Whispers and Screams

By Stanley M. Bonner

Seventeen short stories and novelettes compose Whispers and Screams. While these stories are from the realms of horror, science fiction, and fantasy, they are also stories about people, about loneliness, insanity, love, politics, philosophy, food, power, about human feelings and behavior in these dynamic times. A large number of the protagonists are minorities or women. Many of the stories owe their heritage to the black-and-white horror movies of the late thirties and forties and the B-grade science fiction of the fifties. "Proteus Rex" is about a genetically engineered life-form that adapts the attributes of animals (a lion's strength, a bird's wings) or whatever his survival needs and infinite appetites dictate. Having consumed all the animal life in a small rural community, he begins to eat people. Much of the story is about the local authority's attempt to identify and apprehend this menace, a significant challenge as Proteus Rex is an extradimensional being that can change his size to as small as an amoeba to as large as a blue whale. "Proteus Rex" is populated by a deep cast of characters, only a few of whom manage not to get eaten. Imagine the actress Lucy Liu portraying Ian Fleming's most shrewd creation, James Bond, 007. Only she's working for TSA—the Teleportation Security Administration—three hundred years in the future. This is after World War VI, and the United States has been fractured into several independent nations. The two Koreas have united and is running the world. Executive Action Officer Sun Park's mission is to capture or neutralize the perpetrators that sent and detonated an atomic bomb in the TSA X-port Freight Hub in Buenos Aires. This is the premise of "The Price of a Dog," an action-driven novella, a political science fiction thriller. In the short story "Slaves of the Cat Goddess," Buster, the main character (and stooge of General Wanamaker), is charged to take the mysterious cat Bast to a secret research base. Bast's size and ferocity force a crash landing on an uncharted tropical island inhabited by cannibals. Knowing that it was Buster who was responsible for her mutation, Bast not only protects him in this hostile world, but she sees that he is elevated, serving as the ambassador between the goddess Bast and the humanity she would enslave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684569007

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Whispers and Screams

Stanley M. Bonner

Copyright © 2019 Stanley M. Bonner

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

Warning: Please be advised that the stories herein were written for adult entertainment and do have passages of adult situations, extreme violence, and contemporary language.

(No animals were injured in the creation of this book.)

ISBN 978-1-68456-899-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68456-900-7 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The End of Time

Unholy Blessing and the Curse of an Angel

Beast of the Blood Moon

Unseen

Come, Chimaera

To Wash Himself Innocent of the Blood

Test Subject 70892

The Price of a Dog

The Primary Philosophical Question

Too Early to Fly

The Giant Brain-Sucking Bug from Outer Space

The Brain Skulker

The Deeper Experience

Slaves of the Cat Goddess

Proteus Rex

Trapped

The Bogeyman Will Get You if You Don’t Watch Out

This book is dedicated

to

my wife, Elnora.

The End of Time

Four generations of Hudsons had been privileged to take in these sunsets over the Black Hills. From the porch, Octavian could see acres of fenced-in range, this year with wheat, rye, oats, potatoes, cattle, and hogs. Wild prairie roses were in full bloom, and in the distance, Octavian saw a pair of ring-necked pheasants soaring into the first shadows of night. Octavian was a great-grandfather, but he did not feel like it tonight. In fact, the last few days it was like a new vitality was flowing through his system. The nagging back pain that had crippled him for years was completely gone. Yesterday he even went fishing with one of his grandsons and told him stories about ranching fifty years ago before Washington had intruded on the way things were done here. Still Octavian could not complain. He had divided up the vast estate his father left him, and prospects looked good for his children and grandchildren.

In the kitchen Sally was making supper for her husband, Octavian Jr. It was meatloaf with mashed home-grown potatoes and gravy. She was also thinking of health concerns. For the last three nights, Junior had been uncharacteristically rambunctious. Not that she was one to deny her one true love that which made him so happy. It was just that he had not been this way in over twenty years. At first she was suspicious that he had another woman and was overcompensating. But after the third night in the row, Sally became convinced that no man could have that much…passion left after being with someone else. The hell with it! If he was with someone else, more power to them both. She was certainly getting her share.

Her husband walked in as this thought crossed her mind. He took off his hat and came directly across the room to her, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her full on the month. As they caressed, his hand slipped down over her buttocks. Sally felt giddy. Forty pounds overweight and she knew she still looked good to him. It looked like it was going to be four nights in a row.

She looked up into his sunburned face. Odd she did not notice before, but the bald spot at his hairline seemed to be filling in. Aren’t we feeling good tonight.

It’s just good to see my little sunflower, he said, now gripping her butt with both hands. Let’s skip dinner and get right to dessert.

She playfully pushed him back. I’m a Christian woman, Sally said. You know I don’t stand for all that fooling around. He began to chase her around the table.

That’s not what you said last night. C’mon now. Who’s your daddy?

You go upstairs and wash up. Speaking of daddies, on your way up, get Grandpa. He’s on the front porch.

As Junior walked through the living room, he thought he heard voices. When he opened the front door, he saw his father standing at the bottom of the stairs, talking to a man dressed in the uniform of a soldier from over a hundred years ago. If Junior’s memory served him correctly, the man was wearing the uniform of a cavalry officer, a captain. There were over two hundred similarly dressed mounted men with him. The senior Hudson was laughing.

You boys must be playing some kind of practical joke, he was saying. Jake put you up to this, right?

No, sir, I assure you. This is no joke, the captain was saying. At the head of the column, still mounted was a distinguished-looking man with a thick mustache and shoulder-length curly hair. He wore a wide-brimmed hat cocked to one side, and alone among the troops had a bright-red neckerchief. With an air of boredom and arrogance, he waited while Hudson and the captain talked. Then seeming to have his fill, he dismounted and joined the conversation.

What is taking so long, Captain?

Nothing, sir. I was about to inform this gentleman, he looked over as Junior Hudson was coming, rather these men, of the danger they are in.

What are you talking about, sonny? Grandpa Octavian said.

We have information that the Sioux and the Cheyenne are camped nearby. And we have been ordered by General Terry to engage this force. We cannot spare the men to guard your spread here. We think you ought to move to safety, the captain said.

Wait a minute, Junior said. If you’re looking for the Sioux, they have a casino—

The man in the hat cut off Junior’s statement. Gentlemen, we were unaware that any of the settlers had this size ranch in these parts. But I am operating under the authority of the United States Army and will not be trifled with.

While he was talking, Junior Hudson walked down the column of horse soldiers. He looked at their rifles, six guns, and sabers and realized that the only place he had seen weapons like this was in an Old West museum.

Grandpa Octavian had noticed the banner one of the soldiers carried. It was that of the Seventh Cavalry.

Tell me, sir, the old man said to the man in the hat, who was obviously the leader, are you looking for a fellow named Sitting Bull? Grandpa was trying to hold back an urge to laugh. By now his son was standing next to him. Dad, their guns and equipment look real, he whispered to the old man.

Yes, sir, we are, the leader of the troop said. As I said—

Then you must be…George Armstrong Custer, Grandpa said.

The officer smiled for the first time. Then looking to his captain, he said, My fame, as always, precedes me. The whole of the West knows—

Don’t go, Mr. Custer, Grandpa said. Then he and his son broke out laughing.

Don’t go.

I will not stand here and be insulted.

Look…I don’t know what you men are up to…, Grandpa Octavian said. I appreciate a good joke. If it’s some kind of costume ball, you guys ought to win. But my supper’s getting cold, and I don’t have quite enough for three hundred uninvited guests. So, if you’re on your way to the Little Bighorn River, just go to the end of the road and follow the interstate. By the way…is one of you riding a horse named Comanche?

Yes, sir, the captain said. Comanche is my mount. How could you know that, sir?

It’s in the history books. Comanche was the only thing that survived what is known as, no offense meant, Custer’s Last Stand. The men stood silent. And by the way, the old man said, what year do you think this is?

We’re not wasting any more time with you, Custer said, mounting his horse.

Eighteen Seventy-six, the captain said.

You’re off by more than a hundred years. You’re in the twenty-first century.

Lies! Blasphemy!

And I can prove it, Grandpa said. Son, if you have your cell phone with you, call Sheriff Devon. If these folks are pulling our leg, I’d like to be let in on the joke. If they’re not, then they’re too crazy to be out by themselves.

It took Sheriff Devon and his deputy fifteen minutes to get to the Hudson spread.

No one was out front, so having known the family for over twenty years, the lawmen walked around back. The Hudsons were in the kitchen having dinner.

Howdy, Sheriff? Grandpa Octavian said. Glad we weren’t bleeding to death here.

Hold on, Grandpa, the sheriff said. Nobody said this was an emergency. Now why did you call us all the way out here?

We just had some visitors, Junior said. Custer and the Seventh Cavalry.

Junior, you know I could arrest you for wasting my time like this? Now what the hell is going on? Sheriff Devon said. Excuse my language, ma’am.

No offense taken. Would you and the deputy like some meatloaf? We have plenty, Sally was saying. Junior’s not lying. I saw them leave ’bout ten minutes ago. Must have been over two hundred troopers on horseback.

That’s right, Grandpa said while stuffing his mouth with mashed potatoes. They were looking for the Little Bighorn. Then the old man started laughing.

Junior was laughing too when he said, We told them not to go, Sheriff.

I don’t know or care what’s got into you two. But if you ever call me again about something like this, I’m going to run you both in.

Junior got control of himself. No really, Sheriff Devon. No lie. Man said he was George Custer. He warned us about a Sioux uprising. The old man was laughing again. They just left. Check it out yourself.

The two lawmen were heading for the door. We’ve come this far so we’ll have a look. And there better be something there.

The police cruiser stirred up a huge dust cloud, driving seventy on the winding dirt road. It did not take then ten minutes to catch up to the column. The car slowed down as it passed the line of horsemen who stared at them wide-eyed. Some of the horses were spooked by the appearance of an automobile. The car stopped ten yards ahead of the cavalry, and the sheriff and the deputy got out. The column stopped too. Four men dismounted their horses and approached slowly. Two of the troopers cocked their rifles.

First thing, the sheriff said, lower the barrel of those rifles. They did not comply. The deputy reached for his nine-millimeter, but the sheriff signaled him to freeze.

Does one of you claim to be General George Armstrong Custer?

I am he, a man with a wide-brimmed hat and bushy mustache said. But I’m currently a lieutenant colonel. What is your business with me? And what is that strange mechanical contraption you came up in?

You mean my cruiser, the sheriff said, looking the men over. They looked like something out of the old photographs from the War Between the States. Those rifles and sidearms appear real. Do you and your people have licenses for all this stuff? I’d like to see some paperwork.

Sir, Custer said, I represent the United States Army. You have no jurisdiction over me. I will thank you to remove yourself and…that thing…from my path, least I shall be compelled to have you removed by force.

Sheriff Devon was sure he was dealing with a nutcase now. But the prospect of fighting it out with over two hundred armed crazies was not appealing.

Colonel Custer, if you will indulge me a few minutes of your time, I would be most grateful. I’m sure I’ve made a mistake. With your permission, I’d like to check with Washington…

Do you take me for a fool, sir? There’s no telegraph here. How can you contact Washington? Stand aside now!

General…Colonel Custer, Sheriff Devon said. Look at this cruiser. You’ve never seen the likes of anything like this. You have to admit that this is a strange and unique situation. We’re on the same side. There’s no need for bloodshed here. All I ask is a few minutes.

One of the men whispered something in Custer’s ear. Then the colonel said, "My horses could use a breather. I will have two of my men accompany you. Comp’ny dis-mount! At ease!" The men got off their horses and relaxed, some of them talking softly to each other. Sheriff Devon, with one of Custer’s officers and an enlisted man, went to the police cruiser. The sheriff put in an emergency call to the state police, in a numeric code, saying he needed immediate backup and a helicopter.

The cavalry did not wait. Mounting up, they followed the road while the sheriff followed them at a discreet distance. Before long a major from the South Dakota State Police was on the scene and on his radio talking to the governor. Within hours Brigadier General James Lemon and a professor of history from the University of South Dakota, Edith Brandon, were at the scene. The general, a no-nonsense infantry commander, had no patience with Colonel Custer and, whether he believed he was the actual Custer or not, had the Seventh Cavalry under his authority, rescinding the orders of long ago from General Terry to attack the Sioux at the Little Bighorn. After a day of examination, all that could be determined was that the troopers of this Seventh Cavalry believed, to the man, they were in the year 1876. Two more experts were called in: psychologist Dr. Antonio Di Pietro and quantum physicist David Blackburn. Testing of the 267 subjects continued at the closest military facility, Ellsworth Air Force Base. Dr. Di Pietro was convinced that these people were not hoaxers. Modem toilets, personal hygiene products, and the food seemed abhorrent to them, and radio and television and aircraft of all types—some of the troopers had to be anesthetized for the helicopter trip to Ellsworth—were cursed objects of demonic manufacture. About the only thing that fascinated them, besides the female Air Force personnel, were automobiles. The sudden appearance of the police cruiser that first night filled them with awe and wonder. None of them could wait to get behind the wheel. They also developed a fondness for air-conditioning and chocolate.

Custer had the most difficult time accepting his present condition. After reviewing several historical accounts of the Battle of the Little Bighorn, less flatteringly known as Custer’s Last Stand, the man became so depressed that he was put on a suicide watch. Dr. Di Pietro was livid that such material and casual contact with personnel without psychology background had been allowed. The doctor immediately began writing and distributing a protocol of how persons believed to be from the distant past should be reintroduced to the present.

Edith Brandon had a lot less sympathy for George Custer. She recalled how in 1868 he, with the US Cavalry, brutally attacked unarmed women and children in a Sioux village.

The cavalry men were not hesitant to talk about their personal lives and family histories. A computer check of historical records tied these individuals to specific persons of the late nineteenth century whose existence could be verified by available data such as journals, diaries, the genealogy of marriages, births, and deaths at the front of family Bibles, personal correspondence, newspaper stories, photo albums, and birth certificates. Before the week was out, the scientists were certain that somehow this was the authentic Seventh Cavalry. But this in turn presented these same scientists with a dilemma: If this was the Seventh Cavalry, how could it have died, as history documented, at Little Bighorn? And the bigger question, how did they leap more than a hundred years into the future?

Before these questions came close to being answered, it happened again.

It was a sunlit morning in the well-to-do suburb of Barrington, Illinois, when in the lobby of the Fox Valley Bank all hell broke out. A diminutive man with a pretty face, sharply dressed in a tailored gray flannel three-piece suit with a matching gray fedora cocked over one eye and crisp white shirt with a colorful, fat flamboyant tie, and shiny black shoes, walked confidently into the lobby. Under his right arm he carried a Thompson submachine gun with a huge hundred-round drum magazine. Standing in the center of the bank, he yelled out, This is a stickup! If you cooperate, you won’t be hurt. Now everybody get on the floor!

Stunned, no one moved. The trigger-happy bank robber unleashed a stream of lead into the ceiling. People began screaming and lying down on the floor, except for one man who foolishly ran for the entrance. Showing not even the slightest hesitation, the gunman shot him in the back; a growing pool of blood flowed across the gleaming lobby floor.

The young-looking gunman grabbed two briefcases from a couple of businessmen and emptied the contents on the floor. He walked behind the counter and grabbed one of the tellers by her hair, ordering her to fill both bags. About then, two security guards ran in from the security booth in the back. They had seen what had happened on the surveillance cameras. As both guards aimed at the bank robber, one said, Throw down your weapon. You ain’t got a chance.

But the robber shot, and the force of the .45-caliber rounds jerked the security guards’ bodies around like rag dolls. When the women began to scream, he said, I swear I’ll drill the next person to scream! Now shut up.

Behind the counter the teller scrambled to fill the briefcases. Even so, the bank robber said, Hurry up. I ain’t got all day.

When she was finished stuffing the briefcases, she ran around the counter. The gunman snatched the cases from her and tucked one under his arm and carried the other in his left hand. Stupidly, the manager of the bank cried out, You’ll never get away with this, you murdering coward. Without comment, the small man blew the manager’s chest apart, some of the bullets going completely through the body and injuring customers.

Several tellers had activated the silent alarms, so by the time the robber walked out, four units of the Barrington Police Force had the entrance surrounded. Over a bullhorn, a lieutenant ordered the suspect to drop his gun and put his hands behind his head. In response, the man opened fire on the police. The firefight lasted a full five minutes with more than two hundred rounds fired. Although hit several times, the gunman kept coming and, before he finally collapsed, had taken the lives of four brave police officers. The bank robber was shot twenty-two times before he died.

As astounding as that violent clash was, it was chilling when the killer was later identified. A one-time enforcer for Al Capone and later a member of the John Dillinger gang, he was the vicious psycho known during the early thirties as Baby Face Nelson and had been dead for more than fifty years.

Some people might have been aware of one of these events. Others were aware of the second event. But no one was aware of both of these events. The FBI and the Justice Department were trying to figure out how and why someone would go to the trouble of duplicating Baby Face Nelson and how a weapon that had not been in production for more than half a century could be in use and in mint condition. But this was a low-priority concern, a subject for idle curiosity.

Two days later, a pair of Canadian Air Force interceptors picked up a blip on their radar where nothing should have been at this time. Dropping to below the clouds to the surface of the north Atlantic, they were so startled by what they saw they hesitated to radio command and control.

On a close flyby, the two pilots independently verified that they were looking at a gigantic luxury passenger liner on a northerly bearing. They dutifully reported the sighting, and the closest ship in the Canadian Navy, a destroyer, was sent to intercept and confirm. Twelve hours later, the prime minister of Canada held a press conference and announced to the world that the famous and ill-fated Titanic had been sighted south of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland and was being escorted by the Navy across Saint Mary’s Bay to St. Vincent’s with all 2,224 persons well and in high spirits, each one of them believing it was still April of the year 1912.

By the time the ship was in sight of its original destination, a flotilla of a thousand ships—from the Canadian, UK, USA, and the French Navies and those of many other countries, as well as privately owned ships of every size imaginable—joined in welcome with the ten thousand dignitaries, celebrities, family members, and good-hearted people who had come together at the docks. Because to the whole world this completion of the long voyage of the Titanic was nothing short of a miracle.

To both passengers and crew, everything felt the same. There had been no disruption or unusual occurrence that any of them noticed, no flash of light or strange sensation, nor had any person shown aging beyond what would be expected on a transatlantic cruise. But the jump into the future was dismaying. New inventions and the state of world affairs was not looked on as progressive, and the loss of so many relatives, friends, and familiar places made them feel out of place and disorientated. Some committed suicide within the first month of the Titanic’s docking.

The Titanic did bring from the back of people’s minds to the forefront of conversation how everyone, everywhere in the last few weeks had become more energetic and stronger. People in their seventies were acting and feeling like they were in their thirties, and people in their forties felt like teenagers. Bald men were seeing hair spontaneously return, and women experienced a return of firmness and lifting of the breasts and an overall suppleness and response in their bodies. Each day the feeling was more apparent than the day before.

While many believed this was the beginning of a new, golden age of humankind, others became paranoid. A meeting was held in the White House.

He had only been in the Oval Office once since his appointment as director of the Office of Science and Technology Policy, and that was for a photo-op on his first day. In his capacity as director, he was supposed to be the president’s top science adviser. But, in fact, this president relied on a very small circle of advisers, and he, Dr. Sherman P. Goldman, was not one of them. So this urgent summon was a pleasant surprise. As he got closer to the Oval Office, the young Marine guards in dress blues were replaced by slightly older young men in suits with earphones dangling from their right ears.

Inside the Oval Office, Dr. Sherman P. Goldman received his second surprise. He expected that the actual meeting would take place in the Cabinet Room, where he would be seated at a long-polished table with steely-eyed politicians. Instead, there were two couches facing each other with a comfortable-looking armchair at one end and the president’s desk at the other end. He recognized everyone in the room, and they all had steely eyes.

Dr. Goldstein, the president of the United States said, walking over to him with an extended hand.

Actually, Mr. President, the doctor said, it’s Goldman, Dr. Goldman. And it’s an honor to see you again, sir. He did not mean to say that. Goldman did not want to imply that he was underutilized.

"Of course, of course, Dr. Goldman," the president said, and then he began unnecessarily introducing the other people in the room: the vice president, the White House chief of staff and the deputy, the national security adviser, the secretaries of state and defense, and the director of national intelligence. It took a second for it to sink in: This was the National Security Council.

The president was wearing a sweat suit stained with perspiration. He sipped a sports drink on ice as he said, Please be seated, gentlemen and lady. The chief of staff will fill you in. Goldman sat on one of the sofas next to the secretary of state, who was much more attractive in person than on the news. He could tell though there was much more to her than looks. Of all the grim expressions in the room, hers was the grimmest.

The middle-aged, heavy-set chief of staff cleared his throat and began. "I know you’ve all heard about the Titanic reappearing and media speculation about the physics involved or the clamoring from our friends from the religious right about the beginning of the Second Coming." The vice president chuckled. He had sat in the big chair while the president paced about, looking out of the window at the rose garden.

What you are probably not aware of is that this phenomenon had happened twice before on a less dramatic scale. General Custer and more than two hundred troopers from the Seventh Cavalry popped up in the Black Hills of South Dakota. We’ve got them at Ellsworth, debriefing. We’re 100 percent positive they’re the real deal. And in a suburb of Chicago, Baby Face Nelson, the actual Baby Face Nelson from the thirties, tried to rob a bank and in the process killed four police officers before he was killed. The chief of staff paused. There were no questions or comments.

It is likely, the chief of staff continued, that other, similar events have happened that have not been reported. It is the feeling of some of us at the White House and defense—the secretary of defense was nodding—that we would be negligent from a national security point of view if we didn’t at least attempt to investigate and categorize future spontaneous appearances.

That’s right, the president said, perched on the edge of his desk. There’s something happening, and we don’t know what it is.

Accordingly, the chief of staff went on, we’re going to keep an eye on this situation. That’s where you come in, Dr. Goldman. Everyone turned to the science adviser. It was not a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Picking up a file with an impressive-looking stamp on the cover denoting Top Secret and having red, trimmed borders, the chief of staff began to read. We’ve already set up think tanks at MIT, Cal Tech, and the University of Chicago to analyze whatever information we can provide. They will contact you directly, Dr. Goldman. We also expect you to use your own personal contacts and the full resources of the Office of Science and Technology Policy. Everything else goes on the backburner, Dr. Goldman. This is your sole priority.

Yes, sir, Dr. Goldman said. Thank you, sir. His voice was dry. He felt like a third grader in the principal’s office.

The chief of staff went on. In addition, every resource of the federal government will be instructed tomorrow to make available whatever services you think you may need. If anyone at any level is not enthusiastic about honoring your requests, you will immediately call the deputy. You will also contact the deputy chief of staff at least once a day before six a.m. Washington time and keep him informed of your progress.

The president had picked up an apple and began munching on it. We’ll have a cabinet meeting tomorrow and inform the departments of what’s going on.

I’ll contact our allies, sir, the secretary of state said. If something like this happens anywhere in the world, we’ll be notified.

Ditto the intelligence community, the national intelligence director said. In the event some of these people are not completely forth coming.

Excellent, the president said. I think we’re on top of things. But make no mistake, I want everything to come through Dr. Goldstein first. I need to have this information organized and corelated.

Yes, sir, the chief of staff said. Dr. Goldman, there is already a fast response team of experts assembled that has some experience with this phenomenon. They did the preliminary investigation of the Custer episode. General Lemon is the field commander for the team, and he’ll report to you. Use this team as much as possible. The chief of staff glanced at the file he was holding. They, collectively, will be known as the Janus Committee. It’s your job to coordinate efforts on behalf of the president and to summarize the information. Does anyone have anything to say? Any questions?

The vice president spoke up. Yes…er…this phenomenon could be politically useful to our administration. All press releases and contact with the media should be from the White House and only from the White House. For everyone else, it’s ‘no comment.’

Agreed, said the secretary of defense.

The president spoke, Janus? Why the ‘Janus Committee’?

Janus was the Roman god of beginnings and as such was the god of gods, worshiped by the Romans even before Jupiter and their favorite, Mars, god of war. Ovid, the Roman poet, said that Janus was called Chaos at the time when air, fire, water, and earth were all a formless mass. He—

I guess, the president said with a grin, that it is appropriate that a Roman god be chosen. Just as back then all roads led to Rome, now all roads lead to Washington. The vice president and the secretary of defense laughed.

Our empire is mightier, the secretary of defense said.

Let’s hope we won’t be as arrogant with our power, the secretary of state added.

The chief of staff paused for a moment before he said, I guess we’re done then. Thank you, Mr. President.

Then almost in unison, everyone stood up saying, Thank you, Mr. President. The president walked Dr. Goldman to the door, patting him on the back while he was saying, This is a big assignment. We have every confidence you’ll be able to manage things for us and for the American people.

Of course, Mr. President, Dr. Goldman said. You can depend on me.

The president shook his hand. I know I can, Dr. Goldstein.

The next morning, Dr. Goldman got to his office much earlier than usual to make his six o’clock call to the deputy chief of staff. That was not difficult to do because he did not sleep at all that night being too excited about seeing the president and being the point man for such an important assignment.

The call was a formality: Neither man had new information to exchange. Though interesting, there was no manifestation, event, or individual Dr. Goldman could imagine that would jeopardize the security of the United States. He called each of the five members of the Janus Committee. All of them were still at Ellsworth AFB.

As a courtesy he called General Lemon (that is pronounced Lee-Moun, please) first. As a person he did not appreciate the general’s gruff manner. But the man was dedicated and an extremely intelligent and well-informed person. He was a fine leader for a field team.

Edith Brandon was delirious with the opportunity to speak with people from the past. Goldman had checked her credentials (along with those of the other members of the team) using his newly vested authority and concluded that she was adequate, reliable, and insightful.

But Dr. Di Pietro was too opinionated and argumentative for Dr. Goldman’s liking.

If this investigation became a long-term mission, Goldman had already decided to have Di Pietro replaced.

He had met Dr. Blackburn at a conference on astrophysics at Cambridge. The team was lucky to have him. Goldman intended to pick his brain and would heavily rely on him to pull some kind of theory from this apparent chaos. Before the day was over, he intended to call Dr. Blackburn again and talk more about the quantum physicist’s initial interpretation of what happened.

Finally he called Sheriff Devon. Neither of them knew why the sheriff was on the team. But Goldman respected his assertiveness as a law enforcement officer, and his experience as a trained investigator might be useful.

After that Goldman called MIT, Cal Tech, and the University of Chicago to introduce himself to the lead scientists of the think tanks established there. He instructed them to brainstorm the incidents from the information available and get back to him with whatever preliminary ideas they had.

At this point, Dr. Goldman thought there was nothing to do but wait.

Most of the changes went unnoticed but to those most concerned or those personally involved: a limb that had been cut away years ago growing back, asphalt changing to cobblestone, a subtle shifting of the stars, the moon moving a fraction of an inch closer rather than a fraction of an inch farther away, a global temperature drop of one degree, a missing child found snug in her bed with no memory of being gone, the Tasmanian wolf returning to its natural habitat, the senile back from their haunted residence, disintegrating old films being self-restored.

And more: fading murals becoming vibrant with color; worn shoes becoming brand-new overnight; sores healing, scars erased; the old gray mare becoming what she used to be; squeaky hinges stopping squeaking; rusted metal gleaming again; fished-out streams, rivers, ponds, and lakes becoming bountiful; and small villages and hamlets in Western Europe and monumental Cathedrals bombed out and forgotten during World War II appearing from nowhere, beautiful and inviting, with the simple appreciation and pride of ancestors who cherished them so long ago.

But something cannot come from nothing. All over the world scientists, who may have believed in miracles and divine intervention but needed proof that could be quantified to ascertain the origin of these disturbances in time, were hard put to come up with any explanation for what just as well might have been magic.

Even those who were too young to know her instantly recognized her. Of course, she had to be a look-alike and part of some publicity stunt. But the old-timers knew for sure. The breathlessness and elemental sensuality could not be duplicated. The afternoon soaps were interrupted with a bulletin. Marilyn Monroe was seen on Hollywood Boulevard. Cameras got a sound bite from her in time for the evening news hour. The actress said that tomorrow she would tell all and back up what she had to say with evidence she would be retrieving tonight.

Goldman was immediately on the phone to Ellsworth AFB. But General Lemon had already scrambled his team, and they were en route to California. Just as suddenly as she appeared, she disappeared, and all anyone knew was that she would be holding a press conference in the morning. From the short piece of film the fast response team viewed and from the interviews of eyewitnesses, including a few people who were old enough to have known Marilyn Monroe back then, they were certain that this was another temporal disturbance, and the team was eager to investigate. Even with the full cooperation of the Los Angeles Police Department and show business insiders, her location was unknown.

So, like the rest of the world, the Janus Committee waited patiently with the press at the appointed time and place. When she failed to show up, a search commenced. Her body was found that afternoon dumped by the side of a lonesome country highway. There was a single bullet hole in her forehead.

While this was happening, Dr. Goldman, with a Major Hazelton, assigned to the science adviser as a military adjutant, was on his way to a small town in Alabama called Eutaw in Greene County. They got lost a couple of times on the red clay roads that wound through beautiful, lush forests. Small towns and roads existed that were not on any of the maps. Many roads were not marked at all. If the locals knew of Paul Styles, they were not quick to volunteer any information. In fact, they looked at Goldman and the Air Force major with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The sheriff of Greene County ignored their requests for aid by citing manpower shortages caused by cutbacks generated in Washington. It was very much what they deserved as they offended the man walking in the door with their officious manner and assumed command authority. Ya don’t run shit down here, boy. I work for the people of Greene County, the sheriff thought as he was saying, Just head south on 65 till you hit the second river, then take the first right, the hell away from here, asshole. It was clear that strangers, at least federal officials, were not welcome beyond the small restaurants that served slabs and piles of delicious home cooking. To make matters worse, Goldman was not a people person and was perceived as self-important, even haughty. And the Air Force man was just plain scary and more used to commanding than soliciting. The locals were content and amused to let them drive around in circles all day and all night.

The problem was that Paul Styles was not actually in Eutaw; he lived on a farm near Eutaw. And Paul Styles did not want to be bothered, particularly by the federal government and most particularly by Dr. Sherman P. Goldman. It got dark quickly in the country, and when night fell, its blackness had thickness, almost like it could be grabbed and carried away if not for its infinite weight. They found the farm and, even then, still could not see the house hiding over a hill and behind a grove of trees. There were a couple of lights on that finally guided them in. The place was bigger and nicer than Goldman expected. It was a squared-off building, two stories high, with four huge columns in front. Several horses stood outlined against indirect lighting, and there was a pond of some size beyond them. Also, some distance away, the corner of a gigantic red barn was visible. It was peaceful and cool as they walked to the doorway with the sound of night insects loud in the ears.

Before they could ring the bell, the door opened. Styles stood in the doorway, a short, solid figure with close-cut hair and a precisely trimmed, thin mustache. He wore glasses and a frown, and his eyes were narrow, vicious like a snake’s eyes. Goldman had not forgotten how much he disliked this person, but he had forgotten his fear of him that lived deep in his soul, a fear that was attached to him like his arm or his penis. It was a mutual dislike between them, probably, Goldman always thought, a chemical thing. That, and the fact that Goldman had wrecked Styles’s career.

Dr. Styles…Paul, Goldman began, I’d like—

Why are you here, Goldman?

I have to talk to—

Why? There was a time you’d walk away from me while I was trying to talk with you, when you wouldn’t take my phone calls. You have the nerve to come to my home after all you’ve done to me, all you’ve tried to do to me? You were an ignorant, sneaky prick then, and I sincerely doubt that time has improved your lack of character.

Maybe, Goldman started again, you have a right to be upset—

‘Upset!’ Fuck you! Get off my property, you son of a bitch! Then the door slammed.

But Goldman could not walk away. Too much was at stake. He knocked again. Paul, yesterday I was in the Oval Office, and the resident—

Fuck the goddamn president! And the door slammed again. And again, they knocked. This time when Paul Styles opened the door, he had a shotgun in his hand.

I’ve had enough of you, Goldman. Now knock on the motherfucker one more time. Dr. Goldman did not know where he found the nerve. He remembered the grim expressions of the members of the National Security Council and decided he was more afraid of them than he was of a man who he knew hated him and who was holding a shotgun to his face.

I’ve had enough of your shit too, Paul. And if it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be the fuck down here. So, shut the fuck up and listen, then I can go and we’ll both be done with each other once and for all.

For a second Goldman really thought Styles would shoot, that he had pushed a little too hard. But the man lowered the gun. Okay, talk and talk fast. But do it right here. I don’t want you in my house.

"I know you heard about the Titanic…"

Go on, Goldman. What do you want?

We’ve put together a high-level think tank and investigative force called the Janus Committee. It has not been publicized, but this phenomenon has been happening with growing frequency all over the world. Forget about the national security implications, as a subject of scientific study, this is an unprecedented opportunity. MIT, Cal Tech, Chicago, and Dr. Blackburn—you remember Blackburn, the quantum physicist—they’re all on board.

Then why are you bothering me?

Because… this was coming hard for Goldman, you’re the smartest man I’ve ever met. Your mind is fluid enough to make that leap of imagination that might help us get a grasp on what the hell is going on. There! He said it.

It was quiet again. The crickets had taken over with their ceaseless night song.

Suddenly Goldman felt cold. He had not sold this. Styles was going to say no. And Goldman in his heart could not blame him. Styles had devoted twenty years of his life to cosmology and was developing a whole new field of mathematics describing the existence of parallel universes, how they were created, and how the barrier between universes may be breached. More than two hundred million dollars in grants had been set aside in the national budget, and progress was being made. When the new administration came into office, and the record-breaking deficit finally had to be dealt with, it was Goldman who recommended that Styles’s funds be withdrawn, although in relation to the trillion-dollar deficit, the money Styles was receiving was negligible. But it was done. Styles was out of work, and all the research he had spent so long bringing to fruition was taken out of his hands and warehoused. The money he would have received was spent on an antimissile system that everyone knew would not work even before the ink was dry on the design plans.

Paul Styles lost his mind. A deep depression overcame his rationality, and he spent eighteen months—Dr. Goldman knew this because the FBI, at Goldman’s instigation, kept him under surveillance as a possible security risk—locked up in a sleazy motel, drinking and continuously listening to Prince and the New Power Generation.

When Styles spoke, his voice was calm, almost detached. You have said your piece, and I have considered it. Now please leave and don’t ever approach me again.

That should have been the end of it. But like any experienced political manipulator, Goldman had a fallback position, a plan B. And Goldman had done his homework. Look, Paul, he said, his voice suddenly threatening, I tried to be nice about this. But I don’t care how you feel about me. You’re joining the program whether you like it or not.

Is that right, Goldman?

Yes, sir, that’s right, Goldman said. You’re on disability. You’ve been getting eight hundred twenty-eight dollars a month from the government. This was more of Goldman’s mischief. Goldman was vindictive and petty. It was not enough to take Styles’s lifework away; Goldman used the power of his office to blackball Styles and make sure that any university that employed him directly or indirectly would lose federal funding. Not that Styles, in his emotional condition at that time, made an attempt to find work. Even worse, Styles was due more than twenty-five hundred a month in pension and retirement. Goldman, again through political clout at the highest level, created a bureaucratic labyrinth that, after five years of trying, finally exhausted Styles’s will and left him with a fraction of that which was rightfully his.

Now Goldman pushed his point home: But you’ve made purchases. This house and property. More than a quarter of a million dollars in the last three years of scientific equipment, including the three power generators, at four thousand dollars apiece, you bought just last month. Who’s bankrolling you? A foreign power? And have you accurately reported your true income? I could have the IRS take—

The sound of the shotgun felt like it split Goldman’s head. I’ll put the next one right between your eyes. Get the hell off my property now! Git! Styles fired the shotgun in the air again. Goldman and the major were running for their car. Styles stood in his doorway, watching their car speed away.

Things must be worse off than the news was reporting, Styles realized, but he had his own plan, and it seemed that now was the time, while there was time left, to move things into operation. He got on the phone, and when the party answered, all Styles said was Eden.

The voice countersigned on the other end: Cherubim, brother.

On the way to Birmingham, Dr. Goldman received a phone call on the secured line.

It was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

I have a problem with what one of your people is doing in California, the CIA director said.

What is it?

It’s that sheriff. Sheriff Devon. He’s trying to bring in the FBI on this Monroe thing. Goldman was aware of the execution-style murder of the movie queen. He also knew that Devon was working under the assumption that her murder might have been to prevent her from relaying information that the Janus Committee was interested in.

I don’t get it, sir, Goldman said. What’s the problem?

There’s a national security concern. We…the CIA don’t want the FBI snooping around what, and I’m not saying it is, but what may be an intelligence concern. There’s sensitive information and persons in deep cover the CIA cannot have exposed.

Goldman thought about this. A wild rumor was going around years ago that Marilyn Monroe was murdered to quiet her from exposing an alleged affair with members of an earlier administration. But those were just lascivious rumors. Nothing was proven. In any case, Goldman took his orders from the White House and only from the White House.

Did you clear this with the national intelligence director? Goldman asked.

There was a pause, a long pause. No, the CIA director finally said. I thought I’d keep this between you and me…as a professional courtesy, as a favor.

No, Goldman said with a nasty edge to his voice. Sheriff Devon is doing his job. If you need him off of this, go through channels. They hung up.

The mention of Sheriff Devon made Goldman realize that if he had brought Devon with him to Eutaw, he might have received the cooperation of the Greene County sheriff and found Paul Styles with a lot less effort and time. About the time he convinced himself of this, his secured line rang again. This time it was the White House deputy chief of staff.

Goldman, the deputy said.

Yes, sir.

About this investigation in California. We need you to call Sheriff Devon and have him back off immediately. It could open up a can of worms. We don’t need this kind of distraction now. Let the locals handle it. It’s technically not our jurisdiction anyway.

Er…yeah…sure, yes, sir, but… Goldman was unsure what to say because he was unsure how he felt. He was getting a bad feeling that the CIA was involved in Marilyn Monroe’s murder this time, and if that was true, then it was involved when she unexpectedly died before. Goldman was a scientist, not a lawyer, but he knew enough that if he ordered Sheriff Devon off the case and it ever came out that the CIA was involved, that would make him an accessory to murder and possibly expose him to a charge of obstruction of justice. But he was also a politician, so there was nothing for him to think about.

He said, Yes sir, I’ll call Sheriff Devon at once. And he did.

There was no shortage, at this point, of phenomenon to investigate. All over the world tens of thousands of people, people who had passed away, were seemingly snatched from the past and dropped, to their bewilderment and usually to their great distress, into the present. They returned to homes occupied by other families or gone altogether, with new customs, values, and dress; changed cities and villages, streets and neighborhoods; incomprehensible gizmos and gadgets; a loss of status, possessions, and loved ones; the absence of belonging and of the familiar. They were suddenly left alone and feeling alien in what used to be their world. With these ordinary people were persons who had made their marks in history.

From the point of view of those living in the present, many feared that these new faces that came back wearing old faces were ghosts or some other variety of undead.

A little man with frizzy gray-white hair and amusement sparkling in his eyes strolled down the streets of Princeton, fascinated by what he was seeing. Much of what he saw was exactly as he left it. Some of the buildings looked their age, but they were still there, covered by old ivy that he had never seen. But the landscaping and wrought iron fences had not changed. More security and electronics, in the form of cameras and telephones, made themselves obvious, and the little old man wondered how much of their usefulness was tied to their deterrent effect. There was a strange lack of quality and commitment in the new architecture, and he did not like its disposable, unimaginative, thrown-togetherness. Nor did the casual clothing and lack of civility hold any charm for him. He did not know how or why, but his first impression was that he was not happy to be back.

Edwin was gone. George was gone. Ralph was long gone, and the Institute of Advanced Studies had been converted to an Asian Arts Museum. It took another twenty minutes to locate the new Institute of Advanced Studies. He only hoped that the head of the department or some adult—everyone looked like a child—would be located in the building.

It was like the air conditioner was set on subzero when the automatic doors closed behind him. A directory in the hall indicated a third-floor office as the location of the science department. On the elevator, a young coed openly stared at him but said nothing. If he had been a minute later, he would have missed the man. Instead he was invited inside and asked if he wanted to sit down, which he did.

Staring directly in the man’s eyes, he said, My name is Albert Einstein, and you may need my help.

A pattern was forming. The first known subjects of temporal displacement came from the years between the fifties and the post-Civil War period. Then the second wave hit.

Paul Revere on horseback was stopped on an interstate highway in Massachusetts.

He was arrested and placed in a cell to await psychiatric evaluation. A local newspaper picked up the story as a novelty about a costumed eccentric, a pitiful soul absorbed in patriotic fervor who needed gentle nursing and care. An MIT student, assisting the think tank that was analyzing temporal dilation, jokingly mentioned the story to one of the scientists. On a hunch he went to the jail and, after a few minutes, had the Revolutionary War hero released into his custody.

A sailing ship of a type not used in six hundred years landed on the coast of Colombia in a deserted area of jungle used by international drug traffickers. With a crew of Italians led by Amerigo Vespucci, the crew was intercepted by a band of well-armed narco guerrillas who opened fire on the sailors, killing everyone except Amerigo Vespucci, who was held for ransom.

In 1591 a Turkish fleet of 273 galleys met with a Christian fleet of 200 galleys and the heavier galleasses. History records the defeat of the Turks at what became known as the Battle of Lepanto. The Turkish fleet that appeared off the coast of Greece this time was saved the loss of twenty thousand men when the Greek Air Force filled the Turks with sightings of what the Turks believed to be dragons. The fleet surrendered and came under the guardianship of a delegation of representatives from Greece, Turkey, and NATO.

At the thousand-year-old pyramid at the Chichén Itzá ruins, two men, one lying on an altar resplendent in ceremonial garb and the other wearing a feather headdress, appeared from nowhere. The man in the headdress held a sacrificial knife with an obsidian blade high over his head before he plunged it into the chest of the man on the altar and, in one swift movement, snatched the still-beating heart from the dying man’s body. As a horrified crowd of hundreds of tourists looked on, he threw the heart onto a pile of hundreds of fresh hearts that had also appeared from nothingness. Then another man was on the altar, and his heart was torn out also. Then another. As soon as one was sacrificed, the next would appear. A growing mound of corpses, warm and bloody, tumbled down the steps and littered the temple, while a wide stream of blood flowed all the way down the pyramid to collect in a widening pool at the base. This continued until the Mexico City Police arrived and shot the man in the headdress, rescuing the current would-be victim on the altar. The saved man spoke in a language no one understood.

In New Zealand, flightless, ten-foot-tall birds known as moas were seen for the first time in four hundred years.

Traffic and commerce of every sort in Dodge City, Kansas, was immobilized when a herd of American bison estimated at over two hundred thousand stampeded through the city, taking more than three days before the last beast passed.

A B-29 Superfortress, refusing all attempts at radio communication, was shot down over the Pacific Ocean as it approached the city of Nagasaki, Japan. A twenty-kiloton atomic device was found in the wreckage.

A week had passed. Dr. Goldman called the Janus Committee together to Washington to see what the consensus of opinion was. They were meeting on Pennsylvania Avenue in the conference room of the Science and Technology Policy Office. A chill had settled in the air over the city on an otherwise sunny and pleasant day. One of Goldman’s administrative assistants had provided a delightful tray of cheeses, meats, and pastries. Goldman tried to relax, talking to David Blackburn and his old friend Autumn Sixx, but he could not fight off the nervousness of the National Security Council briefing he would be conducting later that afternoon. Three consultants, at Goldman’s insistence, had been added to the Janus Committee membership. Dr. Goldman’s first pick was Mary Nelson, chairperson of the National Science Board of the National Science Foundation. Goldman respected her experience and good judgment. In addition, Dr. Nicolas Minkowski, Astronomer Emeritus at the American Museum-Hayden Planetarium, had volunteered his services. A scientist of his stature could not be denied. From the US Department of Health and Human Services was the assistant secretary for health, Dr. Autumn Sixx, a medical doctor with excellent contacts at UN medical and health programs. Goldman and General Lemon sat at the head of the table with Brandon, Di Pietro, Blackburn, and Devon in attendance. Connected by secure video-telephone conference systems were the think tanks at Cal Tech, Chicago, and MIT.

Goldman began the meeting: Let me remind everyone that any announcements concerning what we will be discussing this afternoon will come from the White House. Everyone understood this, but the circle of people with a need to know was widening. Goldman had little hope that leaks to the press could be eliminated or controlled for long.

I’d like to start with some welcome news that will help all of us in understanding these time shifts. Among the many notable people who have come back from the past is the great thinker and father of the relativity theory…Albert Einstein.

You’re kidding, the Cal Tech lead scientist said over the television screen. Very funny, Sherman. We’re investigating time shifts and you tell us that the man who revolutionized the study of the relationship between time, space, and matter is back to solve the problem for us. Good way to start the meeting, Sherman. The members of the Cal Tech group were the only ones laughing.

No, everyone, Goldman said, holding up his hands (as if to say Nothing is up my sleeve). It’s not my intention to elicit laughter. The FBI has verified his identity. Some of you may have even heard rumors about his return and coming back to his former residence at Princeton because he knew there was something wrong if he was walking around in the twenty-first century.

So why isn’t he here?

This was a sticky point—a point of contention. The advanced studies people at Princeton were aware of the three think tanks. They and others had offered their assistance, and unofficially, Princeton and more than two dozen other institutes of higher learning and research were lending vigorous input to the think tanks. Goldman had divided the nation into three zones, each reporting to MIT, Cal Tech, or Chicago. Princeton notified MIT of Einstein being there. The think tank lead called Goldman, who in turn called the White House deputy chief of staff. An FBI team was scrambled, and Einstein was whisked away to a secure, undisclosed location. Goldman was told that a public announcement would be made in the near future. Until then, he, MIT, and Princeton were encouraged to make no public statement confirming or denying that the great thinker was back or suggest he might be involved in the study of this time crisis. All the Janus Committee members strongly objected to handling Einstein in this manner. But the White House overruled. There would be discussion of this subject at the NSC meeting.

He can’t be here, Goldman vaguely responded. You can be assured that he will be made aware of what the think tanks, the Janus Committee, and the executive departments and agencies are trying to do. And also that Albert Einstein’s input will be given first consideration. We must move on now. Goldman hoped to dismiss closer questioning.

If I may, said Dr. Novak of the University of Chicago, what we should consider first, and I think Dr. Minkowski will agree, is something in the manner of semantics, but more important than mere semantics. We have to look at these events in a different way, and it might help our thinking to use different words.

He stopped to organize his thoughts before going on. "Dr. Goldman just stated that Albert Einstein has come back from the past. And the media, in coverage of these temporal disturbances, is saying how the Titanic or the Turkish fleet has come back from the past. This is not what we believe the evidence is showing us. No one and nothing are coming back from the past. The past is coming back to us."

Between the three think tanks, a natural competition was expected by Goldman.

Each had developed what they believed was a theory that would explain the strange events. What Novak and the University of