The great pomp and circumstance that surrounded Men (as they called themselves) had never meant much to Chingathk. They were big and they were a strange shade of pink, but they were no serious threat. They sat strangely and wore strange clothes, but none of the Gathk thought much of them. The Men did not even merit a new word in the language until the last moments. By then, everyone knew the word: vingask, or the unknowable beast.

Before the first contact of any lasting importance, Chingathk sat praying in the Lotus position, his long thin limbs crossed neatly before him, his golden eyes closed. His head was bald except for a single waterfall of golden hair cascading down his shoulders. He had long since reached the Age when the hair was cut, never to grow back again. His thin mouth and long nose betrayed no vexation at the presence of the Men on the Prayer ground. His face, like all Gathk faces, had dual strips of dark color flowing down his forehead and cheeks, filling the deep eye sockets, and spilling onto his chest. He remained completely emotionless. In fact, none of the faces of the praying Gathk showed anything but quiet introspection, despite the intense waves of heat from the rockets and the loud yells of the Men as they scuttled out of their great metal beasts to rejoice.

After the celebration of the strange creatures, as they drank their fill from musty bottles and screamed and shouted and sent their voices echoing deep into the forests, the newcomers stood motionless. They seemed to notice the Gathk for the first time. Of course, one would think that nearly 2,000 Gathk settled in one place would attract the attention of the excitable Men, but it seems they noticed only when they looked through the bottom of the empty bottles they had sucked dry, and then saw only the crude image distorted by the thick glass.

But Chingathk knew the Prayers were more important, and what is more, he knew the Men were coming so it came as no surprise to find them here, now. So as he continued to hum the Prayer song again, and as the rest of his Gathk hummed deep in their throats with him, the Men became agitated and stirred up the air around them. Their breathing was heavy and all the people coming from the belly of the magnificent metal monstrosity became silent and stared with wide eyes and open mouths.

Finally, one of the small Men (taller than the rest, but still quite short) approached Chingathk. There was fear in his voice. The name "Anderson" leapt into Chingathk's mind unbidden. He was annoyed at the interruption, and the humming stopped.

"Jonathan Anderson," said Chingathk.

Instead of striking him to silence as it should have any good Gathk, Anderson blurted out, "My... English! How. . .? What? How do you know me? It was the other mission, wasn't it? Did it . . . get through? Tell me!"

"Anderson. Anderson." Chingathk sighed again into the air. Apparently, it would be difficult to communicate with these creatures. "Of course I know English. Don't you?"

Anderson said nothing.

Chingathk was now beginning to get annoyed. "Since you know English, then obviously I can learn English from you." A deep breath, a smooth swivel of the head. "Correct?"

Still, Anderson said nothing. Now he is silent, thought Chingathk.

Finding the need to speak, but still impatient to return to morning prayers, Chingathk said, "And of course your Men are here. But they are in the middle of Morning Prayer right now. . . Yes, I see you recognize them, there in the middle. . . So, if you wouldn't mind leaving for a few hours-"

But by now Anderson was screaming wildly. He was waving his hands in the air and saying the old names of his Men, now praying with the Gathk.

"Davis! Oh, Davis and MacPherson! Thank God! We thought you- Why didn't you contact us? Everyone, look! Davis and MacPherson! Alive!"

Just as the cheers of the Men and Women were beginning, Davis, eyes still closed, still in the praying position, said lightly, "Sir, with all due respect, please do be quiet for a few hours. Morning prayers, you see."

Anderson's mouth closed with a snap. The new ones were quiet now, and taking this as an invitation, Chingathk began softly humming the prayer once more, this time from the beginning.

* * *

Major Captain Jon J. Anderson turned slowly to his people huddled outside of the ship. They were standing close together, despite the humid air and beating sun. Taking a cue from the lightly-clad, dark skinned people sitting on the grass, some began to remove layers of clothes. Anderson could hear a few sigh in relief as they dropped the sweaty and worn wraps to the cool grass. A few Men lay on the ground; many had fainted from the deliciously thick, full air, a shock after the stale air of the ship. Others, Anderson noted with a mix of sadness and revulsion, sat staring blankly at the side of the gray ship, twitching. How Anderson hated the disease these people had.

Anderson walked through the ranks, four hundred strong, and looked over the casualties. Several dead, suicides from Star Syndrome. He noticed more and more people with the blank stare into nothing, more victims of SS. Anderson bowed before one of these. He felt suddenly cold, remembering his own blank stares . . . remembering the groaning of the ship under the pressure of endless nothing creeping into his mind, the unending fear of asteroids that tore earlier missions apart like tin cans, scattering the people into space.

No. No, no, no, he said to himself. He wouldn't think of it. He was here, now. He tried to connect the scenery to what he remembered of earth. He tried to block out the memories.

The place reminded him of some remote county of America, before the White Man had come. It was perfect, green, lush. The plants, of course, were utterly alien, but if you squinted just right, he thought, you would swear...

But searching inside, past the fizzing Champagne he had guzzled when they arrived, deep inside himself, he was immensely sad. And angry. Very, very angry.

We’re new people! Men from Earth! he wanted to scream. Be delighted at our technology, marvel at this lighter! Give us a party, shout our names, learn our language- slowly, too, not the eerie way that fellow used it. But- nothing.

And he and his people had come across the void and had weathered the groaning, creaking ship. And the dark hopelessness that plagued the people like the Flu. Men had killed themselves to get away from the misery. But we made it And there are men here who made it before us who wouldn’t even radio in, and let us know there was some piece of hope that could have saved so many of my dead children.

Yet there was nothing they could do. Why, Davis had politely told his commanding officer to go to hell. But these people with the dark skin, golden eyes and golden hair, long faces and perfectly thin limbs were- on his estimate- almost 3000 strong. He couldn’t force his men to return without them rioting. They seemed like simple people, true, but you could never tell. These were queer folk.

He kicked at the landing arm that grappled the soft grass and cool earth (half expecting the ship to collapse) and stepped slowly into its metal entrails. He circled his way around the clunky and awkward quarters until he reached the Radio. Slowly he flipped each switch, focused on the nearest ship following them, and began transmitting.

"Telemachus, this is the Pig." He winced even as he said it, then smiled. He had forgotten the official name of his ship. After the pause, he continued. "Disappointing landing. We found our men, but they appear to be within the culture of the people here. We can find no way of extracting them as of yet. Apparently, they didn’t get around to telling us they are alive." Here he snorted, paused for a moment longer, and continued.

"They pretty much told us to go to hell. They were in some kind of convention, about 3000 or 4000 of them all together. Our men were in there, nearly in the middle of all those people, I reckoned. Not exactly a friendly reception. . . ." he continued on and on, telling the Telemachus his troubles, one by one, ending on the body count from sickness and suicide.

Finally he switched the receiver to "Idle", and wandered his way to the sleeping section of the cramped ship. He was not expecting an answer for at least three weeks; the Telemachus was a long, lonely way off.

Anderson sat wearily on the hard plank that served as his bed, closed his eyes, and let the Alcohol do its work. He was asleep (sitting up) in minutes.

The rest of the group of travelers sat dejectedly on the grass, a cheap imitation of the ordered, almost geometrically positioned creatures before them.

The Radio crackled within the bowels of the ship. It sparked to life.

* * *

Major General Madison stood motionless over the communications console of the Kestrel. His face was white and his breath came in shallow jerks. The Lieutenant was sitting in the uncomfortable chair directly in front of the General, and could tell by the acrid smell that his commanding officer was sweating. Sweating quite profusely.

His name was Lt. Neil Handell, and he hated space. Well, he thought to himself, perhaps not space. He liked the stars, nebulae, and planets. He hated everything in between. He had been on the ship for perhaps forty years, just circling. . . and circling. . . . Handell was getting quite sick of this console, and of overheating when circling the stars and freezing on the long road to destroy some forgotten corner of the universe. And he long since ceased breaking out with the shakes when Madison stood over him and breathed deeply and annoyingly right by his head and sweated (no matter where in space; he smelled just as strongly near stars as in the void). But he had also stopped the urge to remove his pistol and shoot the son-of-a- well, no use in going over that again.

But lately, Madison had been even more repulsive. Handell's daily log had begun to be more and more candid, and its last entry was this: 4/1/98.4- I look forward to the day I can hit the bastard and not be court-martialed. End entry.

It was the nervous twitch more than anything, he had decided. That and the shortness of breath at every crises (God knows we have enough of them)- the list of annoying little things went on and on. Just this past week he had almost killed Handell for taking a sip of his orange juice. By God, he accidentally took one sip from his ration, and he nearly drew his pistol.

And that breathing had started again, behind Handell's ear, as he heard the Major General say, "Thank God. . . Thank God we were following. . . " Handell clenched his jaw. He was sick of being privy to these secret revelations of the General. Still, he. had to admit, the news was alarming. Thousands upon thousands of natives, with two crew members hostage, and apparently making Maj. Gen. Anderson's visit quite uncomfortable: "Not exactly a friendly welcome. . . ." he had said. But Major General Anderson had sounded more perplexed than scared. But then, Space Syndrome will do that to a man.

Handell could feel a rush of stale air as his CO moved jerkily away from the console. He allowed himself a quiet sigh and continued his routine work.

Madison approached the ramp, stalked up to the bridge, and hung heavily on the railing, overlooking his room.

The General closed his eyes for a moment. He grabbed furiously at his twitching right hand, then looked quickly at the crew in the small room. The bridge smelled of sweat and a heavy silence hung over the manufactured air. The crew of half a dozen scared men sat very still indeed. All eyes pointed downward, staring at chapped hands.

Satisfied at last that no one had seen, the General continued his pacing, rubbing his peeling skin. In the silence, the groaning of the ship could be heard. The hull seemed to moan under the weight of . . . nothing. Not a damn thing, thought Handell. The General, clenching his hands fiercely, spoke to fill the terrible void.

"Make a direct course to Star Theta Alpha Theta IV."

Handell flipped a switch and relayed the orders to Navigation/Weapons/Ship Control. He hurriedly cut the line when he had finished, not wishing to recognize or even hear a response. Handell found the experience of communicating with Navigation remarkably like looking into the emptiness of space. He was vaguely conscious of a poem floating leisurely through his head: Look into an Abyss long enough. . . .

Madison walked noisily down the ramp and handed an encrypted "Top Priority Flight and Action Plan" disk to the Lt. to be sent to Anderson. Handell's fingers flew over switches and he worked furiously to fill the emptiness in his mind. The thoughts still crept in: Everything, he was saying to himself. Everything is empty here. Always empty blackness. And still, the poem was there, his mind making a tune for it and sounding it to the macabre rhythm of the groaning hull of the ship:

And the Abyss looks into you. . . .

Handell looked distractedly out the view port when his task was ended. The star they were leaving was growing dimmer, and soon it dwindled to a single, red pupil.

Into . . . you. . . .

* * *

It was dark in Navigation. The lights had long since burned out, and had never been replaced.

The radio had stopped spewing its orders and abruptly silenced itself. Once, the man in navigation had thought to himself how loud and utterly complete the silence was. It was good there was no light, he had long ago decided.

"Anon, anon!" whispered a strained voice.

A clicking noise.

"By the pricking of my thumbs. . . ," came the whisper.

Dark hands, long accustomed to the blackness, reached out and embraced a series of geometrically positioned needles. A buzzing could be heard as the needles grew like metal plants, reaching deep inside the palms and fingers and hugging nerves. The ship came under the control of the strange voice.

". . . something wicked this way comes. . . ."

The room was once more swallowed by silence.

* * *

Anderson woke with a start. The view port behind him sent a single golden beam spilling over his face and cascading into a series of shadow-rapids on his stained shirt. He looked at the space where the buttons had fled, and was glad they were gone in the new, hot world. The sun was very bright here, but was dwindling and he thought it was evening.

He stepped out of the ship, and nearly fell. The air had hit him like a wall, the freshness of it filling his lungs and he felt he would burst with it. He sat down quickly and squinted into the fading light.

Like a summer day, Anderson thought to himself. Bugs, or some things small, were humming and beating their tiny wings on the tall grass. The wind was soft and rippled across the ocean of grass.

As Anderson reclined on the grass, he noticed something disturbing. For a long while he sat studying at the grass and the trees. The harder he looked the more he saw it: the very color of the place- it was too green. It was never that green on earth, he was sure of it. The Major General blinked and stared into the very pale, blue sky. Oh, God, a sky! he thought to himself.

The field was abandoned now, he saw. The grass wasn't broken or bent where they sat, as though the strange, tall people were only shadows. The impossibly green trees surrounded the pasture on all sides. An army of green, his mind said. An army of color. To his surprise, it made him sick to his stomach; but then, they had told him before he left there would be some problems adjusting. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and lay back to be hugged by the arms of the grass. He smiled broadly as the nausea passed. Anderson could almost smell the planet making new air.

The thick grass hid the sound of walking. A woman walked pass Anderson, her shadow falling across the commanding officer then slithering onto the green blanket. The woman's hair was a dark brown and cropped short. It bobbed with her rhythmic walking.

As she walked, her figure became a mirage, wavering and disappearing in the folds of the gentle hills. The unreal figure paused for an expectant moment in the sunlight before the wall of gnarled tree giants. She spread her arms wide embraced a massive trunk, and held for a moment like a child clinging to her mother.

The woman's figure blended and disappeared into the mottled shadow between the columns of brown.

* * *

Chingathk stood beside his tree, looking up at the sunlight dripping down through the branches. It was quiet now that prayers were over, and he stood alone in this part of the forest. The others were sleeping or being tended to by their trees, as Chingathk was, far off in another part of the gentle cool of the Great Wood. Chingathk's golden eyes drank the sunlight and he whispered to his tree, smiling gently.

His head dropped and his muscles tensed when he heard the rustling. It was heavy and loud and it made the Gathk sick to hear it. He could feel the plants being shredded under strange shoes and the harmony being destroyed. He genuflected once before the tree and turned wildly to face the intruders.

To his great surprise, it was not a battalion of Gathk heretics nor an army of Men, but a single woman, taller than the rest but still short. She had been walking aggressively and destructively, but stopped when she saw Chingathk. She kneeled.

Chingathk said nothing, merely stared at the intruder. She looked at him with cold blue eyes and he thought suddenly, "Christine Elizabeth Amblenson."

Neither spoke. The huge trees ignored the awkward silences and continued to rustle in the afternoon wind. Creatures called to each other from above and the sound of tiny wings beating the underbrush could be heard.

Finally, Christine spoke, softly at first: "I want to join you."

Immediately, Chingathk responded, "Do not kneel to me. I am not the one to give you life."

She stood quickly. For patience, Chingathk placed his long fingers gently on the side of his tree. He was calm once more.

"Why have you come, Christine Elizabeth Amblenson?"

At first, she said nothing. Then, seeming to realize where she was, she spoke again.

"I told you- I want to join you like Davis and MacPherson have. There are many others like me-" she was continuing.

"Join me?" said Chingathk. He did not understand.

". . . Your people- they're simple and they live with the earth. Oh, God, after so long in coldness. I need to be with your people. . . " She had stopped herself. The dull gold in the tall alien's eyes had changed to a hotter hue. The thin mouth had become nothing more than a line.

"My people?" As his confusion waned he began to realize what was happening. She thought this world was somehow divided among itself. She thought the Gathk lived with the earth.

"Christine Elizabeth Amblenson we do not live with the earth. We are the earth."

She said nothing. The air, it seemed to Chingathk, was growing thick.

"Please, be still for a few moments," he told her. He walked silently to her in smooth strides. In his long, elegant hands he clasped hers, and looked down at her face. The golden eyes seemed to be flowing and swirling with a metallic fire as they stared into hers.

And something strange began to happen to the young woman who stood embracing the Gathk. She felt a warmth spreading forth from her fingertips, down into her arms and legs and surrounding her heart. It moved up her chest and neck and began reaching inside her mind. She pleaded silently as everything inside of her was opened to Chingathk. The warm, probing fingers reaching into her memory could see into everything. The alien could see her as she visciously ripped at her arms with a knife, long ago, in the deepness of space. He could feel her shame, agony and pure hopelessness as the woman tried to end her life aboard the ship, deep in cold nothing. As the warmness gripped her heart it touched her very soul. It touched that black, cold center within herself she had never admitted was there. It was the blackness and emptiness of space contained within her. She screamed, for she could not stand having the blackness opened too all. From the touch of Chingathk, she could feel her fears and shame opened to every alien on the planet. An incredible fury welled up in her until her vision became black and adrenaline flowed through every muscle and tendon in her body.

Chingathk could feel her being torn in two under his fingers. She was refusing herself and her past. She had come to him to forget what she was, yet he had given her the only thing he knew: oneness. He tried to pull his hands away but her grip had become like the roots of the trees.

He could not free himself from her, and felt pain shooting through his arms. Her unseeing eyes were overflowing with tears. Finally, she tore her hands free and began to rain blows upon the alien's body. They were swift and cruel, landing with an accuracy only a soldier could know and with a power only shame and fear could give. As his thin body was broken, Chingathk lifted his eyes to his tree and began to whisper his death song.

* * *

Anderson awoke to find was endlessly falling through nothing. His Pig had been hit, his people were scattered over the Universe and he was being sucked into the maw of a black hole, deeper and deeper.

His eyes snapped open. The night breeze caressed the beads of sweat standing silent guard on his forehead and made his skin sting. A man was standing over him (Alive! Thank God! he thought to himself) and shaking him violently. Finally, wiping his tired eyes, Anderson pushed the man away. His second in command released his grip, respectfully stepped a few paces back, and stood with military alertness; he ignored the small insect that had landed on the back of his neck.

Anderson sat up and found he was on the luscious, small field of Theta Alpha Theta IV. He rubbed his eyes once more, along with the coarse tangle of hair breeding on his cheeks and throat. It was night, and the air had thinned in the coolness; he should have been able to breathe easier. Instead, his breath came in gulps as he looked away from the million eyes staring at him from the heavens, twinkling and winking with forbidden secrets. He hated the night.

He forced his eyes up. The man who had woken him knelt close and spoke softly. The stars were reflected in the inky, wet blackness of the Second's eyes, and there, in the pupil of those dark eyes, was a ghostly reflection of the Major General. Anderson clenched his jaw and flinched. The Second was saying:

". . . Something unusual, sir. If you'll come to the Radio and give your code, we can find out what the problem is."

Anderson said nothing. He continued to stare at a shadow dance, made by the swaying blades of grass and the million pinpoints of light above.

"Sir, please. We're scared."

The Second did not see Anderson smile. This one before him, kneeling here in the grass, was a large man who started his journey with Anderson as an arrogant buffoon. Now his cheeks were gaunt and he was . . . scared.

"Yes, of course, Seyton. Here, help me up."

There were many people huddled around the Radio when the two men entered the room. It stood like a gray monolith, rhythmically humming and clicking. A small woman played its switches and buttons with fluid motions.

As Anderson approached the console, the woman paused, handing him a keypad. He reached underneath his thin tunic and extracted the small microchip hanging about his neck. He slid it smoothly into a tiny slot, barely thinking, and was alarmed to find the file in the keypad was double encrypted. Seyton approached, removed his chip as well, and inserted it. The keypad beeped faintly once, then twice.

The small pad flickered as its screen came to life. Its uniform blankness began to glow as blocks appeared, fading into words. Anderson waited patiently.

The air was heavy and the atmosphere pregnant. The men and women shuffled tired feet as they huddled around the General, standing on their toes and holding their breath.

Anderson's lips moved softly with the words and he whispered as he read. Slowly, slowly the words crept into his tired mind. The whispering reached a climax, becoming audible only at, "Oh, God," and fading away.

Anderson slowed. He could feel the people's hopes all placed heavily on his shoulders, and he sagged under the weight. He could smell their fear.

"Oh, God," he said again. He handed the keypad to Seyton and stalked out of the room, shattering the silence with his heavy step. He covered his red eyes with a rough hand.

Second in Command Seyton hefted the pad as though it were made of lead. He read silently, but his words reached every ear in the crowded room.

". . . immediate and appropriate armed containment. . . ."

Total silence.

"Who?" someone asked in a high voice.

"Madison," Seyton said. The keypad clattered loudly on the floor.

* * *

Anderson walked slowly to his dark quarters. His movements were almost lethargic. He found with each crisis his movements slowed another increment. He needed to stop the coming disaster, he said to himself. He moved even slower.

He sat at his steel, economic desk. It was a cold piece of furniture, and excepting the metal slate bed, was the only one in the room. Anderson stared at his personal keypad's blank screen sitting there on the metal, its unseeing keys staring up at him.

Seyton entered the room, his heavy boots clanking on the metal. He sat on the hard bed and looked at the General's face profiled there in the dark. There was a long silence between them before Seyton spoke.

"How the hell did the Kestrel intercept the report?"

Anderson was still. The silhouette, with wild hair and humped nose, shook its head slowly, then shrugged wearily.

Seyton spoke again. "Madison won't ask any questions. Not if he's in the same condition as when we last talked to him."

A sharp draw of breath from Anderson, then a deep sigh. He flipped an invisible switch, and the screen on his desk glowed blue, then white. Its iridescence shined off his sweating forehead.

". . . contact Madison," he said. "Maybe we can get them to take us away before they blow everything up. Back into space. Oh, my Lord and Savior. . . ."

He began to type quickly and efficiently. Now that he was in motion, he worked with a fierceness that had kept his children alive throughout the odyssey. But the keystrokes slowed, until he was typing with only his index finger, then at last his hands stopped altogether. He imagined he could feel a change of pressure in the room, a slight rise in the heat, a whiff of something out of place.

When his typing had stopped, he found himself afraid to look at the doorway. His face hung low over the desk, and he did not move.

A soft voice came from the doorway, a song sung deep in the throat. The sound of it made Anderson's eyes sting. "Jonathan Anderson."

At first, Seyton thought the voice was that of the alien Anderson had adressed earlier; something in the voice, however, told him it was not so. He watched, horrorstruck, as the thin, graceful figure filling the doorway stepped into the room, so close to the beloved master. Behind the tall one was a person from his memory, though he could not place him. At the foot of the doorway slumped a black mass.

There was a brief squeal of rubber on metal as Anderson stood. A ruffling of cloth as he smoothed his worn uniform. His head hung low between the slumped shoulders in a grotesque perversion of a military stance. He said, subtly nodding at the black mass, "It was us."

There was a complete silence. Anderson finished. "We did this."

The tall, thin figure knelt smoothly at the side of the crumpled mass. From it he pulled a beautiful, still hand. The graceful shadow held the hand and rocked gently back and forth.

There in the darkness was the sound of sharp breath, and of weeping. Anderson's hands were clenched tightly and he was staring into the dark spirits gathering about his feet.

With a convulsive flick of the wrist, he threw the keypad on his desk into Seyton's lap. The General was whispering, ". . . can't call them off, I won't stop them. I won't, not after this..."

Seyton sat staring at the glowing screen. He raised his hand once, hesitantly, then dropped it softly to his side. He continued to stare as Anderson left the room, followed by the one carrying the shadow. From the dark mass a long arm and graceful hand hung, the limp fingers barely touching the floor. The last, silent man remaining with him, Seyton realized, was Davis. The traitor Davis; that was what Anderson had called him.

Davis shook his head disgustedly, and stalked soundlessly out of the room.

* * *

Lieutenant Handell was staring vacantly at the view port of the Kestrel. In it, he could see both Theta Alpha Theta IV as well as a reflection of Madison, stalking back and forth across the bridge.

The smell of sweat seemed to fill Handell's entire world. The clicking of Madison's pacing heels was all he could hear. He could not drag his eyes away from the reflection.

The Lieutenant next to him burst in upon Handell's mood, requesting a routine information check. Distractedly, the Lieutenant reached for the appropriate switch, and then again. Each time, Handell tried to flip the switch, and could not. He brought his hand before his face, and looked intently at it; it had begun to shake. He grabbed it with his good hand for a moment, then reached and finally tapped the switch.

He looked back at the reflection in the view port. There, the small window was superimposed with Madison's face. He was leaning over Handell's shoulder, breathing quickly, sweating and smelling. He was whispering again to himself, this time, "No, no, no, no. I won't kill them -"

Handell thought he heard the sound of laughing, and stood. His right hand caught Madison at the temple and sent him sprawling on the clean steel floor. In a deft motion he extracted the pistol from his side and placed its cool tip firmly against the General's gleaming forehead. The thunderclap pounded against bulkheads and echoed down far into the entrails of the ship

No one dared move or breath. Handell stood calmly in the center of the bridge, looking into those wide eyes staring at him. He saw one, two, all of the men and women rise and begin to move toward him. He aimed for the space between the eyes.

When the last roll of thunder faded, only the melancholy groanings of the ship intruded upon the silence.

Handell slid the pistol smoothly into its leather holster and calmly sat at his console. He reached for the switch labeled "Navigation/Weapons/Ship Control" and flipped it. He spoke in a strained, singsong voice.

"Now, please."

He left the channel open.

From the darkness of Navigation, there came a hiss and a faint buzzing. Handell gripped the armrests of his chair, for the walls of the Kestrel had begun to quiver in time with the massive, shuddering weapon.

* * *

It was a cold day in Moscow. A woman stood at the huge window, staring at the gray, stormy sky hovering low over the bustling city and snowcapped peaks.

A large mahogany door squeaked as it swung open. The American representative from the Safety Commission, a clean-shaven military officer, stepped lightly into the room. He brushed a bit of lint off his crisp uniform and waited to be recognized.

The woman turned to speak. She noted the neat haircut and confident stance. The officer noted the darkness under the woman's eyes and the lines creasing her face.

"What is the news?" she asked simply.

"The ISSC has been terminated," he boomed. There was a period of awkward silence. Then:

"Because of the Kestrel Incident." It was not a question, but a statement. The woman's eyes had become hot, despite the small smile playing about her lips.

". . . Of course, madam. I thought that matter had become global by now."

"Sir, do you realize this decision was made without the consent of a leading trustee, member number thirty-six?" Here, she tapped an unpainted finger on the uppermost button of her suit. The fire in her eyes flared.

The officer did not speak. He could see the woman was becoming agitated; her face was flushed and she twirled a pen in her left hand. The pen fell, and the sound echoed through the large room. She did not pick it up.

He hesitated for a moment, then said softly, "None of the Members were consulted. The International Colonization Safety Commission has determined-"

The woman cut him off in mid-sentence: "Do you realize that this world is dying? Do they? We can't live on this planet forever."

He ignored the aggressive tone and merely looked on.

"Yes, I know that men died wrenching the Kestrel's records from the claws of that madman Handell. . . ," she conceded, predicting his argument. "And that suicide case they found in Navigation upset us all. But this won't last long, I guarantee you that. Just because some moron went insane in a warship-"

Here the officer lost his composure. His face went red with fury. "Good men died because of that bastard," he spat at her. "An entire species, too, because Madison and his Lieutenant had that- that Star Sickness. Couldn't tell nothing was wrong, but just blasted away til nothing was left. Do you think anyone- anyone at all- will let something like this happen again? Ever?"

He was still once more. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to regain his calm. "We won't let you," he whispered.

After a moment of silence, he dismissed himself from her and walked quickly to the wooden door. As he left, she said quietly after him, "I'm saving us all, you simpleton." Then, "I'll be a hero. The one who saved Planet Earth from itself."

She turned and continued to stare into the gray sky.

John-Patrick Schultz,  age 17,  contact:  Schultzy48@yahoo.com