps she is acting as their guardian."

The agent's eyes glittered.  His mouth became a firm line.  "One
moment."  He jerked the telephone on the office desk around,
snatched up the receiver and dialed a long number, finger
spinning furiously.  When the instrument rattled in his ear, he
snapped, "This is Halleck.  Give me Raimer."

After a moment he said aggrievedly, "I'm at Spatenhaus, the
snatch site.  The two kids are with me.  The doctor has
pronounced them ambulatory.  I need to know exactly how 'easy'
you meant to go...  Yeah, trouble.  They refuse to come
downtown."

He listened to the rattle and said, "Only Dr. Grienbaum, who
examined them...  Nothing too bad yet...  Well, to give you an
idea, the Kimball kid asked if being kidnapped by the FBI was any
different than the Russians."  He laughed dryly and nodded.
"He's a strange one, all right.  They both are...  Yes, sir."

He extended the receiver towards me.  "Somebody wants to talk to
you."

I shrugged and took it.  "This is Timothy Kimball."

Silence.

I said to the agent, "No one there."

"Hang on, she's coming to the phone."

That told me who it was.  In a moment Clara's voice said,
"Timmy?"

"Clara!" I responded, smiling involuntarily.  Alice's eyes
widened.

"They said you were all right.  Is that true?"

"A few scratches.  Alice sprained both wrists, but we're okay."

"Any sign of Mandelbrot?"

I thought fast and understood her.  "No, but it has to be,
doesn't it?"

"I'm at the FBI office downtown.  Let them bring you two here,
Timmy.  They've promised to explain all this and to release us
after they get your statements."

"Do you make a practice of believing government promises, Clara?"

"You will find, Timmy, that you have no choice.  Put the best
face on it."

"I suppose that's good advice.  We'll see you soon."  I returned
the receiver to the agent.

"Will you come without any more bull?" he asked.

"Yes."

Into the receiver he said, "Let me speak to Supervisor Raimer."

I waited while he repeated the Russian safe-house address,
presumably to Raimer. He hung up the phone and once again
gestured with his head toward the door.  "Come on, kids."

"One moment," I said in unconscious mimicry, removing the
doctor's card from my pocket.  "Dr. Grienbaum, is your home
number on this?"

The bemused man answered, "Yes, the one marked 'Night number.'"

"You have our names.  If _I_ don't call you before eight P.M.,
telling you we're okay, will you please report _all_ of this to
the newspapers?"

The FBI agent sniffed, lip curling contemptuously.  It
communicated the wrong message to the doctor, whose eyes
narrowed.  "I certainly will."

"Thank you, sir.  I'll see you tomorrow morning."  I tugged Alice
forward and told the agent, "After you."

Rosalind was waiting just outside the door, along with several
suited figures and uniformed policemen.  She sprang to her feet
and clutched me in her arms.  "Oh, Timmy!  Are you all right?"
She opened one arm wider and pulled Alice within it also.

"I'm sorry," said our agent, Halleck, separating me from the
young woman.  "We have to go now."

"What about Miss Cannell?" I demanded.

"We'll see that she gets home."  He had me by the arm.  Another
suited man grasped Alice.  Willy-nilly we started toward the
kitchen.

"Our coats!" Alice cried.

"They'll be taken care of," snapped Halleck as we entered the
kitchen, parading me once again before staring cooks and waiters.

A car was waiting in the alley exactly as with the Russians.  At
least it was a brand-new one this time.

* * *

Clara stood up, face alight, when we preceded Halleck into the
small conference room.  Of course we both ran into her arms to
exchange kisses.  Behind us Halleck, two more agents and a woman
entered the room and closed the door.  We soon separated enough
to take seats side-by-side across from the three men.  The new
woman took a seat at the far end of the table with notebook and
pencils poised.  I sat between my two females, holding their
hands below the table edge.

A man, bald except for coal black hair on his temples and a
fringe in back, otherwise distinguishable from Halleck only by
necktie, raised some papers and said, "I am Raimer, field
supervisor.  You kids have met Agent Halleck.  Mrs. Edgeworth,
this is Agent Halleck on my left.  He brought in the kids.  On my
right is Percival Avery, chief of the Chicago office.  Sir, the
lad is Timothy Kimball and the girl is Alice, Mrs. Edgeworth's
daughter."  He did not introduce the woman at the end of the
table, whose pencil was scratching busily in her notebook.

"Pleased to meet you folks," said Avery, smiling.  His brown
hair, graying at the temples, was cut very short in a military
fashion.  His facial features were slightly less rugged than the
other two but otherwise he was their match.  Again the only
difference in dress was the color and pattern of the necktie.
His was a solid dark red.

Clara said without smiling, "I think our attitude towards this
meeting is principally one of astonishment that it is occurring
at all.  Will you tell us what happened today and why?"

The three men regarded her silently for a moment.  At last Raimer
said, "Don't you already know most of that, Mrs. Edgeworth?"

She returned his stare with narrowed eyes.  "Are you preparing an
accusation, sir?"

Raimer held up a hand.  "Please relax, ma'am.  In fact we are on
your side, you know."  He took a breath.  "I said we would
explain this incident.  It makes no sense to avoid discussing
these events with the principals.  We even have Washington's
agreement on that."  He looked at the chief.  "Do you want to
handle this, sir?"

Avery answered, "Go ahead with the preliminaries."

"Very well."

Raimer spread his papers on the desk.  I have always been rather
good at reading upside-down.  To my surprise, three of them
seemed to be birth certificates for myself, Alice and Clara,
except that Alice's gave her last name as Edgeworth and her
mother as Clara Edgeworth.  I couldn't make out the father's
name.  Was creating a false birth certificate a state or federal
crime in 1948?  _Two_ false certificates!  According to Clara's
document, despite her physical origin in New Zealand, she had
been born in Hightower, Indiana, along with Alice and myself.
Only my certificate seemed valid.  It was correct so far as I
could see.

But Raimer glanced at them indifferently before raising gimlet
eyes to Clara.  "Mrs. Edgeworth, are you in fact the boy's aunt?"

"We have already gone over this."

"Please, ma'am.  This is for the record."

She sniffed and raised her chin.  "No, I am not, and I trust you
have not lost the senior Mr. Kimball's assignment of guardianship
that I gave you."

"It's right here."  Even upside-down I recognized Dad's
signature.

"I'll need that back."

"You'll get it tomorrow after we've made Photostats."  He turned
the three birth certificates so that she could read them.  "Are
you willing to say who is your daughter's father?"

Clara's eyes sparkled.  "I'll tell you the same thing I told the
registrar when she was born.  If you insist on an answer, I shall
lie."

Now I could make out the father's name on Alice's form:
_Unknown_.  Absolutely astounded, I stared from the paper up to
the woman.

Raimer bored in.  "We have learned from your associates that ten
years ago your closest friends were Timothy's parents.  Is the
girl Timothy's half-sister?"

The same red spots appeared on Clara's cheeks that she had shown
Dell.  She declared, "Harry S. Truman is the father of my
daughter."

Halleck, silent so far, raised his eyes to the ceiling and
suggested, "Bess will be sorry to hear it."

"Halleck!" warned the chief.  To Raimer he said, "Get on with the
statements."

"Yes, sir.  Tim, would you please tell us what happened this
afternoon after you were seated in Spatenhaus."

"The name is Timothy Kimball," I said coldly.  I suppose my
hauteur was cute.  All three men and the female stenographer
smiled.  I went on to describe the events requested, leaving out
only Alice's manipulation of the old German waiter.

"After the doctor examined us," I concluded, "Agent Halleck
demanded that we should come here to this office.  I asked if we
were under arrest --"

Raimer interrupted.  "I think we know everything that transpired
after the doctor's examination.  Vi, did you get all that?"

The woman at the end spoke for the first time.  "All except the
Russian.  And how do you spell _dissimulatory_?  Is that a word?"

Apparently my vocabulary had departed from police norms.  I had
coined that one while describing my misdirection of Voxser Road.

Raimer asked me, "Do you attest that you translated the Russian
accurately?"

"Yes.  And Vi, change that sentence to read, 'The directions I
gave were lies.'"

"Thank you," she breathed, smiling at me.

"Very good," acknowledged Raimer.  "Alice -- I mean, Miss Alice
Edgeworth, would you please tell us what happened to you."

Alice stated that she had not understood the words her would-be
abductor murmured in her ear, but the grip on her shoulder plus
sight of my bulging eyes -- what an unattractive sight! -- was
message enough.  She put her fists together and struck the man
"between the legs" with all her strength, jumped onto her chair,
from there to the tabletop, and on to other tabletops, very
frightened, intent only upon escaping from that "hairy beast."
The shot sounded while she was falling to the floor, having
stumbled upon the bald-headed gentleman.  She did not remember
screaming anything but supposed it was possible.

I believed all of it, somehow, except the "very frightened" part.
I was coming to see that my sweet Alice was a very cool customer
indeed.

The three men had listened raptly.  Raimer shook his head.  "You
are to be congratulated, young lady.  That was very quick
thinking!"

"Wasn't it!" agreed Avery, the chief, with an odd emphasis.  He
favored my inquiring eye with a sardonic glance that I could not
interpret.

"And we already have Rosalind Cannell's statement," said Raimer,
shuffling his papers.  He looked at me.  "From what we have just
heard, I gather you speak Russian but Miss Alice does not.  Is
that correct?"

"Yes."

"Would you explain that?"

I could have in one word:  Solayeva.  I shrugged.  "A talent with
languages."

Raimer frowned but shrugged also.  He took a breath.  "How many
people know that you speak Russian?"

I had to blink at that one.  In fact before 1995 I had never
spoken Russian in either life except once.

Raimer, the trained cop, noticed the astonishment on my face.
"What is it?"

I took a deep breath.  "Professor Peyton Dell, dean of graduate
studies at the university, is your man."

"Our man?"

I thought fast.  I understood that we had impressed Dell
tremendously.  He knew about my anachronism with the atomic
weights and my too-accurate predictions about stock prices.  He
was not the dummy I was proving to be.  He had guessed part of
our secret.  And no one else had heard the Russian conversation
in his office.  Also I knew he loved Russia -- or perhaps more
accurately a certain Russian female.  I said with conviction,
"Professor Dell is the man who told the Russians."

Halleck asked with detectable ridicule, "Why couldn't some of
your fellow students, here or in high-school, or your neighbors,
have told them?"

"Because none of them know I speak Russian."

"Really, Mr. Kimball?"  He dripped sarcasm.  "Then how do you
explain _that_?"

Avery surprised me.  "Agent Halleck, would you please leave us?"

"Huh?"  The man's eyes widened in shock.  "But, sir, this damn
kid has been getting away --"

"Leave us, Halleck!" Avery ordered stonily.  "You have not been
cleared for some of this.  Mrs. Jones, that concludes the record.
Please type it up in four copies and hold it ready for the
parties' signatures."

Halleck's face went neutral.  I well remembered how lack of
clearance is the magic exit line in government work.  He rose,
turned and held the door open for the stenographer, closing it
solidly behind both of them.

Both Avery and Raimer shifted restlessly in their seats.  Raimer
looked inquiringly at his boss.  "Go ahead," the man said.

The supervisor shifted another paper to the top of his stack and
cleared his throat.  "Last summer, in July of 1947, our
Washington headquarters received a call from the Mexican embassy,
passing along what it called 'intelligence scoops,' including the
name of a New York man acting as a courier for atomic secrets to
the Russians.  Also included were two predictions: that Britain
would grant India and Pakistan independence on August 15, and
that Capt. Charles Yaeger would break the sound barrier on
October 14 in a Bell X-1 test plane dropped from a B-29, giving
his exact speed and altitude."

He let us think about that a second.  "This was in July?" I asked
for confirmation.

"In July.  The spying allegation was most serious.  We checked
into it and did indeed find the suspect behaving most
suspiciously.  When the Union Jack came down in Bombay on August
15, we called the Mexicans back.  We didn't wait for October,
although we already knew that the X-1 flight tests were
scheduled."

I sat quiet, refusing to play straight man again.

"As a result of that call back we sent a team to Mexico.  I led
that team."

When the silence lengthened, Alice sniffed impatiently.  "And
what did you find there?"

"A boy named Antonio Amorosanto."

Her eyes widened.  "But that --"  She glanced at me then at 
Clara.

"Go on," prompted Raimer.

Clara actually chuckled.

Raimer turned to her.  "You know him too, do you?"

Her amusement vanished.  "I have never laid eyes on anyone with
such a name."

Raimer nodded.  "But you know of him."  He took a breath.  "I
doubt that it's necessary to tell you what he said.  Needless to
mention, his prediction of the Yaeger flight was accurate to the
mile per hour and foot of altitude.  He also told us why we
should believe him, including the details of a process he called
_reversion_ and his employment as the lab manager for the
inventor of it, a Nobel laureate named Timothy Peter Kimball,
born on May 5, 1935, who took his doctorate in 1959 from the
University of Chicago."  The man paused to stare at me.  "This
time around you're moving a bit faster, eh?"

When I only stared, he continued, turning to Alice, "Antonio also
reported that Dr. Kimball's associate, one Alice Farnsworth, 
holding a doctorate in physics from Heidelberg University, had 
also reverted.  According to Halleck's report, the Spatenhaus 
waiters claim you speak fluent German, which certainly checks.  
Will you marry Mr. Farnsworth again, Miss Edgeworth?"

She said solemnly, "No."

"Perhaps not.  Antonio gave us some additional predictions that
have not yet panned out.  I wonder if you would care to comment
on them?"  He brought up another paper.  "The most interesting
has it that the Soviet Union will announce on June 24 that the
U.S., Britain and France have no further rights of occupancy in
West Berlin and will blockade access to the city."

We sat silent.  I waited for a mention of the Berlin airlift.
But Raimer said only, "You can see how important this is.  You
_must_ comment."

I shrugged.  "The future is not fixed, you know."

"Future!  That's hardly five months away."

I smiled.  "Didn't Tonio tell you how the U.S. solved that
problem?"

The man's face lightened fractionally.  "It was -- will be solved,
then?  How?"

I shrugged again.  "It's really pretty obvious.  You'll need a
lot of planes and pilots, but you haven't junked so many yet and
the pilots can be recalled."

Raimer glanced significantly at Avery.  "An airlift!"  He turned
back to me.  "The Russians won't shoot them down?"

I crossed my arms over my chest.  "I doubt that answering such
questions would be in the interest of myself, my family or even
in fact my country.  What happened to Tonio?"

Raimer dropped his eyes.  "He had a stupid accident."

"Of the fatal kind?"

The man sighed deeply.  "He was stubborn about some answers, like
you.  A Mexican agent who assisted us struck the lad on the head,
I'm sure only to, ah, obtain his cooperation.  The Mexicans are
not so tolerant of a child's willfulness.  It was freakish.
Antonio fell backwards from his chair.  His head struck the sharp
corner of a brick hearth.  He was killed instantly."

"Quite a child!" I noted with an incredulous laugh.  "Did you
ever hear the story of the goose that laid the golden eggs?  Now
you think you have two such geese, is that right?"

Slowly he shook his head.  "No, Tim.  We won't harm you in any
way.  If you won't answer, you won't answer.  Our orders are to
release you to return to your studies.  But we intend to continue
your protection."

I stared at him and the watchful Avery, concluding with a smile
for both.  "Such remarkable forbearance from the unaccountable
executive branch!"

"Unaccountable?" Raimer snapped.  "Of course we're accountable!"

"No, you aren't, not until 25 years from now, when a president's
men get caught breaking and entering.  Actually I suppose I
should thank you.  But for Halleck and his pals I guess we'd be
on our way to Canada just now."

"That's a good point," Avery interposed.  "Who told the Russians
about you?"

"I thought it was Dell, but now I'm willing to believe it could
be anyone from the Mexican spy outfit to our own.  I'll tell you
this much: the American government leaks secrets like a sieve."

"There!  If you could give us just a few top names ..."

I shook my head.  "I'm afraid that Tonio and I have already
perturbed the future.  I'll say nothing more of national
importance."  I smiled again.  "Besides, I liked the way the next
50 years will turn out, for the most part."

But Raimer wouldn't give up.  He asked pleadingly, "Miss Alice,
you must know about the airlift he mentions.  What do the
Russians do?"

She sniffed.  "Who cares?  At this point in time only the U.S.
has nuclear weapons."

"Meaning we would bomb Berlin?  But that would start another
war."

She took a breath.  "I agree with Tim.  I'm sorry.  I'll say no
more."

He looked at Clara, who raised her chin and looked defiantly
back.

Suddenly he turned again to me.  "Another of Antonio's
predictions is that the United States will resume warfare in Asia
on June 27, 1950, hardly more than two years from now.  We find
this absolutely incredible, but after the precision of his X-1
prediction we cannot dismiss it.  Another of great significance
is that the leadership of the Soviet Union will change on March
5, 1953, implying Stalin's fall from power.  Will you at least
comment on these?"

So Tonio had only given them hints.  I wondered why.  When I
merely stared in return, Raimer sighed and sagged in his chair.

Avery took charge.  "Raimer, go check on how Vi is doing with
those statements.  Would you ladies care for some coffee?"

"Do you have a restroom?" asked Clara.

"Yes, of course.  Supervisor Raimer will escort you.  Do you also
need relief, ah, Mr. Kimball?"

"No, thanks."  I answered.

My women left with Raimer.  I stood to stretch my legs and said
to the chief, "What happens next?"

He studied me silently from behind the table, looming huge even
as he sat, a finger nudging his chin.  His buzz cut suggested he
had been a marine during the war -- a major or colonel, I guessed.

"Haven't you decided?" I asked, annoyed by his smug projection of
authority.

"There are people in the agency who believe this is an elaborate
hoax." 

He spoke in a deep bass voice, one a choirmaster would cherish,
although I could not imagine the guy in a robe.

"A hoax," I repeated in amusement.  I hoped the doubters were the
majority!  "And you're one of them, I take it."

He produced a superior smile.  "The Mexican lad's claim of -- what
was it? -- _Reversion_ is ridiculous on its face."

"Indeed!  How then do you explain the precise accuracy of his X-1
prediction?"

His smile widened in knowing contempt.  "I know how government
works.  You'll notice that Yaeger broke the speed of sound last
October.  Who's to say someone didn't go back and correct the
Mexican's figures or even add the whole incident?"

"Raimer says it."

"Raimer says what he's told to say."

I'm sure my eyebrows rose.  "You doubt your own subordinate?"

He waved an indifferent hand.  "I think I even understand the ax
that the believers are grinding here.  They jumped on it
desperately, hoping to save flagging careers."  He chuckled.
"You watch, they'll go the way of the UFO advocates."

He frowned, cutting off his humor.  "I admit, however, I have yet
to tie in Miss Edgeworth and yourself.  The maturity of your
ideas, your vocabulary and language skills, are the best argument
they've found yet."  His eyes narrowed.  "Your father is
intelligent, a professional philosopher.  There's more to the
background of you two kids and your so-called aunt than we have
yet uncovered."

"Did Tonio say anything about the technology of Reversion?"

He shrugged.  "Yeah, I've seen the transcript.  Something about
parallel continuums.  The experts say it's crap."

That stung.  I leaned on the table supported by my hands, my face
jutting close to his.  "None of you people knows beans about
multi-continua physics!"

I stood upright abruptly and turned away to look out the window.
Michigan Avenue lay directly below with the steaming shore of the
lake not far beyond.  I regretted having blurted those few words.
Of course Tonio couldn't produce a valid technical explanation;
he didn't have the math.  Did Avery mean to goad me into
indiscretions?

"I'm an ordinary guy, Tim," he said affably.  "Weird science is
beyond me.  I have to believe the experts.  But Raimer reported
that the Mexican lad was adult in everything but size.  The same
appears true of you and probably your, ah, _cousin_."

I turned to him.  A leer in his expression had transformed his
craggy face into something truly repulsive.

He continued, "But if what they say is indeed a fact, you are
one lucky fellow.  There's probably not a man alive who wouldn't
sell his soul for what you have."

"And what is that?" I asked rhetorically already knowing the
direction of the man's thought.

"At a certain point in his life every guy must regret not
knowing as a youngster what he has learned as an adult."  He
grinned up at me.

"About sex, of course."

"Hell yes, about sex!  Can you imagine a hard-on over auto
bodies?"

Alice and I had discussed numerous times with Clara how
exhilarating sex had become in our new youth, but it was not a
subject I welcomed with this crude stranger.  I remained silent.

"From the look of you you're scarcely old enough to squirt, but
my agents in Hightower inform me you've been laying everything in
sight."

"Now you're speculating!" I objected.  "How could they possibly
know that?"

"Not speculating, _investigating_!" he replied smugly, leaning
back in his chair.  "It would be a fascinating case if we could
argue you were in fact an adult having sex with twelve year
olds."

I returned to the window.  A light, wet snow had begun to fall on
the few pedestrians of Sunday afternoon.

Avery continued to speak, something similar to envy in his voice.
"God!  You would find it easy to have your way with kids, hiding
in that boyish disguise.  You'd know right off which girls were
curious and could be sweet-talked and which ones were lost
causes.  You'd also be able to spot the older girls and women who
might want to play with you as a live doll."

"But you don't believe it," I reminded him.

"Except that you obviously know what I'm talking about.  Whatever
you are is not twelve years old, Tim.  Reversion indeed!  I think
so far we've just failed to find the true explanation."

"You certainly have a suspicious mind," I said with a sneer.

"Hah!  That's one of my prerogatives, like carrying a gun."  He
leaned forward with his elbows on the table.  "Have you done it
with a boy yet?  There's a picture of a boy in your file who's
pretty like a girl.  Is he a close friend?"

"Ritchie," I mumbled.  It seemed ages since I had last seen him.

"Is that his name?  I can't believe you'd let that opportunity
escape.  A half grown cock and no hair, I bet.  Just like you."

"Do you want to suck it?" I burst out angrily, hand moving
towards my fly.  "Perhaps you'd like to take a few pictures for
later use."

"You watch your mouth!" he shouted and sprang to his feet so
abruptly his chair fell over backwards.

He stood at least six four, broad as a wrestler, but I was not
intimidated.  It was already obvious he couldn't touch me.

"You're a big guy," I said with a slight toss of my head.  "Do
you have difficulty fitting into J. Edgar's dresses?"

He stared at me blankly.  He understood he'd been insulted, but
he didn't know the reference, not in 1948.  The phone rang before
he could think of a response.  He glared at me as he listened,
mumbled a few words and hung up.

"You may go now," he announced abruptly and walked to the door,
which he left open behind him.

Raimer waited outside with my women to take us downstairs.

* * *

Despite having done without lunch, both Alice and myself claimed
no appetite as we sat around the table in Clara's kitchen.  But
somehow this supremely capable woman, within hardly five minutes
of entering the house, was able to serve us hot roast beef
sandwiches _au jus_.  We made them disappear with alacrity and
without questioning their provenance -- at least not then.

"Tonio!" cried Alice, staring at me.

"How did he do it?" I asked, staring back at her.

She nodded slowly.  "When he asked me how it worked, I should've
realized."

I had to grin.  "He comforted you a lot, did he?"

"I told you he had a talented tongue.  In every way."

"Yeah, talented.  Did you understand what he did to Raimer?"

"Huh!  I thought it was more what Raimer did to _him_!"

I shook my head.  "It wasn't Raimer that killed him, at least not
according to Raimer.  But didn't you notice?  After his precision
about Yaeger and the sound barrier, Tonio only gave them hints.
He tantalized them, telling them something big would happen at a
specific time but not exactly _what_.  Do you see his strategy?"

She had just taken a huge bite of sandwich.   Now she worked her
mouth around it and said dryly, "I'll bet you're about to tell
us!"

"Well, I see it and admire it.  He was walking a tightrope.  He
needed to show his importance without playing his whole hand."

She stared thoughtfully at me, chewing side to side.

I continued, "He was not one to go it alone.  I don't think I
ever heard him with an original thought.  Getting rich in the
stock market was not his cup of tea.  Impressing people with his
knowledge in the case of Raimer, or his long tongue in your case,
was his game."

She made a face.  "Well, it didn't work, did it?"

"There's always the unexpected."  I shook my head.  "Watch out
for impatient interrogators."

"I'll take the stock market."

"No, you won't.  You'll take me while _I_ take the market."

She shrugged.  "The same thing."  She looked at Clara.  "What's
your opinion, dear lady?  How big a pickle are we in?"

The woman swallowed a bite of her own sandwich.  "That's not
clear yet."

I said, "While you two were taking a leak, Avery let slip a few
things.  Tonio mentioned the multi-continua behind Reversion but
he couldn't prove it, of course.  The government is of two minds
about us, believers in Reversion and doubters.  The doubters are
perhaps in the lead -- or were until today."

Clara looked sharply at me.  "You were too forthcoming, Tim.  You
did shut it off, but not before you had made some serious
admissions."

I nodded.  "I'm beginning to see that we should have anticipated
something like this, enough to practice behaving as kids."

Sighing, she nodded too.  "Yes, your vocabulary and understanding
are obviously far from childlike."  She chuckled wryly.  "But
then, you two could hardly play the child after being admitted to
graduate studies at the university."

"Oh.  Right."  I took a breath.  "What do you foresee as our
hazard?"

Alice spoke up.  "I already told you.  Slavery."

Clara added, "And torture to make you talk every time the
Russians act up."

I stared from one to the other with a sinking feeling, knowing
only too well it was possible.  I asked softly, "What can we do,
Clara, besides run?"

She shook her head decisively.  "We don't need that yet.  I've
noticed one thing about the American system.  It does have one
good defense against a rogue government: a press that sniffs out
cover-ups with the tenacity of a bloodhound.  Perhaps we need to
prepare the ground just in case."

"By doing what?"

"By getting to know the neighbors, throwing more parties, letting
them see what fine Americans we are."  She grinned at me.  "You
need to rescue the mayor's son, if he has one, stuck up a tree."

"Good idea," I agreed dryly, taking the doctor's card out of my
pocket.

"What's that?" asked Clara.

"We don't want to start out like the boy who cried, 'Wolf!'"

I went into the hall to the telephone, leaving Alice to explain.

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