Love Story: In The Cloud

By Ken Renshaw

Anyone who has a cell phone or PC has heard about the
Love Story: In The Cloud, is a Sci-fi, legal thriller filled with romance, adventure and paranormal experiences.

Anyone who has a cell phone or PC has heard about the computing cloud where everything is stored. In this story Ken Renshaw reveals there is also a psychic cloud that connects us all. The psychic cloud is the science part of this sic-fi thriller.

This in not a Harlequin-type love story. It about Dave, a logic-oriented attorney, and Tina, a metaphysically-oriented woman, who explore channeling, past lives, and ESP as their differences dissolve and they fall in love.

The story is about the paranormal. Dave and Tina meet aliens, trance channels, past-life therapists, and discover their ESP love connection that transcends space and time.

This is a legal thriller. Dave puts ESP on trial in a thrilling trial involving a psychic spy. A terrorist plots to murder Dave during the trial.

It’s also an adventure story about Dave piloting a sailplane. He takes Tina on a romantic flight above the clouds. Later, he soars across the Mojave Desert and into the Sierras in a thrilling flight.

The novel practically vibrates with the relentless activity of all these interconnected plot-threads moving to a highly satisfactory end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Renshaw
• Release date: Jan 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985273194

Ken Renshaw

Ken Renshaw lives with the love of his life, at the edge of a pine forest , overlooking the ocean, listening to the surf, in Cambria, California.

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Love Story

In The Cloud

By Ken Renshaw

Published by Constellation Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 Ken Renshaw

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9852731-9-4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons , living or dead is entirely coincidental. Cover design by Heather UpChurch

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Constellation Press

1790 Ogden Dr.

Cambria. CA 93428

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to express my appreciation to Dr. J.K. Parker for her reviews, editing and encouragement. I am indebted to Dr. R. Targ and Dr. E. Rauscher developed the 8-space theory that provided the scientific basis for this book. Darlene Bowe's extensive and patient additions to story style were welcomed. David Strom contributions to the story structure were valued. Gayle Oksen's gave me encouragement with her review when needed most. I thank my fellow writers, and Paula Cizmar at Rough Writers for their support and comments. Midge Schulkin careful final editing amazed me. And special thanks to Heather UpChurch for her inspired cover design.

DEDICATION

To

Joycee

my

Muse

And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Hamlet

Act 1, Scene 5

1

Wandering In The Desert

Things were not going according to plan. On this fine spring soaring day, I planned a simple sailplane lying task. Fly from CrystalSky airport to another airport forty miles away and back across the Mojave desert. Now, on my return trip I struggled. Over Rosamond Dry Lake all the thermals vanished. I was down to a thousand feet, flying in tight circles in weak lift. The gravity force from flying tight circles pushed me down in my seat. I was sweating, gripping the control stick with a wet hand. The lift petered out, and I widened my circles to hunt for other weak lift. No such luck.

I lost altitude. My attention turned to landing on Rosamond Dry Lake, an expanse of dry silt about five miles wide and five miles long. I would land near the western shore, within a couple of miles, walking distance of a highway, near scrub brush to tie my sailplane to if I had to abandon it and walk.

I had landed away from the airport before. A sailplane pilot always has a potential landing spot in mind, another airport, a dry lake, or, sometimes, a farmer's field where you might be greeted with a pitcher of lemonade, a beer, or a shotgun depending on who lived there.

Today, only dry silt greeting me.

I dropped my landing gear, set the flaps, glided down to about ten feet above the lake, and stretched my glide until I approached the shore. I stopped about a hundred feet from the border of lake, opened the canopy, took a big breath of the eighty-degree desert and sat, disgusted with my planning.

I was alarmed. The desert heat or dryness had done something to my vision. I had seen intense lashes of light, appearing first in my instruments dials, then on the canopy and along the wings.

Pilots can't have their eyes playing tricks on them.

There are only two real moving parts in a sailplane, the mind of the pilot and his eyes. The mind finds thermals and feels the joy of climbing at five hundred or, sometimes, a thousand feet per minute and then flying at a hundred miles per hour to the next thermal, ten or twenty miles away. The eyes have to see where to find that thermal.

I picked up my radio microphone and called, CrystalSky this is King Romeo.

No answer! Out of radio range! Shit!

I undid my shoulder harness and parachute and climbed out of the sailplane. I took a big swig out of my water bottle, and labored to push the sailplane over to a clear area on the shore. The dry silt of the lake was a little soft and it was hard to roll the sailplane. I was hot a sweaty when I reached the shore. I sat in the shade of the wing to rest and drink more water. I ran my tongue over my lips and noticed my face was salty from the sweat of the day.

I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and tried again.

CrystalSky this is King Romeo.

No answer!

Any pilot, requesting a relay.

No answer. Damn!

I would have to walk to where there is cell phone coverage. Shit!

In the middle of summer, with a temperature of over a hundred degrees, walking would wait until the cool of the evening. Today, with the temperature in the eighties, it would be OK to walk if I drank lots of water.

I reached behind into the compartment behind the cockpit, grabbed my land–out pack, and pulled out an energy bar and a can of Gatorade. I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and tried again.

CrystalSky this is King Romeo.

Disappointing silence.

Any pilot, requesting a relay.

Damnable quiet.

My cell phone read, No service.

While cursing my luck, I shouldered the pack and began walking toward the highway to find cell phone coverage.

It hadn't been a good day. I had left this morning with an unspoken disagreement with my new lady friend, Tina.

I was getting ready to leave my mobile home, next to the end CrystalSky airport runway, a short walk from where I kept my sailplane. I was saying goodbye to Tina, who is about twenty-five years old, five feet four, with olive skin, reddish brown hair, and a modestly proportioned figure. She is four inches shorter than me. She doesn't make me feel short. I really like her, except for her irritating lapses into airy-fairy New Age thinking.

I should be back in early afternoon, about four at the latest. I have planned an easy practice flight. I told her.

She studied me with that strange stare in her big light blue eyes and said, Maybe not. I'll fix a dinner that we can eat any time if you get back late. We will need beer. There are only two cans in the fridge. Is there a store at the country club center?

Becoming irritated, I replied, I don't really know–I am not a member. I didn't mix well with the wealthy, retired membership who live in condos on the golf course. Use my Porche to go to that service station down on the main highway.

OK, she beamed. Have fun flying.

I noticed I was stiff as she gave me a kiss goodbye.

After about a quarter mile trek across the desert, I saw a hill topped by a big boulder. After climbing to the top of the boulder, I took out my cell phone and looked. Two bars! Hooray!

I dialed CrystalSky airport operations. Celia, the high school girl who worked at the airport, answered.

Hi Celia. This is Dave Willard. I need a retrieve from Rosamond Dry Lake.

Hi Dave. Do you fly the plane with King Romeo on the tail?

Yes, can you send a tow plane over here?

The last student pilot has just started his lesson. He will probably make four short flights. Dan can come over to tow you back. He will be there in an hour or hour and a half. Exactly where are you?

I read her the GPS coordinates I had written down before I left my sailplane.

West end of Rosamond Dry Lake, I got it, acknowledged Celia.

Since you won't be back until after five thirty, I won't see you. The office will be closed. See you tomorrow.

Thanks, goodbye.

I texted Tina, I won't be back until about 5:30. :(

I didn’t use the cell phone to talk to her. It would have been admitting she was right in her intuition about me getting back late and needing beer. I didn't want to encourage her in making prognostications about my flying ability.

As I climbed down from the boulder, I noticed another flash of light under the boulder. I'd better see my opthamologist and get that checked out. I mused and started to walk back toward the lake.

The weekend had started very well, I thought. Tina and I were at a Black Tie reception at the Getty Villa antiquity museum in Malibu. She looked fantastic in her black evening dress, wearing just the right amount of make-up and her hair in a fashionable uplift bun.

I really want to look at the Cycladic and Greek vase display, she had said as we had cocktails and ate hors d'oeuvres in the atrium of the Villa. She steered me to one of the side galleries, filled with large, well lit display cases containing clay–fired jugs, bowls and other containers. She pointed to a large jar and said, This is from the Cycladic civilization, about 3,000 BCE, in the Aegean Sea. Notice the geometric carving on the jug. No figures are carved here.

I noticed Paul Jefferies, one of the senior partners in my law firm, and his young trophy wife, Elaine, had joined us.

Interrupting Tina, I made introductions.

Please continue with your description, said Paul, it is interesting.

Tina moved over to another case, leaned over, pointed, and said, By contrast, this jar is from Athens, about 500 BCE. Notice how the black figures portray Theseus battling the Minotaur in the labyrinth on the island of Crete. These figures over here are the youths that were to be human sacrifices. Most of the jars in this area are decorated with scenes from mythology.

Paul seemed more interested in looking down the front of Tina’s dress than noticing the Minotaur.

This one, over here, depicts Hercules, wearing the skin of the lion he slew, delivering a mortal blow to Kyknos. These people standing around at the side are their relatives.

Paul seemed very interested in skin.

Very interesting, thank you, said Elaine, looking very threatened by the interest Paul was giving to the lecture, and to Tina. She led Paul away.

It had been a wonderful evening.

A slight desert breeze came up as I continued to walk, nipping on my water.

I continued to muse, Maybe contrast makes good relationships. I am a patent attorney dealing with hard scientific facts. She is a high school teacher, dealing with ideas. If only she would leave this New Age mumbo jumbo alone.

Back at the sailplane, I looked out across the dry lake. There were still wavy mirages in the distance. It was mysterious that all thermal activity had stopped in this end of the lake.

The air in the Mojave boils like water in a hot pan during still summer days. Streams of bubbles rise from the surface and form into columns of rising air called thermals. Sometimes they join to form dust devils, small dirty tornados that suck up everything smaller than a person, often rising to ten, sometimes, fourteen thousand feet. I have seen pages of newspapers floating at ten thousand feet, apparently migrating to wherever newspapers go to die. Somehow, this area of the Mojave was set on simmer today.

I placed my emergency pack on the ground as a pillow in the shade under the wing, and lay down for a nap. I closed my eyes and started to drift off to sleep.

Then, I heard a voice that startled me.

It said, Take me to your leader.

I wondered if I was hallucinating and, if so, why did I have to do it in a cliché.

I looked around and said, Who is there?

Over here, the voice said. The speck of light.

A few yards away, lying at the border between the dry lake and the shore was a broken clear glass bottle, maybe an old Mason jar, from the days when people canned their own food, and used bottles for rifle target on desert dry lakes. Inside the bottle was a very intense bright speck of light, like the spot a welder makes when he is arc welding two pieces of metal together. It was a brighter version of the flashes of light I had been seeing this afternoon while flying.

Shocked, it took me a few moments to respond. Am I supposed to let you out or something? Take you to what leader?

No, it seemed to chuckle, I was only making what we think you would call a joke. I thought a burning bush would be too cliché. I was afraid that if we spoke directly into your head I couldn't have what you call a conversation. This spark is only a convenient focal point.

A conversation? I asked, wondering if the desert had dehydrated me and I was hallucinating.

Come over and sit in the shade of this bush and relax. I apologize for startling you, said the speck of light.

I got up, wanted to run, but I walked over to the shade of a bush, sat down, took several long drags of water from my bottle, paused, and noticed that I felt a great sense of peace as I relaxed.

Now, lets start from the beginning. I said, If you are not a hallucination or a mirage, who or what are you?

The speck of light shimmered, I understand. With your scientific background and belief system, you will have difficulty understanding who we are and how it is that am communicating with you. I are communicating with you from another place outside space-time that you do not yet understand.

I grew more uneasy and then asked, Who are you?

The speck shimmered as it seemed to chuckle and said, I have never had a body. I am un-incarnated intelligence who wants to have a conversation with you.

Are you like an angel? I asked.

The speck of light replied, That is sort of the right idea. However, in your civilization you have pictured angels as incarnated into bodies with wings and halos and draped them in flowing robes. I don't have a body to hang wings on. You have also made angels employees of your various, shall we say, tribal Gods. Think of me as a freelancer.

Freelancer? Are you some sort of bounty hunter? Am I going to abducted?

No. The light blinked. I come in love and peace to communicate with you.

What do I call you, I asked

The spark of light replied,I don't really have a name as you think of it. I perceive that there is some of what you call writing on the object you are holding. What is it?

I looked at the top of the broken bottle I was holding and read the word, Mason,

The spark replied. Then you may address me as ‘Mason.’

OK Mason, but where are you? I asked.

I have a very different view of reality than that earthlings hold. Said Mason. I am outside space-time as you know it.

You say 'earthlings.' Does that mean you are from another planet? I asked.

Not really, where I live we think of 'earthlings' as a viewpoint, not as a place. It is what you might call a state of mind.

I wanted to run, call 911, or something. This must be a dream or a hallucination. Am I loosing it? Is this a desert madness of some sort?

Why are you talking to me? Am I supposed to become a prophet or something? I inquired with some trepidation.

No, I don't want you to grow a beard and go around carrying a sign saying 'Repent! The End Is Near.' I want to explain some limitations of what you call science and expand your view of reality. I wish to communicate these ideas through ways you understand.

Carrying on a conversation with spirits about physical science seems a little inconsistent, I observed in a lawyerly way. You are nonphysical and science deals with the physical.

Mason replied, I want to help you understand that much of what you consider outside your science really obeys the laws of your physics. That misunderstanding is constraining whole fields of endeavor, such as healing, interpersonal relationships, and even politics. But, that understanding is a goal and not the starting point. Let's start by discussing limitations on what your schools teach about physics. I can build on those ideas

OK, but I am confused, I mumbled, thinking to myself, 'I really should run or something.'

First we will talk about what you already only partially understand, the ideas of space and time, said Mason.

Oh, I don't understand all that stuff about Einstein's Theory of Relativity. I really don't want to go through all of the math and those weird concepts. One time, I had a patent case that involved Relativity and I had to search for a technical expert. I could never understand him, all I learned was that Relativity wasn't germane to the patent case, I said in a lawyerly voice.

Mason replied, Einstein's mystique is part of the problem. People on your planet are reluctant to think much about space-time because Einstein raised the mathematical hurdle so far. He had only part of the answer. His mathematics professor, Minkowski, was closer to the answer with his theory of eight dimensions.

I have never even heard of him, I replied. If I don't understand Einstein's mathematics, how am I supposed to understand what his professor couldn't teach him?

That is what I would ask for you to find out about, said Mason.

I said to Mason, I think you have the wrong person. I am a patent lawyer with a science background. I have no idea what you are talking about.

Then, I heard the distant sound of the Pawnee tow plane engine, my rescue, guided by GPS satellites, buzzing out to tow me back to CrystalSky. I was using technology as an antidote to my indulgence in flying an airplane without a motor. He saw me, cut his engine, and passed over me in a wide circle to check the landing conditions. I took off my tee shirt; held it above my head, let it flap in the gentle breeze to show him the wind direction. He wiggled his wing in acknowledgement, added some throttle, flew a landing pattern, touched down, and taxied toward me.

I turned to Mason. The speck of bright light had disappeared. I went over and picked up the broken bottle. It was only an old piece of glass. I dropped it thinking, No point in taking this with me.

The pilot turned off the engine, opened the cockpit side window and stepped out onto the wing. It was Dan, a man in his thirties, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and a cowboy hat over ear protecting earmuffs. His face was wrinkled and dried like an old man, from years of living in the desert. He greeted me with a big smile but without a comment on my plight, pretending he couldn't converse with his ear protectors. He drew the tow cable from the reel in Pawnee out to its one hundred and fifty-foot length and then handed the end to me.

I latched it in the tow hook on the bow of the glider, gave it a jerk to make sure it was latched. He gave me a silent thumbs up and walked back to the Pawnee.

When we were both strapped into our cockpits, and I had gone through my brief checklist I gave him a thumbs–up. He started the engine, edged the tow plane forward until the tow lie was taut and waited for my signal. I moved the rudder from side–to–side, the signal that I was ready to go. We accelerated, and in about one–hundred feet I was airborne, flying. I pulled back on the stick and followed the Pawnee as we climbed a few hundred feet and started a gentle turn toward CrystalSky .

I felt relieved. This little hot, sweaty, thirsty, and disappointing incident was over.

At altitude, I relaxed a little bit and started to think about my contact, if that is the applicable term, with Mason. 'Maybe I am going to have to take some time off from flying until I get this sorted out. Light flashes and hallucinations may indicate some sort of neurological problem or a brain tumor. I'll make an appointment with a neurologist and maybe get an MRI to be sure. Flying is unforgiving of pilot error. I can't afford any lapses in judgment. What else was there to know about space and time? Hadn't all that been worked out by science?'

After I landed and rolled to my sailplane's parking spot, I got out, stretched, and began tying the wings down. I heard a cheery voice say, Welcome back.

It was Tina who handed me a tall, cool can of Coors, walked over and, gave me a big hug and kiss. She was wearing tennis shoes, tan knee-length shorts, a white tank top, and a ball cap with her red ponytail sticking out above the back strap. I delighted in seeing she had nothing on under the tank top. She opened her piercing light blue eyes and said, I heard the tow plane come in and knew you were back. She observed, Is something the matter? Is landing in the desert that serious? I sense something else? A big disagreement? Are we OK?

Something strange happened, I said, my arm around her waist. Having her near was making me feel better.

We started to walk down the now deserted airfield to the country club trailer park. The airstrip is a mile long, paved for the middle half of its length, the rest is a sandstone colored swath bulldozed in the desert, strewn with small rocks, and bordered by desert chaparral and an occasional Joshua tree. My desert refuge is next to the airstrip, at the outer boundary of the country club.

Right after I texted you, I took a nap in the shade of the wing. I was startled by a speck of light in a broken mason jar that appeared to be talking to me, I said incredulously.

A what? She replied.

I stopped and faced her: I was taking a nap and then I heard a voice. It appeared to come from a broken mason jar, the kind of garbage you find all over the desert where people have camped. I repeated, "There was a bright speck of light in the jar and a voice coming out of it!"

You must have been suffering from dehydration, she said with a laugh. It takes forty days and forty nights wandering in the desert to get mystical visions. Then impishly added, You have always been a quick study. She looked at me for a long time and then said, You're serious. This is really upsetting you.

I'm a scientist, a patent attorney. I deal in hard factual physical things. Voices do not come from inanimate objects. Furthermore, I saw specks of light all over the place as I was landing. This all must be some kind of retinal problem coupled with a dream during my nap. I'd better see my eye doctor next week. It must be some kind of eyestrain–related thing exacerbated by flying and the desert heat.

As we continued walking to the trailer, I explained, But It seemed so real. It said its name was Mason. I repeated somewhat louder, "There it was, a voice coming from a speck of light. The voice said it was giving me a message from a consciousness that is