               
               DREAM FORGE: The e-magazine for your mind!
               -===- -===-
               
                 Staff: Managing Editor, Rick Arnold
                  (drmforge@dreamforge.nauticom.net)
                 
                    DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877
                     Published by Dream Forge, Inc.
  
                  
                            Dream Forge, Inc.
                             P.O. Box 243
                          Greenville, PA  16125
                          

       This is a shareware magazine, available to all readers -- 
       BBS Sysops may provide DREAM FORGE to their callers -- BUT 
       -- at no charge to the readers. This magazine may be freely 
       distributed in unmodified form ONLY -- with all copyright 
       notices and all advertisements intact. CD-ROM publishers must
       contact the publisher for permission prior to inclusion on any 
       CD that is intended to be sold for more than mailing costs. 

         Contact:  FidoNet: 1:2601/522  (300-28800/V.34)
                   BBS: (412) 588-7863  (300-28800/V.34)
                             
         Copyright 1996 Dream Forge, Inc.  All Rights Reserved.
         =====================================================
gt=gothic hr=horror hu=humor nf=nonfiction sf=science-fiction 
rm=romance  
          
Table of Contents:
-----    --------
Editorial:  Exit Virtual Stage Right ...... Dave Bealer ......... 01
DEAR YBBA ........................ humor... Larry Tritten ....... 04
THE EVENING AIR .................. fiction. Buzz Mauro  ......... 06
THE PEOPLE UNDER THE WIRES .....sf fiction. Frederick Rustam .... 07
BOX OF DEATH ...................sf fiction. J. Alec West ........ 18
POLITICS: A PRIMER .............   humor... Bob Rhubart ......... 26
TO KISS A STAR .................sf fiction. Andrew Burt ......... 29
THE END ........................sf fiction. Karen Williams ...... 30
HOW TO FIND A JOB ................ humor... Madeleine Begun Kane. 35
FIGHTING BACK .................... fiction. Michael J. Ryan ..... 38
PSYCHIC HEALERS OF THE PLEIADES.sf fiction. Richard Flood ....... 41
MISS TITUS OF POKER FLAT ......... satire.. Dale Feathers ....... 48
THE THRILL SEEKERS ............... fiction. Joanne Reid ......... 53
ECHOES OF THE PAST .............sf fiction. Thomas Nevin Huber... 59 
GOLGOTHA........................gt fiction. Travis Clark......... 84
Poetry -- for YOU and good too -- ......... Various ............. 86
Book Reviews: THE BUCHANAN CAMPAIGN ....... Jack Hillman ........ 92
BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway ............. 93
DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates/Info/Guidelines ................. 95
Legalities and Stuff ............................................ 98
SCRIBE ALLIANCE -- Contenst announcement ........................ 99
AWAKENINGS:  ORAL ARGUMENTS .............   Dave Bealer ......... 102


DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 01

         
-=-=-=-=-=
EDITORIAL: 
 Exit Virtual Stage Right
 by Dave Bealer
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


    Change Happens, to paraphrase the old bumper sticker.  Some
changes come as a complete surprise, like BRAVEHEART beating out
APOLLO 13 for the Best Picture Oscar.  Other changes can be seen 
from miles away, like the ouster of the Clinton Administration
from the White House this November.

    I've been going through some major changes in my life the 
past six months. For one thing, I've finally found a winning
ally in my lifelong battle against obesity. Between October
1995 and April 1996 I lost over 50 pounds, with more to come.
Sure, I've lost this much before, only to quit in disgust and
gain it all back (and then some). But this time it has not been 
a Herculean struggle to lose every pound.  (Ed. Note: For 
details of the diet that is working for Dave, see his separate
article on the subject.)

    I don't mean to imply that a lot of stress hasn't been 
added to my life, because it has. Large scale changes like 
these, especially when they involve mending the bad habits of 
a lifetime, do take their toll. It was almost certainly these 
added stresses that have made it impossible for me to continue
in electronic publishing.  

    Effective in March 1996 I resigned my position as publisher 
of DREAM FORGE magazine and as president of Dream Forge, Inc.
I was simply unable to continue in these roles, and was harming
the efforts to make DREAM FORGE grow.  For those of you who are
not already aware of this, I was totally unable to bring myself
to read or answer any of my e-mail for several weeks in February
and March.  This included mail from Rick Arnold, my partner in
this venture!

    Not too surprisingly Rick and several other friends grew 
quite concerned about my health during this period, and even 
wondered if I was still alive!  I sincerely apologize to every-
one who I may have distressed with this ridiculous behavior.  I 
will never be able to catch up with all the mail which piled up 
during the time I was "tuned out" (several hundred messages) and 
have only answered those I deemed critical.  Please don't feel 
offended if your message wasn't answered.  Had I answered your 
message during that period, the reply would probably not have 
made sense in any case.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 02

    The two or three of you who have followed my publishing 
career since it began in 1992 may recall that I fell into
publishing RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR (RAH!) pretty much by accident.
It was fun, and people seemed to enjoy RAH.  Eventually it 
started to become less something I wanted to do than something
I had to (read: was expected to) do.  I wanted to quit doing 
RAH, or at least quit doing it on any kind of a regular basis.  
That was a good instinct, one I should have followed.

    Unfortunately I have a long history of learning things the
hard way, a history that just gained a new chapter.  Instead 
of taking some time off from publishing, I decided that I could 
keep going if only the proper motivation was present. 

    What motivation?  Money!?

    Right. Money has to be the worst way for an artist to
motivate himself; at least it seems to be the worst way for
THIS artist. Not only was I still tired of the monthly grind,
but now I had backed myself into a real corner.  There were
now a bunch of paying customers who expected to get a fresh 
magazine every month.

    The pressure to write, edit, proof, prepare the zine for
publication, and distribute the publication built up month 
after month until finally something had to give. Suddenly in 
early February I could no longer bring myself to log on to my
own BBS to read my e-mail. The first day or so this didn't
bother me. I had been working pretty hard and probably just
needed a short break. This had happened once or twice before
and didn't seem like a big deal. Besides, the work time being 
lost would be more than compensated for by my increased 
productivity when I returned to work refreshed from the break.

    Only that day never seemed to come. In fact the idea of 
logging on my BBS or working on DREAM FORGE seemed more 
threatening to me with every passing day. As days turned into 
weeks I knew the work was continuing to pile up and would 
soon be insurmountable. In short order March had arrived and
I had not yet completed final preparation of the February 
issue for publication!

    Eventually I faced up to the fact that I simply couldn't
do it anymore. Leaving Rick to carry on by himself was some-
thing I hated to do, but it was much better than continuing 
to saddle him with a partner who couldn't keep up his end of
the load. So I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and logged 
on to my BBS (an act which had been completely routine during 
4+ years as a Sysop). I e-mailed Rick with an explanation of 
my situation (or at least, the best description I could make 
at that time - much of the preceding has only become clear 
to me in the past couple of weeks).  

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 03
    
    I then dove for mental cover, expecting Rick to react 
with the loathing and hatred I deserved (based on my own 
self-image at that moment). Instead, Rick reacted with 
relief that I was all right, at least physically. Obviously 
my sudden withdrawal from our partnership took Rick by 
surprise, and he needed some time to decide what to do.

    Rick has since decided to keep the magazine going. I
wish him well in this effort, and will support him in any
way I can. I will still contribute to DREAM FORGE as a
writer whenever possible.

    I will keep my BBS running for the foreseeable future.
If nothing else, the extensive collection of electronic
publications and e-texts I gathered over the past several
years will provide a good resource for anyone who calls.

    In order to make the break with my publishing past as
complete as possible, I have turned off all my existing
Internet accounts.  These include: 
                 dbealer@dreamforge.com
                  dbealer@rah.clark.net
                    dbealer@clark.net
                     dforge@clark.net
                      
    You can still reach me via FidoNet netmail at this 
address:  Dave Bealer at 1:261/1129. By June 1996 I
expect to have a new address set up at my BBS domain -
vword.com. Check the bio at the end of my articles in
future DREAM FORGE issues for my current email address.

    Just because I won't be involved with publishing 
doesn't mean I've stopped writing. In fact the removal of
the burden of publishing duties seems to have increased
my level of writing output. Look for my work to appear in
the online and print media frequently in the future.

    By summer 1996 I hope to have my own personal home 
page up on the World Wide Web. Obviously this page will
always have a pointer to the DREAM FORGE web edition.
Other than that, I expect the page to show off some of my
best articles, reviews, and stories from both RANDOM
ACCESS HUMOR and DREAM FORGE. I may even put some new
material up there now and then, although I will avoid any 
definite scheduling, not to mention the resultant pressure.

    I would like to thank everyone who has helped me with
my electronic publishing ventures these past four years.
Your assistance and encouragement helped me keep on as 
long as I did. 
==============================(DREAM)==============================

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 04
         
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
DEAR YBBA
  by Larry Tritten
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


Dear Ybba:

  I was a guest at a party on Earth given by several libertines
(a word whose meaning is one who lives freely) and the celebrants
inhaled the vapors of buring vegetation and amused themselves by
doing impressions of a local animal called the beast with two
backs. Fascinated, I kept sneaking a microscan where the sun 
doesn't shine. One of the celebrants broke my nozz. Anthropology
is my avocation. Did I do wrong?

Signed:  DISMAYED
-----------------

Dear Dismayed:

  Consider yourself fortunate. Earth has a history of baffling
sexual customs. This is a place whose POST-sexual revolution
cultural environment was such that film and video entertainments
in which the bodies of females were penetrated by knives were
popular but those in which they were penetrated by lovers' phalli
were largely repressed or censored. Only last year a court in the
state of Maryland prosecuted a couple for using non-bio-degradable
spelunks. I suspect that your microscan may have been considered
an invasion of privacy, even at a revel. Next time offer to pay.



Dear Ybba:

  I never thought much about lint but I inadvertently discovered
that the sentient napery here on (Z)** consider it a gastronomical
treat somewhat analogous to caviar among humans. They will pay any
price for prime lint, and a combination plate of chintz, flannel,
and denim lint is almost priceless. Lint is as scarce here as 
uranium on Earth. I've always thought of lint as being essentially
technological dirt, something that, as a byproduct of fabrics,
didn't exist before civilization. It's incredible to me that I've
already gotten rich enough to retire just by inverting the pockets
of my old Cordon Bleu jeans. The thing is, the stuff has a druglike
effect on these creatures, they get high on it, and the sense of
euphoria and power it gives them makes them feel like glad rags and
party dress. Do you think it's ethical to deal lint?

Signed:  MATERIAL GUY
---------------------

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 05

Dear Material Guy:

  What's ethical and what isn't, is, of course, a matter of
circumstance. One creature's suit is another creature's Poisson,
n'est-ce pas? How much can you get me for a used Angora sweater?

                               (DREAM)
                               
Copyright 1996 Larry Tritten, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Veteran freelance writer Larry Tritten has published more than 700
pieces in such publications as THE NEW YORKER, VANITY FAIR, PLAYBOY,
COSMOPOLITAN, SPY, HARPER'S, and THE NATIONAL LAMPOON.
===================================================================




=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE EVENING AIR
  by Buzz Mauro
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

 
  Gone on this October night were the old brown boots that 
had callused his heels and given him corns; abandoned were 
the shirts his wife had labored to press, the blue jeans he 
would wear for weeks on end until she screamed at him to let 
her wash them, the undershirt he had taken that morning from 
the high clean pile; dispensed with were the Christmas present 
socks and the boxers with the faintest of brown stains. Mr. 
Swallows was seventy-nine, the night was cold and fresh, and 
he had left his clothes at home.
        
  This was a birth, the newness of the gritty walk beneath his 
feet, this undiscovered wealth of sensation, merely to take a 
step and let the air unfold about the flesh. It had been too 
long since he'd been born; he had forgotten it. This emergence 
might have been his very first. The yellow light of street 
lamps glittered on the hairs of his chest and his skin contracted 
with the cold, pulling him ever more tightly into himself until 
he felt separate from the oldness of the world: insulated and 
even warm. He stretched his limbs as he walked, kicked and splayed, 
hopped and galloped, bounced his genitals freely through the night 
and gazed with interest on the woman coming toward him with a 
quart of milk.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 06
        
  This was Mrs. Dewey who lived next door and often helped 
him up the steps, not in a silly self-important way but really 
only to be helpful. She was no toddler herself, past sixty at 
least, and so what if she thought him feeble and in need of 
assistance? He was, after all. And should he care if she thought 
him inappropriately exposed? He was that, too. He restrained his 
limbs to some extent under her wide eyes, but continued his 
progress. "And now she will come and be my wife," he thought. It 
was late and he was tired, and that is what he thought.
        
  When he reached her he paused and tipped an imaginary hat. 
He thought himself quite funny and knew she would be charmed.
        
  Mrs. Dewey did not laugh, but she did not speak either, and 
he felt this was a good sign. She knew him well and understood.

  "He is sad . . .  a frightened old man and he needs me now," 
thought Mrs. Dewey. And Mr. Swallows was not surprised when she 
took his hand and turned around and set down her quart of milk by 
a tree. They walked down their deserted street and further into 
town, where people stayed awake a greater portion of their lives. 
They passed a young couple near the fire station and a man with 
beer in a bag on the steps of Mr. Swallows' church, and many other
people neither of them knew or cared to know.

  And so Mr. Swallows spent the night of his wife's death in jail
with Mrs.Dewey by his naked side, and felt he had been compensated.

                               (DREAM)       

--------------------------------------------------------------------
Buzz is an actor/acting teacher in Washington, DC, and also teaches
high school math part-time. Co-author of "The Interview Rehearsal 
Book," which teaches acting techniques to improve self-presentation
in job interviews and will be published by Piccolo Press in the
spring. Email: bugsy22312@aol.com
====================================================================


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-                  
THE PEOPLE UNDER THE WIRES
  by Frederick Rustam
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 07
  
  "It's such a lovely day, Kevin. Why don't you go outside?"

  My mother stood in my bedroom doorway. She had that look that
said: I know I'm annoying you, but it's for your own good.

  She had seemed delighted when I made good use of the computer
my parents bought me, but as my relationship with the machine
developed into a love affair, she took a different view of
things. When the summer weather was good, she wanted me to turn
it off and leave the house. It must have seemed unnatural to her
that I'd want to stay inside and pound away on the keyboard all
day. Maybe it was . . . . But, I had discovered the Internet, and 
my provider was not cheap. That could explain my mother's attitude.

  "Why don't you visit the boy on the other side of the powerline?
It's time you got acquainted. You said he doesn't have any close
friends."

  What she really wanted, of course, was for me to visit the people
over there, so she could question me about them, later.

  "Aw, Mom . . . they're some kind of foreigners."

  It was a weak and unacceptable excuse, but it was the only one I
could think of at the time. Needless to say, it didn't work. All
I got for my effort was a lecture about tolerance, which I didn't
really need, and an order to visit the boy, "right now."

2.

  Those people on the other side of the powerline seemed pretty
reclusive, even for foreigners. The parents rarely show themselves
outside; their son always cuts their grass. My dad sometimes likes
to do ours, just to get outdoors -- though I'm supposed to. Once,
my mom even cut it . . . once, but that's another story.

  You can't see their front yard, easily; it's on the side of their
house which faces away from the powerline. The house is as close
to the powerline right-of-way as it can get. There's only a narrow
backyard between the back door and some brush on the powerline
strip.

  The right-of-way weeds are noticeably taller where they join
their property line -- almost as if someone is fertilizing them,
or the powerline crews don't want to approach the house. Since
their property is carved out of the woods that run for some
distance on that side of the powerline, the effect of trees and
brush is to give the place an ominous look, even though it's just
an ordinary tract-type house.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 08

  The people behind the weeds were actually there when our sub-
division was built. Where our street ends at a turnaround, a dirt
road continues across the powerline right-of-way to their house.
The father of the house is supposed to be some kind of a writer,
which explains why he doesn't participate in the parental rush
hours.

  In fact, few of our neighbors have ever seen them drive by.
Snooky Hurst, a guy in my class, took a picture of them one day
as they passed his house. He said they all looked at him like
he was a bug. He showed the picture around at school, and you
could see them staring at him. It was kind of weird.

  I know their son by sight, of course, because he's in my class.
He's okay, I guess, but real quiet and shy. The teachers don't
call on him much, but he usually knows the answers when they do.
He's dark-skinned and speaks with an accent. Snooky says he's an
Indian, from India -- he looked up their name in the library . . . 
Snooky wants to be in the FBI, so I guess he's getting started,
early. We kid him about it, but he's serious.

3.

  So, there I was, going to investigate those mysterious people,
instead of Snooky doing it. I intended to trade what I found out
to Snooky for one of the great game programs he has. He gets them
from his cousin in the city who bootlegs them for a hobby -- not
a totally-cool connection for a guy who wants to be in major law
enforcement.

  I didn't have the courage to walk down their driveway through
the woods, so I took the rutted, winding powerline road and then
pushed through the weeds until I was standing at the edge of their
property. In the front yard, sitting in a lawn chair and reading
a book, was Lal -- that's his name. It's pronounced Loll.

  I guessed his mother thought like mine: good weather -- go 
outside. At least she allowed him to take his book. If I had taken
a book outside to read, my mom would have probably come out and
grabbed it and sent me on my way.

  I gathered my courage and stepped into the sideyard. If I went
home without learning anything, my mother would be disappointed,
to say the least.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 09

  "Hi . . .  I was walking the powerline and I saw you here."

  He turned around and stared at me.

  "I'm Kevin Carr. I live over there in the subdivision."
I pointed toward my house.

  "Yes, I know. You edit the student newspaper . . . I'm Lal."

  I felt a little guilty. We were in the same class, but I hadn't
spoken to him, even on the playground. But then, neither had
many others, except some nerds and wallflowers.

  "Yeah . . . . I don't know why, though. All I get are complaints 
from our distinguished fellow students. Heh, heh. But my parents
like to boast that their kid is a `journalist.'"

  "It could be a useful skill, someday. Won't you have a seat?"
He spoke like the grind everybody thought he was, as he motioned
me to a chair next to his. I sat down and looked at the cover of
his book.

  "What're you reading?"

  "Oh, it's just something about radio." He held up the book. It
was titled, _Manmade Sources of Radio Noise_.

  "Looks heavy."

  "It is. I'm just reading it for what I can get out of it. Some
of the graphs are interesting."

  "You interested in radio?"

  "Yes . . . and electrical engineering, in general. That's what
I'll study, later."

  "Well, you've got a good source of radio noise to study, right
above you." I jerked my thumb back at the powerline.

  "Yes. It's almost overhead," he replied, with accuracy.

  "I can hear the noise on my AM radio. It must be worse over here."

  "It sounds pretty bad." He looked back at the huge cables which
swung gracefully, but somewhat menacingly, from tower to tower.
"But, it does have its uses." He smiled, shyly.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 10

  "Yeah. I guess so." At the time, I thought he was making an
obvious statement about the electricity the powerline brought to
our area. Later, when I remembered his remark, I guessed he'd been 
referring to something I wouldn't have suspected in a million years. 
And, that I would have laughed at, if anyone had openly told me --
even Snooky.

4.

  We talked for an hour or so, mostly about our school and our
classmates. Lal didn't have much curiosity about the kids, but I
fed him gossip, anyway. We had to have something to talk about,
and I'm not a nerd like him.

  When I mentioned that I had a computer, he brightened. He has
one of the other kind, himself. So, for a while, we compared our
computer capabilities. You could tell that he wasn't boasting
about his -- just being factual. I was boasting, of course.

  As we talked, the sun disappeared behind clouds that were growing
lower and darker. It looked like a storm was brewing, but I stayed.
I had to turn the conversation to his parents, or I'd fail in the
mission my mother sent me on.

  A couple of times, I saw his mother at a window, looking at us.
Then, raindrops began to fall on his open book. He wiped the
water off the pages and pulled the book close to his chest.

  "I guess it's going to rain," he said.

  "Yeah." I hesitated, hoping to be invited inside his house . . . .
It almost worked.

  "We'd better sit on the porch. You'll never get back home without
getting soaked."

  We moved to the screened porch and sat on an old-fashioned glider.
The porch was unusual. Most modern houses like theirs didn't usually 
have porches. When I mentioned that to Lal, he said his parents had 
the contractor add it on. He said his parents liked to sit out there 
at night and look at the stars.

  Just then, talking through the screen door to the interior, his
mother called him in. I waited and wondered whether I'd get a chance 
to look inside. My mother would want to know about the house and how 
they kept it up.

  Then, the door opened halfway, and Lal spoke to me.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 11
  
  "Kevin, why don't you have lunch with us?"

  "Great. Thanks." . . . I was in.

5.

  Inside, their house looked pretty much the same as those of my
other friends. In the living room, they had some Indian art on
the walls and a few Indian antiques, here and there. At least it
looked Indian to me. You know -- those gods that have several arms,
and such.

  We were called to the dining room, where Lal introduced me to 
his parents. They looked like the people you see in the TV film
documentaries on India. His mother was wearing a sari, and had
one of those red marks on her forehead. His father didn't wear
a turban, but he had a fierce, black mustache, like the Indian
soldiers who do wear turbans . . . . Even considering how things
turned out, I have to admit I didn't notice anything unusual
about Lal's parents. If you have cable-TV, the world comes right
into your living-room.

  His father was already seated, and his mother was bringing food
from the kitchen. It smelled good. I was on my best visitor-
behavior because I hoped to put them at ease and learn as much
as I could.

  Lal introduced me, and we sat down.

  "I hope you like vegetarian food, Kevin," said his father.

  "Yes, sir. My mom says it's better for you, but my dad prefers
conventional fare, so . . ." I found myself beginning to speak like
I sometimes do to show off my vocabulary.

  "I understand. Try a little of everything," he said. Lal's father
did most of the talking. His mother smiled maternally at me, but
said little.

  At first, I found myself on the receiving end of the questions.
Patiently, between mouthfuls, I told them about myself and my
parents. While I talked, lightning began flashing and thunder
boomed, as the storm got closer. When the first loud thunderclap
shook the windows, I thought I detected apprehension in my hosts'
faces. Lal's father seemed to become distracted by the storm
while I talked.

  Just as I was trying to turn the conversation toward them,
the lights went out.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 12

6.

  Power failures weren't unusual for our area. The local power
usually failed, for a little while, several times during the
summer thunderstorm season.

  But, I could see that this power failure was going to be
different -- at least for me.

  "The line is out!" Lal's father announced, more loudly than
seemed necessary. I thought I detected fear in his voice. I
tried to reassure them, in my know-it-all way.

  "It's probably just a local outage." My science class had been
taken on a tour of the electric company last year, so I knew how
thunderstorms affected the distribution system.

  "No . . . the powerline's out," said Lal's father, pointing to 
the unseen cables above us.

  I wondered how he could tell that. Sometimes you can hear a
humming sound from the cables, but my science teacher told me
it's just vibration caused by the wind. I wanted to ask Lal's
father how he knew the line was dead, but something in the
atmosphere of the room made me hold my tongue.

  We sat there in the dim light from the windows. It was a strange
thing. When a lightning flash illuminated the room, I could see
the concern on the faces of Lal and his parents. I kept on eating
because I felt embarrassed watching their reaction to the loss
of power. I was the only one at the table who ate much.

  After a few agonizing minutes, when it seemed that the power
wasn't going to come back on anytime soon, Lal's father spoke.

  "Lal, why don't you and Kevin sit on the porch until the power
returns. Then we can finish our meal."

  Lal lead me out onto the porch. The door closed behind us.

  We sat on the glider talking a little, but mostly watching the
lightning play in the clouds. Lal knew the velocity of sound,
so we counted between the strokes and the thunderclaps to see
how far away the strokes had been. Finally, we tired of that and
just watched the rain, awkwardly. I felt I should say something,
because I saw that Lal was worried, like his parents. A couple
of times he got up and went back into the house, then returned.
After the second time, I asked him if anything was wrong.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 13


  "My parents are troubled by the lightning," he replied.

  That seemed funny to me. They were from India. Didn't they have
thunderstorms there during the monsoon season? They should have
gotten used to thunder and lightning, by now.

  "Tell me some more about the kids at school," said Lal.

  I started talking about the kids in other classes. My little
brother gossiped about the younger kids, so I repeated some of
his stories. Many of them didn't have both mothers and fathers,
and they had stories to tell about their homes and problems.
Some of the stories sounded like TV. I babbled on, figuring this
wasn't the time to quiz Lal about his own family.

  After about half an hour had passed, and I was winding down,
we heard a little cry from inside the house. Lal jumped up.

  "I'll be right back, Kevin." He went inside, closing the door
behind him. I had an impulse to look in a window to see what was
happening, but I restrained myself.

  If the power hadn't failed, I guess we would have been playing
with his computer by now. I wanted to see how his kind performed,
compared with mine. But, it didn't happen, that day.

  After a while, Lal came out of the house. He had an umbrella.

  "Is anything wrong?" I asked, for the second time.

  "It's turned out to be a bad day, Kevin. My parents want me to
escort you home. Your mother must be worried about you, with the
storm and everything."

  "I guess you're right. Could I call her?"

  "We don't have a telephone. I'm sorry."

  No phone? . . . I'd never met anybody who didn't have a telephone.
Earlier, I'd seen a TV with a cable box on top in their living room, 
and it seemed funny to me they had cable, but no phone.

  "Oh . . . . Well, then, I guess we'd better get started." Without
seeming to, I looked at the cables coming in on poles from the
driveway to the side of the house. There were two separate cables.
One must have been a phone line, I thought.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 14

7.

  As we walked down his gravel driveway, huddled under a big, black
umbrella, Lal's expression told me he was really worried.

  I decided that it was now, or never . . . I began asking questions
about his parents and their homeland. He gave me short answers in a 
quavering voice. It wasn't much of a conversation. He was too 
distracted.

  As we walked out of the woods onto the powerline right-of-way,
Lal's hands holding the umbrella began to shake.

  "Boy, it's a scary time to be out here," I said.

  "Y-Y-Yes," he stammered, and began to walk faster. I had to catch
up. I could see he was afraid of the powerline and the lightning.

  "The line has lightning arrestor wires above the juice cables,
doesn't it?" I asked, reassuringly.

  "Y-Yes. It does."

  "We're probably safer here than anywhere else in the neighborhood,
then," I said. It was more of a hope than a guess. Lal didn't
seem reassured.

  Finally, we reached the grove of trees the contractor had left
at the turnaround, on my side of the powerline. Lal was trembling,
by then. I wanted to say something to calm him, but I couldn't
think of anything.

  "Let's stop here under the trees," I said. We stood under the
leaky branches. I remembered what my science teacher had told
us about standing under trees in a storm. I hoped the powerline
lightning cables were high enough to protect us, here.

  Suddenly, as we stood there, Lal began to weep.

  "T-The power's still off," he said, in tears.

  "How can you tell?" I asked, unable to contain myself. From where
we were, we couldn't see any of the houses to see if they were
lighted.

  He hesitated for a while, sobbing softly. Then he spoke.

  "It's hurting my parents."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 15
  
  I felt really uncomfortable, being there with him, then. It was
almost painful.

  "You mean the lightning?"

  "No."

  "What, then?"

  "The power failure."

  I felt at a loss for words, but I continued, undiplomatically.

  "How does that hurt them?"

  He gave me a look of anguish. He was anguished about his parents.
He stood there in the rain, looking back toward his house, tears
running down his face.

  "I'm not supposed to tell."

  I was taken aback, but forged ahead. "Tell what, Lal?"

  When he didn't reply immediately, I said, sagely, "It might make
you feel better if you told me . . . . I can keep a secret." I took
the umbrella handle from his shaking hands.

  He looked at me with what I guessed was a look of trust.

  "They need the power to stay healthy and to keep their shape."
When I didn't ask the inevitable question, he explained.

  "They're aliens. They're not like us -- not even like me."

  "Aliens?" . . . Everyone knew they were foreigners.

  "F-From somewhere in the stars."

  I just can't describe my reaction to hearing this. I asked,
foolishly, "You're not Indians, then?"

  "No. We just pretend to be."

  "Your parents are extra . . . terrestrial?" Me and my big words.

  "Yes. They came to this world by mistake -- it's a long 
story . . . . They couldn't leave because their ship was ruined 
by Earth's atmosphere. They had to stay."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 16

  He stopped weeping, about then. I guess he saw my wide-eyed
expression. I tried to relax the muscles in my face. How could
I believe what he was saying? It was too wild . . .  but, somehow,
I did.

  "They found Earth inhospitable. To keep a human shape, they --
we -- need a strong electromagnetic field. That's why we live next
to the powerline. It has the field-strength we need."

  I was floored, as they used to say. But, I played it straight.
I couldn't imagine a guy as serious as Lal putting me on.

  "Is that why your parents stay at home so much?"

  "Yes. Things are worse, now. They can't keep their human shape
for very long. They've gotten accustomed to the powerline field.
When it fails, they began to feel pain."

  "But, you . . . you go to school."

  "I was born here. I'm different. I can be away from the powerline
for a lot longer. I run errands for them and take care of them.
. . . Oh!"

  "What?"

  "The power is on again . . . I can tell. They'll be all right, now."
He smiled a little, then. "We'd better hurry."

  "That's okay. The rain's not so bad, now. I can go on alone. My
home's not far."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yeah. You'd better go back to your place. Your parents may
need you."

  "Thanks, Kevin . . . . You won't tell anybody, will you?"

  "Unh-uh. Who needs to know, anyway? It's none of their
business. It's just between us. Besides, who'd believe me?"

  "Thanks. Come back tomorrow, and my father will explain
everything. I'll convince him to trust you."

  I wasn't so sure about that, but I took him at his word.
"Okay. Maybe you'll show me your computer, then, too?"

  "Sure."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 17

  "I'll see you."

  "'Bye."

  For a little while, I stood under the trees, getting wetter,
as I watched Lal hurry back across the powerline strip, anxious
to get back to his parents. He never looked back. I felt excited
-- and privileged, too. I'd been chosen out of the billions on
Earth to learn a secret from the stars . . . . I hoped Lal's 
parents felt that way, too.

  I hardly noticed the rain, then, I walked slowly home, trying 
to think of what I could tell my mother . . . about those people 
on the other side.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Fredrick Rustam, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------                            
Fredrick is a retired civil servant. For thirty years, he indexed 
technical reports for the Department of Defense. As a hobby, and
for his and your enjoyment he writes short stories for the ezines 
of the Web, mostly SF. Email:  frustam@capaccess.org.
===================================================================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
BOX OF DEATH
  by J. Alec West
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  
  I hit the power-panel master switch at eleven PM Saturday
night, April 1st. My CB radio died with an audible pop. I jumped to 
my feet, swatted the comms room light off and raced up the basement 
stairs with a half-full coffee cup in hand. Five steps from the 
kitchen floor an unexpected silhouette cast its shadow down the 
stairwell. My right hand jerked, the coffee went everywhere and I
fell to my knees with a thud.
  
  "What on Earth's going on?" said the shadow.
  
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 18
  
  "Jesus, Joanie. Thought you were in bed already." My momentary
terror fizzled. "No time to explain. Gotta meet Doc Talbot." I rose
to my feet and limped the remaining steps into the kitchen. "Where's
the camcorder?"
  
  "I think it's in the closet, dear. Why?"
  
  "Doc told me about this great nudie bar in Canyon City," I
joked. I heard Joanie gasp as I opened the closet door. "Just
kidding, dear. Doc told me to bring it with me. Don't know why."
  
  "But . . ."
  
  "We'll talk about it later . . . tomorrow, maybe. Gotta rush."
  
  With the camcorder and empty cup in one hand I extended the
other to a kitchen counter. I grabbed an old aluminum kettle and
filled my airpot with hot, black coffee -- the five-hour-old kind
that sticks to a man's ribs. "Don't wait up for me, love."
  
  I saw Joanie look out the picture window as my red '72 Skylark
spun from the driveway to the street. It was one of those worried
looks. Lord knows I'd lived with her long enough to tell. Lord 
knows she'd come to recognize my own worry, too. But I couldn't 
tell her what I didn't know, and what I didn't know was what 
worried me. Doc's CB call played itself over and over in my head as 
I turned from the street to U. S. Highway 26, westbound from John 
Day, Oregon.

  "Cecil Knox comin' back atcha, Doc. What's up? Over."
  
  "Cece. Remember where we camped out last year? Over."
  
  "Yeah, sorry I couldn't make it with ya this time. My damned
arthritis is acting up again and you know what cold mornings do 
to it. Over."
  
  "Cece, just listen. Get yourself out here right now. Don't ask
me any questions, just do it. And, yeah, bring your camcorder.
Over."
  
  I could tell when Doc was in trouble. I'd known him longer than
Joanie -- known him since we both went to Grant Union High School.
Class of '48, we both were, him going on to be the county coroner,
me going on to be a janitor for the school district. I remembered
they called us Laurel & Hardy back then, him being short and stout,
me being a stringy beanpole, but both of us being the best of
friends. Yeah, I knew when Doc was frightened. I pushed the gas
pedal further down to the floorboard.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 19
  
  "Doc, this is Cece. Come back, over."
  
  My car's CB speaker returned only static and whine. I continued
to call him as my car sped westward through Mt. Vernon and then
Dayville. Just before the John Day River gorge I saw a familiar
rancher's road off to the left. It wound its way up into the
foothills. My tires grumbled over a cattle-guard and left a trail 
of dust in the half-moon twilight as I sped up the dirt road. When 
I reached the summit, I saw Doc's Dodge pickup off to the left. He
stood near the back and looked into its lighted canopy bed. When he
saw me pull over to a shoulder and stop, he ran in my direction.
  
  "Dammit, Cece, what took you so long?" Doc scolded. He stopped
in front of me, panting and heaving. "You missed it."
  
  "Missed what?" I held him by the shoulders to calm him down.
  
  "Spaceship -- flying saucer -- Christ, I don't know what the
hell it was."
  
  I checked my watch to be sure and smirked. Sure enough, it was
still April Fools Day. Not only that but Doc's breath had the smell
of beer to it -- a heavy smell.
  
  "Jesus, Doc." I laughed. "Look, I know I buggered out on this
year's camp-out and I'm sorry. But, if you really wanted me to join
you I'd have ignored the arthritis. All you had to do was ask." I
laughed again, more robust this time. "You don't have to invent
Martian invasion stories for Christ's sake."
  
  Doc sneered back and grabbed me by the collar. Staggering, he
led me over to the back of his pickup, told me to look onto the bed,
and removed his camp blanket from something covered up. I nearly wet
myself. There, lying still and naked on the pickup bed was a nearly
four-foot tall human-looking creature. In the grip of both hands was
a black box, a cube measuring about six inches on each side.
  
  "Is -- is it dead?" I asked.
  
  "If my eyesight is a good judge the answer is yes," Doc replied. 
"Decomposition seems to be setting in fast. Strange, though. No 
smell of decay." He covered up the body and stumbled to the pickup 
cab to flip off the canopy light. When he returned, he put a hand 
on my shoulder. "Look, I'm drunk as a piper. Leave your car here. 
We'll pick it up later. We've just got to get this thing back to 
town fast so I can examine it."
  
  Doc handed me his pickup keys. I went to my car and retrieved
the empty cup, airpot, and camcorder. With my car locked up tight 
I jogged back to Doc's pickup and hopped into the driver's seat 
next to him.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 20
  
  "The camera . . . thank Christ you brought the camera," he said. 
"Get a picture of it before we leave." He flipped the canopy light 
dash switch back on.
  
  I faced the lighted canopy, removed the blanket, aimed the
camcorder and pressed the record button. My viewfinder went black.
"Shit," I yelled, "the damn battery's dead." I could hear Doc groan.
He turned off the canopy light as I covered up the body and returned
to the cab.
  
  I was eastbound on Highway 26 when Doc noticed my airpot and cup.
  
  "Is that regular or unleaded?" he asked.
  
  "Silly question, Doc. You know I'm a night owl."
  
  "Thank Christ for small favors." Doc served himself the first
cup of black brew. "I've just got to sober up -- got to get my wits
back -- got to think clear on this." He took his first gulp. "That
creature's dead and I want to know why."
  
  The pickup windows were rolled down. Blasts of frosty air
buffeted our faces as mileposts flickered by along the roadside.
When we finally got back to John Day I turned South on Highway 395
for the two-mile trip to Doc's Canyon City office. He broke the
silence.
  
  "Oh, Hell . . . coffee's gone. There's a pot and fixins in my
office. Make me some when we get there, okay Cece?"
  
  I pulled up in front of Doc's office, a few blocks away from
the county courthouse. Even though it was the coroner's office, 
we decided the suspicious nature of two men unloading a body from 
a pickup at one in the morning was clear. We sat for a moment and
listened for stirrings on nearby streets and sidewalks. When we 
were confident of not being observed, Doc walked to the front door,
unlocked it and propped it open with a doorstop. With the corpse
still wrapped in the camp blanket, we carried it through the office
and into the autopsy exam room. Doc remained in the autopsy room
while I returned to the office. The exam room door swung shut. I
closed the front door, locked it, and turned off the overhead
lighting. The red light of the brewing coffee pot became the only
illumination left in the room.
  
  I sat near the office entrance door and fingered an opening in
the front window blinds. I looked nervously for signs of activity
outside. The streets were dead quiet. No traffic. No movement. Only
a faint glimmer flickered from streetlights near the courthouse.
Then suddenly the office was bathed in light. I bolted to my feet.
The blinds clattered shut as I yanked back my fingers.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 21

  "Coffee ready yet?" Doc asked, apparently unaware his entrance
from the exam room had startled me.
  
  "Jesus, Doc!" I masked my shout in a whisper. "Don't do that!"
  
  "Oh . . . sorry." Doc laughed. He reached for the coffee pot
and poured himself a cup. "Any chance of getting that camera
running?"
  
  "Check your watch, Doc," I barked, still shaking. "Ain't no
stores selling camcorder batteries at this hour, and I haven't 
seen my power cord since I lost it last year."
  
  "I'll have to begin, then." Doc took a long, hot sip. "Body's
decomposing fast. Rigor mortis had already set in by the time I
found him. Couldn't pry that box out of his hands for the life of
me." Doc raised his stare from the floor. "I'll need some help,
Cece. Can't do much cutting with that box held to his chest."
  
  "_His_ chest?"
  
  "C'mon, Cece, you saw him too. Male genitalia were unmistakable. 
But that's about all I do know about him. His ship, saucer, whatever 
took off without him before I had the chance to ask any questions."
  
  My expression took on awe and curiosity. I suppose Doc realized
he'd told me nothing of what had transpired before my arrival at 
the campsite. He said a brief explanation would have to suffice if 
he was to examine the alien's corpse before it corrupted itself
further.
  
  Doc explained he'd been zipped up in his sleeping bag, fast
asleep after two six-packs of generic beer had dizzied him into a
slumber. A whirring sound disturbed that slumber and light filtered
into the pickup canopy where he slept:
 
   "_Morning? Already_?" His head throbbed when he checked his 
watch. "_What the hell_?"
  
  The sound and light were coming from about a hundred yards to
the South just over a short rise. Walking up to the crest and
concealing himself behind a juniper tree, he'd seen a metallic-
silver craft only a few feet away. It was circular, about fifty 
feet in diameter with a height of twenty feet. As the craft rested 
on triangular pod-like legs a hatch door swung downward. Six 
humanoid figures emerged. The frequency of the sound reached a high 
pitch and then became inaudible as the six figures stood beside the 
hatch door.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 22
  
  "_Three animals approaching -- looks like a forked-horn buck, a
bobcat, a coyote -- entering the craft. Wait! Crew going back
inside. Hatch closing. Christ! Cecil! He'd still be up. CB radio 
-- channel 13's his favorite. My pickup radio -- got to get 
through_."
  
  After Doc got through to me, he'd run back up the rise to the
juniper tree. The craft remained quiet and motionless for several
minutes. Then . . .
  
  "_Hatch opening again -- the three animals, running out, back
into the junipers. Wait! One of the crew -- carrying something --
leaving the ship. Staggering -- falling -- getting back up but
falling again -- not moving. Hatch closing again -- noise -- loud,
louder. Damn, Cece! Where are you_?"
  
  The craft had made a slow vertical rise above the treetops,
banked northward over the gorge -- then straight up, out of sight.

                               *  *  *
  
  Doc finished his update and noticed my nausea as we stood
together over the autopsy table. "Not a pretty sight, but it'll 
only take us a second," he reassured. "Then you can go back to the 
office and catch some sleep."
  
  Doc was right. A quick tug by both of us freed the box. Doc
placed it on a counter near a sink. I made a quick exit as Doc 
began his work. I moved a newspaper to the side of Doc's office 
desk, placed my feet up and stretched back in a steno chair. The 
caffeine from my CB watch had worn off and I found myself drifting 
off to sleep.
  
  _Bang . . . bang . . . bang_!
  
  The noise from the exam room woke me with a start. Sunlight
filtered in through the gaps in the office blinds and the wall 
clock said six. I walked to the exam room.
  
  "What's going on?" I stared curiously at Doc. He was on his
knees holding a hand-sledge over the black box.
  
  "Scalpel won't cut it. Drill doesn't work either. Got any
better suggestions?"
  
  "Wait . . . wait just a minute." I ran back into the office and
returned with the Blue Mountain Eagle. I paged through the weekly
newspaper and scanned the text.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 23
  
  "This alien appears to have died from asphyxiation but that's
only a guess," Doc said. "Never seen anything like it. No digestive
system to speak of. No means of solid waste discharge. Massive lungs
if that's what they are. Perhaps his kind _breathes in_ nutrition."
  
  I nodded absentmindedly and directed my attention to the paper.
Doc continued.
  
  "Those lungs were inflamed, tissue probably hard and dry at 
the onset of death. The inflammation was spreading, too -- from 
the lungs into the surrounding tissue. Chemical tests revealed 
some kind of bacterial action, high tissue concentrations of four 
chemicals; indole, skatole, hydrogen sulfide and mercaptans. Those 
chemicals are unremarkable. You and I come into contact with them 
every day. The spreading inflammation suggests that, perhaps, he 
was trying to absorb those chemicals as nutrients."
  
  Doc rose to his feet and placed both the box and hammer on a
counter behind him. "Hell, more questions than answers, really.
Perhaps that box holds some answers."
  
  "Give me fifteen minutes, Doc."
  
  I handed the Eagle to Doc, pointed out an article, and rushed
out the office door. I sped off in his pickup. When I returned he
still held the paper.
  
  "Good thinking, Cece. Damn good thinking."
  
  "Thought it might have been packed up and gone by now," I
replied. "Lucky you had that Eagle." The paper story confirmed it.
The new portable diamond drill on display at Grant Union High 
School was to be held one more week. I shut the office door and set 
the upright drill device on Doc's desk.
  
  Doc retrieved the black box from the exam room as I plugged in
the drill. With the box positioned under the device, I powered it
up. The descending bit made contact and, slowly, an indentation
formed on the surface of the cube. I applied more pressure to the
handle.
  
  _ThhhhhHHHHHHH . . ._
  
  A bluish, smoky gas escaped the interior of the box as its
casing was breached. The whooshing sound continued for a short 
time. Then, as Doc and I looked on, the box itself began to corrupt 
and dissolve. Doc backed away from the desk. I withdrew the drill 
bit upward and yanked the power plug from the wall socket.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 24
  
  "Say, Doc, maybe this wasn't such a hot idea."
  
  "Wait a minute -- look." Doc pointed to the desk top.
  
  The box itself was no longer there. It had either melted or
just evaporated into the air. What remained on the desk were the
contents of the box, a mound of foul-smelling matter.
  
  "Do you smell it, Cece?" Doc smiled. "I think I understand now.
It's beginning to make sense. This was my box of answers."
  
  "Unh, Doc, this wasn't your box of answers." I giggled. The
hunting and tracking experience of my youth came back to me. I
turned on a desk lamp to illuminate the mound. My suspicions
appeared true. "What you've got here is a pile of shit. Lessee --
you've got yer deer shit, yer bobcat shit -- looks like some coyote
shit mixed in too."
  
  "Exactly," Doc replied. "Remember those four chemicals I found
in high concentrations in the alien's lungs? Bacterial action 
caused by those chemicals give fecal matter its distinctive odor."
     
  "You've lost me, Doc." My forehead wrinkled. "Try English."
  
  "Those chemicals are what makes shit stink. Think for a minute.
We're dealing with an alien lifeform with no digestive system as we
know it, a lifeform that probably has no experience in dealing with
feces, no experience in the odor of decay. The bacterial action --
the chemicals -- they're probably unknown to his kind. I suspect
that to his species, the odor is fatal."
  
  I was mesmerized.
  
  "My guess is that they came to Earth to examine animal subjects, 
perhaps using some kind of sonic hypnotism to lure those three 
animals into their craft. Once inside, the aliens released their 
sonic hold over the animals. Can you imagine the terror those 
animals felt? Trapped? Defecation is not an uncommon reaction among
animals who find their lives in peril. By the time the aliens
noticed the deadly effects of those chemicals, one of their crew 
had already been overcome by the odor. They realized it was time to
withdraw -- cleaned up the feces -- placed it in an airtight
container -- consigned to their dying crewman the duty of removing
it from the ship."
  
  "Damn." I shook my head. "Your box of answers was their box of
death."
  
  "That's about the size of it, Cece."
  
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 25
  
  Doc shifted his gaze from the desk to the interior of the exam
room. A frown stained his face. He walked through the open doorway
with me close behind. Decomposition was near complete. The purulent
ooze left on the autopsy table bore no resemblance to anything that
had once lived.
  
  "Nobody's gonna believe this, Doc," I said. "We have no proof
of any of this."
  
  "You're right." Doc nodded. "I suppose there's not much left to
do but clean up the mess and dispatch it to the exam room
incinerator."
  
  Doc drove me home, stopping along the way so I could return the
drill. He assured me he'd be by later in the day to ferry me back 
to my car -- suggested I tell Joanie I'd had a flat tire. It seemed
like a rational excuse -- more rational than the truth, anyway.
  
  Joanie cast a suspicious glance my way and handed me a cup of
coffee as we sat at the breakfast bar.

  I must have looked dead tired. Joanie agreed I should go to
bed. Mercifully, she let whatever questions she had slide for the
moment. As I approached sleep I recounted the night's experience.
Doc's reason for the aliens being here seemed logical. But, what if
my earlier retort to Doc was true? What if their visit was indeed a
prelude to some sort of alien invasion? My last lucid thought was
comforting. If these aliens planned an invasion, it was nice to know
that nearly every creature on this planet came with a built-in 
weapon to use against them -- or at least a renewable supply of
ammunition.
  
  "A flat tire, eh?" she said.
  
  I nodded and took a deep sip of coffee as she continued.
     
  "Sounds like a load of shit to me."
  
  My mouthful of coffee went everywhere. I laughed and blushed at
the same time as Joanie patted me on the back. "You have no idea." 
  

                               (DREAM)
                               
Copyright 1995 J. Alec West, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.                      
-------------------------------------------------------------------
J., a freelance writer, resides in Vancouver, WA. He likes feedback 
from his readers, so drop some email in his box and let him know 
what you think:  alecwest@teleport.com
===================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 26

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
POLITICS: A PRIMER
  by Bob Rhubart
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Less than half of the eligible voters in the U. S. bother
to exercise their democratic right to choose their elected 
leaders. This statistic was arrived at by extensive research which 
involved reading a couple of articles and then remembering the 
important points, sort-of. Nevertheless, this is a serious problem, 
especially in an election year, when the various competitors will
once again enter the ring, grappling to score points while wearing
skin-tight Spandex outfits. No, wait . . . that's Greco-Roman 
wrestling, just one of the many exciting events scheduled for the 
Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta. 
          
  At any rate, far too may people don't vote. Perhaps, if the 
candidates did wear spandex and wrestle, more people would take an 
interest in politics, American-style. Wrestling is uncomplicated: 
one guy flattens another guy. But one suspects that people stay 
away from the voting booth because they are confused about politics. 
That, and the fact that there are no candidates named "Hulk." 
          
  Contemporary American politics is a baffling mix of press 
releases, sound bites, and talk-show opinion-mongering, all 
carefully crafted to make you think that one candidate is a decent, 
hard-working, flannel shirt-wearing regular-guy type millionaire, 
while the other candidate is a scandal-ridden, devil-worshipping, 
suit-and-tie-wearing millionaire. The participants are specially 
trained to speak in an authoritative manner while never saying 
anything that might anger or alienate one voting block or another. 
Which means they never actually say anything. So the problem 
confronting the reluctant voter is deciding which party to vote for 
when you know absolutely nothing about how they will perform once 
in office. 
  
  There have been many political parties in America's past, 
such as the Federalist party, the Whig party, and the Matching 
Shoes and Handbag party. But these never really caught on. What 
we have now are the two biggies, the Democratic and Republican 
Parties. There are a few smaller, "third" parties, but when the 
main plank in your party platform is promising to use federal 
dollars to construct landing strips for the Galactic Overlords, 
you're not going to have to worry about whether various members 
of Fleetwood Mac will have their eating disorders under control 
in time for your inauguration. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 27
  
  The Republicans and the Democrats put their respective 
candidates before the American public to argue the merits of each 
party's particular game plan. This is where it gets tricky for the 
voter. Both parties claim to be working to insure the happiness, 
financial security, and general well-being of the citizens. The 
difference is in the manner in which each party intends to achieve 
its promised goals. This is called the party platform -- which is 
not, by the way, the redwood deck around a pool. 
  
  In deciding on a platform, each party carefully researches the 
views of the American public. Polls are taken to determine attitudes 
toward a variety of issues. Campaign strategists then brainstorm to 
craft a theme that distills the basic philosophy of the party into 
a single, easily communicated concept, which is generally some 
variation of, "Vote for us because the other guys suck." 
  
  Often, the candidates will choose to present their respective 
platforms and qualifications for office in a public forum called 
a debate. This results in exchanges like the following:

Candidate A: I'm against crime!

Candidate B: Me too!

Candidate A: I was against crime before you!

Candidate B: Oh yeah? Well I'm against wasteful government 
             spending!

Candidate A: Hah! I'm against that and a lot of other bad 
             stuff, too!

  Clearly, the choices are tough. But it is the duty of each 
voter to carefully weigh each party on its merits, and then choose
which best represents his or her own interests by applying the 
eeni-meenie-minie-mo method.
  
  So if you were thinking about skipping out on voting again this 
November -- because you don't believe your vote counts, or you're 
not sure which party or candidate to vote for -- remember this:
It's a secret ballot. No one will ever know who you voted for. If 
the candidate you vote for turns out to be a dork, so what? You 
can lie and tell people you voted for the other guy. If your 
candidate ends up being an insightful and wise leader, you can 
take credit. And if the Galactic Overlords show up, and they're 
really honked-off because there's no place for them to park, you 
can tell them it wasn't your fault. 
  
  Of course, they can read minds . . . .

  
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 28

Copyright 1996 Bob Rhubart, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob Rhubart, 42, was born in Pensacola, Florida. After being
kidnapped by aliens, who taught him to speak Spanish and pick 
fruit, he moved to the western suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, 
where he still resides. He has one wife, two daughters, one house, 
two mortgages, two cars, two dogs, a rabbit, a parakeet, bad eyes, 
bad knees, a bad back, bad sinuses, and things are going just fine, 
thank you very much. We hope to see him regularly in DF.
email: bobrhub@aol.com
===================================================================




=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
TO KISS A STAR
  by Abe Urtat-Du'Edu
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  When I was very young, I would lie on the cool night grass
wondering at the stars. I would lie there for hours, talking 
to them; they were always nice, gentle, and wise.
  
  Not like my father. He was cruel, rough, and stupid. I don't 
think he should have hit me so much, but he said I'd killed my 
mother, and I should just be thankful he didn't kill me. I never 
even met my mother, so I don't know how I could have hurt her; 
but he hit me anyway.
  
  I told the stars when my father was mean to me, and they
said they would take care of me; and I told my father that. He
said I spent too much time under the dome, watching the stars,
and I could never go back. He said we would be landing on a new
planet during my life, and I had to learn something or he'd get
in trouble. "Make yourself useful," he said. He took the stars
away from me and locked me in a room to learn about numbers and
growing plants and all kinds of things I didn't care about and
didn't understand. When the airlock opened with him trapped
inside, they said it was an accident. I knew better; I knew the
stars were taking care of me and had finally punished him for
being mean.
  
  Dr. Palmer took care of me too, after that. She let me see
the stars again, but said I still had to learn things. I tried
to learn because she was nice. Nobody much noticed, though, if I
left the classroom after she took me there every day; they were
all so busy.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 29
  
  When I left, I didn't always go to see the stars in the
dome; sometimes I watched them from the control room. I went
there if the other kids were in the dome:  They would make fun 
of me there, call me stupid, and shove me until I left. But the
mates on duty let me hang around. They showed me everything they
did, like how they'd enter minor course changes Dr. Palmer would
send them, honing our approach to our new home.  But they never
understood about the stars. Most of the time they just sat and
watched the controls while I watched the stars. They didn't think 
the stars were interesting, but they liked me to hang around. They 
especially liked to leave me "in charge," when they'd sneak off to 
be with their girl or boyfriends.
  
  When I was older, the other boys my age were interested in
girls too, and the girls in the boys. But the boys didn't want
me around, or the girls either. I asked a girl to come see the
stars with me once -- she only laughed, and told the others. I
knew she would be punished too. That's when I realized I would
never be like them; none of them could ever love me. They can't
understand. But even if they could never love me, I could still
fall in love; and I did.
  
  Living with them that way was frustrating, yet I never let
on that I understood, that I was in love. Instead I tried to
show them I wasn't "good for nothing," as my father said. But
they laughed behind my back when I said I wanted to be a mate 
in the control room. The kind ones said I wasn't old enough, and
that we were almost there so it wouldn't matter soon. The mean
ones said there would be no more stars to see at night since our
new home was always in daylight. But I forgave them, and asked
the stars not to punish them, because love does conquer all.
  
  Yesterday I showed them my surprise -- how much I'd learned! 
I locked myself in the control room with my love, and made tiny
adjustments to their controls. They've been trying to get at us
ever since. I know they're angry that I spilled all their fuel,
but they must understand about love.
  
  Now, at last, I can embrace my love tenderly. She calls to
me warmly, smiling brightly, come closer. I don't even mind
sharing her with everyone else, for it's the greatest feeling
there can ever be to kiss a star.

                               (DREAM)
                               
Copyright 1996 Andrew Burt,  All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------                               
Andrew is a freelance writer, who especially likes SF. He's also in
charge of a fiction writers' mailing list; for more info contact 
the web page at: http://www.cs.du.edu/users/critters/ 
You can email him at: aburt@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu
===================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 30

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE END  
  by Karen Williams
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


January 13, 1993:
-------

  I started this diary when I saw a TV show. It terrified me.
I can't tell anyone, because they will just laugh and not
understand my fears. I don't even know why I'm writing in this
diary. I mean, it'll soon be the end of the world, so who will
read it?

  I guess I'll first write a little about myself. My name is
Rose. As I was growing up, I thought it was a stupid name.
I was always teased by my classmates, but now that I'm older,
I think it's a beautiful name. I'm 23. Still wet behind the
ears, and still single. I don't know if I will ever get married,
I mean, what's the point? Why should I get married, settle down,
have children, then kaboom? There's no logical reason to settle
down, and it would be insane to have children, and bring them
into the world, as it is now.

  I work at a liquor store. I hate my job, but it's feeding me,
so I guess it'll do for now. I'm going to college. I only take
a few courses per semester, but I want to make something of
myself, and not settle on being a liquor store clerk the rest of
my life. 

  I guess you're confused now, I mean, why should I go to 
college, if I'll die anyway. What's the point of trying to 
improve. I should be having fun, and living high on the hog. I
should get a bunch of credit cards, and charge, charge, charge.
They can't make you pay your debts if you're dead, right? I have
principles. I mean, I think I'm a good person, at least I try to
be. And there's this little part of me that believes maybe the
world won't end.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 31

  I guess I should tell you why I think the world "will" end. I
believe in God, and I know he must be disappointed as anything
at the way the world is now.  The TV show said a huge asteroid,
bigger than the earth, is heading towards us. They said it
should hit in 1999. Let's see, I'll be 29 years old. Gosh,
that's still so young. Too young to die. Anyway, they say
it'll just make the earth blow up. There's no way out of it,
and there's nothing we can do. Yeah, I know, you think it was
just a scam, a TV show that is based on those stupid magazines.
Well, it could happen. And, it's just made me so afraid. So
afraid, that . . . I'm afraid to live.

  I don't know how often I'll be writing in this diary. I guess
when the fear is so overwhelming, and I have no one to talk to
about it, I write to . . . .


September 29, 1993
---------

  I just read over my last entry. I guess I've put the end of 
the world out of my mind, until today.

  The past few months I've been spending a lot of time with 
this guy. His name is Troy, but everyone calls him Bud. Isn't 
that a hoot? I mean, my name's Rose, and his name's Bud. Well,
things are starting to get serious. Last night, we slept
together for the first time. Yeah, I know what you're thinking,
I'm just a tease, to string him along so long, before I finally
gave myself to him, but I have principles. I have to love someone 
before I'll give myself to them. Anyway, after we made love, we 
were laying in bed, holding each other. It was so romantic. He 
told me he loved me, and I got scared. I just held tight, and 
began thinking about the end of the world again.

  I don't understand! When I should be so happy, I think such
negative thoughts. The TV show I saw months ago, echoed through 
my head. Fear enveloped me, I began to shake. Bud just held me, 
and told me not to be afraid of him, that he wouldn't push me at 
all. He didn't understand what I was afraid of, and I couldn't 
tell him. I didn't want him to know what my greatest fear was. The 
fear of being happy, having everything to live for, then the world 
ending.


March 3, 1994
-----

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 32

  Bud and I were married a few weeks ago. It was one of the 
best days of my life. It was so beautiful. I wore my mother's
wedding dress, and my father walked me down the aisle. The
church was filled with our friends and family. We had a wonderful 
honeymoon. We spent a week on a cruise, it was magical. We didn't 
see many sights as we spent most of the time in our cabin.

  Now, I think I'm pregnant. I only hope God will see how happy 
we are, and not take this away from us. I know there's so much 
bad out there in the world; so many people have ruined the world 
for the rest of us good people; I hope God sees that not everyone 
is evil.

  I still haven't told Bud about my fear. I wonder if I ever will.


July 4, 1997
----

  My daughter's name is Hayley. She is so beautiful. She'll be
three in November. I just put her down for a nap, and she looks
so precious. No, I'm not working anymore. When Bud found out
I was pregnant, he made me quit working. He's such a good man,
and he loves me and Hayley so much. He works as a computer
programmer for a small company here in New York City. We hate
the city, but he's working hard to get a better job to get a 
home in the country.

  Sometimes I think we should build a house underground. I mean, 
I know it sounds crazy, but I still think about the end of the 
world. Then again, if the world is hit by that asteroid, then it'll 
blow up, and we'll be gone anyway. I still try and think of ways I 
can save my family.


January 1, 1998
-------

  Bud's laying on the bed, drunk. We had a huge party and 
everyone got pretty well toasted. I guess that's the fun of New 
Years. It's pretty late, well, early in the morning. All the 
guests left, by cab of course, and I'm stuck cleaning up. No big 
deal though, I think everyone had a good time.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 33

  I wonder what my new years resolution should be. Every day it
gets closer to 1999, I keep thinking about the end of the world.
There was a segment on the news about the asteroid the other day.
The announcer says the asteroid was on course to earth. She said
the military was planning on destroying it before it came into
the earth's atmosphere. I wonder how they will do it, and I
wonder why they haven't done it yet. I casually asked Bud what
he thought about it, and he said it was no big deal, not to worry,
that the military will do it's job, or the asteroid will change
directions. I didn't let him know I was terrified. I'm really
scared now. Only one more year, and then everyone will be dead.
What's the point of living? Why were we put on this earth, if
it was just going to be taken away?

 
December 31, 1998
--------

  Christmas is over. I haven't taken the tree down, there was 
no point. All the TV channels show their emergency screens. You
know the one I'm talking about. Hayley is asleep, next to me, on
the sofa, her head leaning against my shoulder. She's so beautiful. 
Bud's around the house boarding up the windows, but I know there's 
no point. Last night we made love, and pledged our undying love to 
each other. There's not much else we can do but hold each other 
tight, and go out together.

  The military couldn't blow up the asteroid. They tried, but
missed. How could they miss? Everyone wondered, but I know.
You see, God is putting his foot down. First he sent diseases to
wipe out some of the population, but then they found a cure for
AIDS, so he decided to send something we couldn't compete with, 
or find a cure for. The asteroid. The world is just so crazy.
Everyone is selfish. People are fighting, drugs and gangs are
taking over the streets. No one cares about the environment, or 
their neighbors. Hate is everywhere, taking over everyone's mind 
and body.

  I wonder if God will make another earth. I wonder if the next
people on earth, or whatever planet God will create, will know
about our mistakes, and make sure it doesn't happen to them. You
know, the best way to learn is from history. That is what we will 
be --  history.

  You may not believe in God, but I do. It makes sense, I mean, 
how did the earth get here? Someone or some great force had to do 
it. God is that great force.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 34

  I hear Bud hammering outside the house. I think I'll call him 
in, and have him hold me and Hayley until it's over. There's no
point even trying, it's too late, we blew it. The whole world
just blew it. We should have seen the signs earlier and changed
our life, and started working together to make the world a better 
place. The murders, rapists and other criminals should have changed 
themselves into better people. There was just too much evil and bad 
in the world, and we acted too late.

  I'm not going to wake Hayley up. She doesn't know what's going
on, and it's best that way. I'd hate to see her suffer, and I
want to see her happy, since this is the last day I will see her.
She's so beautiful, so innocent and sweet. Why do bad things
happen to good people?

  It's quite ironic, the military says the asteroid will hit at
12:00 on the dot, tonight. Instead of counting down, for the ball
to drop in Time's Square, we'll be counting down for the asteroid
to hit.

  Here comes Bud, so I will close. I hope that I will be writing
in this diary tomorrow, but I don't think so. I see Bud is crying, 
he tries so hard. He's sitting beside me now holding me, reading 
over my shoulder. I just looked at him and smiled. I can't 
understand why I'm so calm about this. He's smiling now, because 
he knows we're at peace, though we will soon be dead, he knows, if 
there is such a thing as reincarnation, and God creates a new world, 
we will find each other.

  Though I've known this would happen for some time, I did find
happiness in this life. I did not regret falling in love, and
having a beautiful child, though it will all be gone in a few
hours.

  I must now spend the last few hours of my life with my husband
and child. The last moment on this earth I will spend being happy, 
with my family, something I will never regret, for as long as I 
live.

  Good-bye sweet life and world. Maybe if we get another chance,
we won't take everything for granted.

                               (DREAM)
                               
Copyright 1996 Karen Williams, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Karen has a mystery novel making the rounds, looking for a home.
She can be contacted at: FidoNet: 1:301/12.2 (The Precinct BBS) 
505-892-2422. She's looking forward to hearing your comments! 
Email:  karen.williams%350-0@dbbs.mainelink.net.
===================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 35

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
HOW TO FIND A JOB 
  by Madeleine Begun Kane
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  
     
  Finding a new job can be a daunting challenge. But if you follow 
my simple 21-step plan, you'll soon be battling cranky alarm clocks, 
rush-hour traffic, and the "living for the weekend" daily grind. 
  
  1. Lose job.
  
  2. Panic, freak out, and turn into a pulsating blob of 
hysteria. CAUTION: It's best to do this at home -- you'll be
wanting that reference. 
  
  3. Torture everyone you've ever met with your tale of woe. 
Bitch about your former boss, your boss' boss, your lousy luck,
the manipulative coworker-worker who stole your job, the economy, and,
of course, the world as we know it. Seriously consider buying a 
voodoo doll. 
  
  4. Perfect the art of sleeping late, parading about in
slatternly garb, and doing absolutely nothing. Tell your spouse
you spent the entire week working on your resume. When spouse
says "Let me have a look," say you're still fine-tuning it. 
  
  5. Start working on resume. 
  
  6. Show spouse resume. Become defensive when asked "Where's 
the rest of it?" 
  
  7. Report to Unemployment. Wait in line for hours. Fill out 
confusing paperwork. Go home to look for missing data. 
  
  8. Return to Unemployment. Wait in line, fill out forms,
be interrogated by someone half your age and one-eighth as
educated. Someone who actually has a job. 
  
  9. Discover the pitiful sum you'll be getting for the next
26 weeks. That is, if you report in regularly, fill out weekly
forms, and prove to the satisfaction of some bored civil servant
that you've been a diligent, albeit unsuccessful, little job
hunter. 
  
  10. Revise your resume. Study the help-wanted ads. Conclude 
you need to be more creative. 
  
  11. Compose catchy letters filled with all the latest lingo. 
Stuff them into envelopes with your new, "improved" resume. 
Receive nothing in the mail but bills. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 36
  
  12. Buy an answering machine, lest you miss a call from an
employer. Play back messages with great anticipation: 
     
      Three hang-ups and two salesmen. 
     
      Your mother wondering if you found a job yet.  
     
      A former coworker-worker saying your boss just got the ax. 
      Smile for the first time in weeks.
     
  13. Put on your finest suit and show up at employment 
agencies. Try to charm them into dispensing with their "no
interview without appointment" rule. Find out receptionists 
now double as bouncers. 
  
  14. Become depressed. Over-sleep -- eat -- drink -- spend. 
Avert your eyes at the help wanted ads. Become overwhelmed with 
guilt and wonder what adult companionship would feel like. In a 
spurt of activity, answer several ads. 
  
  15. Receive call for interview. Panic. Shop for new suit. 
Ask spouse to pose as interviewer. Ask parents to pose as
interviewer. Practice plausible, sympathetic, yet not strictly
truthful explanation of why you're out of work. 
  
  16. Suffer through interview. Consider objecting to improper 
questions. Reconsider. Speak enthusiastically about your old 
job. Speak earnestly about your prospective job. Barely manage 
not to gag. Acquit self reasonably well, except for one accidental 
use of curse word. Decide to clean up your vocabulary . . . at 
least until you're hired. 
  
  17. Tell spouse, parents, and friends about interview. 
Disregard encouraging words. Second-guess yourself. Wonder if
interviewer will check references. Wonder if references will
make things worse. Wonder if you should threaten to sue for
slander. Send effusive thank you note to interviewer. Become
nauseated by your hypocrisy. Mail letter anyway. 
  
  18. Wait to hear from prospective employer. Leave several  
phone messages. Finally reach interviewer one evening after
phone screener has gone home. Find out the job's been filled. 
You're under-qualified. Or over-qualified. Or inappropriately
qualified. 
  
  19. Repeat Steps 14 through 18 except for vocabulary lapse. 
Repeat them again. Keep repeating them until . . .
  
  20. Receive job offer. Become so excited you almost forget
to ask what it pays. 
  
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 37
  
  21. Set alarm clock for the crack of dawn and fall asleep
an hour before it sounds. Moan, struggle into consciousness,
crawl into your best suit, and report to work an hour early. 
  
  Quit griping and get used to it. You should have enjoyed
unemployment while it lasted.   
                               
                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Madeleine Begun Kane, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Madeleine is a freelance writer from New York, who enjoys writing
humor and satire. We hope to see more of her work. You can email
her at: madkane@aol.com
===================================================================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
FIGHTING BACK
  by Michael J. Ryan
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  "You listenin' to me Albie? Yo! Anyone there?," Pete balled 
his fleshy fist and made a knocking gesture against Albie's 
forehead. Albie painfully forced his cloudy blue eyes to focus on 
Pete's face.

  "I'm sorry... I was just thinking of something else. Go ahead 
with what you were saying," Albie said distractedly.
 
  Pete's eyes narrowed and furrows creased the brow of his red, 
chubby forehead. "You know, you ought to get some rest, Albie. You 
got too much going on, and it's really beginning to show. People are 
talking, you know."
 
  "Yeah, I know. People are always talking. Now what were you 
saying . . . ."
 
  Pete, a mason working on one of the homes Albie was building, 
finished his business and left Albie's cluttered office. Then, 
Joe, a carpenter, knocked on Albie's door to discuss the Angelini 
job, and while Albie was talking to Joe, Dave, an electrician, came 
and waited outside. Albie's conversations with these sub-contractors 
were constantly interrupted by the ringing telephone. Suddenly, the 
commotion died down and Albie was left alone in his office. He 
collapsed heavily into his chair and glared warily at the phone, as 
if pleading with it to be silent. Persuaded that a moment of peace 
was about to ensue, Albie put his head in his hands and stared down 
at his feet.
   
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 38
   
   A familiar white static buzzed frantically in his head, blocking 
out all thought . . .

  The phone rang. Albie's head jerked up. He glanced at his watch.
_Twenty minutes gone by! Shit!_ Albie grabbed for the phone on the 
third ring.
 
  "Albie, I'm almost embarrassed to be making this phone call. 
I mean, you been such a good customer and all. But I have your 
account listed as a few days past due and . . . I know this has 
never happened with you before . . . but my manager's on my ass 
to call everybody who's late . . . ."
 
  Think . . . think . . . Albie rubbed the side of his head to 
prod his sluggish mind into action. "Yeah, look Butch, there's no 
problem," Albie began, "I just had a customer who was late paying 
me. I can get the money to you by the end of the week. I'm just a
little tight right now."

  "Yeah, like I said, Albie, don't worry about it. I know your 
good for it. So does the boss, he's just being a jerk . . ."
 
  "I know, Butch, no offense."
  
  "You know, Albie, nobody would even be worried about this 'cept 
your father was in here the other day sayin' all kinds of crazy 
things about you."

  Albie thought, "Not again . . . Jesus, when's he gonna give 
it a rest."  

  "Yeah, well Butch, I've got a beef with my old man," Albie 
countered, "I mean, you know, he's got a few dishes short of a full
service . . . you know what I mean. You guys always been good to me, 
I'll take care of you. Don't worry." Albie quietly put down the 
phone. Static twitched nervously around the edges of his mind, like 
a cat readying itself to pounce on an unsuspecting chipmunk.

  Albie stared down at the light brown carpet. The static swarmed
over him, an angry white fog where indiscreet forms lurked just 
beyond his ability to see. "I've got to break out of this . . . God, 
I'm losing my mind."

                            *  *  *
 
  "How's things going, Hon?," Cindy asked Albie when he got 
home, "You look tired." Albie vacantly stared at her for an awkward 
moment. Then he realized she had asked him a question. "Huh? . . . 
Oh, fine. I'm just beat," he lied to his wife. "I'm losing my grip," 
Albie thought, "I'm losing . . . . Dear God."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 39
                            
                            *  *  *
 
  The next morning Albie dragged himself up the metal stairs to 
his office. He moved as if he were walking through a sea of molasses. 
Once he sat at his desk the static buzzed furiously and he stared 
unthinkingly into space. After a few minutes the static cleared.   
Footsteps coming down the hall. Albie straightened himself and 
quickly grabbed a pen so it would look like he had been busy working. 
Jimmy, Albie's foreman, came into the office. 

  "Albie, your father's on the warpath again. He's down at the 
Reilly job telling everyone you owe him all sorts of money and how 
he's going to force you out of business."

  
 "Well, just try to ignore him." Albie's gut wrenched, "_Oh, Jesus!_"
 
  "Albie, this is serious. The subs are all wondering if they 
are going to get paid. Some of the them are ready to walk off the 
job until things get cleared up."

  "Just tell them they'll all get paid. Jesus Christ, I've always 
paid them before. Those friggin' guys . . . first sign of trouble and
they turn tail and run."

  Jimmy left the office to reassure the workers. Albie picked up 
the phone and dialed his lawyer. "Peter, Albie Lindsay. Yeah, look, 
my 'dear old dad's' at it again. He's scaring the subs, the 
suppliers, the customers, everybody. 

                            *  *  *
                            
  Albie thought, "I just can't work like this, its all going 
to come crashing down." 

  "I just need to get away . . . need a chance to think," Albie 
explained to Cindy before they went to sleep that night. So, even 
though it was October, Albie and his wife rented a home on Cape Cod 
for a week. It was the first vacation they had taken in years. Once 
Albie drove across the bridge over the Cape Cod canal, he felt the 
immediacy of the pressures subside. For the first time in years, he 
felt safe, as if a buffer had been built between himself and an 
invisible but always present danger. 

  The vacation home was a small cottage nestled on a quiet inlet 
in Hyannis. From the second floor bedroom Albie stood and looked out 
over the shimmering water. A family of ducks moved down the inlet, 
coasting with the incoming tide. Beneath the window Cindy playfully 
chased their children. The salty sea breeze carried their delighted
squeals to their father. Albie tried to sort through his troubles, 
but he couldn't concentrate. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 40

  "I'm so tired, so tired of all of this, . . . why can't I just 
die," Albie thought. He laid down on the bed and closed his eyes. 
In a few moments he was asleep. When Albie woke it was already dark 
outside. Relentlessly, as if it had always been speaking but never 
before heard, a voice inside Albie's head repeated itself: 
  
     "You may be surprised I'm going to do this to you. "You 
     may be surprised I'm going to do this to you. "You may be 
     surprised I'm going to do this to you . . . ." 
   
  Cape Cod faded away . . . the voice belonged to Albie's father. 
So real, Albie's father could have been in the room with him. Hellish 
memories soon joined his father's words. Pictures of molestation, 
beatings. The cold slickness of ice cubes sliding against his leg on 
their way into his already freezing bath water, ". . . can I please 
come out now, Daddy?" The sharpness of the kitchen knife his father 
held against his cheek when he threatened to cut him open if he told 
anyone, ". . . and nobody can stop me, not your mother, not your 
teachers, not the police, no one!"
  
  Albie's flashbacks continued off and on for weeks, and each 
memory beat Albie down a little bit further. In the end, Albie just 
quit trying. By January he put his company into bankruptcy.

                            *  *  *
  
  Albie's bills were piling up, and he felt powerless to do 
anything about it. Although Cindy's parent's were helping to support 
his family until Albie could get back on his feet, Albie knew he 
couldn't count on them forever.
 
  "If you're not going to start another business maybe you should 
clean out your office so we can give up the lease," Cindy worriedly 
told Albie. It was the third day that week Cindy had made the same 
suggestion. The other days Albie had answered "Yeah, right," and 
had done nothing. But today he would at least go to the office. It 
would be good to get out of the house; maybe it would lift his 
spirits. And it would cheer Cindy up if Albie at least went though 
the motions of going to work.

  "It's hopeless," Albie told himself, as he drove downtown, "I'll 
never come back from this. I'm finished." Albie slowly walked up the 
stairs to his old office. The static began to buzz, seducing him 
with its siren's call of hollow numbness. It was as if his mind were 
a ship searching for a safe harbor to wait out a coming storm. Albie 
walked down a narrow hallway and stopped at his office. He fumbled 
with the keys and unlocked the door. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 41

  By old habit, his hand brushed up the doorjamb and flipped on a 
switch. Harsh fluorescent light filled the room. Albie's eyes roamed 
slowly over the room. Papers and files were scattered everywhere. He 
walked past a table and his hand absently traced a line in the dust. 
He noticed some scribbled drawings from his daughter were still taped 
to the wall near his desk. The sound of Albie's footsteps filled the 
lifeless office. Yet Albie's mind was filled with the echoes of 
ringing phones and workers rushing in and out. Powerful rumblings
gurgled beneath his consciousness as if his mind were a pot of boiling 
water about to bubble over. 
 
 "This is pointless," Albie told himself, "I'm finished." Albie 
pulled the chair out from under his old desk and sat down. "Why 
bother . . . ." Deep, crushing sadness flooded through Albie without 
warning, a trap door had suddenly let loose and plunged Albie deep 
into the center of an abyss. Exhausted, Albie put his head on his 
desk and fell asleep.

                            *  *  *
 
  He was ten years old again, in the basement of his parent's home.
Hands. Hands coming out of space. Hands grabbing at him. Grabbing 
at his belt, his pants. "Father--"  

  But instead of giving in like he had before, the ten-year-old 
fought . . . he fought with everything he had. He fought against 
overwhelming strength, but he fought anyway. "NO-O-O! Stop it! Stop 
it!," the ten-year-old kicked and screamed. Outrage exploded in 
Albie's mind as the ten-year-old was overpowered. 

                            *  *  *
 
  Albie woke up.  It was over, _again_, and Albie returned to 
the present, but the outrage remained. And with the outrage, the 
faintest sense of pride in himself began to grow. He had fought 
back. He did not win. He could not have won. But he fought back 
anyway. For the first time in months, Albie felt as if it might be 
in him to fight again. Putting his life and business back together 
would be a long, painfully difficult task. Albie knew the odds were 
against him and he might not succeed. But he would try. He would at 
least take the first few steps.   

  Albie spent the rest of the day slowly picking up the mess in 
his office. As he was about to leave he picked up the telephone 
and held it to his ear. The dial tone told him it had not yet been 
disconnected. Albie dialed Pete, the mason who used to work for 
him. "Hey, Pete. This is Albie Lindsay, listen . . . I need you.  
I'm starting up again . . ."


DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 41

Copyright 1996 Michael Ryan, All Rights Reserved. 
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Michael, aside from trying to make a career for himself writing,
owns a home design business, and live with his wife and children in
Windham, NH. He's been published in Writer's Workshop Review and
CrossConnect Magazine. Email:  ryanmj@ix.netcom.com
===================================================================




=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
PSYCHIC HEALERS OF THE PLEIADES
  by Richard Flood
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
     

  Some people stay in cryo until after a landing and have the 
airlines haul their meat to medical and thaw it. I prefer to 
thaw a day or two before arrival and tough out the deceleration 
and landing. It's not pleasant, but if you go the other route, 
you're orthogonal for days.
  
  This trip is for my Mom. She's in bad shape, thanks to some 
sadistic hacker. Back in gentler days they crashed systems for 
fun, trashed disk drives, stole telephone time. Now they crash 
humans. Some jerk with a spray-bottle of hacked-up disease and a
biomask ran through the supermarket dosing everyone. It was a 
pulmonary virus, the doctors said. In their eyes, she's terminal, 
but I'm not giving up yet. 
  
  I first heard about the Pleiadean healers from my friend 
Jeffrey. One of his aunts had neo-anthrax and was cured in the 
Pleiades.  Then I saw their pitch on the tube. They said they 
could cure street-viruses. They mentioned plague variants, 
retroviruses, and lots of other diseases. The commercials are 
impressive. They aliens live a long time, thousand of years, I
think, and spend most of their lives practicing something called 
Kaiza, which seems like a mixture of religion, martial arts, and 
magic. In the middle of the pitch, you see this human-like figure 
with bright blue skin go at a bar of titanium steel with his bare
hands. After standing with his eyes closed in concentration, he 
makes a couple of moves, then slips his hand through the bar like 
it's a holo or something. For a moment, nothing happens, then you 
see the two pieces of metal crash to the ground. Later on, they use 
the same technique to extract a brain, scan it for viruses, destroy 
them, and put it back. Once you've seen it, you never forget it.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 42
  
  Some of them are frauds, no doubt. I spoke with Agent John 
Crimmins of the local FBI office, and he tried to talk me out of 
the trip. He showed me half a dozen cases where people felt they had 
been cheated out there. I thanked him, but told him that some of the
healers were for real, and had helped people. And anyway, it was my 
mom's only chance.
  
  The trip is no picnic. They're not really in the Pleiades, the 
healers, that'd be too damn far. Their planet orbits 39 Tauri, 
which is only about 14 parsecs from earth. Everyone's heard of the 
Pleiades, of course, and nobody's heard of 39 Tauri, so they're the
Psychic Healers of the Pleiades. Advertising is like major gravity, 
it bends spacetime.
  
  On 39.4 Tau, which is what the pilots call the planet, 
healing is a major industry, and it is run professionally. An alien 
hostess with solid green eyes came to meet me at the dock. She had 
a couple of alien porters with her, and they wheeled my Mom's 
cryo-unit to our room.
  
  The next morning, room service brought me breakfast, plankton 
and eggs, just like on earth, then the lady with the green eyes 
returned and took us right to the operating room. The doctor looked 
like Desi Arnaz, if you've ever watched those holoized old flicks
they run in the middle of the night. Except of course he had those 
monocolor eyes. His were sky blue, and it seemed like he was wearing 
a black, curly wig. His assistant had red hair and lipstick and 
looked like -- well, if you watch the late night screen, you can
guess. They made themselves up this way, I suppose, to make us humans 
feel at home. Most humans are funny about being modified by aliens.
Anyway, his name, according to the hostess, was Ek, and he got right 
to business. 
  
  As they wheeled my Mom's thawed body in, he raised his 
hands up high and spoke a few words in the alien tongue. His 
fingers were light gray, like the skin of all the aliens, and 
they began to glow. He motioned me to move closer. I wanted to 
watch everything carefully. He plunged them into her abdomen in a
spiralling motion, pulled out her liver and held it high -- sort 
of a flourish, I guess. His assistant held a wand that shone with 
a strange violet light, and she passed it over and under the organ, 
then he put it back. He did the same with my Mom's kidneys, gall
bladder, and other organs. The hostess, translating, said that they 
were full of crystalline impurities that had to be removed. Ek was 
repairing them. He even removed her heart and lungs the same way. 
It was amazing how little blood there was. Then he passed his hands 
slowly over her body, head to feet, the glow from his hands 
illuminating her. This, the hostess said, would destroy the 
remaining viruses. Within fifteen minutes, Ek had pronounced her 
healed, and we were both sent on our way. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 43
     
  You might think me gullible, but I walked out of there 
confident that she was cured. There is nothing more convincing 
than standing there, nose to abdomen, as some creature operates 
on your mother with its bare hands. I felt good, and I looked 
forward to talking to my Mon soon after we got back. So, we were 
both prepped for cryo by the airline, and in no time we were back 
on earth.
     
  It didn't take long to realize I'd been had. I was waiting in 
the cryo room as they prepped my mother when one of the technicians 
came over.
  
  "I've got some bad news," said the tech.
  
  Damn, I thought, the cryo unit broke down on the way and now 
she's a 100-year old mummy. These things happened from time to time. 
"What's the trouble?"
  
  "Nothing in the cryo," he said, defensive about his line of work. 
"But we just scanned her and she has no vital organs.  
  
  "What?"
  
  "The chest cavity is almost empty," he said. "There's now 
way we can thaw her."
  
  "Keep her frozen," I said, thinking that damn Ek. "I'll let 
you know what to do next."
  
  I went to a phone. I was still pretty loopy from the flight, 
so I intended to call Agent John Crimmins. The number, of course, 
had been changed. In fact, all the numbers had been changed. The 
phones still looked something like I remembered them, so for a few 
minutes I stood there, staring at the hexadecimal keypad, confused. 
I didn't know how to type in a "compacted hexadecimal number." 
Also, I finally realized that, unless he had taken a long cryogenic 
vacation, Inspector John Crimmins had probably been dead for 70 
years. I started to sweat, and a profound feeling of dislocation 
and fear came over me. Then I read the rest of the instructions on 
the phone.
  
  "FBI, local," I said. It connected me.
  
  I explained my problems to the agent at the other end, and told 
her that, no matter what it took, I was going to get my mother's 
organs back.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 44
  
  The agent said that my mother's organs would be close to 
two hundred years old by the time I got back to 39.4 Tau, and 
not very useful to anyone, particularly my mother. I had to 
agree on this point.  But, I said, it was entirely possible that 
clone-descendants of those organs were still available on 39.4 Tau, 
and I would demand that the closest facsimile of my mother's organs 
be returned to her.
  
  The agent seemed to think this reasonable. She added that the 
FBI had been aware of such scams on 39.4 Tau for well over a hundred 
years now, and they and the Interstellar Trade Commission could use 
my help in putting an end to them. She asked if I could come over to 
the office.
  
  I went outside to hail a cab. They were all computer controlled 
and I couldn't figure out how to program the route. The FBI office 
was close to the airport, anyway, so I decided to walk.
  
  When I reached her office, Agent Radha Jairam explained their 
plan to me and, on the phone, to the airline. She quickly showed 
me how to use a micrcocorder, and gave it to me with several memory 
wafers. She wished me luck.

                            *  *  *

  This time, I left mom on ice back on earth and went alone, 
more or less. I left the ship in disguise, escorting a cryo unit 
that held a clone of one of Radha's relatives. The same hostess, or 
at least one that looked identical, met us, and we followed the same
procedure as on the previous visit.
  
  This time the doctor and his assistant had longish black hair, 
slicked back, and large sideburns. He wore a white rhinestone 
jumpsuit. I guess  Desi Arnaz was no longer popular. I had not been 
on earth long enough to notice. Certain rock-and-roll figures kept 
coming back in holo or clone forms, and I think this look was 
modeled on one of them.
  
  Once more, the operation appeared to be a great success, but 
this time I got it all down in silicon. I might not be able to save 
my mother, but these guys would at least do some time.
  
  I stowed the recorder and the relative with airline security, 
then found the hostess again. I told her that I wanted to speak to 
the management.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 45
  
  The complex is something like a large honeycomb, with hundreds 
of octagonal rooms, and multi-vector elevators to reach them. We 
entered one and traveled toward the middle of the building and 
down, popping into a small office with a golden rug and walls. A
short alien with tousled gray hair stepped from behind his desk and 
offered a clammy handshake. He had a bushy mustache and a nice 
smile, grandfatherly. I liked him immediately, then I realized it 
was because he resembled a famous physicist that almost everyone
liked. These guys played every angle.
  
  "Listen," I said, firmly. "I have a complaint."
  
  "You must speak to me," said the hostess. "He does not 
understand your language."
  
  "Tell him that on my last trip, my mother's organs were stolen."
  
  She relayed the message, translating it into a rapid stream 
of clicks and slide-whistle noises. He answered, and she turned to 
me again. "What organs were they?"
  
  "All of them," I said. "What does it matter?"
  
  "And what happened to them?"
  
  "They were stolen, during they surgery. Your healer Ek took them."
  
  "Ek?" said the phony Einstein, without translation. He 
shrugged his shoulders. I got the feeling that this guy had dealt 
with humans before. And that maybe he understood everything I was 
saying. e certainly had to know who Ek was. 
  
  "Repeat, please?" said the hostess.
  
  "Stolen. The organs were taken during surgery and not returned. 
Theft."
  
  A whistling, clicking palaver ensued, with them going back 
and forth several times. Finally, she turned to me again. "The 
overseer," she said. "Does not understand. Your conceptual structure 
does not translate to Krenge." 
  
  "What is there to understand?" I shouted. "What is there to 
translate? Organ theft. Stealing."
  
  "I am sorry," she said. "There is no such concept in Krenge."
  
  Yeah, right, I thought, and I'm the King of Siam. The overseer 
smiled and shrugged, holding his empty hands out in an annoyingly 
human fashion. It was a complete scam, and I wasn't going to get 
anywhere with them. But I did have the evidence.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 46

                            *  *  *

  The return flight suffered problems with the stellar drive 
around Pi3 Orionis. There was a major delay, and we got back to 
earth around a century later than schedule. When I came down the 
ramp with the other passengers, we faced an audience, clustering
behind a white plastic rail. Most of them looked like kids, 
teenagers. Two in the front wore clothes that looked like orange 
plastic spaghetti wrapped around their bodies, their hair molded 
into shiny platters above their heads.
  
  "Meta-groot!" said the one on the left, whose hair was chromed. 
"Ho ho, what now, neek?" He laughed, at my jacket and pants, 
apparently.
  
  His friend, whose hair-thing was more copper colored, was 
laughing at the ship. "Spa-fon! Space Zamboni!" he shouted, 
tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.
  
  "Same to you, gnomes," I said as I passed.
  
  "Sameayou, gnomes!" they chimed behind me as I entered the 
terminal.
  
  Inside, I went right to the phones, but they weren't phones 
anymore. They appeared to be some kind of psionic devices, with 
chromed filaments where there used to be a keypad. I had not a 
prayer of figuring out how to use one. I decided once more on the 
short walk to the FBI office.
  
  I was dismayed to see that the office building had been 
torn down and replaced by a large temple of some sort. It looked 
Southeast Asian in design, but seemed to be constructed of yellow 
and green plastic. I walked on, depressed, wondering what to do 
next. Luckily, the new FBI building was a small distance down the 
street, and they still used the same acronym.
  
  I entered Agent Donald Kveck's office on the fourth floor, 
and he was flying around the room on a metal disk of some sort. When 
he noticed me, he touched down on his desk. He wore semi-gloss gray 
hair plates, which I assumed was a respectable business hairstyle. 
I summarized the history of the case. 
  
  "Chthonic," he said, meaning "good", I guess.
  
  "But," I said, "I've got the goods on them." I held up my 
memory wafers. 
  
  "So," he said, "what are those?"
  
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 47
  
  "The data," I told him. "I've got voice and sound on the whole 
operation, including the sleight-of-hand where they steal the 
organs. The clone's organs."
  
  He laughed. "Son, if you asked anybody to read those, they'd 
think you were a maximum oaf, or worse. They haven't been used for 
over a century. We don't even use computers anymore they way you 
did. There's just one system, in Colorado Springs, and we're all
linked by pinealNet."
  
  My heart sank.
  
  "And you better get some new clothes," he added. "Before 
everyone thinks you're a neek"
  
  I looked for a chair, but there was only one of those hover-
things, and I wasn't ready for it. "Geez," I said, "I did all 
this to save my Mom, and now she's just frozen meat."
  
  "Ho ho, not so," said Agent Kveck. "They grow replacement 
organs like hypervine nowadays. All we need is a gene sample, and 
we can rehab your Mom in no time.

                            *  *  *

  So now I am on my way to Mom's cube, wrapped in plastic 
spaghetti. At least it is not bright orange. And my hair disc is 
kind of muted and conservative, so I don't feel like a total neek. 
I don't see the psychic healer commercials anymore. I understand 
from Agent Kveck that they made their millions are took off for 
deeper parts of space, probably to scam some other races that 
haven't heard of them. 
  
  Mom, she came out of her rehab like a zif-rocket, and hasn't 
stopped since. She accuses me of being a troglo-neek, of not 
"surfing the ether", of having "no zinc." I don't know if I'll 
ever get used to being a human nowadays. There's just too much 
polymer in it. But, anyway, she's insisting that I find a girl-biont
(which is just a regular girl, by the way), and is going to teach me 
how to dance the 'spirochete'. It's "chthonic," she tells me.

                               (DREAM)     

Copyright 1996 Richard Flood, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------                               
In real life Richard does programming for a Wall Street firm, he's 
studied Comp Sci and writing in college, writing studies under 
Ishmael Reed, Leonard Michaels, Peter Collier. He's had several 
stories published in literary magazines; recently writing only
SF, and has a story appearing in an upcoming Writers of the Future 
anthology. Email:  rhf@crayola.sbi.com
===================================================================
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 48


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
MISS TITUS OF POKER FLAT
  by Dale Feathers
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  Miss Titus had not taken the weather forecasts seriously. New
York, as a rule, does not respect the weather, and Miss Titus had 
an extremely New York attitude on life. In other areas of the 
country, people may invest in clothing and machinery intended to 
help them cope with adverse weather conditions. New Yorkers, at 
least those who live within the city limits, have come to believe 
that winter can be adequately coped with by the simple device of 
wearing a lined raincoat and perhaps a pair of rubber boots for the 
most stressing conditions. 

  Summer is distinct only in that the lined raincoat is removed. 
Hats, either for thermal protection or as a block against the 
carcinogenic solar rays that slip through the rapidly diminishing 
ozone layer are anathema to the New Yorker, although the occasional 
one-size-fits-all baseball cap may be worn if it has a suitable 
message on the front. New Yorkers under the age of 30 wear their 
baseball caps with the bill pointed backwards, like a baseball 
catcher. At the onset of the third decade, the bill turns to the 
front. 

  The only exceptions are girls with pony tail hairstyles, who 
may slip their hair above the one-size-fits-all plastic snap band, 
and wear the cap bill forward, regardless of age. Miss Titus had 
passed the age of cap turning long ago, but in an act of either 
rejection or self affirmation, it was never clear which, had tossed 
out a modest collection of caps that advertised baseball teams,
sneakers, a brand of cigarettes that she had never smoked, and a
blend of Florida orange juice with other natural flavors. Head bare,
Miss Titus asserted her essentially enigmatic nature to the world.   
     
  It was only when the snowfall had reached six inches with
predictions of 18 inches to come, that Miss Titus realized that 
she might actually be housebound for up to a day with her coffee 
ration down to half a can, and no fresh bagels. Slipping on a 
sweatsuit that she had bought two years ago in anticipation of 
joining a gym, and an anorak that she had bought five years ago 
in anticipation of learning to ski, she decided to walk the six 
blocks to the nearest Gristede's. 
     
  The snow was still white and deep when she reached the street,
and reminded her of Christmas cards. The cards always showed 
fields of snow, layers of cold virginity stretching across New 
England fields. Maybe the reason New York doesn't believe in snow 
is because New York doesn't believe in virginity, she thought. She 
giggled slightly, and let a snowflake melt on her tongue. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 49
     
  The wind whirled the snow around, and Miss Titus caught a
glimpse of herself in a store window, her hair sneaking out from 
the bottom of her hood, and catching the flakes. She made a face 
at her reflection, and stuck out her tongue and laughed. As she 
did, she saw a man coming towards her, and had a brief moment of 
embarrassment, a short lived inclination to act like an adult. 
Instead, she reached down and made a loosely packed snowball and 
said "wanna fight?" But the man, sadly, was a responsible adult, 
and didn't acknowledge the offer. Miss Titus tossed her snowball 
against a wall, and watched with satisfaction as it stuck, like a 
scoop of vanilla ice cream against the brick.
     
  When she got to Gristede's, the store looked almost empty. 
The other panic buyers had already been there, stocking up on 
flashlight batteries and bottled water, on hot chocolate, soup and 
bread. Once in the store, they had expanded their goals, and 
emptied the refrigerated section of milk and orange juice. Even 
the frozen food section was largely depleted, and although the ice 
cream section was generally intact, the Ben & Jerry's selection had 
been stripped of Cherry Garcia and Rainforest Crunch. 
     
  Miss Titus wandered around, looking at the empty shelves to see 
what things people would want in a snow emergency. The deodorants 
were gone, but there was plenty of shaving cream, as if all the men 
intended to grow beards, and the women thought they would survive 
the winter a bit better if they could keep their legs warm. The
meat counter had been emptied, but there were still a few packages 
of tofu. The apples were gone,  all but a few with large bruises, 
but the melons had been left behind like unwanted reminders of 
spring.
  
  Eventually, Miss Titus remembered what she had come for, and
marched purposefully to the coffee aisle. She had visions of the 
section being empty, then thoughts that there might be nothing left 
but instant, or maybe nothing but instant and coffee with chicory, 
or worse than that, French roast coffee with chicory. "I am not 
that desperate" she thought. "I will not drink French roast coffee 
with chicory under any circumstances. Not to save my job, not to 
save my life, not to save my sanity. But, if I did drink it, it 
might be too late to worry about sanity." She envisioned herself 
running down a long green corridor, barefoot, in a white shift, 
with a candle in one hand, and a mug filled with Louisiana's Pride 
French Roast Coffee with Chicory in the other. In the vision, the 
candle didn't sputter, and the coffee didn't spill, but she was 
screaming "aaaooowww! aaaooowww!" The idea was amusing, and she 
said "aaaooowww!" very softly. Then she heard a voice asking "what?  
I'm afraid I didn't hear you?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 50
  
  Miss Titus turned, and saw a man looking at her with a slightly
quizzical face. He was somewhere in this late thirties, early 
forties, although his face was a bit too round, his hair a bit too 
thin to offer much promise that he would hold up for more than five 
years. After that he would go to seed, bald, and paunchy. Other 
women said that men seemed to age better than women, but Miss Titus 
had never really believed that. If anything, men seemed to hold up 
worse, because they never even seemed to care. Women fought back, 
even if they failed. Men just let age get to them and tried to 
pretend that it didn't matter, and maybe it didn't, to them, but 
then they tried to pretend that it shouldn't matter to anyone else. 
     
  "I didn't say anything" Miss Titus said, "but if I had, I would
have said that I hope there's some Maxwell House Columbian Supreme
left,  because that's my favorite."
  
  The man said "oh" and started to walk away, then turned and
said "maybe I could help you look. It's in a brown can, isn't it?"
  
  "That would be awfully nice" Miss Titus said, although she 
could not imagine needing help finding a can of coffee. Pick-ups 
are supposed to be in the produce aisle, she thought. He's supposed 
to ask me what to do with escarole, or radiccio, or one of those 
tropical fruits that shouldn't be sold without an instruction 
manual. For a moment, Miss Titus' thought s digressed, and she 
envisioned a second career as a technical writer for the produce 
section. She could write the user's manual for star fruit, and 
compose on-line help screens for bok choy. There didn't seem to be 
much future in it. Her mind got back to reality.
  
  If I'm going to get picked up, I want to do it properly. I 
mean, how do you pick up a girl by asking her how to make coffee?  
Men are just supposed to be able to make coffee, that and check oil. 
It goes with the chromosomes, the same way women are supposed to
understand matching clothing and asking directions. Is this some 
sort of role reversal?  "I think it's an aisle over, but I've been 
afraid to look. I mean I think it may be all gone by now. I think 
coffee is one of the things you're supposed to want on a day like 
this. Coffee and thick socks."
  
  "Sounds good to me" the man said. "Especially the socks. My
name is Charles, and I'm really a tea drinker. I hope that doesn't
offend you. Green tea. It's supposed to prevent cancer."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 51
  
  "Does it really?" Miss Titus said with a grimace. "He's a food
freak" she thought. "Food freak with a sock fetish. He's going to 
ask me about making coffee, and then I'll have to ask him up to 
show him the technique, and then we'll be snowed in for the rest 
of the winter, and he'll want to drink green tea and guarana and 
something made with hot water and Japanese mushrooms. Then, maybe 
by March or April, but before it thaws, he'll want to have sex, 
only he'll want to keep his socks on, and yuk! Probably has fifty 
pairs of ragg wool socks, and something with a flannel lining, and 
eats alfalfa sprouts for the saponins and shitake mushrooms for the 
lentinan. Aaaooowww!"
  
  As predicted, the coffee aisle had been nearly cleared. 
The Columbian Supreme was gone, and so was the Brown Gold and the 
Martinson. A lonely can of Chase & Sanborn sat on the bottom shelf,
the two gentlemen on the label looking rather like the Smith 
Brothers after a bad day. There was a jar of Instant Sanka, and a 
can of Yuban stuck far in the back. Miss Titus eyes lit on the 
Yuban, and her hand began to reach out. 
  
  "Is that the one you want?" Charles asked.
  
  "No, not at all" Miss Titus said. He just wasn't worth it 
for a can of Yuban. "Okay" Miss Titus thought. "Suppose it were 
Columbian Supreme, and it were the last can of Maxwell House 
Columbian Supreme in New York City for a week. Or Brown Gold, a 
full pound, 16 ounces." She looked at Charles. He was wearing a
Navy woolen overcoat that looked foolish with his duck hunter 
boots. The snow on his thinning hair had melted, and ran in little 
streams across his round face. He looked like a little boy in a 
Norman Rockwell painting, or something from the illustration to a 
Dickens novel. "Yes, maybe I will take it" she said. 
  
  Charles bent down to reach the Yuban. It was far in the back,
and he started to slip. Miss Titus grabbed at his arm, and tried 
to pull him back up, but he was too heavy. She held on as Charles 
continued his slide, so that they looked like two professional 
wrestlers. Briefly, Miss Titus wondered if she should complete the 
tableau by putting her foot in the small of his back and declaring 
victory.
  
  "Got it" Charles said, and righted himself, the elusive can
grasped in his hand.
  
  "Oh, thank you!" Miss Titus said. "I can't imagine being snowed
in without coffee." It occurred to her that of course she could 
imagine being snowed in without coffee, which was why she was here 
to begin with. "Thank you" she said again.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 52
  
  "You're welcome" Charles said. "Of course, I don't understand
coffee myself. How do you make it?  I mean, what's the secret?"
  
  Miss Titus shivered. "I can't cope with this" she thought. 
"Maybe I can swing him around to the cabbage and lettuce, or at 
least to the laundry detergents. There are social protocols for 
produce and laundry, but Ann Landers never said anything about 
men in the coffee section." "What kind of coffee maker do you have?" 
she asked. "Braun? Mr. Coffee? Salton? Maybe a percolator? There's 
something nice about a percolator, you know, traditional."
  
  "I don't have any" Charles said. He looked like a child
admitting that he had never owned a puppy.
  
  "You'll have to get one" Miss Titus said. "If you go right now,
you might be able to find something at Service Merchandise. Get 
one with a cone filter, get a four cup, unless you have a lot of 
company. Never make less than half the capacity of the pot, and if 
you try to make two cups in a ten cup pot well it's just awful. 
That and a water filter, unless you buy bottled water and there 
isn't any left anyway. I shop here a lot, so come back as soon as 
you have a coffee maker. You might want to buy your own grinder 
too, just in case you get really into the coffee thing. 

  They're cheap, and you can grind your own beans, and that's 
a lot better. Get that and come back and I'll tell you what to do 
with everything. You'll need size 2 filters. The unbleached costs
more, but they're better environmentally. I'll see you as soon as 
you have the equipment. Hurry, before the snow builds up and you 
can't get home, and they find you in the spring, frozen in a snow 
bank, clutching your coffee maker to your chest. You know those 
ambulance attendants don't turn everything in, and they'll probably 
claim that you didn't have the coffee maker or the grinder with you, 
and you'll have no way to prove that you did. That and your 
wristwatch. You'd better hurry."
  
  Miss Titus turned and ran with her can of Yuban to the express 
check-out. There were two people ahead of her, one with a badly 
squashed loaf of white bread and a jar of peanut butter, the other 
with a package of lamb neck for stew. Out of the corner of her eye, 
she could see Charles walking to the produce section. He picked 
up a red leaf lettuce and started sorting through the Portobelo 
mushrooms. It was only when she was safely out of the store, with
snowflakes sticking to her eyelashes, that Miss Titus realized that
she hadn't bought bagels. "There are more important things in life
than bagels" she thought, although, for the moment, she couldn't
recall what they were.    

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 53

Copyright 1995 Dale Feathers, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Dale Feathers is a free-lance writer based in New York.  Past works
have focused on politics and economics, with an unabashedly liberal
slant. Misguided rants and ravings can be directed to him via email:
uretss01@mcrcr6.med.nyu.edu.
======================================================================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE THRILL SEEKERS
  by Joanne Reid
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  It was during the October crisis that we met them. We were 
living in Montreal that fall, 1970, and we felt the barren fear of 
the armed militia that stood on every street corner as we walked 
around the old city, unable to afford to do much else. 

  We walked a great deal that fall, Sally and I. Especially on 
Sunday mornings before the church crowd came out; it was so peaceful 
then that we could forget that Montreal was a big city and in 
trouble. It was during one of those Sunday mornings that we heard 
the first of the "October Crisis." Someone had a radio playing and 
we heard the news through an open window. 

  Next thing there were all those young men on the street corners 
with guns nestled in their arms. Every time we passed one of them, 
the middle of my spine cringed; what if one of them panicked or 
thought we were the Rose Boys in disguise and berserk sent a bullet 
ripping through our soft flesh. Of course, it never happened and our 
soft young bodies remained intact while the armed men faded into the 
background of walls and doorways, eventually disappearing totally.

  Anyway, around that time the first stages of disillusionment 
began to settle in. The summer jobs we had lied to get were long 
since over; we were not returning to university, having both 
graduated with precious arts degrees. 

  "What bothers me most," Sally said, languishing in the window 
of our apartment on Sherbrooke Street, "Is that it's so goddamned 
dull. Deathly dull. Dull. Boring. I don't care if I never find 
another job. Or another man. I just don't give a fat rat's ass." She 
poured herself another glass of wine. It was a muggy fall and we had 
taken to drinking very inexpensive wine while leaning out of the 
kitchen window of our second storey apartment watching traffic stop 
and start at the intersection below. We also kept an eye on the 
people in the park across the street.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 54

  Sally was the one who started the commentaries; the one who 
got interest in the street; the one who made it alive when it wasn't. 
She may have claimed boredom but she always claimed things like that.

  She was the one who spoke to the crazy man who, regular as 
any civil servant, patrolled the bus stop, scolding in Yiddish the 
people waiting for the 105. She would wave and call, "Lovely day, 
isn't it," he would glare back, taking a few seconds from his 
berating of commuters. Once, waiting for the 105 herself she smiled 
at him from close range and received, as her reward, a surprisingly 
warm smile, the only smile we ever saw from him. This particular 
evening we were discussing whether or not we should move back to the 
Maritimes when this red Corvette stopped for the light. I liked
Corvettes then; I was quite young. I eyed the car and just as the 
light turned green the passenger looked up and saw me. Sally was 
away from the window refilling her goblet. He waved and I waved back.

  Sally moved toward the window. "Is our friend out there tonight?"
"No. He's off duty for the day. It was a red Corvette."

  She shot me a look of disdain and resumed her reasoning for our 
imminent return whence we had come.

  The Corvette passed by four more times before it hit another 
red light. This time the passenger called up to me and I pretended 
not to hear. The fifth time they parked the car on the side street 
by the park. As they approached the building, one tall and lanky, 
the other medium height and broad of shoulder, Janet whispered, 
"For Christ's sake, you've really done it now. Attracted the 
attention of murderers. And just as I was planning to go home." As 
she spoke, she signalled out the window to the two men and shouted 
down that we'd meet them there.

  The driver, the shorter one, gave us an okay sign and Sally 
mumbled and muttered all the way down to the Greek restaurant that 
we should already have been on the train to the Maritimes.

  I said nothing.

  As she opened the restaurant door, she whispered, "Sweet Jesus, 
they know where we live. We're going to die here. I just know it."

  Up close the men seemed disappointingly ordinary. Out of the 
Corvette, neither or them looked like anything more than a pair 
of farm boys. I swear I heard Sally let out a little sigh; these 
boys were not murderers, perverts, or interesting. Our fate did not 
seemed destined, after all, to include front page tragedy that would 
skyrocket us, posthumously, to fame. We sat with them and I 
considered giving a false name but Sally introduced us before I 
could say anything. Jim, the taller one, said he was from Missouri. 
The other one was Rob.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 55

  He drank four coffees and argued over whether or not we should 
go downtown with them; finally we relented and invited them upstairs 
for a drink. They paid for the coffees and Sally made a fuss over 
some pastries in the glass-fronted counter, praising Al, the owner, 
on his great food. Al was busy tucking packs of cigarettes on the 
shelf behind the cash register. The dull-haired waitress made change.

  In the apartment the lighting was better and I could see 
their eyes more clearly. Something warned me, when I looked into 
Rob's eyes, that perhaps we should have left them on the street 
where eyes like that belonged. They drank our last two beers and we 
finished the wine we had open. Rob pulled a leather bag from under 
his shirt and produced the makings for several joints, rolling it 
expertly in one hand. I didn't know much about grass then but I 
knew this wasn't just grass; this stuff has a real kick to it. 
Sometime after the second joint, Rob suggested that we go out for
something to eat but Janet flashed me her "let's stay here where 
our bodies will be found sooner" look and I suggested we make 
something to eat right there in the apartment.

  We did: stacks of peanut butter sandwiches. We watched the late 
movie and smoked several more joints. Sally and I became 
hypersensitive to their possible leaving. They were becoming a bit 
of a bore. Finally Sally stood, stretched, and said, "I didn't 
realize how late it was. I need my beauty sleep, guys. Time to go."

  They didn't make any motion to move so she said, more directly, 
"Hey guys, here's your hat, what's your hurry." She was standing, 
they were both on the sofa, and I was sitting on the floor between 
her and them. Slowly it dawned on me that they were planning to spend 
the night. With insight born of marijuana, I seemed to understand 
that their plan to stay had more to do with inertia than with desire 
for either of us. If Sally noticed any of this, she ignored it. She 
opened the apartment door and said, "Goodnight, guys. Time to go." 
There was an edge in her voice and they finally rose in tandem and 
left. At the door, Rob said, "I'll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can 
get downtown then."

  "Whatever," Sally shrugged.

  After they left, all pretense at weariness left us and we opened 
a second bottle of wine. "Maybe they'll try to sneak back," Sally 
said, "We better not go to bed just yet." But the Corvette was gone 
and I pointed this out to her.

  "That car is an obscenity. A phallus on wheels. Why in the name 
of God would you wave to someone in a Corvette?"

  "They were okay."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 56
  
  "They're criminals. Dope dealers. Did you notice how they 
planned to settle right in here?" I said nothing. She went on, 
"Surely you could see it. They stay the night, then the next night 
and in a few weeks they're running a full scale drug operation right 
out of our living room. Then when the cops come, they're gone, and 
we're in jail."

  "Of course. How could I have missed that? It was so obvious. 
Oh, well, it would beat going back to Joggins and working in the 
bank." 

  The next day we began to forget about the men and returned to 
planning our lives. Just after six, Rob called. We'd been eating 
soup and yogurt. Sally answered the phone in monosyllables. When she 
hung up, she rolled her eyes, "They found a great little apartment 
on Isabella. We're practically neighbours and they're coming to visit 
around eight. Why did you give them our phone number, for Christ's 
sake?"

  "I didn't." It wasn't difficult to figure out that they had 
read the number off the phone set. Any idiot could see that.

  They came by around nine and we agreed to go for a tour of 
Decarie Boulevard with them. The Corvette had been replaced by a 
navy blue Ford sedan of some sort. Who noticed? Who cared? Back 
before eleven, Sally smugly reminded me that she had known all 
along that the Corvette was stolen.

  "First I heard of it."

  "It was so obvious, why bother mentioning it. But just for the 
record, so was that car tonight. Guys like that don't actually own 
blue boring cars. My God, that's something out of a blue collar 
nightmare. I expected to find teething rings under the seats."

  "Did you look?"

  "I was afraid to."

  So it went for the next few weeks. A call every evening. Two 
or three nights a week, a drive or dinner. Sometimes they"d drip 
us off after dinner and say goodnight, sometimes they'd come in and 
share a joint or two. Once we went to a movie. Always in the same 
blue car.

  The last Saturday, they had just come to visit. Jim and Janet 
were playing Scrabble. Rob was rolling joints. He finished and 
putting away his makings, he looked up at me. "Can I stay the 
night?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 57

  I said nothing.

  "I'll make it worth your while." I never did know whether he 
meant in thrills or in cash. I moved to the floor to better watch 
the Scrabble game. We smoked the joints and talked, sort of. Rob 
didn't speak to me nor I to him. When they left, he hung back and 
said, "I think you misunderstood what I said earlier."

  "Doesn't matter," I said.

  Alone with Sally, I raised the subject of going back to 
Nova Scotia. "I mean, this is what our life has come to -- playing 
Scrabble with fools. And boring ones, at that."

  "They are, aren't they. Once the initial glamour of the draft-
dodging wears off, what's left?"

  "Draft dodgers? I thought crooks . . . dealers or something."

  "It's not mutually exclusive."

  "I don't believe it."

  "They are American. And the right age." She looked at me directly, 
"Oh, hell. Rob asked me not to mention it to you because . . . oh, 
I don't know. But he's worse. He's a deserter."

  "Bullshit."

  "He said he had to leave after killing a little girl in a rice 
paddy. It was too much for him."

  "A rice paddy? Come on, Sally. How did he get from there to 
here? Be reasonable."

  She wouldn't be reasonable.

                            *  *  *
  
  We didn't see the men again. At least, not officially. Toward 
the end of November, I was on the bus going along Decarie when I 
saw Isabella Street and got off the bus. I knew I wouldn't get the 
job I'd applied for and I had promised myself that if this job 
didn't work out, I'd go home. Jim had said their building was on 
the corner of Decarie and Isabella. There was only one apartment 
building on the four corners. I looked at the mailboxes, old names 
on dirty cards, a blank, a fresh card that simply read "Smythe." I 
rang the buzzer for five, the blank card. No reply. I tried Smythe. 
If Smythe were new, he or she might have noticed the other new 
tenants. Jim opened the door when I rang Smythe's buzzer and paled 
at the sight of me. He waved to me, a get away signal.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 58

  "What?" I asked.

  He came out into the corridor, "Go away. There's trouble right 
now." He went back inside and shut the door. I left and never 
mentioned it to Sally. At first I was frightened. Then embarrassed. 

                            *  *  *

  Sally was working again as a secretary in a law office. I went 
home at Christmas. It was getting too cold to sit in the window so 
it was a few weeks before we noticed the old man was gone from the 
bus stop. "Someone probably put him in a home for the winter," Sally 
said.

  "Or he died," I said.

  "It happens. He was old."

  "I'm going to go home."

  She nodded, "I think I saw Jim today."

  "Where?"

  "Atwater." She moved from the window. "He was waiting for a 
subway going out when I came into the station. Across the tracks. 
He didn't see me."

  "Was Rob with him?"

  She shook her head. "There was a pregnant woman with him . . . .
Really pregnant."

  "Couldn't have been Jim."

  "Maybe it was. Maybe they were just a pair of farm boys after all."

  "Maybe the old man is in a nursing home."

  "Maybe." She sighed, "We'll never know."

                               (DREAM)

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Joanne Reid is a freelance writer. After having dozens of magazine
articles published, working for daily and weekly newspapers, she 
shifted her focus to writing mystery and historical novels as well 
as writing short stories in a variety of genres. She also teaches 
creative writing. Email: jbreid@cyberspc.mb.ca or visit her page:
http://www.freenet.mb.ca/iphome/r/reidpage/index.html or email:
===================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 59

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ECHOES OF THE PAST
  by Thomas Nevin Huber
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  Finding a habitable system out this far didn't make sense.
Motliff grimaced at the data staring back at him from the screen.
Shaking his head, he turned to Navpilot. "Survey orbit on the
fourth planet."

  "Aye, Caleb," Navpilot replied. Hnidix was good, maybe too good
for the job. Motliff considered himself lucky to have him.

  "Two moons, Caleb. Small, possibly from the asteroid belt."
That was Squab, the Searcher. He was already at his survey
station, feeding verbal to the daily report.

  Motliff barely acknowledged him. It had been a long trip and
this was the last stop before jumping back to Strevgnot and a
much needed rest. He stared ahead, not focusing on much of
anything. By the gods, he was tired. More tired than he need be.
Standing and rubbing his eyes, he headed for the lock. "Call me .
. ."

  "Ruins, Caleb."

  "Already?" Motliff returned. Could it be? On this small planet,
barely large enough for an atmosphere.

  "Yes, Caleb."

  Motliff approached the survey station. Squab continued to peer
into the projection field. "Where, Searcher?" Motliff demanded.

  "On the far side. Two, possibly three sites, Caleb," Squab
replied.

  "Then?"

  "Unlikely. Just ruins. Nothing recent."

  "Ancient? How old?"

  "We'll get it on the next pass, Caleb."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 60
  
  Motliff nervously tapped his nails on the wall. Another
sighting. How many worlds had the vermin polluted? Even here,
where no race should have been, they had left their mark. At
least they were gone from here. He turned to the charted system
on the tactical. Two other possibilities. One hot and dry, the
other temperate and wet. But both were more attuned to potential
settlement. The planet below them was too old, too far out, and
would have to have help to be useful.
  
  The planet spun under them. They held a tight counter orbit to
the rotation. Common for surveys.

  "Ancient, Caleb. Three hundred generations or more."

  "The vermin?"

  "It is possible, Caleb. But it is fitfully early."

  "Um," Motliff responded. They had called the savages a lot of
names, but vermin seemed to fit the best. Combing the starways
with their warships, they viciously attacked, conquered, and
dominated, pushing their ways on others without concern for
feelings or heritage.

  Another pass. More readings.

  "Confirmed, Caleb. It is them."

  "And?"

  "As before, Caleb. Dead and gone. Nothing behind. Probably not
habitable."

  Motliff shrugged at the news. They'd seen it before in this
region of space. As thinly spread as the habitable systems were,
the vermin had been here, pillaged, and left.

  Motliff studied the readouts. "Mark it," he finally said. "Mark
it and leave it for later. Maybe, if the other two don't hold any
promise, we'll take a closer look."

  Squab nodded. "Already done, Caleb Motliff."

  Motliff turned to Navpilot. "Take us to the next one."

  "The inner of the two, then. It is closest."

  "Fine. . ." Motliff would have preferred to see the other
planet -- the wet one, over the hotter, drier planet closer to
the star. But then. . . something nagged at his conscience. Maybe
he didn't want to see it, either. What were the gods telling him?

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 61

  Blinking away the feeling, he took to the door, saying, "I've
got another matter. Survey orbit, when we get there."

  Both Navpilot and Searcher nodded.

  Up to the outer skin and Reader. Motliff paused at the arch,
then tapped on a pillar.

  "I've been expecting you, Caleb," came Reader's voice.

  Motliff entered and took his place opposite the caped one.
Once, he had known her only by her title -- Reader. Now, it was
different.

  "You come seeking the knowledge which you fear, Caleb."

  Motliff remained silent. Reader stated the obvious. His silence
was his response.

  "You have fear of the wet planet."

  Not that he wanted to admit it, he thought.

  "Of course," she responded out loud.

  Then? ! ?. . .

  "What you seek is on the wet planet. It has the knowledge."

  "No," Motliff vocalized.

  "Yet is it so?"

  "How?" Motliff returned.

  "I read it so, Caleb."

  Why did he bother? The answers. . .

  ". . . are never what you want to hear. You only come when you
doubt yourself, Caleb. You know that. Caleb never comes when
Caleb has no fears, no doubts. Even if I were not Reader, Caleb
is plain as a text scroll."

  Motliff stood and left. Enough of this foolishness, he thought.
Why did he bother going? Angry at Reader, angry at himself, he
stopped in front of his cabin door.

  "Time enough for sleep," and with that, he entered and retired
for a season.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 62

  In her cabin, Reader saw, and uttered, "But as to Motliff --
that is another matter." She turned inward and smiled.

  The gleaming planet rolled below them. "Survey," Motliff
ordered as he entered. But without hearing them, he knew
something was wrong.

  "We feared. . . " That was Squab.

  "You had retired. . ." Navpilot added.

  "Enough! What did you find? Life?"

  "Torture and pain," Squab said. He turned to his viewer.

  "And?"

  "No life -- none possible, ever."

  Motliff frowned. How could one have torture and pain where
there is no life? He made the motion of spitting.

  "Decogues upon decoques of it. Deeper than the deepest sea."

  "What? What in the name of the seven gods are you speaking?
Make sense, Searcher Squab!"

  Navpilot took a ragged breath. "It is a garbage planet. They
dumped their garbage there."

  "They? Who? The vermin?"

  "Without a doubt, Caleb," Squab replied staring with blank eyes
at the unthinkable.

  "Show me."

  Squab moved to one side and there, in the viewer, it lay. Not
just piles of trash here and there upon a barren plain, but
mountains of it with valleys full of more. They couldn't probe to
the planet's surface, it was so deep.

  As he watched, it rolled underneath them. Onward forever. It
was endless.

  Motliff staggered back from the sight. "Kalesbreath," he swore.

  "There's more," Squab said, and kicked in the spectrum filter.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 63
  
  Motliff came forward and looked again. Darkness, punctuated by
light, then almost blinding places, here and there. As he watched
there came a general rise in the colors, from deep purples,
through the reds, on into the oranges and yellows, toward
blinding white. The image had reversed itself and now, here and
there, were spots of darkness, tiny spots. Black pits of despair
in a white light.

  "Pockets of. . . what?"

  "The viewer doesn't lie, Caleb. You see what you see. The
darkness is barely safe. . . "

  A tear made its way from watery eyes. Such bestiality!
Whoremongers! Rapists! Only far, far worse than he'd ever seen,
or heard of others speak.

  Several lights started flashing and the filter snapped off.
Once again, Motliff watched the raw images from the planet's
surface roll by. A strange light was casting long shadows amongst
the rubble. He pointed at the viewer.

  Squab bent over it for a moment, then turned to Navpilot and
motioned him over. Taking one glance, Navpilot responded, "What.
. . ?"

  Squab added, "My response, also. Caleb?"

  "What happened to the filter?"

  "Overload, Caleb."

  "Overload. . . " Motliff mulled that over for a moment.
"Overload?"

  Squab sat -- just for a moment, then got a panicked look on his
face. "Get us out of here," he ordered Navpilot. "Back -- at
least the to orbit of the third planet."

  Navpilot nodded and bent to his controls. Squab turned to
Motliff. "What does Reader say of this?"

  "Riddles, Searcher Squab. Only riddles."

  Squab swallowed visibly. "This system isn't safe, Caleb."

  Motliff frowned. "I don't understand."

  "The second planet will explode. A reaction kicked off the
filter. It's gone awry."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 64

  "The atomics?"

  "Of course, Caleb. They dumped their atomics and waste there."

  Motliff felt for his chair. "And now," he said as he backed
into it. He glanced toward Navpilot. "Will we clear?"

  "Why ask him?" Squab replied with disdain before Navpilot had a
chance.

  Motliff glared at his Searcher. "Squab, what would you know of
the currents. . .?"

  "They aren't the currents, Caleb. That planet will blow and
take the star with it."

  "Nova?"

  "Aye, and probably within a generation."

  "Then? We have some time?"

  "To explore the third planet, but that's about all."

  "Why not the second?"

  "No time. It has already started. There will be a time before
the reaction reaches critical, then the planet will blow and
spread its reaction into the star."

  Motliff nodded grimly. "Take us to the third planet, Navpilot."

  "You'll get a reading, Caleb?" Squab made it more of a
statement than a question.

  Motliff looked at him. "Of course."



  "Ten turns, Caleb," Reader said as he entered her chamber.

  "Ten?"

  "Until we must leave."

  "Nova?"

  "In fifteen. But we'll need time to clear. Ten is the most we
can spend here."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 65

  "So soon, then." Caleb looked at the viewscreen showing the
receding planet. He didn't like Reader's comments, but how could
he argue? Maybe, though. . . "Could you?"

  "Change things? I would that this was not, Caleb. You know
that."

  "Maybe there is a way."

  "Yes, but not for us. Not for us on this trip. And not for us
at this time."

  As Reader, she always spoke in riddles, but it answered his
question. The question of who? And when? He didn't know and they
might never know -- not unless they could find the vermin's home
planet. Then they might have a chance -- a chance to stop this
madness.

  He hit the desk with his fist. 

  Reader jumped at his action. "No," she said.

  "Why can't we warn them?"

  "No matter how far I search or seek, I cannot read the answer
to that."

  "A hidden matter?"

  "Precisely, Caleb. Because if so, we might never be here."

  Stop the vermin before they spread into space. Why hadn't
someone considered that before? But what was he missing? Of
course! She couldn't get a reading because they -- they would
carry the word back and there would be action. Somehow, some way,
the great council will find a way to send back observers, and
manipulators. All with a mission. Stop the vermin from ever
achieving space travel. At least the type and kind they had now.

  Motliff stood quickly. "Thank you, Reader," he said.

  "As now and as to be," she replied.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 66
  
  Motliff gave that little thought. Now, he had a mission. Now,
he would no longer worry about what he might find. Now, he knew
what must be done. Now, he knew exactly what the third planet
was. Homeworld! Home world to the vermin -- to those that
polluted and destroyed the second planet -- to those that were
going to destroy this system -- to those that would forever
plague the starways. But they wouldn't stop them, unless --
unless, he could finish his mission and accomplish what Reader
could not see.

  He stopped at his cabin and posted a wake-up call for later --
when they reached the third planet. It was time for rest.

  "The single moon has bases, Caleb," Squab reported.

  "An atmosphere?"

  "No, Caleb. They are like the fourth planet -- sealed."

  "We have nine turns to explore and leave."

  They understood. If Motliff was to accomplish his mission, he
must leave when Reader said to leave. To do otherwise, was to
invite disaster and death.

  "We will explore for a turn. Park us."

  "On our way down, Caleb." Navpilot said and he directed the
ship toward the moon.

  Squab glanced up from his equipment. "Land at the second
installation. There is no life, but there is air inside."

  "Conditions?" Motliff asked.

  "Bearable. Cold, but bearable."

  "Penetration?"

  "Yes, the shield should hold," Squab replied.

  "Let's do it and get it over with."

  Squab turned and faced him. The figures were with Navpilot now
and there was nothing more for Searcher to do. "What did Reader
say?"

  "Not much," Motliff returned, "as usual."

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  Squab considered his words for a moment, then grunted and
stood. "Long watch. It will be good to explore."

  "The planet holds what we want."

  "I know."

  Motliff stared at Searcher and raised an expectant eyebrow.

  Squab smiled but said nothing. Reader came into the room.

  Motliff turned to her. "What will we find, Reader?"

  "I cannot see, Caleb. Our mission here will not remain through
time."

  "Can you see what will?"

  "No, which means we will continue as a team."

  Squab grinned. "You cannot see our destiny."

  "It takes a different path in our alternate life."

  She seemed relaxed. Readers were a funny lot. Sometimes they
could see the future and at other times, the future was blind. In
almost all those instances, it was because of a time wave,
usually created by the Reader's mission. It also spelled success
at whatever lay in the future. And that was a good sign.

  Turns, what are they? Ways of measuring time. Motliff continued
to stare at the ceiling as he thought on the meaning of Reader's
words. They would take an alternative path in something caused by
a time wave. Readers could see a short distance into the future,
but when they sensed nothing? Like now?

  He continued to lay there, pondering. Turns. Why turns? Because
that was the way they measured time. But on what basis? Turns of
what? Had they been in space so long that they no longer knew?

  The soft voice of Reader interrupted his thoughts. He glanced
at her, laying next to him. "Um?" he mumbled.

  "I said it must be close to time."

  "Searcher Squab is competent. He will return."

  "That's not what I mean, Mottle."

  Motliff smiled at her, but said nothing.

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  "You know what I mean."

  "Do I?"

  "Of course, just as I can always predict you?"

  "This?"

  "Us? Of course not."

  "But I am part of you and you, me."

  "That is why."

  Motliff nodded. "What is time, Ead?"

  Reader looked at him. "What? Why?"

  Motliff looked away. "Just curious. One of those things."

  "We can change time."

  "I know that. What is time, that we change it?"

  "Mm. Like the wind? In that we know not where it starts, nor
where it ends?"

  "Perhaps, but there is a beginning and end to all things."

  "And in between? Is that what you want? What is time, between?"

  "Yes. Something like that."

  He continued to study her face, his mind blank, lest she read
him. She turned and smiled. "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Looking at you," he smiled back.

  A greenish tinge crossed her features -- a blush.

  "I've made you blush," he said.

  The tinge deepened and he grinned broadly, then leaned over and
touched in intimacy.

  Turns pass slowly when you are waiting, and the one turn was
forever. The results were predictable.

  Squab shed the shield. "Proof? You wanted proof?" He
practically yelled at Motliff.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 69

  Reader lay a stilling hand on his arm, but that didn't temper
his response by much. "You may go the way of your ancestors,"
Motliff shot back.

  Squab spat in disgust. "It is them, Caleb. Them and their trash
and their corruption and their filth and their. . . " He was
green with anger and now, speechless.

  "You knew that going in," Motliff reminded Searcher.

  That didn't appease Squab at all. His face turned darker at the
suggestion. He was getting ugly.

  Motliff ignored him and turned to Navpilot. "Take us into
orbit." Maybe a survey pass would help. He turned back toward
Squab. "And you," he said with controlled passion, "you search,"
he swallowed, then pointed toward Squab's station, "with that!"

  He looked at Reader, who nodded silently.

  "You saw?" he asked.

  She nodded and left them.

  Motliff followed, after making sure Squab took his station.

  A few moments later he looked in on her room. She wasn't there.

  So he chose his own cabin. "Why?" he asked when he saw her on
his bed.

  "Privacy and this," she motioned to her own nakedness, "should
help you bear the truth."

  He watched her. . .

  "Rid yourself of suspicion, Mottle. I know you."

  He shook his head and sat bedside.

  "Join me," she requested.

  He closed his eyes.

  "I understand," she responded, and proceeded to tell of her
reading. "Squab found what they left behind."

  "Predictable."

  "Isn't it, though?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 70
  
  The question caught him off-guard. He hadn't expected that. But
he didn't turn -- she'd know his thoughts even now. "Continue the
report."

  "Complete facility. Lots of examination chambers. They are
thorough."

  He looked at her and raised his eyebrow.

  "As predictable," she responded.

  As predictable. It was as old an answer as the vermin
themselves. Even on airless moons, or hostile environments, they
could not leave well enough alone. Gather information, they had
said. Sure, and destroy all that the gods had provided. Drill the
patient. Cut it, carve it, mold it, all in the name of progress.
If a land bridge is in the way of a waterway, blast your way
through it. If a waterland is inconvenient, still it with a wall
and pump it dry. If a vegetated stand is needed for something
else, rape the mountain for its bounty, then leave it to bleed
before wind and rain.

  Why always like this? Why could not they learn to live with
their sister, their brother? Why destroy, just to satisfy their
own insatiable appetite?

  "How much damage?" he asked.

  "Much. That is what disturbed Searcher."

  "Time?"

  "They are gone. What you seek is on the planet."

  He turned to her and looked into her eyes. "What will I find?"

  "Your answer."

  "And?"

  "It is not what you expected."

  "Are you saying this, just to occupy my time?"

  "Maybe," she toyed with him.

  "You are being like them."

  "We are cut from similar molds. Are not the gods the same?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 71

  "But why has theirs left them to do this?"

  "Has it?"

  "Reader. . ."

  "Call me by my name. . . like you did earlier."

  "Ead."

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  Reader turned to him with her large eyes. "You were rough on
him, when he returned."

  "I am Caleb," Motliff replied.

  "Even now?"

  That stopped him. His relationship to Reader was. . . not. . .
He looked at her -- her large eyes. "No," he said in a flat tone.

  "Is it not better this way?"

  "He is Searcher and I am Caleb."

  "And I, Reader. We each have our place."

  "You are saying. . . "

  ". . . that you need to mend."

  "He was angry."

  ". . . that you need to offer peace."

  "The peace of the survey."

  "Your peace, Mottle."

  "It is awkward."

  "Now, of course. Earlier, no."

  "You did not read this?"

  "Even a peek ahead is blind for me. I am. . . as you," she
concluded in a low voice.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 72

  He arose from their place. "A Reader that is blind, a Caleb
that cannot lead in peace." He turned back to her, looking down.
"What good are we?"

  She tilted her head. He nodded and departed for his meeting
with Searcher.

  Searcher Squab was bent over his instruments. Searching in his
viewer. Navpilot glanced up and shook his head at Motliff as the
Caleb entered.

  Motliff joined him at his station. "How long?"

  "Moments ago."

  Squab was green with anger.

  "Again?" Motliff asked.

  Reader entered the room, glanced at Squab, then joined the
others.

  Motliff glanced at her. She made a motion toward Squab.

  Motliff grimaced as best he could, after the manner of the
vermin, and rose to give her his seat. She would not let it rest
until they had peace -- his peace.

  "We land," Squab said before Motliff could approach him.

  Navpilot looked surprised.

  "We land," Squab said again. "You have the coordinates-ordinates."

  Motliff raised his hand to touch and heal, but Squab would have
nothing of it. "You, Motliff, will come with me."

  Motliff stared in disbelief. "Searcher. . ."

  Squab spat. "Enough!" he raged. "You and I will go as equals.
It is too late for the healing touch. Not after what I saw in
their moon settlement. . . Here, you, Motliff sela Caleb will see
as I saw, will suffer as I suffered, will feel the coldness of
your own blood!"

  Motliff felt the cool waves wash over him as his anger grew to
match that of Squab's. The room took on a greenish cast as only
it could when one of his kind saw hatred. And Squab was forcing
him into this.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 73

  The heat of Reader's voice broke through his vision. "Yes, it
must be so, Caleb."

  At least she had the courtesy to address him with his title.
But this, this, vermin would not survive their journey home. Not
after that sedition!

  But Reader must have known his thoughts. She said, "Give it
time, Caleb. See what must be seen. Then, decide."

  She knew how to reach him. The warmth of more natural fires
returned as he returned the stare given him by the ver. . .

  "No," Reader warned.

  . . . by Squab, Motliff resigned. "Yes," he allowed. "We will
journey as brothers, you and I."

  The anger drained from Squab's face. "As. . . brothers?"

  "Is that so unusual, Searcher?" Motliff returned, glad to have
the upper hand through surprise. He held his own mystification
well enough.

  Squab bowed his head, hiding his large eyes. "It is enough, my
Caleb."

  "Rise, and stand beside me," Motliff ventured.

  The eyes gazed in wonder. "May you have peace, Caleb," Squab
said as he came to stand next to Motliff, his equal.

  Motliff turned toward Navpilot. "How long?" he asked.

  Reader responded. "Time for rest. It will drain you -- both of
you."

  "That is good," Motliff retired.

  "A quarter turn," Navpilot said. Motliff knew the lie, but
understood why without question. Both would need the rest.

  Motliff heard the compensators whine as they dove deeper into
the gravity well. Soon, the deep-throated hum of the shields
would send sympathetic vibrations through the ship. The sounds
unnerved him as he realized that time was close. He glanced at
the time-tell and knew that the orbit had been held. Navpilot was
true to his word. A quarter turn had passed.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 74

  Motliff stared at the ceiling of the sleep-chamber. Like a
cocoon, its ceiling curved close overhead. The warmth surrounded
him, protected him, and gave him peace. What would he find on the
surface? Pain? What? With Squab at his side -- the searcher -- he
shook his head at his half-formed thoughts.

  He keyed open the chamber and rose to meet Reader. Her love was
strong, and concern pained her features and wide eyes.

  "What?" Motliff asked.

  She shook her head and turned away.

  His unfinished thought brought her back. "I, I," she stammered.

  "Death?" he asked the unthinkable.

  "No, but pain. Pain. . ."

  He nodded, understanding that she was speaking of the horrors
Squab had witnessed. "No mind," he told her. "I will be fine,
unless you see otherwise."

  "No," she admitted. "As before, the decision has been made.
When you? committed your thoughts, my view of the future became
a, a mystery."

  He ignored her question. "Worry not, then. It contains all of
us. Do you see any of our deaths?"

  "See? I read nothing of any of us. Either we all die or we all
live."

  "But. . . ?"

  "You thought wrong, Caleb. If a Reader cannot see the future,
there are two possible paths, not one."

  Now, more than ever, Caleb Motliff wanted to crawl back into
the protection of the sleep chamber.

  "That, you will not do. Your sense of duty will prevent it,"
she reminded him.

  Motliff blinked slowly at Reader, then went into his personal
chamber. There, after a few moments, he was clean and dressed. As
he stepped out, he looked again at his companion. She watched in
silence.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 75

  "It is best this way," he said.

  She nodded in reply, this time not interrupting and completing
his thoughts for him.

  "You have nothing to say?" he asked.

  "Only," she replied, "come back. With Searcher."

  The vastness of the planet's surface surprised Motliff. He
hadn't expected to see the continent -- not like this. Lush
beyond belief, yet dozens of dozens of decoques from the nearest
sea.

  "A land of promise," Reader had told him. "Unbelievably rich in
life and vegetation."

  "Yet they left it. We have found none of them here," Motliff
replied.

  "Only their ruins," Squab said.

  Motliff turned. "Where?"

  "At the horizon," Squab replied, pointing toward the distant
hills.

  "Why do we start here, then."

  "We approach from the rising sun, Caleb."

  "Caution," Motliff frowned.

  "Caution," Squab agreed. "The instruments are not -- reliable
in this climate."

  The ground shook and a low pounding reached them. "Tremor?"
Motliff asked.

  "No!" Squab said with concern.

  A moment later they were inside their ship, watching and
waiting for the mighty beasts to thunder past them.

  "How many?" Motliff asked in wonder at the sight.

  "As far as eye can see," Reader responded. "At one time, they
nearly were not."

  "And now, with the vermin's absence, they return in force."

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  "Yes, Caleb. Magnificent, aren't they."

  "Of all the beasts, they are truly. Look!" Motliff pointed
toward even fleeter four-footed animals, bounding as it were,
along the perimeter of the pounding herd.

  "Incredible."

  Motliff looked for a few moments more, then turned to Squab.
"We take the scout, otherwise, we waste time."

  Squab did not move. Motliff looked up at him. His eyes were
sad. "What?" Motliff asked.

  "You feel nothing for them -- for their future?"

  Motliff felt the heat of emptiness fill him. He'd forgotten the
second planet, so rich was this one.

  "It will be different, Searcher," Reader interjected. "Though I
cannot see the future, I feel we will see these live on past our
time."

  Squab looked at Motliff. "Is it true?"

  Motliff nodded. "Yes, if this is what I think it is, then we
shall return throughout all time to change what has happened."

  "Forgive me, my Caleb, for my earlier incontinence."

  Now, slowly and deliberately, Motliff raised his hand and put
it on Squab's shoulder. Squab did the same. And between them
flowed peace.

  Across the vastness of open prairie, their scout craft sped. On
wings of gravity and magnetic forces they approached the distant
hills. Below them, the plains gave way to ancient ruins, barely
discernible from the heights.

  "Lower, Squab," Motliff requested. "Slow it down. I want a
closer look at those ruins."

  "At least we won't be trampled," Squab commented as he dropped
their air speed and height.

  Motliff chuckled. "Yes, friend. Let's put it down over there."
He pointed toward a wide expanse, devoid of any vegetation.

  A few moments later, they were standing outside their scout.
Motliff was kneeling feeling the surface. Squab had his back to
him, facing the distant snow-capped hills.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 77

  "By the gods," Motliff muttered. He sat heavily on the ground
and stared at Squab's back. "Get me a reading, Squab."

  "Huh?" Squab said as he turned.

  "Get a reading," Motliff said a little more gently. He put his
hands to his head, feeling sick to his stomach. "I want to know
the atomics."

  It didn't take long. "Melted. . . Slab, decaying past danger,
Caleb."

  "Those ruins," Motliff said. "They were natural. You saw that?"

  "Here and on the moon, Caleb."

  Motliff looked at Squab with curiosity.

  "Smaller, probably hand weapons, Caleb. Not enough to blow the
seal, but enough to destroy themselves."

  "Why?"

  "What are they doing as they expand?"

  Motliff nodded. That was the way it was with the vermin. "Put
your lenses on the distant hills. What do you see?"

  "Ravaged rock," Squab reported.

  "To the right and left?"

  "More of the same."

  "Then -- we go elsewhere."

  "Caleb, do you expect to find. . . what? More of the same? As
here, it will be everywhere."

  Motliff turned slowly and looked toward the rising sun. "How
long, Squab, how long?"

  "Many generations, Caleb."

  "How many? How old are the ruins?"

  Squab shook his head. "The ages are all over the place, Caleb.
Perhaps Reader?"

  "Mm, yes. Reader. Take us back to the ship, Squab."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 78

  Reader saw the past. "Ancient, and more ancient. As Searcher
said, Caleb, all over the place."

  "Then? Could this be? The home of the vermin?" Motliff asked.

  "The vermin, as you call them, are closely akin to a number of
races. How can we be sure this is their home or the home to any
other race?"

  Motliff eyed Reader. "Sometimes, I wish for less of your
wisdom, Reader."

  "We must be sure -- whether they came and conquered or
originated from here."

  "Then, in the time remaining, let us search all the continents,
search for ancient storehouses of wisdom and learning. Of such,
we know the vermin have, but do not follow."

  Reader laughed a dry laugh. "If they weren't so brutal, they
would be pathetic."

  Squab had a far-off look in his eyes. "What if," he started to
say.

  Motliff glanced at him. "What if what, Squab?"

  He turned toward Reader. She responded, "Yes, ancient and more
ancient, and yes, they could be a multi-race people. We've seen
some evidence of that in what they are now."

  "And?" Motliff extrapolated.

  "And, yes, they could have fought a last war over race."

  "The slaglands, Caleb?" Squab asked.

  Motliff nodded. "But," he sighed, "Reader has it right. We must
be sure."

  "Navpilot," Motliff said, "you haven't added anything. What say
you?"

  "Only this," Navpilot ventured slowly, "could they have
originated on more than one planet?"

  "This is the earliest read, Caleb," Reader replied. "The most
ancient in this land is far before they leapt into space, seeking
the stars."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 79

  Motliff approached Reader, and took her with his hands, holding
her at the shoulders. "Read me and my future," he instructed. To
himself he committed, `I come to seek out the ancestors of these
people -- none other.'

  "You commit?" Reader asked.

  "Of a surety," Motliff responded.

  "Then, it is of a surety, Caleb. This is their home and only
home."

  "Here? In this sun-drenched land?"

  "Not here, but here," she responded in her way.

  "Where, then?"

  "Toward the rising star lies a land of rivers. There is one
where four came forth before. . . it is the ancient of ancients
only," she paused, "they knew it not at the end."

  "The forgetfulness."

  She nodded in silence. Then added, "It was to be the gathering
place, but they fled before their time."

  Motliff stared at her. "A gathering? Like," he fell silent and
dared not say it.

  Again, she nodded in silence, this time remaining mute.

  "So," a plan made it way into his brain.

  "Yes, if we can trap them here, here they will stay."

  The other two -- Searcher and Navpilot -- gathered from either
side. Together the four made their pact and together they would
approach the council. But only when they had their evidence.

  The turns came and went as they searched the ruins. But what
ruins they found. Ancient wars had torn apart this world. This
home that was no more. Mighty cities melted before the waves of
the weapons that they took with them into space. Weapons that
they used on their enemies. . .

  Now Motliff and the three others were here, in their ship that
rode the magnetic and gravitonic forces of the universe. From
glass-bound city to glass-bound city, it was the same. The ruins
were their record. They'd done it to themselves, but only after
leaping into space and spreading their poison across the heavens,
across world after world.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 80

  The tears flowed freely from the great eyes of Searcher,
Navpilot, Reader, and Caleb. Why? Why were the vermin like this?
Of that question, they had no answer, at least until they came to
a dry and desolate land.

  Heat -- it was terrible in the cloudless sky. And through the
desert flowed a river. Southward, they followed the mighty flood,
and passed ancient works that amazed even Reader.

  "They didn't destroy these," Motliff remarked as they stared in
wonder at the great ruins.

  "No," Squab whispered in awe. He turned to Reader.

  "No," she repeated. "It is the ancient place that they fled
under cruel task masters."

  "Then they came here even earlier?" Motliff asked.

  "Yes, Caleb. From a land that suffered under this, this heat. A
land of false gods."

  A chill ran down Motliff's back. "Say more, Reader."

  "They worshipped. . . " She turned and looked toward the sky,
shielding her eyes ineffectively against the glare of the star.

  "Where? Where will we find the evidence?"

  "One city. . . north and toward the rising star. A city that,
that was home to -- He was here, Caleb."

  She sank to her knees.

  "What? Tell us who?"

  "They murdered him. These are they -- the only ones that would
kill their own god."

  "What?" the three echoed in unison.

  "These vermin -- we have found them. I read true, Caleb. They
killed their god."

  "And the gathering?"

  "Never happened, for they had found the way to the stars and
destroyed all that they left behind."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 81

  "How long?" Motliff asked, glanced toward the sky, fear
spreading over his body.

  "We have less than a turn left, Caleb," Navpilot replied. We
must hurry.

  "Then, to the ship and to the city to the north and east!"

  The three males, so frail, helped the female, even frailer, to
her feet and toward the ship.

  The walled city was as it had been forever. Reader stood on the
hill. "It is here," she added, "that they killed him -- the god-
child."

  Squab came hurrying up from the city. He carried ancient books
that looked like they would not stand the strain. "I've found
them!" he said, "just as you said I would."

  Navpilot was a pace behind, bringing works of metal, curiously
bound and sealed. "And more! Here are the most ancient, made of
precious metals."

  Motliff led them back to the portal of their ship.

  As they sped from the star, the second planet exploded and fed
that star to critical and beyond. Detectors dead to the outside,
Motliff trusted that they would survive the nova as it formed
behind them.

  He was more interested in the works they had recovered. In
sealed chambers sat the books of wood, fabric, and leather. But
before him were the works of metal. He carefully opened the first
and stared at the marks.

  Reader moved to join him. "And what do you see," she asked.

  "I see not, but I feel much," he replied. "What see you?"

  "I see the ancient words, as they were recorded and then buried
in the city."

  "How ancient?" he had to ask.

  "As ancient as our most ancient works, Caleb. They are as old
as we."

  "And?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 82
  
  "And this is their record. Do you need me to read for you? Do
you not know the words as well as any of us?"

  Motliff nodded. "In a beginning. . ." he tentatively began.
Reader nodded.

  He continued, "they, that is, the gods, created the heavens and
the. . . " He stopped, not willing to say it.

  "Say it," she urged. "Say the ancient term."

  ". . . the earth." He stared at the plates. This was it -- this
ancient work of metal was the proof of the origin. It was of the
planet, of the system. This is where it all started. Motliff
slammed the plates closed. He would not read, nor would reader.
"It is all here," he said with finality.

  "Yes, Caleb. This is what the council will need."

  Many turns later, they neared the end of their journey home,
leaping from star to star. Caleb entered the room. Navpilot was
eagerly searching for homesignal. Squab was relaxed, his
instruments on auto-detect. Reader was there with them, dreaming
of home, so transparent were her thoughts. He smiled at them as
they turned toward him.

  "Faerie's Ring," Squab said.

  "What?" Motliff asked.

  "They -- the vermin -- the earthers -- are as a Faerie's Ring,
Caleb. You know they've come from somewhere, but they're already
spreading by the time you realize what's happened."

  "I wonder," Motliff pondered. "Suppose. . . No, it couldn't
be."

  "Couldn't be what, Caleb?"

  "They couldn't be related to Faeries, could they?"

  Navpilot shrugged. "Anything's possible."

  "What's the source of the 'Faerie's Ring' story?" Motliff asked
Reader.

  "Caleb Motliff," she smiled. "Why ask? You know that they are
the source. The evidence has always been there. They are fleeing
their own destiny."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 83

  Motliff felt fear chase his spine. "And. . . we?"

  She nodded. "Yes, Caleb. We are their future, their destiny. I
read now that we will live and we will approach home again. . ."

  "From Mother Earth," Caleb replied softly. He knew, even as
Reader nodded, they'd travel the time waves back, back to stop
them before the Earthers made the jump to the stars -- to spread
their poison and their death. They, of all peoples. They, the
ones that had killed their own god.

  And now, Caleb Motliff and his crew knew their destiny. They
would be the ones to play the part of the gods -- riding their
chariot, their wheel of fire -- to damn the children from their
awful course.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Thomas N. Huber, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with 
computers since the early '60's & employed as a technical writer 
for a major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works
include user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine 
articles. Hobbies, genealogy and running his BBS. Look for his major 
series of SF novels, prerelease title, STAR SPAWN. With many shorts 
related to the series. Email:  dfi@dreamforge.nauticom.net
=====================================================================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
GOLGOTHA
 by Travis A. Clark
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  I loved two women.
  
  And the rough wooden spike pierced the skin and tore at the 
muscle beneath, severing tendons until it broke through the other 
side of my hand, then into the hard redwood tree behind me. My 
blood fell freely and mixed with the sap. 

  I loved two women, and it is my ever shame.

  My scream shattered the silence of the forest calm. I scream 
what seems forever. But I stop, and laughter comes mocking my pain.

  Her name was Sarah and her name was Mary. My Magdalene, sweet 
Mary. So innocent, so pure, so loving. I loved her. And I loved 
Sarah. Feisty, red-headed, and extremely sexy. Not so innocent, 
and very willing to prove love. In any way. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 84

  I loved her.

  My right hand is forced up and though I flail wildly, I have 
no choice. The bark rips at the back of my hand, but that pain is 
nothing. I know I will scream again, but not at that. I brace my 
self for the pain.

  It was nothing spectacular. That's how it all starts, nothing 
big. Small. I was careful with the big and small. I never called 
Mary, Sarah or Sarah, Mary.

  This time the small was nothing but a card. A small card that 
Mary wanted to send to me. I had never given her my address. I gave 
her a phone number (cellular) where she could call me. My address 
she didn't have. 
  
  My hand is held back against the ancient tree and fingernails 
sharpened keener than any knife pierce my palm. A pair of moist, 
red lips suck the blood from my hand and a soft pink tongue laps 
it into the greedy mouth.  I fade into blackness . . . .

. . . only to be brought back screaming as the splintered wooden 
spike impales me again. This time, the pain is worse as I twist my 
hands further embedding shards of wood into my muscles.

  "Beware a woman," my father had said. "If you cross her she 
will tear you apart and suck the marrow of your bones."

  If only dad had known what true evil lies in the hearts of men, 
and what women would do to protect their hearts.

  The card fell out of my suit coat pocket. I was oblivious, yes 
I was. If Mary had found it first, I would have been rocked and 
dropped out of her life. But luck was a fickle goddess.

  My legs hang low, the life out of them. I wasted too much energy 
on fighting them back. A leg is handled then thrust against a tree. 
I hardly feel it when the bark again rips my skin open.

  But I scream, as is required of me, when the spike is thrust 
through the top of my arch, mangling tendons and breaking bones 
until it is imbedded.  

  The scream satisfies my lovers for a moment, a shrill laughter 
in the air.

  No, it was Sarah that found the card, Devious Sarah, Hateful 
Sarah, Lovely Sarah, Sexy Sarah. And she followed me. And I was 
easy to follow, for I had thought that no one suspected, that my 
scheme was perfect. But I loved them both. I swear I loved them 
both.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 85

  My other leg is thrown against the tree, Sarah is getting bored 
now, and with the same hate I am pierced and impaled, with the 
same love I am crucified onto one of the oldest living things on 
the face of the earth. And again I do my duty and wail with agony.

  I had to be gone out of town for a week. The law firm was 
sending me to Tucson for a seminar. I covered my bases and went 
away, and when I came back Sarah was at the airport.

  She said she was so horny waiting for me, she even went down 
on me in the parking lot, so I was ready for her. And she brought 
me here.

  I feel a pain in my side and the pain grows larger and larger, 
my eyes find the source and a kitchen knife is digging in my rib 
cage. Funny how all pain feels the same after awhile.

  Here was were I found Mary naked, here was where Sarah hit 
me on the head, here was where I woke to see Mary and Sarah 
masturbating. Here where I was crucified, in Redwood National 
Forest.

  Sarah smiles, and kisses Mary with a deep passionate kiss. Mary, 
sweet Mary, my Magdalene, kisses her back with full passion. She 
lifts the axe, my poor innocent Mary, and swings. The axe-head 
brakes by legs and I scream in terror, my head held high. Then it 
drops and I speak:

  "Father, forgive them."

  "They know what they are doing."

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Travis Clark, All Rights Reserved.
--------------------------------------------------------------------                               
Travis Clark is an avid bibliophile living in the depths of Oklahoma.   
He lives with two cats and a boa constrictor, respectively Morrigan,  
Elvis, and Lovecraft.  His goals are to continue writing, eating,  
sleeping and reading. myddrin@icnet.net
====================================================================

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((------)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
                            POETRY . . .
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-



DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 86

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
AT THE END
  by Dena Billings
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 
If the sky is a holy vessel,
why in rains fall are You
spoken like a blade
let loose
among the lambs and growing things
to hack and choose?
 
We latch to roots that sigh
contented
and continue
but arrayed above -- branches,
scrambled out to endings
 
Or into an emergence. Curtailed
in motionless retreat,
the horizon still
frees thorning after morning
 
While homeless winds
scatter seeds --
prescience
within a shrunken skull
and from the roar
of silenced landscapes
 
Shrill green leaf
 
spectres form
demanding matter.
-----------------
 
 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 
BLAZING A TRAIL
  by Dena Billings 
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 



DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 87

Blazing your love for me
like a trail through
uncharted time, leaving
scars on virgin saplings
to show the direction
you took.
You made it easy for the others
to follow in your footsteps,
marking me as surely
as a map, and leaving me
no longer unexplored,
only unknown.
-------------

Copyright 1996 Dena Billings, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
For Dena, writing is something that is done passionately; a very
private experience. Writing poetry since seven years old, and says 
its only recently becoming presentable. Dena likes sports, reading, 
and the beach. Email:  dena.billings.1787@telesis.esnet.com 
===================================================================




-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
BECOME YOU BEFORE YOU GO
  by Chen Wang
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
 
To see your body crumble onto the deserted floor,
I cannot tremble but stand dead at the broken door.
There in the dreaded air,
I watch you engulf me with a last nightmare.
Your tears, I hear them,
slowly draining away a withered soul.
Your blood, I feel it,
boiling and then, turned cold.
Afar, morbid tones lure my reluctant feet,
Come and approach, in this hypnotic beat.
I, thus step fallen
after daunted step,
took the climb and finally
reached your haunted nap.
 

Surrounded with moving chills,
I saw your peace, lying there still.
Oh that still light thrown onto your face,
as if I've just stared into the eyes of death!

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 88
 
Rigidly, I kiss your frosted sorrow,
Forcefully whispering, a hope that was lost tomorrow.
I know who you are,
for you've become the blood of my heart.
I know where you've been,
for with your eyes, a life I have seen.
Rest easy, my beloved,
and know that I am your bitter tears,
frozen in the steel casket,
to accompany you in forever years.
---------------------------------


-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
CREATIVITY
  by Chen Wang
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


I once thought about Creativity,
that how it goes about the head,
effortlessly.
 
Light and elegant as a pigeon's feather,
Elusive and mysterious as the midnight panther.
It flies upon my pen,
when no effort is taken;
but lost instantly, if
caged into reluctancy.
 
It is unimaginable, for
no concentration can bring forth
its majestic infinity.
Yet when the mind is idle,
it always comes across,
ever so easily.
---------------


Copyright 1996 Chen Wang, All Rights Reserved.  
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Chen is a sophomore majoring in Computer Science at University of 
Maryland, College Park. Hobbies include writing, net surfing and 
weight-lifting. Email: chenman@wam.umd.edu
===================================================================

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Night Screams
 by Maureen Rushton
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 89

I reach down into the bottom of my soul...
and come up empty handed.

I am --
and I am not --
I have everything . . . and I have nothing.
I want . . . but don't need . . .
Need but don't have . . .
I have come far . . . 
yet still have far to go.
I listen . . . and no one speaks.
I speak . . . and no one listens . . .
I cry . . . and no one cares.
I ache . . . and no one comforts me.

I reach down into the bottom of my soul . . .
and I find strength.
I will . . . because I can.
I smile . . . because it helps.
I speak to deaf ears . . . because I must be heard.
I count my blessings . . . because they are real.
I go on . . . because I must.

I reach down into the bottom of my soul . . .
and I find courage.

I have found a person who listens . . . so there are more.
I listen . . . and someone speaks.
I cry . . . and someone wipes my tears.
I ache . . . and someone holds me.
I go forward . . . and someone walks with me.
I look to God . . . and feel his strength.

I reach down into the bottom of my soul . . .
and I find wisdom.

I comfort . . . because I have felt pain.
I care . . . because I have cried.
I listen . . . because I have been ignored.
I speak . . . because others stay silent.
I cry . . . because there are so many who don't understand.

I reach down into the bottom of my soul . . .
and come up screaming.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 90

The terror of what was.
The fear of what might be.
The frustration for what is.
My thoughts and pulse race simultaneously . . .
I feel a scream in my mind . . .
rising quickly in my throat.
And I suppress it . . . because nobody will understand.
They have all forgotten . . .
How to care . . .
How to touch . . .
How to feel . . .
How to communicate.

They reach down into the bottom of their souls . . .
and they find nothing.

For they have forgotten . . .
How to care . . .
How to touch . . .
How to feel . . .
How to communicate . . . .

So I will cry for them all.
---------------------------


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
MAGNETS
 by Maureen Rushton
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


Sitting opposite each other . . .
the electricity is felt --
They are drawn towards each other . . .
the atmosphere . . . 
creating resistance . . .
and friction.
But ultimately they meet . . .
and touch.
Gently . . .
they embrace . . .
feeling the exchange . . .
of electricity between them.
Fleetingly . . .
the two opposites . . .
are coupled by a force . . . 
which most can not comprehend.
They become one --
Undeniablly . . .

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 91

they are again separate . . .
The electricity still lives . . .
but the distance . . .
between them . . .
has subdued it.
And when the distance lessons . . .
they will embrace again . . .
The electricity will flow . . .
And they will again enjoy . . .
the unique feelling . . .
Of two . . .
being one.
----------

Copyright 1996 Maureen Rushton, All Rights Reserved.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Maureen is a mother of four, and finds it difficult to get the time 
needed to attend to her writing. (No doubt.) She has found a renewed 
interest in writing after checking into IRC Undernet writers channel. 
You can email Maureen at: coquetish@worldnet.att.net
====================================================================

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((({DREAM})))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=*****=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


=-=-=-=-=-=-
BOOK REVIEWS:
  by Jack Hillman
  ---------------

THE BUCHANAN CAMPAIGN
Rick Shelley
Science Fiction Paperback, Ace Science Fiction
Copyright Dec., 1995  375 pages - Eight Stars!
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

    (Books are rated on a ten star scale with ten being 
    the highest. Anything in the seven to ten star range is 
    a particularly good suggestion for your reading list.)

    
  The planet Buchanan was a peaceful colony planet on the
fringes of nowhere. Settled for only a hundred and fifty
years, there was still plenty of open land and room to grow.
Buchanan had been left on its own by both the Federation, a
supposedly democratic society run along the lines of a
dictatorship, and the Commonwealth, an old style monarchy
complete with a king that believed in letting the worlds in
his kingdom run themselves, for the most part. Until now.
     
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 92
  
  The Federation has landed a force of soldiers to take
over what it calls "its sovereign space." The people of
Buchanan are awakened out of sleep at three in the morning
to find their world under martial law.
     
  But one man, a member of the planetary commission, the
only government Buchanan has, manages to get off a message
rocket to the Commonwealth asking for help, and thereby
starts a chain of events that will lead to the first war in
space.
     
  The message rocket takes off and translates into Q-space, 
the only means of traveling faster than light, only a few 
feet into the air, without destroying either the rocket or 
the planet. In accomplishing this, the entire idea about
Q-space is upset. You weren't supposed to be able to
translate into Q-space inside the gravity well of a planet!

     
  When the Commonwealth receives the rocket, and hears
not only the message but the details of the trip from the
instruments on the rocket, they move into action. Peace
between the Commonwealth and the Federation has been tense
at best. The Commonwealth sends Admiral Truscott to oversee
the mission. Truscott, a veteran Naval officer, knows that
war in space has never happened before; skirmishes between
individual ships, yes; combat between planetary forces on
the ground; but never an actual war in space.
     
  Now Truscott must make plans for the first full scale
battle ever fought between the stars, and he doesn't even
know if it can be done.
     
  Rick Shelley has written an excellent example of something 
seen far too seldom these days: the first conflict in space. At 
a time when mankind has spread out into the stars, space has 
only been used as a means to get from one place to another. Now, 
one man must decide how wars will be fought, and he has to make 
sure he is on the winning side. For readers of hard science 
fiction, this is a gem that should be part of you reading list.

       
                           Happy reading!
                        
Copyright 1996 Jack Hillman, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
John is a freelance writer, who has been published in BLOODREAMS,
ONCE UPON A WORLD, and GATEWAYS. He writes a bimonthly SF/F column
published in THE MAGAZINE of SHAREFICTION, and his book reviews
appear in POPULAR FICTION NEWS. As a contributing editor to ON THE
RISK, he keeps track of "life." Email: jhillwtr@aol.com
==============================={DREAM}=============================

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 93

       
       =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
----==<BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway>==----
       -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                           ...Taglines


Desk: a very large wastebasket with drawers.

Will that be cache or chkdsk?

Did he say, "splunge?"

Accept no sheep imitations.

Abandon the search for truth; settle on a good fantasy.

"If it's not too much treble, may I rest here," she quavered.

This message is a forgery, or a very clever original.

Is there such a thing as clean lucre?

You think that was bitter? That wasn't bitter. This is bitter!

Did I ever show you where the horse bit me?

"Oops!" said William Tell, aimlessly.

He writes dialog by cutting monologs in two.

Carpe carp: seize the fish!

The problem with the human race is that it has very low 
admission standards.

I like maxims that don't encourage behavior modification.

Can you repeat the part after, "Listen very carefully?"

Rule #69: Look, do we have to explain everything?

On a clear desk you can never find anything.

Dark beer, dark humor - what more do you need?

I tried to drown my problems but they can swim.

You and me against the world? Great! When do we attack?

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 94

Never be led astray on to the path of virtue.

Some days the only good things on TV are the lamp and the clock.

The trouble with children is they are not returnable.

Scrabble? Nah, I can't spell worth a shirt!

Real fun is bungie jumping off the edge of insanity!

The world will end the day after the warranty expires.

Hot water heater? Hot water NEEDS heating?

Okay now. Is it new, or is it improved?

What are you doing? The message is over, GO AWAY!

Immortality is not for the squeamish.

I'm not CREATING a disturbance, I'm improving the one already here!

I always wake up at the crack of ice.
===============================(DREAM)==============================



                DREAM FORGE ADVERTISING RATES:
                
  The following rates apply to display within DREAM FORGE (tm)              
in the Ascii, Readroom.Toc, VGA, and Web editions. Four methods  
of distribution for maximum effect of your advertising dollars.  
You'll reach your demographic target advertising in DREAM FORGE.
  
Available on many of the major Online Services and on independent
BBSs around the World; both as a file download and in the Readroom
display Door. DREAM FORGE is also available via many major FTP sites
such as: ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/DreamForge; and at DF's home site
at ftp.nauticom.net/pub/users/drmforge/ There are Links to the web
site for the e-Maga-Weba-Zine from numerous search engines and 
popular web pages.

(Advertising rates will be escalating, lock in low rates now!)


PERSONAL ADS:
=-=-=-=-=-=-=


DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 95
  
  Limited to 1/5 display screen; (4 lines by 70 columns)
  layout ready copy only:
  
       Ascii/Ansi/VGA/RIP:   $40/month       $385/year
         Web edition only:   $50/month       $550/year
 ALL editions PLUS the Web:  $75/month       $800/year  
       
        A 10% discount will be applied for two or 
        more advertisements run in the same issue.
  
  
Commercial 
DISPLAY ADS:
=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
Rates are for a single online display page, equivalent to an 
eight and 1/2-inch by 11-inch sheet of paper. Layout ready copy
only -- inquire for ad design rates for ANSI/VGA/RIP and Web.

      Ascii/Ansi/VGA/RIP:       $75/month       
        Web edition only:       $150/month       
ALL Plus the World Wide Web:    $200/month


     *** With the Web edition you will receive a link ***
     *** to your Home Page from within your display ad.***
        
        
For yearly rates and negotiable discounts, email:
drmforge@dreamforge.nauticom.net.


Published by:   Dream Forge, Inc.
                P.O. Box 243
                Greenville, PA  16125-0243
                

Email: drmforge@dreamforge.nauticom.net
Fido netmail: 1:2601/522 (412) 588-7863      

The publisher reserves the right to refuse any 
advertising deemed inappropriate for DREAM FORGE.

* DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.
=====================================================================


DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 96

NEW GUIDELINES..... as of 1 May 1996.

................((((*=--...DREAM FORGE...--=*))))   01/May/96
............................MAGAZINE
.(((((*=--The electronic...............for your mind!...--=*)))))
>=================================================================

Forge, v.t.; from L. fabricari, to make, construct; from _faber_,
a workman, artisan; to make by or as by this method; to form;
to shape; to produce. syn. make; hammer; invent.
>=================================================================
Monthly e-Maga-Weba-Zine for a thinking and literate readership, 
95% freelance written. Works with inveterate as well as new 
writers. Ms published 2 days to 3 months of acceptance. Takes 
First N.A. Serial Electronic Rights ONLY, will accept One-Time Rights 
on reprints. Pays apx. 60 days after publication. Seasonal material
2 mos. in advance. We want mss NOT previously on the web/nets.
      
      "Looking for stories with positive messages, even if the
       thread is hidden deep within the fabric of the work."
       
On the Web at, URL:  http://www.nauticom.net/www/drmforge/dfl1.html
>Managing Editor: Rick Arnold .....drmforge@dreamforge.nauticom.net

PREFERRED LENGTHS:
Humor/Op-Ed: 1,000 to 2,500 words; Fiction/NonFiction: 1,500 
to 7,500+. Longer works definitely considered and used.

GET COPIES of DF AT:
http://www.nauticom.net/www/drmforge/dfl1.html; get WRITERS.TXT
via FTP:  ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/DreamForge/; 
ftp.nauticom.net/pub/users/drmforge/ 

METHOD OF SUBMISSION: 
Send your *ALL ASCII TEXT* as file attach or pasted into Email 
to: subm@dreamforge.nauticom.net and include a short Bio in the 
email -- if no Postal address, we assume you don't want paid. 
You can upload to the following BBS or file attach with message 
TO Sysop at: WRITERS BIZ, (Fido node: 1:2601/522) 412-588-7863; 
Note: ALL ASCII TEXT, this means NOT a word processor file: 
Convert to ASCII text PREFERRED! or tell word processor used!

If uploading to a BBS, use PKZip (protects file integrity), place 
your Bio and story into a single Zipped file; name the Zip file with 
your name and initials, (e.g. POEEA.ZIP, much as the 8.3 will allow).

INCLUDE: 
ONLY if you MUST BE paid, include your mailing address, along with your 
Bio, email address, phone, and SSN. If no modem, mail a DOS disk with 
two copies on the disk, do not compress with PkZip when mailing a disk; 
save your mss in DOS Ascii Text and Mail to:  

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 97

Dream Forge Inc., PO Box  243, Greenville, PA  16125-0243

.....FORMAT ;-) Format :-) Format :-) Format ;-)  FORMAT ;-) 
Flush Left, 65 columns Right margin, Single space BETWEEN Paragraphs, 
Ascii Text. We DISCOURAGE submissions on paper.... All manuscripts are 
considered disposable, even if you provide RETURN mailer. 
We are into electronic media and -- Saving Trees ......
>*--------------------------------------------------------------*<
NOTE: Ensure there are NO control codes! after saving to Ascii:NOTE

PAYMENT:
Humor, Satire, Essays, Reviews, Op-Ed, and Commentary from 1,000
to 2,500+ words. Average payment is:  $10.00. 
FICTION: Short stories most ANY GENRE from 1,500-7,500+ words,
longer works serialized; Pay range: $10.00 to $25.00. Avg. pay $10.00!
POETRY: Any style and length will pay: $2.00 for 1 to 5 poems.
>=================================================================

This writers' guideline is your offer to contract, taking ONLY:  
First North American Serial (electronic) rights.

*** If you're an Overly Successful Author, PLEASE Decline Payment!
Specific funds are donated to targeted non-profit agencies which 
DREAM FORGE, Inc. supports: Reading Is Fundamental, Laubach Literacy 
International, and Literacy Volunteers of America. ****
===================================================================
> DREAM FORGE (tm) e-Maga-Weba-Zine: "Providing Food for Thought!" 
Dream Forge, Inc., PO Box 243,  Greenville, PA  16125-0243
Email:  dfi@dreamforge.nauticom.net
BBS: (412) 588-7863 (data only).

Via Internet FTP get:
    
ftp.nauticom.net /pub/users/drmforge/
    
adrates.txt ......AD RATES
info.txt .........DREAM FORGE Information
writers.txt ......Writer's guidelines
Magazine Issues   Are:  DFxxxx(R, G, or T).ZIP Where xxxx is the
4 digit month/year (9605 = 1996 May) and the R = Readroom.Toc
G= VGA graphics edition, and T = Ascii Text edition. 
E.g. DF9605G.ZIP
  
  ftp.etext.org /pub/Zines/DreamForge/
  ftp.nauticom.net /pub/users/drmforge/
----------------------------------------------------------------------                             
                          (DREAM FORGE)

                          
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 98
                        
                        (( Legalities ))
                              and
                           ( Stuff )

DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc. Although the
publisher's BBS may be a part of one or more networks at any time,
DREAM FORGE is not affiliated with any BBS network or online service.
DREAM FORGE is a compilation of individual articles contributed by
their authors. The contribution of articles to this compilation does
not diminish the rights of the authors. The opinions expressed in
DREAM FORGE are those of the authors and are not necessarily those 
of the editors or publisher.

DREAM FORGE is Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

This electronic magazine is shareware, available to all readers. 
It may be freely distributed in unmodified form -- with all copyright
notices and advertisements intact. The original text of the magazine 
MUST NEVER BE MODIFIED. DREAM FORGE may not be posted, in whole or in 
part, on public conferences. Readers may produce hard copies of the 
magazine or backup copies on diskette for personal use only. 
DREAM FORGE may not be distributed in combination with any other 
publication or product -- CD-ROM, Print, and other publishers! 
Contact the publisher for reprint rights and permissions.

DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.  Many of the brands
and products mentioned in DREAM FORGE are trademarks, service marks,
or registered trademarks of their respective owners.


((( Where to Get DREAM FORGE )))

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DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 99

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
SCRIBE ALLIANCE PUBLISHING
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  Why Scribe Alliance Publishing was formed:
  
  Scribe Alliance was formed for many reasons. One is the fact 
that the publishing industry is mainly concerned with the "bottom 
line" and this leads to some very good work sitting in someone's 
desk drawer collecting dust, instead of being in front of a 
readers eyes where it belongs.
  
  Another is, our publisher R. Keith Giddeon was injured five 
years ago and was unable to work for three and a half years. He 
tells the story of that time and of how bored he grew of the day
to day chore of having nothing to do. Being a writer for a number 
of years, he read everything he could get his hands on. He also 
wrote during this time. Keith claims that this is what saved him
from going mad. He wants to give something back for this. So he 
used his own money to start this company, which he knows will take 
a while to become self-sustaining.

  Keith wants to create a place for non-published and little 
published authors and poets to get some recognition for their 
toil. He also wants to keep the notion in mind that all well-written
stories and poetry should be published and gotten into readers' 
hands, to keep the art of storytelling alive.

  We see Scribe Alliance being the launching pad for some of the 
future's brightest writers, and nothing would make us more happier. 
In the past few months, we have had the opportunity to read some
great stories and chapters of stories from our friends on various 
on-line chatting forums, especially the Undernet's IRC channel 
#writers on mIRC chat. This has spurred us on as well, knowing that 
their are excellent writers out there with good material.

The Goals of Scribe Alliance Are:

  We expect to publish two books this year, maybe three. We will 
be concentrating on short stories and poetry. Next year, we hope to 
start taking submissions for novels, and possibly non-fiction large 
works.

  This year we will be holding contests, we feel this is the best 
way to fairly collect the stories for our books. The books will be 
softcover and will be sent to the various reviewers for listing in 
their respective publications. The first book will have a first 
printing of one thousand. This is because we want to have a 
limited edition printing for the first book. Will print more, 
of course, but the first edition will be of sentimental value in 
the coming years.

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 100
  
  We want to be of service to the writers we publish. Hopefully, 
due to this they will obtain their goal of being a full time 
author, whether it be with us, or another publisher.

  Scribe Alliance Announces its First Contest!
     "The Keepers of Language" Contest

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES: SHORT FICTION Original previously 
unpublished works only. 1500-8000 words in length. Manuscript must 
be typed or printed by computer, double-spaced, stapled, with name,
address, and phone number at the top of first page. DO NOT FOLD the 
manuscript. Send in 9x12 manila envelope with #10 business SASE. $12 
reading fee per manuscript. Limit three. Place on your mailer one of
the following categories:

  Horror/Thriller
  Sci-Fi/Fantasy
  Romance
  Crime
  Mainstream/Drama

  (Optional, see judging below, $0.30 per page critique.)

  There will be one winner and one runner-up in each genre.
Winner will receive cash prize, and publication. Runners-up will 
receive smaller cash prize and publication.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES: POETRY

  Original previously unpublished pieces only, maximum of 32 lines, 
must be typed or computer printed. Place name, address, and phone 
number at top of page (each piece). Send in #10 business envelope 
if three pages or less. Manila envelope (9x12) if more and include 
a $3.00 reading fee for each piece.

 (optional, see judging below, $1.50 critique for each poem.)
                           
  There will be two categories for poetry: rhyming and nonrhyming. 
One winner and runner-up in each category. There will be a number 
of others which will receive publication, but they will receive 
only one copy of book. Winners will receive cash prize. Runners-up 
will receive a cash prize.

JUDGING:

  Our judges will be paid for what they read. These men and women 
are educators, at the college and university level, so their time 
is valuable. They teach English; Literature; and Fiction. The 
judges have been directed to look at the following aspects of the 
stories they read: total entertainment quality; characterization; 
and plot. They will not be judging based upon grammar; spelling; 
and sentence structure. These can be corrected during editing if 
chosen a winner or runner-up.
DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 101
  
  Poetry will be judged on total content, and no part will be 
changed, if selected as a winner, runner-up, or otherwise.

  The judges have agreed, as a service to the authors, to write 
a critique for $0.30 per page for short fiction; and $1.50 for 
poetry.

  NOTE: Even though this will create more work for us at 
Scribe Alliance, we strongly suggest you use this opportunity, 
as this is a great price for a service like this.

  The critiques will be mailed after final decisions are made on 
the winners, runners-up, and others. Winners will be refunded any 
critique Moneys submitted.

DEADLINE: JUNE 17, 1996

 GET THOSE SUBMISSIONS ROLLING IN. THE FUTURE IS
                     AHEAD!

  Scribe Alliance Publishing
  P.O. Box 16658
  Pensacola, FL  32507-6658
  (904) 476-5364,  9 a.m. - 5.p.m. Central
  Email:  guruso@cheney.net

NOTE: please add nickname and IRC server and channel 
(EXAMPLE: KeithG, Undernet #writers) if applicable.
                       #  #  #
==================================================================                             


((AWAKENINGS))
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ORAL ARGUMENTS
  by Dave Bealer
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  A large number of crazy stories constantly circulate through 
the online world (as opposed, of course, to the "real" world). 
One of the most compelling stories to circulate recently has to 
do with the first lunar landing in July 1969:

    When Apollo astronaut Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon,
    he not only made his famous "one small step for man, one giant
    leap for mankind" statement, but followed it with several 
    remarks -- mostly the usual COM traffic between him, the other
    astronauts, and mission control. Before he reentered the lunar
    lander, he made the enigmatic remark, "Good Luck, Mr. Gorsky."

DREAM FORGE (tm)     Volume 2, Number 02  May  1996          Page 102
    
    Many people at NASA thought it was a casual remark concerning
    some rival Soviet cosmonaut. However, upon checking, there was
    no Gorsky in either the Russian or American space programs.

    Over the years many people have questioned Armstrong as to 
    what the "Gook luck, Mr. Gorsky" statement meant. On July 5,
    1995 in Tampa, Florida, while answering questions following a
    speech, a reporter brought up the 26-year-old question to
    Armstrong. He finally responded. It seems that Mr. Gorsky had
    died and so Armstrong felt he could answer the question.

    When he was a kid Neil was playing baseball with his brother
    in the backyard. His brother hit a fly ball which landed in
    front of his neighbors' bedroom window. The neighbors were 
    Mr. and Mrs. Gorsky. As Neil leaned down to pick up the ball,
    he heard Mrs. Gorsky shouting at Mr. Gorsky, "Oral sex? Oral
    sex you want? You'll get oral sex when the kid next door 
    walks on the moon!"

  NASA categorically denies this story, which isn't too 
surprising. Of all the things astronauts aren't supposed to talk 
about in public, oral sex has to be near the top of the list.

  It turns out that I was in a position to do a little research 
on this story. The Arts & Entertainment (A&E) cable network ran a 
special on July 20, 1989 called "Moonwalk: As It Happened." Space 
program fanatic that I am, I taped that special. Watching it in 
December 1995, I did not hear Armstrong make the alleged statement.

  Obviously NASA had twenty years to edit out the "Mr. Gorsky" 
reference from the moonwalk footage. But if the story is true, 
NASA would have had no reason to do so before July 1995. On the 
other hand, it is possible that Armstrong told NASA the whole story 
privately upon returning to Earth in 1969. NASA officials would 
have certainly removed the Gorsky comment from any copies of 
footage released after that point. 

  While I couldn't prove the story true, there is still no proof 
it didn't happen. Even if someone had a tape of Armstrong making 
the comment, that wouldn't prove that the rest of the story is 
true. So perhaps the story is true, and perhaps it isn't. For some 
reason most men enjoy this story and want to believe it, whereas 
most women refuse to pay it any lip service.

                                (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Dave Bealer, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer 
who works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one 
of the largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a 
waterfront townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him 
endlessly as he writes and publishes electronically. Please note 
that due to the large volume of e-mail that Dave receives, he can 
be slow to answer his mail. Dave is attempting to alleviate this 
problem by teaching his cats to answer his routine e-mail.
=============================(DREAM)================================
       
       Copyright 1996 Dream Forge, Inc., ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
                              (FIN)
                              
