November Rambles

Between the golden rays of October’s late afternoons and the cold dark days of December, there is grey November.  Halloween, on the last day of October, when kids young and old delight in costuming, gather in groups and troop from house to house calling out “trick or treat,” brings a joyful end to fall.

At least every other November  Election Day arrives on the first Tuesday with the thrill of victory for the winners and the agony of defeat for the losers who, in past years, accepted the decision of their peers with some modicum of grace.

The first Sunday of November may precede but often follows Election Day, with the end of Daylight Savings Time, marking the start of a more somber but thoughtful season.  

On the eleventh,Veteran’s Day, we honor our military veterans and pause to remember those who did not make it home.  November eleventh originally celebrated the Armistice that stopped the fighting during the First World War and as such was a day of joy mixed with remembrance for the fallen soldiers.  “In Flanders field the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row…” a poem we learned in elementary school, memorialized the soldiers killed in one particularly bloody battle in Belgium.  I remember that people used to wear red paper poppies on the eleventh and I think they still do at least in Canada and Europe, but it’s a tradition that has fallen away in the United States.  World War I was called “the war to end all wars,” but that proved a futile dream and further wars followed, the largest being World War II that began only twenty years after the Armistice. Wars continue to this day, and so the United States changed “Armistice Day” to “Veterans Day” to remember the veterans of all wars, past, present, and perhaps future.  To remember and to give thanks for their service and sacrifice.  Memorial Day in May also began as a day to decorate military graves, originally associated with the Civil War dead.  It has developed a more general meaning now as a day to remember and visit the graves of all our loved ones.

About two weeks after Veterans Day, on the fourth Thursday, Thanksgiving, the most uniquely American celebration arrives, tracing back to the founding days of the English colonies in Massachusetts and Virginia.  Though originally with religious roots, one does not have to belong to an organized religion to take the time to think about gratitude and thankfulness.  For as John Donne wrote 400 years ago, “No man is an island, entire of itself.”  Others helped or shaped and guided us along the way.  Experiences good and bad that we learned from.  It is the greatest conceit to think that any success or good fortune we encounter is due solely to our own effort or character.  Thanksgiving is a day to remember the past with gratitude and give thanks for any current good fortune.

Still, there are those whose lives are so bleak and awful that they may not be able to find anything positive to be thankful for.  We who are in better circumstances can try to help by ‘paying it forward” however we can and in doing so, recognize in a way, the ones who helped us.

It feels right that Thanksgiving is a day for family gatherings, for dining together with those with  whom we share a past, rather than a raucous party day—though of course there is football.  A more quiet time before the overwhelming rush of the Christmas season that arrives impatiently the day after Thanksgiving on Black Friday.  Now it’s as if there’s no time to be lost once gratitude is out of the way to proceed to the business of Christmas.  But first, before the harried shopping and spending, I am glad there is a time to remember and to give thanks.

Best Seller

It was the nineteenth or was it the twenty-third rejection slip?  Wilber Wilco had lost count.  He used to file them away, kind of like Purple Heart medals in his mind, each one representing a wound to his ego.  But today, he just crumpled the postcard and tossed it into the rubbish can under his desk with a sigh.  C’mon there’s a market for this.  I just know there is.  Why can’t these agents see that?

He’d gone away to writer’s conferences, when there were such physically held.  And more recently, attended virtual ones.  He reread and reedited his opus after each rejection, hoping that each repolishing would be the one that would catch the next agent’s or publisher’s eye.  But as time passed, it became harder and harder to continue feeling hopeful.

“Why don’t you go with self-publishing if it bugs you so much?” his friend Laurel suggested.  “You’ll at least have the satisfaction of holding it in your hands as a real book, with a Library of Congress number and everything.  Remember that guy who had a best seller about an astronaut stranded on Mars?  He started his story on the web for fun.”  

But Wilber had too much pride for that.  “No, I want it to make it the legit way, to have my novel picked up and marketed by a regular press.” 

“Well, you’re lucky that you have to work from home now,’ Laurel said.  “You’ve got more time to spend on your writing.”  Maybe too much time, she thought.

Wilber found a writing group online. He participated irregularly, submitting some of his rewrites for feedback.  Much of the time he disagreed with the comments that he received.  Some members revel in being caustic he thought.  Pearls cast before swine.  A few, who were always there when he attended, were more encouraging and sympathetic when he told of his most recent agent or publisher rejection.  He thought Nicholas especially was more helpful than hurtful, more encouraging than critical.  If the times were normal, he thought, Nicholas is a guy I would enjoy meeting in a bar, to talk about writing over a few beers.  He seems to really know his stuff.  Nicholas came across on Zoom as a rather dashing, tall, slim figure, with a well trimmed black goatee, perhaps fortyish.  Although almost everyone else favored wearing tee shirts or sweats at the meetings, he was always impeccably dressed in unwrinkled long-sleeved shirts.  Are they silk? wondered Wilber.  He must be doing well, whatever he does outside of writing.

And so one day as the meeting was breaking up, he commiserated with Nicholas about how discouraged he was feeling, how perhaps he should just give up the whole idea of being an author.  “Maybe my friend Laurel is right,” he said glumly.  “Maybe the only way I’ll see my book in print is to self-publish it.”

“Try not to be so hard on yourself,” Nicholas said.  “I think it shows real promise.  Perhaps just a little editing, that’s all.  Someone will pick it up.”

“The way I feel now, I’d sell my soul to have it published and become a best seller,” Wilber said. 

“Really?  You feel that strongly?  Well, that just shows that you’re a real author.  A mere dabbler wouldn’t feel that committed,”  Nicholas said.  “But would you really do it if given the chance?”

“You mean to sell my soul?  Well, I mean it’s just a figure of speech,” Wilbur said.  “I mean, who really believes in stuff like that today?  Souls and heaven and hell?”             

“Just suppose you actually were given the choice.  Hypothetically of course.  Would you?”

“Yeah, the way I feel now, I would.  Hypothetically of course”

“You would?”  Nicholas paused.  “Well, I do know some people in the industry.  And as I said earlier, I think your novel shows real promise.  Maybe I can help.  Here’s a name and number to call, and when they answer and ask what your call is all about, just say Nicholas referred you because he thinks you have a manuscript that is very promising.”

Wilbur looked at the name and number that Nicholas was holding to the screen.  “Wait a minute.  I know that name.  They rejected my manuscript once before without even a comment.”

“Well, that was before,” said Nicholas.  “And this is now.  Are you willing to give success a try?  Shall we Zoom-shake on the hypothetical?  Deal?”

Nicholas extended his right hand towards the screen.  Wilber, after the slightest hesitation, also extended his right hand, saying, “Why not?  Deal.”  And they Zoom-shook hands up and down.    

“Well that was sort of weird.  And we shook on a deal?  What deal?” said Wilber as he stared at the now-dark screen.  “Should I even bother to call this number tomorrow?  But I really don’t know what Nicholas does.  Maybe he does have an in with the publisher.”

The next day, feeling that he had nothing to lose, Wilber dialed the number and followed Nicholas’ instructions about what to say when his call was answered by a secretary.  To his surprise, he was immediately transferred to a senior editor.  

“Well, if Nicholas thinks your manuscript has merit that’s high praise.  Please send it to me immediately and I will be happy to take a look.  You haven’t recently shown it to anyone else, have you?  No?  Good.   Now here’s what you do to get it to me.”

Wilber couldn’t quite believe that this was really happening.  Wow, at last, he thought.  I’m actually getting a serious look by a publisher.  I guess Nicholas really does have clout.  And we haven’t even met in person.  He sent off his manuscript as directed.  Within a few days, a contract arrived from the publisher that he promptly signed and returned, feeling giddy about how rapidly things were developing.

Wilber shared the good news with Laurel.  “Did Nicholas mention what his agent’s fee was?” she asked.

“He never did say he was acting as my agent  Just gave me a referral.  And I really don’t know if that’s his business.”

“Well it must be.  How else could he get you a look and a contract?  You definitely should ask him what his fee is and get it in writing.  If your novel really takes off, you’ll want to know if he takes a percentage.”

“I’m not sure what he does,” said Wilber.  “I’ve Googled him and there’s almost no information available.”

And Wilber’s novel, after a slow start, did take off, arriving on the Times best seller list at number twenty-five, and then rapidly ascending the chart.  His book was reviewed.  He carefully clipped or printed out each review and filed it away.  Many were laudatory, expressing surprise that a first-time author had written the must-read book of the season.  Some were more like the less generous members of his writing group:  “I cannot recall reading a more disjointed novel.  It harkens back to Naked Came the Manatee.  The author is either a superb and clever satirist, or else he has foisted a huge literary con job on the reading public.  I am inclined to the latter view.”  You know where to stick your view, Wilber thought.  How’s that saying go?  Them’s that can, write, and them’s that can’t become critics.

He was besieged for virtual interviews and consulted Nicholas.  “I wouldn’t know what to say,” he said.

“Just be mysterious,” Nicholas said.  “Tell them that you want each reader to make up his or her own mind and you don’t want to say anything that would color their personal interpretation of your writing.  And if you use your apartment garage as the site of the interview, it will add to your mystique.”

After four weeks at number one, Nicholas said, “I think a celebration is in order.  Let’s have a small get-together with some other well known writers.”

“An in-person party?  Will that be safe?” asked Wilber. 

“I can guarantee you that no one will have the virus, so you’ll be safe,” Nicholas said.  “It’ll be fun.  Are you game?”

“I guess so,” said Wilber.  “But when and where?”  With other famous writers, he thought with a thrill.  I’ve really made it.  And all thanks to Nicholas.

“Just take Uber to the front entrance of Frumpy Towers.  I’ll meet you there next Sunday at 11:00 PM,” Nicholas instructed.

“Eleven PM?  Won’t it be closed then?  And isn’t that day Halloween?”

“I have an arrangement with the owners,” Nicholas said.  “And I enjoy parties on Halloween, don’t you?”

On Sunday night, Wilber arrived at the front entrance to Frumpy Tower as instructed, got out of the car and looked around as the car drove off.  The entrance was dark as were all of the windows.  Just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake about the date and time, Nicholas stepped out of the shadows, dressed all in black.  “Well, we meet in person at last, Nicholas,” he said, smiling in relief and extending his right hand which Nicholas took and shook vigorously.

“Yes, we meet at last in person,” he replied with a broad smile.

“I’ve told you this before, but I owe everything to you.  I can’t thank…”

“Don’t worry about that,” Nicholas interrupted.  “It’s really all my pleasure.  Now shall we join the party?”  

The tall bronze doors to the lobby slid open at his gesture, their foot steps echoing in the vast empty darkness, as they crossed to the far bank of elevators where one was waiting with door open.  “After you,” Nicholas said with a sweeping gesture of his right arm.  The door slid shut, and the car began its descent.

“We’re going down?” asked Wilber in surprise.  “I thought we might be going up.”

“Did I mention I have a deal with the owners?” Nicholas replied.

At last the car stopped, the door silently opened, and they stepped out into a dimly lit room of indeterminate size.

Nicholas snapped his fingers and the room quieted as everyone looked their way.  “I want to introduce our newest arrival, Wilber Wilco, the best selling author.”  There was polite applause.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be a costume party, Nicholas,” said Wilber.  “There’s a Hitler, and there’s a Mao, and a Mussolini too.*  The costumes are so good.  This will be such fun.” 

“Oh, they’re not in costume,” said Nicholas with an even broader smile.  “I kept my end of the deal, and now you are keeping yours.” 

This morning the body of the bestselling author, Wilber Wilco was found in an elevator at Frumpy Towers.  Foul play is not suspected, and the cause of death is under investigation.

*Publications:  Hitler: Mein Kempf;  Mao: The Little Red Book;  Mussolini: The Fascist Manifesto

After The All Clear

“Who is it?”

“It’s me Ma, with groceries and stuff.  Hold the buzzer longer, okay?  I’ve got two bags to handle.”

“Okay Jeannie.”

bzzzzzzzzzzz

ping — apartment house elevator arrives

knock, knock, knock — “Ma, open the door —- Why are you still in pajamas and it’s almost lunch time?”

“Never mind the pajamas, Jeannie, where’s your mask?”

“In the trash.  You watch the news all the time.  You should know the order’s been lifted.  Never mind — come here, I want to give you a big hug at long last.”

(Mother backs away)  “No, no, keep your distance, Jeannie!”

“Oh Ma.  It’s okay.  I had a negative test Friday.  Last one.  No more testing either.  Come on, it’s been so long.”

“Just because they say it’s over, doesn’t mean it’s gone.  They were wrong before–that there’d be no fourth wave.  No stay back.  Especially with no mask.”

“Ma, the numbers are down to single digits.  It’s over.  The kids want to see you too.  They want to come over or have you over.”

“I see them all the time on that zoom you set up for me.”

“It’s not the same thing.  They miss having you around.  I miss not being able to hug you.  It’s okay now, Ma.  Don’t you want to get out of this apartment?  You’ve been cooped up in here for what, ten months?  You might as well have been serving time.  Anyway, I brought lunch.  You want to change before we eat?”

“What for?”

“Because you’re getting sloppy, Ma.  I’ll wait for you.  Go.”

“You’re getting bossy, Jeannie.  My friends–when we play virtual gin rummy–most of them are in pajamas too.”

“Well, like you told me when I was a kid, just because others do it doesn’t mean you should.  You got to make the effort, otherwise you just become a slob.  And some lipstick will make you feel better too.”

“Huh!”

“At least you pick up your kitchen.  I’ll set out the plates.  What do you want, corned beef or pastrami?”

“Corned beef.  Where’d you get the sandwiches?”

“From Sid like always.”

“Was he wearing a mask when he made them?”

“Ma, the Governor lifted the mask order three days ago.”

“Was he wearing a mask?”

“NO!  Why should he?  It’s over!  Look, I’m going to eat mine.  Do you think I want to die and leave Herm and the two kids?”

“Because like they say, it’s never over till it’s over.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I was watching that Clancy guy on Coyote News last week and he said that the vaccine everyone’s been getting may not be that great.  So how do we know it’s really over?”

“Ma.  I keep telling you that you can’t believe all the crap you hear on those internet shows.”

“I’m not taking any chances.  You want your dill?”

“No you can have it.  Ma, look, I was going to talk to you anyway.  I’ll come and take you shopping for groceries and stuff next time.  Okay?  It’ll be good for you to get out again.  Get some sunshine.  Feel the rain.”

“I got everything I need right here.  I got the TV, I got the computer, I see my friends, we talk about the old days, we play cards, I got exercises on YouTube and free yet, I get books from—-”

“Ma!  It’s time to get a life again.  Get out.  See your family and friends face to face.  Eat out in a real restaurant.  Live again.”

“The nurse from the health plan comes by to check on me.  I don’t even need to go to the doctor’s office in person.”

“You are so spoiled.  Did you get the vaccine this time when she came like you were supposed to?”

“Clancy said the vaccine might cause problems.  I’ll wait.”

“Ma, the vaccine is what’s led to the drop in cases.  You are in the high risk group.  You need it.”

“I’ll stay in and I’ll wear a mask if anybody comes to the door.”

“What if I say I’m not going to deliver your groceries anymore.  But that I will take you shopping for them.  Look, you can even wear a mask if you want to.  No one else will be, but you can.”

“If you don’t do it, Jeanie, I guess I’ll call that company I saw on TV.  I think it was called GrubHub.”

“God, you’re so stubborn.  It’s safe now.  Can’t you get that through your head?”

“Are there zero cases yet?”

“No, but we’re getting real close.”

“Are the kids going to school in person?”

“Yes.  You know that.  Since a months ago.”

“Are you and Herm going back to the office?”

“Part time at home and part time in the office for me.  Herm is still going to be full time working from home.”

“So that’s three of you that’s going to be exposed.  And the same for probably everybody else.  No thanks.  I’ll wait.”

“Ma, you’re just scared.  Just plain scared.”

“Damn right.  I waited what–ten months?  I can wait a little longer.  I can see the sun on TV and the whole world on National Geographic.  I don’t need to go out.  The world comes to me.”

“Oh Ma————-okay.  We’ll see you on zoom tomorrow?  And email me your grocery list when it’s ready?”

“Jeannie, you’re a good daughter.  Thank you for looking after me.”

“Yeah, Ma.  I love you.  But you are so stubborn!”

“I love you too Jeannie.”

  

  

In The Dark

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy

Shakespeare, Hamlet

The entire universe totals two trillion galaxies by one estimate.  And each galaxy contains hundreds of billions of stars.  The numbers seem almost unthinkable, but scientists have evidence that this visible universe, what you and I, the earth, all the stars, the air we breath, are made of, accounts for only five percent of the solid matter in the entire universe.  This five percent the scientists call baryonic matter. 

There is another twenty-five percent of another form of matter that coexists with our baryonic matter which cannot be seen, cannot be detected by any means except by its gravitational effect.  It has been labeled “Dark Matter” and it coexists with baryonic matter as part of our galaxy and in other galaxies throughout our universe, but it otherwise does not interact with us. 

Now neutrinos, which we can detect as part of our baryonic universe, are emitted by our sun (as one major source) and billions pass through our bodies, zip through the earth itself, every second with no or very scant interaction or effect on us and the other objects they pass through.  And that’s a physical particle we know about.  Undetectable by our senses.

Now, if you’ve been adding up the percentages, you might ask,” Okay, the universe we know and the so-called Dark Matter in it add up to thirty percent.  What about the other seventy percent?”  Ah.  That the scientists call, “Dark Energy.”  And no one has a clue.

So leaving that puzzle for now, just imagine….

In a place we cannot see or detect and with sentient beings we cannot understand, at a conference of their non-living sciences (as opposed to their living sciences), a sensational hypothesis has been presented, and is being hotly discussed in their language.  (This can only be roughy translated into English, since they may not be communicating only audibly.  Their names also have been arbitrarily reassigned in English.)

”You cannot be serious,” Gamma says, “This overturns what we have taken as doctrine ever since (here there is a reference to some past event or individual).”

  “I am deadly (could also translate as extremely or fatally) serious.  There is no other way to account for the observations from our new observatories,” replies Beta.

“It was just (a measure of time) ago that we even knew that the blurs we had previously assumed were gas clouds that were close to us were actually very far-off galaxies like the one we’re in,” Theta says.  “The whole science of the universe is still evolving.”

“Yes, and remember how many deniers there were when that was first presented,” Beta says.  “New instruments (could also translate (tr.) as tools or gadgets) come along and science must change to accommodate the new information that they provide.  And I have presented new information.”

Sigma asks, “And you’ve checked and rechecked your methods and data?”

“Of course.  You should know me better than to ask that.  And I’ve asked Omega and others at the observatory to go over the observations, the calculations, and look for other explanations.  And there were none,” Beta says.

Gamma shakes (could also tr. as moves or rotates) its head in disbelief (could also translate as lack of meaning or faith), saying, “You say that there’s no way we can prove that what you presented is real except by its effect on our universe through gravity?  That it has to be some possibly new form of matter that we may never be able to define?”

“Wait, I did not say it was a new form of matter.  I said that was one possibility.  What I did say was that our galaxy could not hold together with the amount of matter that we had calculated for it in the past,” Beta replies, “Without either possibly some additional force besides gravity at work, or 16 and 2/3 percent more matter being present, the galaxy would fly apart.”

“Either some force outside of what we know of physics, or some substance outside of physics,” says Delta.  “Some choices you give us.”

“It’s not my idea,” says Beta.  “It’s what the universe gives us.  It’s up to us as scientists to figure (could also tr. as decode or body) it out.  And of course I expect others to try to replicate (could also tr. as reproduce or copulate) what I’ve presented.”

“Sixteen and two-thirds more matter is such a large number,” says Delta. “How could we not  have detected it before?”

“Because in the past our instruments were not precise enough,” replies Beta.

The discussion continues for many units of time.

“For convenience, it’s awkward (could also tr. as clumsy or unmannered) to keep referring to this hypothetical matter or force as the ‘possible new matter or the possible new force’,” Delta says.  “Since it or they cannot ‘speak’ to us through our instruments and we cannot detect it or them, why don’t we just call them Dumb Matter or Dumb Energy.  I mean they are silent to us except through gravity effects, right?”

“That’s right,” replies Beta.

“I like that,” says Gamma. “If you’re right, Beta, then the name fits, and if you’re wrong, the name still fits.

“So then would it be possible to visualize Dumb Matter through its gravity somehow?” asks Phi.  “Also if Dumb Matter does possess gravity, could it not clump together?”

“No, we cannot use gravity to visualize it, but yes, it’s possible that Dumb Matter could clump together,” Beta says.

Theta asks, “Then do you think that if there really is this Dumb Matter in our galaxy, that it also has formed stars and planets that are invisible to us and that even possibly shelter forms of life that we will never ever know about?”

“Now you are entering the realm of speculative (could also tr. as intuitive or gambling) non-faction,” says Gamma.

“Just think,” continues Theta ignoring Gamma, “Our planet could be in the same space as a Dumb Matter planet, and we would never detect each other.”

“Beings, Beings,” says Gamma, “Remember.  We are attending a scientific conference!”

“But also remember that without imagination (could also tr. as fancy or fabrication) science could not advance,” Beta says.

Not writing fiction right now.  I don’t know why I’m stuck.  But lyrics seem to pop up and I guess they could be considered fiction in a way.

Anyway, I was listening to some old Frank Sinatra the other day—his Capitol years—and one of his hits from the early 50’s came up.  My musical period, the 50’s and 60’s, some 70’s.  And on came “I’m Walking Behind You” —-one of his early ’50’s hits—of enduring love even when his ex-girlfriend is about to marry someone else.  Aw you think, the guy is swearing his everlasting love, until you really listen to the lyrics.  This guy is talking about stalking a bride!  “I’m walking behind you, on your wedding day…. And finishes “If things should go wrong dear, and fate is unkind, Look over your shoulder, I’m walking behind.”  And no, this is not some beyond-the-grave declaration of love like a ghost—that’s made very clear in other lyrics.  This is a guy promising to stalk a girl.  Wonder how many radio stations would give it play today?

Well, this is June, a traditional month for weddings, though with COVID 19, who knows.  So to give the music some lyrics that wouldn’t result in a restraining order —-

Forever and a Day

We were still almost children,

When we met—one summer day.

You were unsure about me,

Till love found a way.

We surrendered out hearts and —

We pledged our “I Dos.”

To love one another, to always be true.

 

A lifetime together,

With its joys and its fears.

The hours filled with laughter,

The times there were tears.

But throughout life’s journey,

Our love showed the way.

And I’ll love you forever, forever and a day.

I will love you forever, forever and a day.

Two non-stories–

The Moon

The moon shone full, dimming the stars, slanting towards the west in the small hours after midnight, till it was swallowed by a large, smothering cloud bank and was lost to my view, though still shining behind the cloud.  Just no longer on me.

At dawn, the cloud bank was gone, and only scattered white puffs scudded along in the palest blue early morning sky; the rising sun was shining.  And was the moon still also shining, bright in somewhere else’s sky?  Just no longer in mine. 

Shine on moon.  Shine on.

—————————————–

I posted this last year, but I’m sending it out again for Memorial Day.  Last year a classmate passed very unexpectedly.  He had lived a life of caring, of unselfish service and generosity, and suddenly he was gone.  I thought about his loss and remembered Seeger’s war protest song.  There have been more losses since.  So for all of us of a certain generation……

where have all the flowers gone

(adapted from Pete Seeger)

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright in the morning sun,

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?

 

Where have all the young girls gone?

Long time passing.

Strong and graceful, without fear,

Long time ago.

Where have all the young girls gone?

Grey and tired, long in years.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

 

Where have all the young men gone?

Long time passing.

Swift and certain of their dreams.

Long time ago.

Some are gone and some remain,

Moving slow with aches and canes.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

 

And where have all the children gone?

Long time passing.

Full of wonder, spirits free.

Long time ago.

Where have all the children gone?

They’ve grown to be like you and me.

When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn?

 

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright—in the morning sun,

A long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

What did we ever learn, what did we ever learn?

What did we ever learn?

 

An April Fool’s Voyage*

Naming him is irrelevant to this story.  He was so well known that any one, anywhere on earth would know who you were referring to if you just uttered his first name.  Wealth?  Even to think of asking how rich would have been impertinent.  Was he oligarch, oil sheik, tech geek, shipping magnate, or mega-titan of Wall Street?  That too doesn’t matter.  For the world’s leaders were happy to have him address them by their first names, and count them as his friends.  Though in his own mind they were perhaps not truly friends; significant and valuable acquaintances would be more accurate, for he was not really a close friend to anyone, being too careful and suspicious of human motivation to allow that. 

He annually invited a circle of his childhood and school friends to one of his many estates or penthouses for a long week of parties, an event duly noted by the media although hardly ever photographed since security was thorough.  It was often said that it was wonderful that he had not left behind those he had grown up with.  Of course his body guards stayed discreetly close to him, the wine that he drank was from a different bottle, and the meals that were brought to him were prepared separately from what were served to his guests.  But it was one of the few things he did that was primarily for pleasure, since he was able to drop his guard to a large degree and reminisce with these companions of his youth who reassured him that for all his achievement, he had really not changed that much from the boy that they grew up with.

But of course he had.  He was infamous for indulging his whims, providing frequent juicy morsels to the tabloid media, for he felt that he lived outside of society’s norms and ethical standards, and that belief kept a pack of expensive lawyers fully employed.  His successive wives and other women lay beside the track of his life like so much litter along the road.  The idea of good works, of establishing charitable foundations, he dismissed as bourgeois sops to conscience.  He had worked long and hard hours and years to achieve his status, others could do the same; he would use his wealth as he pleased.  Nero and Crassus would have completely understood him.         

And then the year of the world wide pandemic arrived.  It began in November in a market in Asia where wild-caught animals were sold for consumption, due to a persistent belief that eating certain wild animals would grant the consumer the strength, the virility, and the vital essence that could be found only in the wild.  Rising individual wealth during the past decade had increased the demand.  The governments tried to shut down the trade, but an unhealthy black market flourished and any sort of wild animal that was desired could be produced for a price.  It was ironic that the first illnesses occurred among the well-to-do older population, predominately male, since they were the ones most concerned about restoring youthful vigor and had the means to do so.  The virus had a longish incubation period of two and half weeks on average and became infectious to others during the last week, before symptoms appeared.  Thus an infected person, still free of symptoms, could often contact and infect many more people before he or she showed signs of illness  The symptoms were those of the common cold at first, but there was a rapid progression to an unrelenting pneumonia in the sickest and encephalitis in the truly unfortunate.  The death rate among those with symptoms, even in first world countries, was just over twenty percent.  The encephalitis often left persisting neurologic effects in survivors.  And there was no specific treatment or vaccine.    

In just four short months, by early April of the following year, it had spread to every continent including Antartica where scientists at several of the research stations were infected.  He decided that the safest place for him to ride out the plague would be aboard his mega-yacht.  Even at one of his estates, the chain of potentially infected contacts was too long and unpredictable.  On land who knew what vagary of touch, wind, or breath could bring the virus into his life?  Even with the private satellite system used to direct his far-flung enterprises.  Even with the layers of underlings who carried out his commands.  Who could know with whom they might come in contact when they were not with him?  Someone in their family, a doorman or porter, a waiter, a friend, the delivery man, a mistress or a mister, a passing sneeze.  It was all too haphazard. 

From the yacht he could still control his businesses via his own very secure communication satellites.  Of course, even his businesses had suffered a slowdown with the pandemic and many of them were in standby mode until the virus passed, whenever that might be.  So being at sea at this time was not really a handicap to his affairs.  He decided to invite along a few friends of his youth as company rather than business associates.  They would provide a relaxing diversion away from the pressing and worsening situation on land and he would be warmed in the glow of their nostalgia and gratitude.  He was careful to invite friends who at present had no close family ties or significant others.  It would be a happier time for all to not to be worried about someone left on the shore.  And he was between mistresses himself.  So he sent forth the invitations, and only two declined.  The five guests who accepted, four men and a woman, were picked up by one of his private jets and delivered to the place of embarkation.

He had never before invited his childhood chums to his yacht so as they rode the launch from the dock to where it rode at anchor, they could only watch in awed silence as they drew closer.  Almost the length of two football fields and gleaming white, rising three stories above the waterline.  It was not the largest private yacht in existence, but it was the most well appointed and luxurious.  He waved from the lower deck railing as their launch swung alongside, then descended to greet them.  As their luggage was taken to their rooms, he took them on a tour of the ship.  The appointments made liberal use of teak and ebony—solid of course and not veneer.  And gold where strength of metal was not needed because, as he explained, gold doesn’t tarnish or rust.  Lights were encased in crystal.  He favored art from between the World Wars and museum quality painting and sculpture that he had acquired through agents, graced the public spaces and staterooms throughout.  There were the two swimming pools-one larger for groups and one lap pool for solo workouts, the helicopter and its pad, the anti-piracy rocket launchers and rapid fire cannons.  The dining room, with mahogany panels that could be rolled back to reveal the sea, seated up to twenty-four around a long smoky-glass-topped table.  And for those inclined to fitness, which he was, a fully furnished gym.  Their guest staterooms were equally impressive.  The crew and staff, outfitted in impeccably tailored white and gold uniforms, stayed inconspicuously in the background but were immediately available to respond to any request.  He apologized that the choice of “escorts,” female and male, was necessarily abbreviated by shipboard limitations but that they had been selected personally from among the absolute elite of their profession, intelligent, educated, as well as physically beautiful.

The last of the provisions were loaded shortly after they boarded and the diesel fuel tanks for the twin water jets powering the yacht topped off.  The ship set sail at sunset.  It would not need to make landfall again for four months.  They were safely insulated from the increasingly dire situation on shore where nations and states competed for medical supplies, desperately sought an effective treatment.  The low and the high, the rich and the poor continued to sicken and to die, and the economies of the world crashed.  Of course he had ample reserves of gold bullion that many smaller nations would have envied, and diamonds, safely stored.

At sea, he and the five friends were pampered by the staff as they relaxed and played, dined and wined, while sailing the Pacific.  They watched as pods of porpoises came from time to time to ride the bow wave, flying fish shot across the water, and wandering albatrosses on their long, solitary quests, effortlessly soared above the waves on quiet wings.  When the seas grew too rough to safely use the pools, and even when it wasn’t, there were ample indoor diversions, for he provided unlimited access to movies and performances, libraries, virtual reality games and sports and travel.  They talked,  laughed,  tanned, reminisced and spun tall tales, or just gazed in silent contemplation of the sea.  Each night they carefully dressed to gather in the dining room, the table shortened to accommodate the six of them and whomever of the escorts they selected to dine with them to join or initiate conversations.  He had had their formal attire custom tailored prior to sailing.

The pandemic had at last showed signs of slowing when they made a prearranged stop for refueling and reprovisioning at a South Pacific island resort after four months at sea.  It was a favorite Asian tourist destination, and so it had been struck early by the virus.  The visitors fled.  Without a large modern medical presence, its population had suffered heavy losses, and in desperation had confined those with symptoms to one village, emptied of its inhabitants, much as had been done with persons with Hansen’s Disease at an earlier time.  Now the virus seemed to have run its course; no new cases or burials had occurred for the week prior to their planned visit and, after he sent the helicopter ashore to assess the situation, he felt that it was safe to proceed with the port call.

They toured the island in SUV’s that the yacht’s crew sanitized before they got in and drove off with masked drivers who had recovered from the virus and were therefor felt to be immune and non-contagious;  stopped to swim at unpopulated gorgeous beaches that would have been filled with visitors in the very recent past, and picnicked on food prepared on the ship and served by waiters from the ship.  During their three day stay they returned to the yacht to sleep after each outing, stripping off their clothes and showering first as they boarded.  With diesel fuel replenished, fresh fish and meats flash-frozen, fruits and vegetables stored in refrigerators filled with nitrogen gas to slow ripening, they set sail on a course for Patagonia, planning to arrive in the spring.

They had been sailing southeast for a week when a member of the engineering crew began to show mild respiratory symptoms but no fever.  The ship’s doctor checked him and prescribed a decongestant, fluids, and echinacea and he was allowed to continue working.  Then a member of the dining staff showed similar symptoms and she was checked but as a precaution was taken off her duties and assigned to the ship’s laundry. 

When he developed a cough, headaches, and fever, the doctor became much more concerned.  His cough worsened rapidly, his fever spiked, and he ached in every joint.  It was apparent that inspite of all their careful precautions, the virus had breached their safeguards.  Had it been on a banana peel, a red tomato, a luscious mango, a door handle of the SUV, in the breath of one of the men loading food, the sand at one of the beaches?  It really didn’t matter now.  It was on board and he was infected.  They had sailed beyond the range of the helicopter to fly back to the island that they had left and too far from South America for an Argentinian or Chilean naval vessel to reach them in time  His breathing became more labored and he began to hallucinate.  The doctor could only watch helplessly as his lungs filled up, he slid into a coma and then died.  All in three days.

The staff and friends debated what to do.  Should they give him a sea burial?  They finally decided that because of his business empire, it would be best to produce his body as proof that he was in fact dead.  So they fashioned a body bag out of a blue tarp, securely triple taped him into it and made room for his body among the frozen meats and fish.  It was still two weeks to the coast of South America.  The news of his death sent via satellite sent a chill through the financial institutions of the world.  Although others onboard the yacht developed milder symptoms and fever, no one else became gravely ill.  It was not surprising that three of his guests became vegetarians for the remainder of the voyage, as did a number of the crew.

 

*The Masque of the Red Death By Edgar Allan Poe – Published 1842

The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous.- – – – – – – – – –

But Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his crenellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.

  

A true story instead of a tale for March and Saint Patrick’s Day.

 

Erin Go Bragh

Flying in from three different cities, we met in Dublin for a B and B tour of Ireland.  The we being my wife, two of her sisters, and three husbands.  The six of us with our one bag apiece fit snugly into a red Peugeot station wagon.

At this point in our travel, having driven in the morning from Connemara via lunch at Ashford Castle, we arrived at the Cliffs of Moher late on a sunny afternoon.  The cliffs were as fully spectacular as we had been told they would be.  From the walkway along the top, it was a sheer, 90 degree drop to the Atlantic far, far below, where long, rolling swells crashed against the dark grey cliff, fracturing into white spray.  The ocean was blue-grey with the blinding glare of the lowering sun reflecting off the water.  We heard the distant cries of the many, many white sea birds wheeling far below.  Occasionally one would soar the updraft up past us before gliding back.  Over to the right, atop a higher portion of the cliff, rose a round stone tower right where it should be, silhouetted dark against the sky.

Long grasses, growing along the top of the cliff, the shade of green that we’d come to associate with the Emerald Isle, rippled like waves of water, stirred by the strong wind blowing up the cliff from the sea.  An unforgettable afternoon and we lingered, reluctant to leave, until the sun slipped into the horizon.

However, unlike our previous stops, we had no B and B reservations for this night.  In the long after-glow of the sunset, we drove into the nearest town, Ennis.  The first two inns we tried couldn’t accommodate three couples  Neither could the third, but the proprietress suggested that we try a fourth place that she thought might have room—O’Connor’s (of course!)

The adult O’Connors were out for the evening, but their absolutely charming son and daughter said that yes, there were three rooms available.  They were both very fair in complexion and though the boy was younger—perhaps eleven or twelve—he took charge of showing us the rooms, quoting rates, signing us in, and, with his sister, getting us towels.  The girl in her early teens, taller with a rosy blush on her cheeks, and in her school uniform, was somewhat shyer and giggled a lot.  I don’t imagine they had seen too many Asians at that time, and probably didn’t know quite what to make of us, especially when we told them that the ladies were sisters, but we were from Hawaii, New York, and Canada.  They offered us tea and a suggestion on where to go for dinner.  At Brogan’s they placed us into the quieter restaurant instead of the more interesting and livelier pub.  We had a nice meal and celebrated the day’s experiences, washed down with stout.

When we got back to O’Connor’s at 1100, the girl and boy were still up frying bacon—probably waiting for us to get in.  Their Mom called then and we heard the boy say, in a tone like ‘surprise!’—“We have six bed and breakfasters!”  Before turning in, we celebrated  the day with a wee bit of scotch—not the Irish whiskey that would have been more appropriate.  Much later during the night, or very early in the morning, we heard a car drive in and surmised that it was the senior O’Connors returning.

The next morning we met Mrs. O’Connor as we gathered for breakfast.  We were the only guests.  She seems a bit unraveled, having gotten in at 0500 from a pub crawl to send her cousin, who was a priest, off to Africa.  Still she was very friendly and laughed a lot as she explained that though there was a curfew, if you knew how, it was possible to sneak from pub to pub as they did, ahead of any enforcement.  I would guess that having to prepare breakfast for six while hung over would not have been in her plans the night before when she went out to give her cousin a rousing send-off.  Especially when breakfast was the typical substantial fare of thick, salty rashers of bacon, sausage, sunny-side eggs, slices of soda bread with delicious artery-clogging butter and cream, and marmalade.  Nothing like the smell of frying grease for a queasy stomach and pounding head.  But perhaps that’s selling Mrs. O’Connor’s capacity short.  Anyway, we told her that her children were just a joy to meet and very capable and that we were very happy they took care of us in their parent’s absence.

We packed the wagon, paid our fare, said thanks and goodbye.  We never did see Mr. O’Connor.  And then it was on the road again.

 

Valentine’s day is past, but may love songs never be out of date.   This one’s for love in bloom.

I don’t know how to love you

music–Sarah Brightman–Just Show Me How to Love You (heard on U-tube)

I don’t know how to love you,

I never know what to say.

For when I’m standing beside you,

My breath is taken away.

 

I know I’ll always love you,

I promise I’ll always care.

And if you ever need me,

Just call and I will be there.

 

You shine as brightly as a star,

That I’m viewing from afar,

Why can’t we always–

Be together?

Come let me be your love,

Come shine your light on me,

And we can have–

A life together.

 

So show me how to love you,

Just tell me that you care.

For if I ever lose you,

It would be too hard to bear.

 

I know I’ll always love you,

Please say you love me too.

We’ll have a lifetime together,

And I will always be true.

          We’ll have a lifetime together—And I will always love you.

Out with the Old, In with the New

Axolotl or Ambystoma mexicanum: A neotenic aquatic salamander that can fully regenerate limbs and even other organs.

Wallace Tian was very very rich, but also very sick and very old.  A hundred and eighty-seven years old.  His life had been stretched as far as rejuvenation science could take it, but medicine had its limits even for the third wealthiest man in the world.  All his property holdings, companies, investments, ingots, and contacts could not buy him what he most desired, a new healthy body.  And now his doctor was talking to him about making his final days as comfortable as possible, as he spoke to him in his penthouse bedroom on the hundred and thirtieth floor of Tian’s headquarters building.  In truth, Tian did not look his age as he sat propped up on his bed.  His face and body could easily have been taken for that of a man in his early seventies.  But the organs inside the skin were what counted.

“Mr. Tian—Wallace—may I call you Wallace since we’ve known each other for decades?  I’m going to be frank.  I’m afraid there isn’t anything further that medical rejuvenation science can offer you.  At some point, the body makes its own decisions.”

“Damn it Bren, I sunk a lot of money into your institute and now you’re telling me that I made a bad investment?”

“Wallace, remember you’ve already lived far beyond the norm, thanks to the research that you’ve so generously supported at the institute named after you.”

“But now you’re saying that I have at most six months to live?”

“Yes, and remember that’s just an estimate.”

“And you expect me to just go quietly into the night, Bren?”

“I can see that you’re not happy.”

“Very perceptive of you.  Of course I’m not!”

  “I’m being frank with you, Wallace, because even though I know you are a person who is meticulous in your business and personal dealings, I wanted to give you time to tie up any loose ends if there are any.”

“Huh!  Including a further contribution to your institute I suppose?”

“You’ve been our most generous supporter which I’ve always appreciated.  No, only if you wish to.”

“You’ve got nothing more to offer?  Even experimental?  Even work that hasn’t gone to human trial?”

“No, nothing that I could ethically recommend.”

“‘Nothing that you could ethically recommend.’  What exactly do you mean by that, Bren?”  Tian leaned forward.  He motioned for his attendants to leave the room.

Bren waited until they were alone before speaking.  “Exactly what that sounds like.  Nothing that is ready for human trial.”

“Don’t make this like pulling teeth, Bren.  What exactly do you have in your laboratories that is not ready for human trial?”

“It’s all at an early stage of investigation.  We’ve just started to see if it works on larger mammals.”

“For God’s sake Bren, stop beating around the bush.  What do you have!”

“Okay. We’ve always known that many non-mammalian vertebrates have the ability to regenerate limbs.  And internal organs, partially.  Even in humans, our liver can regenerate after a part of it is removed.  A very well studied animal for example is the axolotl, a neotenic salamander.”

“A what?”

“A kind of salamander, but that doesn’t matter.  The question is why aren’t humans and other mammals able to do the same thing?  Dr. Tom Amahde, whom I introduced you to on a past visit to the institute, wondered if perhaps rejuvenation could be approached from a different angle and began to look into this question.  For example, a planarian worm can be cut into many pieces and each piece will become a new worm.  On the other hand, if an earthworm is cut in two, the head end will grow a new tail, but the tail end will not grow a new head and it will die.  Why the difference?”

“Yes, why?”

“Tom started with the premise that regeneration would proceed if it wasn’t stopped.  He began to look for what could be stopping it and found that there seems to be a common mechanism working widely across many different kinds of animals, vertebrate and invertebrate.  And he’s found a way to unblock it so that regeneration can proceed.”

“Why would nature have a mechanism to stop what would seem to be a great advantage?”

“Good question, and Tom doesn’t know.  He thinks it may be related to controlling cancer development.”

“So you are on to something that will renew organs?”

“That may regenerate limbs and yes, organs.”

“What’s the catch, if any?”

“The catch is the difference between renew and regenerate.”

“Explain.”

“What Tom found is a family of proteins that removes the inhibition to fully replacing damaged or missing organs.  In other words, whatever is regenerated must be first injured or partially removed.”

“You mean it cannot be simply injected to act as a fountain of youth?”

“That is correct.  It will not make organs young again if they are undamaged.”

“But you have told me my problem is that my organs are irreversibly damaged and are basically running down.  So why wouldn’t it work for me?”

“We’ve tried giving it to aging animals and it doesn’t do anything.  It only responds to acute injury.  That means all organs and bodily structures to be regenerated would have to be excised or seriously maimed.”

“How far along are you?”

“Tom has shown it works in pigs.  He is starting to try it on primates.”

“And?”

“So far, and I emphasize that it is early in the program, it seems to work.”

Tian looked out the ceiling-to-floor window at the early-darkening winter sky.  “So close,” he finally said.  Bren said nothing.

“And now I’m going to die in six months.  There’s no way my time can be stretched until this work is further along?”

“I’m afraid you have it right,” said Bren.

Tian lay back in his bed and closed his eyes.  Bren looked out into the night.

After a long, long silence, Tian opened his eyes.  “I’ve always been a risk taker and it’s  paid off for me.  You say this works in pigs and that it may be working in primates.”

“That is correct.”

“I have no options.  I’m willing to be your first human guinea pig.”

“Wallace.  That’s crazy.  It’s too unproven.  It’s years away from human trial,” protested Bren.

“You told me I don’t have years.  I refuse to just curl up and die without a fight.”

“We don’t even know if it’ll result in cancer.”

“If that happens I expect you to treat it,” said Tian.

“The institutional review board will never even consider it.”

“What if they don’t learn of it?  What if I built you a lab in this building?  Unlimited budget.”

“If word gets out I’d be crucified.  I would lose all standing in the scientific community.”

“What if I gave you a stipend of one billion dollars up front and a second billion on completion of the work?”

“What happens if you don’t make it?” asked Bren.

“You would keep the first billion and the contract will state that if you made an earnest effort and I were to die inspire of your best efforts, you would get the second billion.  Two billion should get you a lot of respect.”

“Let me spell out what this would involve,” said Bren.  “Tom has found that the minimum amount of organ that has to be removed is fifty percent.  Otherwise the process will not be complete.  That includes the heart and the brain.  During the time that regeneration is proceeding, your body will be on life support until heart and vessels are restored.  What will remain of your personhood after your brain regrows is anyone’s guess.  You may not be you.  And should you not survive, Tom and I might be charged with, at the very least, manslaughter.”

“Then it’s imperative that you and Tom are successful.  I’ve also supported the Cranston Neurologic Institute,” said Tian confidently.  “They have succeeded in uploading from the brains of monkeys trained in performing intricate tasks into supercomputers, then downloading into naive monkeys that were immediately able to carry out those tasks.  They feel confident that they will be able to do the same with human minds.  To upload the totality of a person’s memories, personality, habits, intellect and then to download all of it again into another brain!  Thrilling stuff.  If we proceed, I expect you to work with them so that the proper cortical implants can be installed into my new brain.”

“I think you first need to see in person what Tom’s whole setup looks like before you decide.  It’s pretty intimidating,” said Bren.  “You will see monkeys and pigs suspended in fluid floating in plexiglass containers with tubes running into their bodies, on full life support.  Their heads shaved and closed after their skulls were opened and brains partially excised.  Their limbs severed and in various stages of regeneration.  Their torsos split from top to bottom so that all their organs could be partially removed before being closed.  Of course you would not be able to see how their brains and internal organs were coming along except by scanning.”

“Let’s visit tomorrow,” said Tian.

The next day Wallace Tian’s butler helped him into his full-body “WalkingMan” suit providing the strength and balance stabilizers that allowed him to walk unaided.  He was accompanied in three cars by his physician. two medical attendants, chief administrative assistant, and six security personnel for the drive across town to the Tian Biomedical Research Institute where he was meet at the back entrance by Drs. Bren and Amahde.

“The rest of your party should stay behind in this comfortable waiting area,” said Bren.  “While we proceed to the laboratory.  There’s always the risk of scientific and industrial espionage,” he whispered to Tian.

“And witnesses, eh?” said Tian after the elevator doors closed behind them.

“Well, here’s my lab,” said Amahde as they exited the elevator.  They walked up the hall a short distance.  Amahde paused for security check by retinal scan and implanted chip in his left forearm before the door slid back and they stepped inside.

Tian looked around.  It was as described, with one pig and three monkeys floating in their sealed vats.  “This is like a scene from a Frankenstein movie,” he said, unfazed.  “But without the bubbling sounds and the bolts of electricity.”

“You’ll notice that the pig has almost fully regrown its legs although they still look a bit foreshortened,” said Amahde.  “And here at the scanner you can see that its heart is beating very normally.  And here is its brain almost back to normal size.”

“What failures and unforeseen problems?” asked Tian.

“None since the early days,” replied Amahde.

“I want to see the records of those events and hear an explanation about what went wrong,” said Tian.

“Of course,” said Amahde.

A day after the visit to Amanda’s laboratory, Tian summoned Bren.  “I’m satisfied that there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance of success,” he told Bren.  “Let’s proceed.  What will you need to equip a lab in this building?  I will clear out the entire one hundred twenty-ninth floor for you.  And by the way, if this is successful, let Amahde know that he gets a billion too.  Nothing if he fails.”

“How will you explain your sudden absence for the month that the process will require?” asked Bren.

“You just take care of the science and leave my business to me.”

Tian waited impatiently for the transformation of the one hundred twenty-ninth floor.  Finally it was done, two months short of the projected six month time limit to his life.  “About time,” he said relieved to Bren.

“No last minute second thoughts?” asked Bren.

“None.  Let’s get started.”

“Notice how the surgical sites have healed without a trace.  His skin is totally unblemished and the age wrinkles are smoothing out, said Amahde as he and Bren looked at Tian’s body floating in its vat.  “And it’s only been a week.”

“A hard way to get a facelift.

Hour by hour, day by day, week by week, they watched Tian’s body grow extremities and the monitored the unhindered progress of his internal organs.

Finally the regeneration was complete and Bren and Amahde looked with awe at their handiwork.  “He looks like he’s in his twenties!  How’s he going to explain that to his company execs?  He’ll need wear makeup to look older,” said Amahde.

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.  Before we wake him, we need to check out all his organ systems, expand his lungs, take him off life support, and get that neurosurgical team over from the Cranston to place the cortical implants for his personhood download.  Let’s get to work,” said Bren.

The download took the better part of two days, but at last it was done and they cautiously brought Tian back to full awareness.  He opened his eyes, blinked several times and smiled broadly.  “Bren, Amahde, you pulled it off!  I’m back!”

Bren breathed a sigh of relief, “You recognized us.  The download worked!”

Tian looked at his arms, the skin free of age spots and smooth with the elasticity of youth.  “I want to see myself.  Bring a mirror.  Unthinking he sat up and then stood.  “I’m steady on my feet!”  he exclaimed and stood on one leg.  “Where’s the mirror?”  When it was brought, he stared at himself in silence.  “I am truly a young man again,” he finally said.  “But with all the knowledge and judgement of my older self.”

“You will need to stay here a while so that the Cranston people can run some tests on you.  Psychological, intelligence, memory, to compare with your earlier profile,” said Bren.

“Of course.  I have all the time of youth,” said Tian.

It was towards the end of the week of testing that Tian said to Okira, one of the team of psychologists evaluation him, “Every so often I get the feeling that there is something or someone else around, watching me.”

“Tell me about it,” said Okira.

“I first had the feeling maybe three days after I awoke.  It seems to be happening more often now.”

“Do you hear voices?”

“No.  But sometimes I can almost catch a thought that is not mine.”

“Do you understand the thoughts” asked Okira.  Possibly post-traumatic stress-related paranoia, she thought.

“Just in the past two days.  They seem to be questions: ‘who am I?’ and ‘who are you?’”

“Do the thoughts seem threatening or do they ask you to do something?”

“No, if anything the feeling associated with them seems to be of bewilderment.  Do you think I’m becoming psychotic?” asked Tian, worried.

“When you have gone through what you just did, something that has never happened before, it’s hard to say.  I don’t know.  Do you sense any danger with them?”

“No”

“The team will look at the recording of our meeting and try to figure things out.  I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The team met that evening, listened to Okira and watched the recorded interview.  “So what do you think?” Okra asked.

The discussion went around the table.  Most felt, as Okira had, that Tian was experiencing a post-traumatic reaction.

Then Carlson the intern raised his hand.  “Is it possible that even though Tian had his entire mind reimplanted into his regenerated brain, that that brain is now separately awakening?  A newborn brain in an adult body?”

There was silence, broken only when the discussion leader said, ”My God, what a brilliant thought and something to consider.  But how?”

Okira said, “If we’re serious about this we could try putting Tian under deep hypnosis and see if we can contact this second personality.  Of course only if Tian is agreeable.”

“What an opportunity!  To study what happens if two minds occupy the same brain,” said another.  “But is any of this ethical or even legal?”