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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Summer, 2002



Chapter 18: Exposure


May 30, Memorial Day, occurred on Sunday that year and provided
an excuse to shutdown Fernworks for another long weekend.  The
five principals met in Cleveland to enjoy three days of each
other's company.  The women welcomed Karl, now very much a member
of the family, most incestuously.  He, Rosalind and I, the
usually absent members, reaffirmed our mutual commitments with
the stay-at-homes, especially to our furry lovers.

We gathered late on Friday night.  By Sunday morning, needing a
breather, I took a stroll around our spacious property that
extended to a rise overlooking Lake Erie.  A few of the more
stubborn trees had not yet leafed out fully, despite the nearness
of June, but it was a beautiful, green and gold morning, dotted
with the sparks of flower blossoms.  Birdsong, the low trilling
of cicadas and the faint splash of waves created a bucolic
symphony that belied the promixity of downtown Cleveland.  I
looked admiringly around at these results from a billion years of
life's random evolution and thought of the absolute barrenness
awaiting us in space.  In 400 years' worth of missions to every
planet, Clara's people had not discovered the first sign either
of protoplasmic or viral life elsewhere in the Solar System.
What an excellent purpose for humanity -- to reproduce Earth's
loveliness in a ridiculous fraction of the time nature had
required!

Ferns on the moon would be merely our beginning, I thought
half-whimsically.  By 2398 terra-forming processes were well
begun on Earth's moon, Mars, a couple Jovian moons and also on
Venus, though that one would take thousands of years for
fruition.  My crew would get an earlier and faster start, thanks
to our nanobiots, and --

"Mister, do you still keep monkeys in your basement?"

I whirled around.  A teenage girl stood between two cedars a few
yards behind me.  She was familiar, though puberty had changed
her unbelievably.  To the residual old man's surprise, I even
recalled her name.

"Petty, is that you?"

"They call me 'Allie' now," she answered gravely.  Long brunette
tresses graced the shoulders of her ruffled blouse.  She even
wore what I consider a dress, though the women call such a
garment, designed as a skirt with a bib, something else.  Dirty
bare feet and a band-aid on one knee saved her from womanhood.
Nevertheless she was startlingly pretty.  Incipient breasts
rounded her chest.  I thought that the story of the ugly duckling
should be one of her favorites.

"Allie?"

"From _Alrose_, my middle name.  Are you Tim's father?"

For the first time I was sorry to look 40.  I dodged the
question.  "Don't you like my moustache?"

"I don't know."  She quirked her lips.  "I'll bet it would
tickle."

An innocent conjecture or an invitation?  I grinned.  "Not many
guys have them, do they.  What was that about monkeys?"

"I saw them in your basement."

"Did you!  You're getting old enough to respect property
boundaries."

She sniffed.  "I saw them a couple years ago when I was Petty.
Allie doesn't trespass."

"Aren't you trespassing now?"

"I am not!  Mamma said these cedars are at the end of our
property."

She could be right.  I had never troubled to locate the markers.
I produced a smile meant to be disarming.  "Then I'm glad you
came along, else I might have become the trespasser!  How is it
that you saw monkeys in our basement?"

"It was at night and one of the window shades was up."

"I see.  And what were the monkeys doing?"

She studied me.  "Maybe they were building radios."

Close enough.  I forced a mildly incredulous chuckle.  "Radios,
Allie?"

She paused as if considering her answer.  At last she said, "Your
monkeys were all in a line, working at machines.  I tried to see
them again the next night, but somebody had pulled all the
shades.  I wondered for a long time what they might've been
doing.  Then my uncle took me downtown one morning to his radio
factory.  All the women were sitting in a line, bending over the
radios they were building, just like your little monkeys."

"I see.  Did you tell your uncle he had competition?"

"Competition?  Oh.  Don't play with me, mister.  I know what I
saw."

"Who did you tell of this vision?"

"My mother."

I nodded.  "A good choice.  How did she react?"

Allie took a deep breath.  "I know she thought I was making it
up."

I paused, thinking of several responses, most of which involved
casting doubt on this curious girl's sanity.  I shook my head.
Induced memory loss was even less applicable.  Clara might know
of something more selective than NEPENTHE, but I doubted it.  So
I fell back on misdirection.

"Allie, it seems I need to let you inspect my basement."

"Oh, would you?"  Her eyes brightened.  "Can I play with them?"

"You and your mother together.  But you won't find anything to
play with."

"Oh."  Her face fell.  "They aren't there any more?"

"A basement full of monkeys in Cleveland?"  I laughed softly.
"You're getting old enough to have an idea what it would take to
keep such a troop out of trouble, not to speak of clean and fed."
Hardly a problem at all if the monkeys possess near-human-grade
intelligence, but I couldn't tell her that.

Her eyes narrowed.  "You mean they were only here a short time?"

I barked another laugh and shook my head.  "Allie, I won't tell
you the obvious answer, that your eyes were playing tricks on
you."

"What's in the basement now?"

"A lot of stuff, I imagine, but when you see it, you won't find
any monkeys.  Shall I ask your mother and you to come and have a
look?"

She stared at me.  Finally she declared, "No."

That would definitely be simpler.  This girl knew our house so
well that I could probably hide the basement capuchins only by
hibernation in a trunk.  But it wouldn't keep the secret.

"Why not?"

She sniffed.  "I don't want to look in an empty basement."

"Not even for ghosts?"

She smiled slowly.  "That was funny, what you said about the
ghosts coming first."

Cocking an eyebrow, I asked, "Are these monkeys more of the
same?"

She hesitated then sighed.  "I guess they must be."

Casting about for another topic, I said, "What brings you out on
such a pretty Sunday morning?  I'd've expected you to be in
church."

"This _is_ a church," she declared.  "Actually I was going to ask
Clara something."

"Clara, eh?  Well, then, let's both talk to her."

With a gesture I invited her forward, turning toward the house.
To my surprise she took hold of my hand as we started across the
thick grass.  I smiled at the girl, who was a head shorter than
I.  She smiled back easily.  Was she entirely innocent? I
wondered, then concluded that she was merely responding to my
avuncular appearance.

"A church, you say?"

"Sure!  What's a church, anyway?"  She waved at the lush greenery
surrounding us.  "Isn't it a place that makes you feel
religious?"

"That's one definition," I admitted, reflecting that my earlier
appreciation of nature's mindless achievement might possibly be
called a religious experience.  At least it was fervent.

We reached my back door still hand in hand and proceeded through
the storeroom into the kitchen.  She pushed past me to the
refrigerator, pulled open the freezer door and went unerringly to
the package of Popsicles.  I had wondered for whom they were
stored.

"Clara lets me visit," she explained, tearing off the wrapper and
glancing back at me, "but she won't tell me about the monkeys."

"I thought we were finished with that topic," I responded.

She bumped the door shut with her head and stood looking at me a
moment as she licked the icy confection.  "I told you my new
name.  What's yours?"

"My _new_ name?"  I grinned.  "Tim."

"You can't be _Tim_!"

"But I am."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Have you been really sick?"

I chuckled.  "No," I said and added what I'd told Tilly.
"Sometimes it's better to be 40 than 20."

"Oh."  Unlike Tilly, she accepted my statement without question
and took a breath as if she had reached a decision.  "I don't
care what your monkeys are for, Tim.  I just want to ... to see
them do _it_."

"Do _it_?"

"You know.  Like what I once saw at the zoo before Mom pulled me
away."

She was obviously curious and -- I started to write "precocious,"
but the mounds on her chest made such curiosity understandable.
Her manner was forthright, not seductive in the least.

"They do it differently, from behind," she added casually.

"You watched closely at the zoo, did you, Allie?"  I could not
resist adding, "How old are you?"

"Almost fourteen."  She sniffed.  "And they don't play around
beforehand, although that's the fun part."

So foreplay was the "fun part!"  I was tempted to inquire further
but resisted the urge because such a conversation could lead to
many complications.  Although a tempting morsel, she was still
just a kid whom I scarcely knew.  I started to change the
subject.  "What grade are you in?"

"There you are!" her mother's voice interrupted from the doorway.

Sarah Wertheimer, pudgier than I remembered, stood in the back
door.  As I turned, I saw Clara, who cast me a quizzical look,
arrive by the door to the hall.

The mother chided, "You have to get cleaned up, Allie, before
this afternoon."  She fully entering the kitchen and took the
girl by an arm.  "I hope she wasn't bothering you, Tim."  She
blinked.  "Is that you, Tim?"

Without waiting for my answer she pulled her daughter toward the
back door.

"We were talking about animals," I said, "and she was no bother
at all."

"I wanted to ask --" the girl began but apparently changed her
mind.

"Ask what?" said her mother.

"Nothing."

They were quickly gone, popsicle and all, with a slam of the
screen.  Clara stepped forward to place her hands on my waist.

"Animals?" she queried.  "Perhaps monkeys?"

"Yes," I replied.  "Apparently she saw Alice's capuchins in the
basement some time ago."

"I know.  How did you handle it?"

"I invited her and her mother to visit and inspect the basement."

"Did you!"  Clara straightened.  "I'd better start rounding up --"

"But Allie declined.  She thinks my invitation means they're long
gone."

The woman relaxed.  "I see.  You are clever, Tim."

"Thank you.  But Allie had other monkey comments.  She regrets
they don't engage in foreplay.  I suspect she's not as innocent
as she appears."

"She's not, although it's something that shouldn't interest you.
You have enough females and they're all legal."

"But I'm perversely curious," I protested, pulling her to me.
"What do you know about the girl?"

Clara gave me a brief kiss.  "For reasons I cannot fathom both
Allie and Sarah have chosen me as their confidants -- separately,
to be sure!  I have heard a great deal of Sarah's frustrations
and Allie's contempt for the local louts."  Clara grinned wryly.
"Just last week Sarah told me she found her two older children
playing naked on a bed.  She didn't interrupt them but stood
peering through the door.  She proudly announced that her son is
very well hung for a twelve year old."

"She just stood there watching?"

"Yes.  Evidently she's as perverse as you.  The lad mounted Allie
and ripped her hymen before Sarah realized they were beyond
child's play.  Allie screamed in pain and shoved her brother off,
but the deed was done."

"Did she confront them then?"

"No.  She told me she was afraid to embarrass them.  But later
she had a long talk with the girl about sex.

"So," I mused.  "She's not a virgin."

"No, she's not.  But that changes nothing.  She's still a
thirteen year old girl."

"Almost fourteen," I corrected her.

"Timmy, let's go upstairs.  I need to calm you down."

"Clara!  You're mistaken if you think that slip of a girl has
aroused me, but I accept your generous invitation."

"I've come to know Allie rather well, Tim.  She's bold and
persistent.  I'm worried you might be seduced into teaching such
a willing pupil."

"I'll be on my guard," I said, nudging her toward the doorway and
the promised frolic.  "Besides, she couldn't be interested in a
guy my age."

"She's not looking for a lover, Professor, just a competent
teacher who won't blab."

"Let's continue this conversation upstairs," I insisted, nudging
her again.

She took my hand and we left the kitchen.

* * *

"I know it's hard to believe, but I actually bumped into him on
the street."

As usual Clara had preset the viewer to an interesting point in
the scene.  Tilly was speaking to Cleaver in a sumptuously
decorated bedroom.  He lay propped up in the bed, holding the
dick of a young man beside him on the right -- one prettier even
than I was at fifteen -- with his arm around an elfin young woman
on the left.  All three were naked.  Tilly stood at the foot of
the bed, wearing a robe and holding a glass of amber liquid.  The
viewpoint was to her right.  I wondered briefly where the ladybug
perched.

Very briefly, because her words seemed to electrify Cleaver.  He
released the dick and with that arm now behind its owner,
propelled both youths to a sitting position.  Sitting up himself,
he made shooing motions.  "You two go screw somewhere else.  I'll
look you up later."

With alacrity they scampered off the bed and out of the scene.
Cleaver's eyes bored into Tilly.

"Bumped into Tim Kimball?  Not in Asheville!"

"But it was.  I was rounding a corner across from the courthouse
and ran slam into him -- or him into me."

"How did you know it was Tim?  How did he look?"

"Oh, it was Tim, all right!  He remembered details about your
party where we met.  What you said about him growing up -- that's
a fact.  He's a good six feet tall and hung to match.  And solid,
he's all muscle."

"My god!  When was this?"

"Oh, I guess about the middle of February."

"February?  Damn it, Tilly," he roared, "this is May!"

She shrugged slightly.  "I'm sorry, Harrison.  You told us about
him three years ago.  To tell the truth, I forgot about it until
you mentioned him just now."

He studied her.  "'Hung to match,' you said.  You got him into
bed, did you?"

"A little."  Her tone expressed frustration.

"'A little?'"  He laughed derisively.  "That's like being a
little pregnant.  Did you fuck him or not?"

"Once."

"But you had a long talk?"

"I took him to my sister's place for lunch."

"Good.  What was he doing in Asheville?"

She laughed.  "Building spaceships.  At least that's what he
said."

The man's eyes widened.  "He admitted that?"

She blinked.  "'Admitted?'  You mean ...  You _can't_ mean it was
the truth!"

Cleaver smiled slyly.  "What else did he say?"

"Not much.  He asked me a lot of questions."

"About me?"

"Well, he did ask if I still went to your parties."

"What did you tell him?"

She shrugged.  "That I pretty much live with you half the year."

"I see."  His stare became distant.  After a moment his grin
returned.  "So you enticed him into bed, you and your sister.
How was it?"

"He's ... become quite a man, Harrison.  His body is big and
hard."

"Cock likewise, I imagine."

"Oh, yes.  Double, at least.  One funny thing:  he had a thick
moustache and crows-feet in the corners of his eyes.  I remember
you said he grew to full size in a couple months.  Now he looks
to be 40 -- all in just four years!"

Cleaver nodded slowly.  "I'm sure he can seem any age he wishes."

She chuckled wryly.  "That's a nice trick!"

He grinned.  "Oh, you women do it all the time!"

She shook her head.  "I doubt this was cosmetics.  I felt of
those wrinkles."

"How about the rest of his body?"

Her eyes widened slightly.  "You know, you're right: it was
smooth as a 20-year-old's."

"Which I suspect," he said dryly, "is a lot closer to his actual
age.  What else did you notice?"

She thought a moment.  "What do you call the muscles across a
man's stomach?  They were like a washboard.  I doubt you can
understand how good that feels to a woman."

"Probably not," Cleaver agreed dryly.  "What did he say about his
plans?"

She sniffed.  "That he was going to the moon."

"That's what one does with spaceships, isn't it?  What else?
Where's his plant?"

"His plant?"

"His factory.  You don't build spaceships on the street."

She stared.  "Harrison, you can't be serious!"

The man sighed.  "What else did he tell you, Tilly?"

She shrugged.  "Nothing, really.  Nothing that I remember.  But a
strange thing happened.  Lu forgot him."

"She doesn't care for big, strong 20-year-olds?"

"Not that.  Even before he left she couldn't remember sucking him
off or who he was."

Cleaver, who had leaned forward with elbows on knees, suddenly
straightened.  "She did what?"

"Lu came in while we were going at it.  He shot me full.  I went
for my diaphragm to keep the stuff in, leaving him to Lu.  I
didn't see what he did to her, but when I came back, she was
gargling in the bathroom.  She said, 'Who was that?'  I couldn't
believe her at first, but I guess it was true.  All she could
remember was the taste of it in her mouth and a strange man
watching her."

Cleaver mused, "She swallowed his jism, did she?  But _you_
remembered everything?"

Tilly grinned.  "How do you know if you _don't_ remember?  Yeah,
I think so.  I haven't noticed a gap.  That is, not in memory."

"What did he say when you rejoined them?"

"Nothing.  He was gone."

"Where?"

"I don't know.  I never saw him again."

Cleaver stared at her for long seconds.  "Well, at least we have
a starting point.  What did you mean by stressing no gap in your
memory?"

"I had a gap, all right.  I missed my next period.  I thought
Tim's young stuff had caught me for sure."

His gaze dropped meaningfully to her flat belly.  "What
happened?"

"Nothing.  In April my period was right on time."

He laughed slightly.  "Think hard: did you kiss him in
Asheville?"

"Mmm, no, I don't think I did."

Cleaver laughed harder.  "His juice misfired, I'll bet!"

I removed the earpiece, stopped and lowered the viewer.  Quickly
my fingers called up the article on Nepenthe.  At long last I
read the fine print.  Applied vaginally, it causes the ovaries to
forget, that is, to skip their next firing.  And that's all.

Clara watched me sigh.  "I see you didn't do it on purpose."

I took a deep breath and shook my head.  "On stupidity."

"I prefer to believe _impatience_.  On both our parts."

"What do you mean?  You couldn't have warned me."

"Not about Tilly.  Who might have anticipated that?  But I
could've studied the record of your meeting with her to make sure
you kissed her.  Why didn't you?"

"She didn't offer.  Tilly wants everything in her cunny...  I
gather this meeting between her and Cleaver took place in May,
but this is July.  What happened?"

"You mean, why didn't I report it sooner?"

I hesitated, detecting a strain in her voice.  "If you want to
tell me."

She sighed.  "Tim, my operation isn't perfect.  I didn't receive
this scene until today."  She sighed again.  "It seems the bird
gave the ladybug to Platina correctly, but before she could
transfer its record to spiral memory her tail began to itch.  She
raised it for each of the males in turn.  As a female I give her
credit.  She protected the bug during that frenzy and duly copied
its contents afterwards -- only into the wrong spiral."

"The wrong --"  I suddenly realized that I knew nearly nothing at
all about the details of Clara's operation, as she called it.  "I
take it Platina is a capuchin in your Crenshaw apartment, and the
'wrong spiral' is a storage system for matters of low
importance."

"Right on both counts.  Then yesterday another meeting occurred
in Gerrymand that caused me to search all my spirals for
Cleaver's name and find the scene you just saw."

"He's taken action, hasn't he?"

"I'm afraid so.  That's why I called you back here."  She handed
me another viewer.

* * *

I recognized Cleaver's barroom from the orgy, presuming he hadn't
altered the decor since 1950: the same dark tables, mahogany bar
with brass rails and full-size painting of a naked woman,
reclining and gazing coyly back over her shoulder, above the
stacked bottles.  It still looked like Hollywood's idea of a
Western saloon.  Even the man in the white jacket behind the bar,
polishing a glass, seemed familiar.

Cleaver was dressed as I had last seen him in the flesh,
shirtless under a satin smoking jacket above white slacks.  He
sat at one of the tables, a shot glass of whisky before him,
faced by three other men, big ones in gray suits.  The sound
pickup was adequate to catch their breathing and the creak of a
chair as a big one shifted his body.  I almost chuckled at my
mechanical fancy after all this time.  For "sound pickup" read
"ladybug's ears."

Cleaver said, "I'll study your written report later, Jenkins.
Maybe, that is, if the precise details interest me.  But I
understand you've located his operation."

"Yes, sir," agreed the smallest of the three, still estimated at
five-ten and 200 pounds.  That one's hair was gray at the
temples.

"In Asheville?"

"No, sir."  The man, presumably Jenkins, grunted.  "In fact I
found nobody in Asheville or even the whole county, for that
matter, who'd ever heard of Timothy Kimball."

"But ...  But then --"

"But I found someone in a bar who recognized that drawing you
furnished me."

"Ah!  I see.  So Tim changed his name."

"Exactly.  He calls himself John Maple these days and here's the
way he looks now."

Jenkins passed a couple of large glossies across the table.
Cleaver studied them with great interest, nodding.  "Yes, I knew
about the moustache.  And he _does_ look fortyish!  How'd you get
these?  The background's totally blurred out, so I assume long
telephoto."

"Right.  He's got himself a hell of a factory setup about 20
miles west-northwest of Asheville, near a wide spot in the road
called Baylor."  The man chuckled admiringly.  "But you can't
tell it's much from the outside."

Cleaver leaned forward.  The fascination in his face was apparent
even from the side.  "Jenkins, I'm impressed!  You've done better
than your man indicated.  Let's take this systematically.  Who
recognized Tim in the bars, a barmaid?"

"It's all in the reports," Jenkins pointed out reasonably.

"I want you to hear it from you personally.  If you have another
appointment, you can break it."

"Very well, sir.  Not a barmaid, an ex-employee."

"Of Tim's factory?"

"Of Fernworks."

"What's that?"

"Actually that's a good question."  Jenkins spelled the word,
then added, "It's what the locals call your man's operation in
Baylor.  I checked but could find no registered corporation or
company by that name, which of course is inconceivable.  You
can't run something like that without registering it and paying
all the license fees and whatnot."

"You've already said in effect that it didn't _look_ big.  What
did you mean by that?"

"I'm getting to it.  We pumped that disgruntled employee a good
long time.  He swore that the man in the picture was a big shot
in Baylor, with a plant that hired people from all over the
hills, a big place with huge machines.  He gave us the name and
showed us a pay receipt.  He'd been working there seven months.
According to him, they fired him for being late one time too
often.  In my own opinion he's an unreliable lush, but that's
neither here nor there.  They pay in cash with an hourly
accounting, which is what he gave us.  It claims to be a
'Fernworks Pay Voucher.'  I have it in my brief case if you'd
like to see it."

Cleaver waved his hand.  "So then you went up to Baylor?"

Jenkins laughed softly.  "Yes, sir.  We found a pretty little
valley with quite a respectable new dam in one end, and a hill on
one side with a neat flower shop built up against the foot of the
hill."

When the man paused, Cleaver said impatiently, "Go on."

"That's it.  The sign on the flower shop was _Fernworks_.  They
had several ferns in the windows."

Cleaver's face clouded up.

"We did notice a few anomalies," Jenkins continued with a slight
smile.  "The parking lot in front of the flower shop is large
enough for about a thousand customers and made with concrete
thick enough to hold up a platoon of tanks.  It held 315 cars the
morning I was there.  Two railroad spurs cross through the
parking lot in front of the flower shop.  A hopper full of rusty
iron filings stood on one, an empty flat on the other.  Here's a
photo of the scene.  Notice the right-hand corner of the flower
shop."

Another glossy crossed the table.  Cleaver squinted at it for a
several seconds before looking up.  "Did you get a closer look at
those bulges on the corner?"

"My man did.  He thinks they're hinges."

"Hinges!"

"Right.  He thinks the whole front of that flower shop swings
open: doorway, flowers in the windows, and all."

"God damn!  Then ..."

"So I went to the courthouse and checked the records, hoping for
a plan of what Fernworks was all about.  Nothing.  As far as the
county government lets on, there's nothing of significance
anywhere near Baylor.  I decided against asking in the sheriff's
office directly.  Instead I hired a local private eye to do that.
It's on the bill."

"Good, if he learned anything."

"He did -- just before he was warned off.  Fernworks, catch this,
is a top secret enterprise of the federal government!"

Jenkins straightened as he pronounced those words, eyes fixed on
Cleaver.  But if he expected some strong reaction he must have
been disappointed.  "Go on," said Cleaver calmly.

"At least that explains the lack of county records."

"Yes, I suppose it does.  And this is all very interesting.  But
you haven't told me how you photographed our man."

Jenkins shrugged.  "I put a man in the woods with a Hasselblad, a
thousand millimeter lens and orders to snap every face that went
in or out.  I took the prints to our disgruntled employee.  He
named most of them."

Jenkins dug another picture from his briefcase.  "This one might
interest you.  The name is Haines.  He's supposed to be the plant
director."

Cleaver glanced at it briefly before laying it aside.  "Don't
know him.  Did you get Kimball's title?"

"Maple.  If he has a title he doesn't advertise it.  His office
is up front with Haines, though Haines' office is larger,
according to my man.  Maple doesn't seem to give orders, not like
Haines."

"Maybe he only orders Haines."

"Could be."

"All right."  Cleaver shoved one of the prints back to Jenkins.
"What do you think this means?"

The man in the gray suit hardly glanced down.  "I think, as the
disgruntled employee said, there's a hell of a big factory behind
that little flower shop.  The shift changes at six o'clock.  The
sun was behind the hill, so my man didn't get any pictures, but
he counted over 400 people going in and out of those front doors
in both directions."

Cleaver nodded.  "400 people, even 200, couldn't get _into_ that
little shop.  I agree.  It's a concealed factory.  All right,
here's the 64-dollar question.  What does it build?"

"My man was fired a couple months ago.  He said scaffolding and
the framework for two ... _things_ were already in place."

"Things?"

"He tried to describe them: several large triangles, maybe 100
feet long by half as wide, taller than a man.  He even tried to
sketch them for us.  I couldn't make it out."

"Well, what did the _builders_ call them?"

"Asses."

"Huh?"

"From the signs that hung next to each: _Assembly 1_ and
_Assembly 2_."

Cleaver stared.  "Come on, Jenkins.  What did your man _think_
they were?"

"Nobody was told, he said, and nobody could guess anything that
seemed to make sense.  His job was producing wiring harnesses.
Apparently the things will contain mile after mile of electrical
wire with terminals every three or four inches in all directions
inside the skin."

Cleaver blinked.  "What the hell!"

"About what I said.  The more he described these 'asses' the
muddier they became."

"I take it you never got anyone inside?"

"Not yet.  Two of my people have put in job applications, but
Fernworks isn't hiring just now."

Cleaver leaned back, hands behind his head, and thought for
several seconds before asking, "Were any of your detectives
challenged?"

"At Fernworks?  No, but then, we didn't try to get into it."

"But you got close enough to photograph people coming and going,
didn't you?  Did you note any prominent visitor, I mean, besides
my pal, Tim?"

Jenkins shook his head.  "No.  In fact we checked around the
county and got names for everybody we snapped.  Hmm.  All except
one."  He dug up another glossy and cocked an eyebrow at it
before passing it over.  "Nice chest."

Cleaver had only to glance at it.  "Rosalind!" he roared,
cascading laughter.  "Oh, you sweet little slut!"  To the
detective he presented a visage wreathed in smiles.  "This ties
it up, you know.  Now there can be no question that indeed we
have located Tim Kimball and his works, whatever he calls it or
himself and whoever is paying his bill."

The man in the smoking jacket got to his feet.  The three in
gray, recognizing the end of the meeting, rose also.

"You've done very well indeed, Jenkins.  Thank you.  Shelley will
give you a check."

"Thank _you_, sir!  Any further orders?"

"No, I need to do some deep thinking for a day or two, plus a
little checking of my own.  But keep your operatives in Asheville
for the time being.  My pal Tim will soon find out how much he
has underestimated me.  What he does then will be interesting to
see."

I lowered the viewer slowly.  "When did this scene occur?"

"Yesterday."  Clara sat across her bedroom from me and regarded
me searchingly.  "Our secret is out."

"Partly.  Have you seen anything else about this?"

"Not yet.  It strikes me as interesting that Cleaver didn't
confirm Tilly's report of your spaceship claim, nor let on to his
detectives what Fernworks is building."  She smiled.  "I guess he
doubts anyone would believe it."

"Or wants to keep it secret for his own purposes."

"What _are_ his purposes, Tim?"

"He wants to buy in to Fernworks first, hoping to obtain our
medical services later."

"He told you that?"

"Look up my meeting with him in the salon of his yacht.  Damn!  I
do keep making mistakes with people's memories."

She sighed.  "You could hardly have known of his wire recorders."

I growled.  "I've often thought I compounded the mistake when
Rosalind told me about them.  I should've gone back to that yacht
and killed Cleaver and anyone else who prevented me from
retrieving those spools."

She got up and came to me.  Her hand stroked my shoulder.  "I'm
very glad you didn't, Tim.  You have the power to kill but not
the temperament.  If you'd gone back that day, you'd be a
different man now, darling, and not a better one."

"Perhaps so.  But I doubt anything less than deadly force will
stop that guy, especially now."

"Perhaps something less than deadly.  If you could deliver him to
me ..."

"I thought of that with Allie.  Does the Twenty-Fourth Century
have a method to remove selected memories?"

"Yes, it does, but it's not pleasant.  I'd certainly hate to
subject a bright young girl to it."

I smiled.  "You've been enjoying her, have you?"

"In many ways she reminds me of _me_ at that age."

* * *

I rechecked the development schedules.  Ship 1, as yet unnamed,
was scheduled for launch December 15, 1954, just about five
months from the present.  It would ascend 200 miles to check its
handling and particularly its air-tightness before descending
almost immediately through the raised roof of Ferndep, in Neldon,
Virginia, where any discrepancy might be corrected before the
lunar voyage.  Two days later Ship 2 would follow.  In fact that
schedule was comfortably slack, thanks to the unsurpassed
industry and accuracy of my Appalachian workers and Alice's
capuchins.  Both ships were already complete except for the last
few dicks, some minor interior fittings and the stealth painting.

I wandered outside, thinking furiously, heading for the back of
the property away from any possible interruption.  It was late
afternoon on a clear day, but I hardly noticed.  Mentally I
reviewed the remaining work.  If we were rushed, which appeared
likely now, whether by Cleaver or perhaps a government agency
informed by that same disgruntled employee, we certainly didn't
have to wait until December.  We could move things up a lot.
Both ships might depart Baylor quite a bit sooner, perhaps early
as September.  And as for the air-tightness test --  Suddenly I
laughed with the joy of invention.  Air pressure at sea level is
14.7 pounds per square inch.  Instead of reducing the _outside_
pressure to zero, suppose I increased the pressure _inside_ the
ship to 29.4, a simple operation that could be done in the
factory.  Why wouldn't it be as good a test?  Furthermore I had
wanted to avoid depending on the stealth paint for any part of
the gas integrity.  This way the testing could occur before the
paint was applied!  I straightened up from my crouch overlooking
the lake, grinning with purpose.

"You don't tell your secrets, do you?"

I spun around.  Allie leaned against the bole of a large pine,
staring at me intently.

"Good afternoon, Allie.  Don't tell me that pine is on your
property."

She looked at the tree and shrugged.  "I saw you out here and
wanted to ask you something."

"What's this about my secrets?"

"I mean if you promised to keep my secret, I could trust you."

"I don't blab."  The lines of her body bespoke determination.
Impulsively I added, "You want to talk, eh?  Let's climb down to
the beach."

At this point the Lake Erie coastline jogged southerly to create
a small bay and a westward view.  She squinted at me and the
setting sun and took my hand.  We cautiously descended the
embankment to a secluded cove that would be awash whenever the
waves were high.  At this tranquil moment we could enjoy a narrow
strip of sand about ten yards long.

She pulled off her shoes to wade at the edge of the water.  I sat
on the sand at the foot of the embankment, arms on drawn-up
knees, and admired both views.  The low orange sunlight passed
through her light clothing, silhouetting sleek female curves.

"I want to know stuff," she said, turning to me.  "It's about
sex, and there's no one I can ask without getting into trouble."

"Isn't that what girls talk about on sleepovers?"

"I don't have close friends for that.  Most people already think
I'm a bit strange, and if I started talking about sex -- well, I
know and you know what they'd do next."

"Your mother seems to be a reasonable person," I noted.  "Part of
her job is teaching you about sex."

"She's told me the obvious stuff, of course."

"The _obvious_ stuff?"  I chuckled.  "Like what?"

She studied me.  "Like where the parts go and the reason for it.
How important it is to boys.  She claimed they'll say and promise
anything to get a girl."

"You didn't know that already?"

"Not really.  The only boy I've ever played with is Rickie, my
kid brother.  And he didn't know anything about sex until this
summer."

"But now he does?"

"Do you promise not to tell?"  Again she stared at me intently.

"Of course I do."

She stood above me, studying my reaction.  "We were playing
together, touching each other like we've been doing for a while.
Then he got on top and hurt me awfully."

She turned her back to gaze at the lake.  Again I admired her
shape.  It resembled Clara's before the tit job.

"So you're not a virgin anymore.  What is it specifically you
want to know?"

She spun around to face me.

"It was supposed to feel good, I thought!" she exclaimed in
evident frustration.  "But it hurt.  Is there something wrong
with me?"

I shook my head.  "It always hurts the first time."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Always?"

Actually that's not true.  I understand that in some girls the
hymen is too thin or vestigial for proper sensing, but of course
the huge majority --  "You really didn't know that?"

"No one ever told me.  I thought it would feel even better than
touching."

"You'll enjoy it the next time," I assured her.

"I'm not sore down there anymore."  She grinned meaningfully.

"You'll find out for certain when you get a boyfriend."  I half
rose to my feet.  "Is that it?  Have I answered all your
questions?"

With a jab at my shoulder she meant to push me back down.  I was
in a hurry to expedite those schedules, but I let her.  What
difference could a few minutes make?

"I don't want a boyfriend!" she retorted.  "At least not yet.
And I do have more questions."

I leaned back against the embankment.  "Shoot."

"What's it _for_?"

"The cherry, you mean?"

"Yeah!  Why does a girl have such a thing anyway?"

I chuckled.  "I think it's a rather neat solution to a tough
problem.  Active as young girls are, they'd get all kinds of dirt
in that hole if it wasn't blocked off, at least until they start
getting serious about life."

She thought it over, nodding slowly.  "I guess that makes _a
little_ sense."

"Well, you're free to dream up your own reason.  About that
boyfriend: what's your objection?"

She made a face.  "Boys are so ... silly and crude.  But you're
not.  I thought the first time we met you were just a grown up
kid, but you're ..."  Her eyes raked my seated figure.  "I was
thinking that, maybe, you could show me."

"Show you what?"

Her fists clenched but she answered frankly enough, "How good it
is."

"Me?  Why me?  I'm much too old for you, and I could get into a
lot of trouble, you know."

She tossed her head.  "It's true I'd rather do it with someone my
age, but I don't know anyone I can trust.  At least you'd know
what you're doing, and besides, you aren't around much."

"Is that important?  The fact that I'm usually away on business?"

"Yes.  It would be easier to avoid you, if I don't like it."

"And if you _do_ like it?"

"Even more so.  I said I don't want a boyfriend."

"Do I understand you correctly, Allie?  You just want a physical
experience without romance?"

"Romance?  With you?"  She giggled through a sneer, then sobered.
"We could kiss, if you like.  I wouldn't mind that."

"I haven't agreed to anything, young lady!  What if I've promised
another woman I'd be faithful?"

"It wouldn't be cheating."  She sat beside me and clasped my hand
in both of hers.  "You'd just be doing me a favor, like
scratching my back."

Allie, it seemed, would develop into a very tough girl.  I didn't
envy any boy who became infatuated with her.

I stood, pulling her up beside me, intending to call her bluff,
if that's what it was.  "Let's go."

She smiled eagerly.  "Let's do it on the grass up there.  It's
lots better than this gritty place."

She went ahead of me.  Her foot slipped in the sandy loam.  I
caught her calf with my hands, one of them sliding up an inner
thigh, until my fingers brushing her vagina. She wore nothing
under the jeans skirt.

"Ooh!" she cried and passed giggling over the lip of the
embankment.  She whirled around in front of her pine tree, face
flushed, eyes alight.  "Do that again!"

I chuckled and shook my head.  "You say your mother taught you
what the parts were for.  Did she tell you about the end result?"

"You mean a baby?"

"Do you have any idea how much trouble having a baby would cause
you?  No, I see you don't.  Allie, you have a lot to learn."

"I know it.  I'm ready for a lesson."  She pulled the bib straps
down her arms and shimmied out of the overalls-like skirt.  Her
blouse went over her head in a swoop and she stood naked before
me.  She looked around us and focused on a secluded stand of
lilac.  "There's a soft spot," she suggested.

She had a gorgeous body, well proportioned and past budding, but
not yet fully mature.  I admired her briefly, especially the
residual old man, but the residual boy, now sated with such
experience, was impatient.  Internally I shook my head in regret.
If her knowledge of our monkeys was a risk, how much more risky
might be her account of statutory rape!

"Allie," I said in a low but uncompromising tone, "you're lovely
and you tempt me, and indeed I could show you how good it gets,
but this time I have to decline the opportunity.  Come see me
when you're 16."

Her mouth fell open and her face blanked.  "You ... you ...  But
_why_?  _I_ wouldn't tell!"

"Of course not, and neither will I."

I caught her blouse where it dangled from a nearby bush and
presented it to her.  She snatched it from my hand.

Her eyes narrowed.  "What if I say you did anyway?"

"Try that on your mother first.  It might save you a lot of
embarrassment."

The blouse settled quickly around her.  She stepped into her
overalls-skirt and jerked up the straps.  She gave me a long
glare, red spots on the cheeks, and grated, "I'll tell her you
fuck your sisters."

"Don't forget to mention the ghosts, Santa Claus and magic
carpets."

"Huh?"

"You told me I was obsessed with them the first time we met."

Despite herself she smiled.  "I wanted you to tickle me."

"I might've done it too, except we were interrupted."

"At least you were willing ... then."  Suddenly she pushed
forward, leaned up and kissed me on the point of the chin.

I said, "I hope that means you're not mad."

"No, Tim, I'm not mad."

I watched her stroll away towards her own property.  Just before
she plunged into the thicker trees she turned back to call, "If
you keep on, when I'm 16 you'll be 80."

"It'll be worth it," I assured her as she disappeared from sight.

* * *

The Cleveland house was large, 16 rooms above the basement
including a conference room on the second floor large enough for
a dozen board members.  Yet its inhabitants insisted on reaching
the important decisions around the table in the relatively small
kitchen.

Because of shorter layovers, it's actually faster and just as
easy to fly from Roanoke to Charlotte by way of Cleveland -- not
that I was in a hurry on this particular trip, but habits do form
quickly!  So I stopped the night on my way back to Baylor from
Ferndep, and for breakfast the next morning, attended by Clara,
Alice, myself and our familiars, Clara served us bacon and eggs
along with her decision.

"I'm not going with you."

"What?" cried Alice, eyes bulging.  "Of course you're going!"

"No, dear, I'm not," Clara responded, but she looked at me.

Alice pushed back from the table.  "Clara, don't be silly!"

The woman sniffed.  "When did you ever know me to be silly?"

I leaned forward.  "You've been to space before, haven't you?"

"Yes.  Several times.  Once I lived in the Trailing Jovian
Trojans for five years."

Alice's eyes grew even larger.  "You never told us that!"

The woman shrugged, smiling.

The girl's lip curled.  "So you're bored with space, is that it?"

"Not hardly, though life in an oneill can certainly be boring,
not to speak of traveling in Hohmann orbits."

"VID solves that problem," I pointed out.

"No doubt, but no one in my universe made your discovery, Tim.
Mars by Hohmann orbit was just about nine months."  She chuckled.
"In the early days it was jokingly recommended for pregnant
women."  She looked into the distance.  "Even in my time high
speed trips were very expensive.  Most freight -- and travelers
too -- had to endure Hohmanns."

"Not for us," I asserted.  "For comfort I'll maintain about one G
all the way, reversing thrust at the half-way point.  We'll reach
the moon in four hours and later, when it's closest, Mars in just
42 hours."

"Less than two days to Mars!" she breathed in awe.

"And it wouldn't cost very much to halve that."

Alice repeated herself with conviction.  "Of course you're coming
with us."

So did Clara.  "No, dear."

Her expression was solemn.  She wasn't kidding.  I said, "So if
it's not boredom with space, it must be us.  Though after last
night --"

She laughed and put her hand on my arm.  "Timmy, you know very
well that nothing else in life compares to the pleasure you give
me.  And I don't refer only to sex."

"My god, Clara!  Then what?"  I tried a childish trick.  "It
can't be that you're afraid!"

"Afraid?"  She smiled.  "Afraid of going to the moon in an
untried ship with an unproven theoretical drive controlled by an
inexperienced crew?  Now, why would that scare me, Tim?"

"Well ..." I began sheepishly.

Her smile became a laugh.  "Let me tell you a story.  When I knew
I was scheduled for the Jovians, I let my friends talk me into a
flying holiday.  But my right wing strut broke and I fell into
the village so that --"

"Wait a minute!" I said holding up a hand.  Alice's eyes had
already rounded.  "What do you mean, 'a flying vacation?'"

"We were waiting at Armstrong Dome for our acceptance to the
Jovians.  In the moon's one-sixth gravity humans can fly like
birds, using only muscle power.  Robert Heinlein will invent the
idea in a few years.  It became quite a sport in the caverns and
domes on the moon, also in the oneills of course, and I was keen
on it.  Until that day.  When my strut broke, I went down in a
dive so fast that I smashed through the safety net and hit the
grass hard.  It broke my neck and made me miss the boat to the
Jovians.

"What?"  She grinned around at our gasps.  "I forgot that a
broken neck is often fatal here and now.  In the 24th Century no
accident is.  The most you might lose is memories since your last
backup.  But you know that.  You just haven't appreciated what it
means yet, have you?"

She sighed.  "That broken neck was most fortunate for me in terms
of lost memories.  The ship I missed exploded when it was beyond
the orbit of Mars.  From the lopsided spread of the particles
they decided the cause was a piece of interstellar trash,
probably about the size of your fist, traveling at a small
percentage of light speed."  She took a deep breath then smiled.
"The reason I'm telling you this sad story is to add that I
jumped at the chance of a berth on the next Jovian packet.  That's 
how afraid I was of space."

"My god!" I murmured.  "The odds against something like that must
be truly astronomical."

She waved a hand.  "Your spiral contains a report on it.  Look up
the _JSS Marston_."

"And you don't have backups here.  I understand --"

"Who says I don't have backups?"

We stared at her.  "If you do, I hope they work automatically."
I shook my head.  "What do you mean, you're not going with us?
Where will you stay?"

"Right here in Cleveland.  Neither the government nor Cleaver has
discovered our base here.  I'll be safe, Tim, and in position to
keep Ferndep going for your resupply."

"Hollowell looks good at Ferndep," Alice said.  "Don't you trust
him?"

Clara's eyes swung to the girl.  She smiled slightly.  "I know
the angle of _your_ view.  You haven't spilled any beans, have
you?"

"Of course not."

"Then how do you expect _him_ to admit our ships through the
roof?"

"Ah ..."

I answered for her.  "We don't.  He's only temporarily in charge.
Karl liberated two more of Von Braun's people from Huntsville
last year.  They've been told part of the story.  They support us
because they believe in space travel and because they fear
falling back into the government's clutches.  Karl has already
transferred them to Ferndep.  One of them, Hans Freulich, will be
named director next week."

Alice sighed.  "Which brings us to Baylor.  What are you going to
do about the factory, Tim -- not to speak of all those trained
workers?"

"Well, the first trip will land somewhere on Farside, probably in
Daedalus, but it won't linger.  We'll make a few pictures, scoop
up some rock and be under the roof at Ferndep in 24 hours, so I
don't foresee any real problem, unless of course Cleaver is
banging on the door at Baylor."

"He may well be.  But what about the long run?"

I shook my head.  "I was a little too smart.  If I hadn't
declared it a federal enterprise, I could let our guards handle
Cleaver's detectives.  Now I'm afraid we'll have to abandon
Baylor."

 Alice's jaw dropped. "What did Rosalind say last month?  That's
over 200 million dollars!"

"Still a bargain," I maintained.  "Do you recall what Apollo cost
-- will cost?"

"Okay.  I guess if we have to let it go, we have to.  But that's
beside the point.  How can you stand to leave Clara here?"

I stared from one to the other.  "When men go in harm's way, they
always prefer to leave their women at home."

"They do _what_?" Alice huffed.  "You want me to stay here too?
You can forget it, pal!"

I laughed hollowly.  "No kidding!  But I'm speaking of
preferences.  I would've _preferred_ you to stay in 2005, though
I'll admit now I'm glad you didn't.  Yes, I'd _prefer_ all three
of my women to stay safe in Cleveland.  We could've found and
trained other enthusiasts.  But I'm reconciled to your company."
I looked at Clara.  "Yours, too.  You haven't told us your real
reason, have you?"

She said, "I'm still debating the wisdom of that."

I took a breath of determination.  "You have to tell us, Clara,
and it had better be good."

She sighed.  "I've given you the right to insist, I suppose."
She sighed.  "It's radiation."

"Huh?"

"I read your spec.  The dicks redirect a lot of the cosmic and
solar radiation, though not all.  I know the sunspot cycle won't
reach maximum until 1957, and you plan to allow only half the
ionizing radiation tolerated by the world of 2398.  But it's
still too much."

Alice stared at her.  "Clara, you know better!  I calculated this
myself, using your people's empirical equations.  Our shields
will admit only about an order of magnitude greater than the
background you're sitting in right now.  How can that be too
much?"

The woman's eyes on mine were ineffable.  Her mouth worked.  At
last she said, "The genome is too delicate.  Repairs to it are
uncertain at best."

"The genome!"  I felt a sudden tension.  "You mean --"

"Yes, Tim.  I'm pregnant with your son."

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