The Last Miracle

By Donald E. Watson

Paul and Lori lingered in bed, relishing their solitude. He stroked the smooth curve that extended from her thigh over her hip to the valley of her waist, then up again to the margin of her breast. But the warning from Mariner, their mysterious mentor, prowled his thoughts. "If successful in this mission, you'll be hated, scorned, vilified, and persecuted. You might even lose your lives. You can still turn back, but this might be your last opportunity." Despite Mariner's caveat, the soul mates had felt compelled to accept the mission. "Mariner," Paul said, "you've given us the most powerful technology humans can imagine. It can heal terrible diseases, but it can kill to." "And from what history has taught us," Lori added, "we know that human leaders will use it for killing first and healing last." "Yes," Mariner replied, "you're in a race. Healing or killing. Which will win?" They got their first hint soon after they publicly revealed the carefully nurtured secrets Mariner had taught them. They were threatened in turn by military agents and an ambitious newspaper reporter. Mariner had been right. Their tranquility had shattered, and it was too late to turn back.

AUTHOR BIO:
When five years old, Dr. Watson asked two questions: "How do i know I exist?" and "What does it mean to die?" After finding the answers in the Theory of Enformed Systems, he used his experience in psychiatry, neuroscience, parapsychology, law, and politics to share them in this adventure story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 17, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462077359

Book preview

Chapter 1

Time lay heavily, marked only by the regular plinking of water dripping from the faucet in the kitchen. Paul sat rumpled in his chair, as much a part of his dusky library as his extensive collection of books, staring across the open Journal of Psychiatric Inquiries cradled in his lap. Questioning his perceptions of reality, he was certain of only one thing: The encounter had created a crisis, a turning point that would radically transform his life, jolting him forever from the quiet, scholarly track he had planned for his retirement. He knew what he had wanted before the encounter: to apply his extensive knowledge of human behavior to help humanity survive its own self-destructive impulses. Now he didn’t know what he wanted.

Though the encounter had occurred only an hour before, less than a mile away, it seemed to have occurred in a faraway universe over an unframed span of time. He had been strolling through the redwoods along his customary trail near the top of the wide bend in the river, reflecting on the chapter he was writing. October had arrived, and the summer’s drought had reduced the river to a playful stream.

As he often did during these walks, he created a surreal mindscape by entering a trance-like state. Alternating shadows and evening light filtered through the trees, nullifying his vision. Melodious currents of the river and soothing aromas from the mist-dampened redwoods captured his other senses.

As he contemplated the natural political behavior of humans—the subject of his new book—his thoughts were unexpectedly interrupted. Was I meant for a set of parents in some remote world? Was I abandoned accidentally on this planet? Though this was a recurring musing, something else happened this time, something distinctly outside his mind. From behind him, a calm voice said, You were. In a way.

What? Paul shouted, whirling to see the source of the voice. He saw a man who looked curiously like himself, about fifty years old, six feet tall, soft featured, with lively dark blue eyes. Dressed in blue jeans, plaid shirt, green wind-breaker, and sneakers, he stood about eight feet away, casually smoking a pipe, its smoke wafting gently toward Paul. Paul thought he saw a mirror image, but inexplicably an image of someone else. He was bewildered.

"You were left here. But not accidentally."

The stranger’s tone of voice was reassuring, but his presence was not. Paul had not heard him approach, even though it wasn’t possible to walk silently upon the small stones and forest detritus. Besides, he had never before encountered another person in this part of the forest during his evening walks. And nowhere, at any time, had he confronted anyone who could read his thoughts.

Paul froze, mute. As an experienced psychiatrist, he usually listened quietly for information before saying anything. This time, however, he was quieted by wonder and a spreading shadow of fear. His silence notwithstanding, he found himself fully engaged in a dialogue.

The visitor addressed Paul’s unstated fear. " Yes, I’m real, and so are you. We’re here, looking at each other, communicating telepathically."

Paul tried to speak aloud, but he stammered, unable to organize a sentence to express his thoughts.

You don’t have to speak, noted the visitor without words. We can continue this way until you’ve oriented yourself.

Feeling completely out of control, Paul conceded the obvious with a nervous grin, and received a warm smile in return. Relaxed somewhat by this, he started scanning his visitor with his senses. Suddenly, he stiffened.

The visitor smiled and nodded, prompting Paul to speak aloud.

Paul didn’t understand his own reaction at first. Then he blurted, Why don’t I smell your pipe smoke?

Yes, that. Sorry. At once, Paul smelled the smoke, recognizing the aroma of his own brand of tobacco. You’re right. You hadn’t smelled it before. Sometimes I overlook details.

Sometimes? Details? Forgetting momentarily the extraordinary circumstances, Paul began to feel comfortable in exchanging ideas, his favorite activity.

The visitor chuckled in Paul’s own manner, swept his arm in a large arc to indicate the scope of his answer, and spoke aloud. Yes, but not before with you. This is the first time we’ve met. Or, rather, it’s the first time you’ve met me.

Probing his memory for recollections of this face in a lecture audience or his office, Paul thought, He knows me? From where?

Don’t bother, the stranger advised without speaking. You wouldn’t recognize me from any of those places. I’ve known you for a long time, but not from your public appearances.

By this time, Paul fully comprehended that the stranger was reading his mind and he found the experience surprisingly consoling, like visiting with an intimate friend. He also discovered that communicating telepathically with this man was far more efficient than speaking. He realized he could switch between the two modes of conversation, noting that the telepathic mode seemed more natural than the verbal. Still, by habit, he preferred using spoken words.

He soon discovered another ability of his visitor, who said, I want to show you something.

Paul’s sensorium abruptly filled with a rapidly changing kaleidoscope of images, scents, and sounds of other times, other lands, and other people. He saw and heard the stranger, each time dressed in the distinctive costume of the time and place, conversing intently with an assortment of individuals. He recognized some of the people and places: Moses in the wilderness, Aristotle in the Lyceum, Buddha in a garden, Jesus on an isolated plateau, Copernicus in Poland, Helmholtz in his laboratory. The identity of others he could not discern: An African elder, a native American, a Mayan holy man, an Indian yogi, an Asian peasant, and a primitive hominid.

After the mental tour, he arrived back where he had started with the stranger—but saw it from a vantage point above himself. Then, as suddenly as they had started, the images stopped.

Stunned, Paul retreated from his visitor, turning his eyes toward the ground to gain time to comprehend his experience. He frantically searched his memory for similar experiences, but all he could identify was dream material. Again, a vague rumble of fear unsettled his emotional base. He knew he wasn’t dreaming. Was he losing his mind? Since science wasn’t helping him, he searched for a mythological answer.

Are you an angel? he asked hesitantly. He didn’t believe in angels, but he had to ask.

The man laughed gently. No, but certain prophets have called me an angel. Poets have thought of me as their muse. Philosophers attribute me to intuition, and scientists chalk me up to a dream. The Dogon accept me as their god. And, of course, you worry that I’m a hallucination.

Curiously, the stranger’s words drew Paul back to his senses, pacifying him. He chuckled briefly in relief. His faculties focused again, he reflected on what had happened to him. Instantly, by his own experience, he had become intimately aware of his visitor navigating through time and space, utilizing the beliefs, knowledge bases, and cultural sets of a selection of individuals throughout history, and helping these individuals change the world. He was astounded with the speed with which he had absorbed all this history.

He realized that he, too, had been chosen—but for what purpose, he didn’t know.

You’re correct on both topics. Instant education, and you have been chosen.

Then the stranger slowed the pace of information transfer by speaking aloud. The ability to educate instantly is one of the many things I can show you. But first, you must retreat and organize yourself.

Paul was relieved to hear the man was sensitive to his situation. He was frightened, yet fascinated; overwhelmed, yet eager to hear more. With the visions alone, he had experienced more than he could possibly sort through. Yet he needed much more information before he could begin to make sense of this encounter—if it was indeed a real experience.

Straightening himself to look the stranger directly in the eyes, he decided to risk asking about his primary worry. "How do I know you’re not a hallucination? If you ‘re not, who are you? What’s your name? Where are you from?’

The stranger smiled knowingly. Though Paul had communicated externally, no human could have understood him. Without knowing it, he had started using another language, one far more efficient than his native tongue.

In the same idiom, his visitor responded," You couldn’t recognize my real name as a name, bu t you can call me—"

Mariner! Paul shouted.

Mariner nodded, then stepped lightly toward Paul, inviting him to shake hands. You can’t feel a hallucination. Try me.

Paul felt the man’s hand, then impulsively stepped forward and hugged him. After breaking the embrace, he smiled warmly and stood back to make eye contact with his visitor before speaking.

You’re solid enough. And I feel I’ve known you all my life. Why do you say I’ve never met you?

"That’s not easy to answer. In many ways, I am you. It’s a genetic thing—sort of. It’s part of the basics I hope you’ll be able to learn."

Without making another sound, Mariner imparted to Paul the knowledge that they would meet again the next day at the same place, then vanished.

Unnerved, Paul sat down where he had stood. He wasn’t tired, he just didn’t want to waste any attention on staying upright. Taking a deep breath, he looked about. Reassured by the familiar river and trees, he began to relax. Then he was struck that something was unexpectedly missing. At first, he wondered why he was staring at his footprints; they were not puzzling. It required nearly a minute for him to figure out what was absent. His were the only footprints. Mariner had left none.

An anchor dropped in his stomach, creating a wave of nausea. The implications of the missing footprints were ominous. His visitor wasn’t solid. He had been hallucinating, after all. His mouth went dry and his heart started pounding on his chest wall. His mind raced to find an explanation for his bizarre experience.

Perhaps, he speculated, he had felt comfort and familiarity with the stranger because of schizophrenic autism. At a deep unconscious level, he had invented his visitor, patterning his thoughts and actions after himself. Yet, this idea wasn’t satisfactory, because schizophrenic creations nearly always express themselves as auditory hallucinations. Besides, he thought, I’m showing insight. I’m questioning the reality of my experiences. And I’m too old to have a first schizophrenic episode, anyway.

He considered another possibility. Visual and tactile hallucinations usually result from brain toxicity. Considering these choices, he could only hope he’d somehow mistakenly eaten a hallucinogenic mushroom. This, at least, would be reversible.

His intellectual attempts to assuage his fear were suddenly interrupted by a faint rustle. As he looked in the direction of the noise, footprints materialized where Mariner had last stood, impressing the moist forest floor with the tread marks of size twelve sneakers.

Paul remained immobilized for a few seconds. Then he cautiously reached forward to feel the contours of the footprints. His tactile sense confirming his visual observation, the anchor in his stomach began to lift, and he sighed in relief. When he regained his voice, he cried out, Thank you! Thank you!

He immediately heard a response from nowhere in particular. Sorry for the scare. My fault. I forgot another detail.

Chapter 2

The steady plinking of the dripping kitchen faucet finally brought Paul’s attention to the present time. He shook his shoulders, arched his back, inhaled deeply, and focused for the first time on the journal resting on his lap.

He read the title of the paper he had written a decade earlier: Hallucinatory Experiences During Non-Psychotic States. He laughed from his belly, relishing the irony. Although he had dashed off the paper without much thought, he was now taking the subject very seriously. His attention moved to the frequently reported visions of departed loved ones. He had never believed in ghosts, but now he thought, Maybe they’re more than mere hallucinations.

He recalled the experience of a colleague, Dr. Shirley Bunson. His recollection brought the same goose bumps he had felt while Shirley described the mysterious visit by a troubled young patient.

Shortly after she fell asleep one night, Shirley awakened to see the young woman sitting on the foot of her bed. Though startled, Shirley calmly asked her why she was there. The patient explained that she had been killed in a car wreck, and that she had come to tell Shirley not to worry. She had finally found the kind of happiness in death that had eluded her in life.

Paul knew the visit could not have been the hallucination of a grieving person because Shirley hadn’t known that her patient had died. Indeed, the conversation occurred at eleven-twenty—the exact time the young woman died.

Paul and Shirley had spent an entire afternoon trying to explain the phenomenon with available neurological and psychological theories. None was satisfactory.

He shook his head vigorously to free himself from his thoughts. I don’t believe any of this stuff, he thought. But what if it’s true? Maybe I’ll figure it out in another life. This alien thought, too, dwelt awhile.

He walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. After gulping it down, he stood by the sink and asked himself why his mind had focused on Shirley’s experience. Intuition told him it had to do with Mariner.

He also realized that he was no more psychotic than Shirley had been, and that his perceptions of Mariner were as real to him as Shirley’s perceptions had been to her. Real, but baffling—just as gravity had been real but baffling before Newton. And Mariner had hinted at a discovery as momentous as Newton’s when he told Paul he would eventually understand some of the things he had witnessed.

He was grateful to conclude he wasn’t psychotic. Psychosis would mean burdening his daughter, Rhonda, and he had long ago promised himself he would commit suicide rather than burden her. Feeling relieved, he welcomed the opportunity to go to bed.

Upon awakening the next morning, he noted that he had fallen asleep quickly and slept dreamlessly through the night. He considered this a good omen. Then he laughed at himself. He didn’t believe in omens.

During the day, Paul worked steadily on his manuscript, stopping only once to treat himself to a phone call to Rhonda.

Anything new and exciting there? she asked.

Nope, he lied. Just the routine. Thinking. Writing. Just called to tell you I love you.

* * *

When the time arrived to take his evening walk, Paul admitted to himself that he would be disappointed if Mariner didn’t appear. Not knowing how long he would be out, he turned on the table light in the kitchen, then eagerly laced up his sneakers, grabbed his pipe and jacket, and walked briskly to the redwood grove, anticipating an adventure.

Seeing Mariner waiting for him by the riverbank, Paul slowed his pace and started searching the forest floor. Finding what he sought, he pointed to a trail of fresh footprints.

Yours?

Mariner laughed with Paul.

Paul reflected that, in his lifetime, he had met only a handful of individuals with whom he could coexist comfortably, and he relished his rapport with Mariner. He also had a foreboding that this intimacy could well seduce him into danger. As if knowing this, his visitor announced the agenda for this meeting.

"It’s time you learned why I’ve come. You want to know how I travel, and I’ll show you. But I won’t explain how. You’ll figure that out later—if you can learn the basics."

Paul tilted his head quizzically. Twice now, you’ve alluded to my learning ‘the basics.’ What do you mean?

Not just now. First, some context. Mariner used the efficient language Paul had learned the day before. This time, Paul noticed that his visitor spoke, not with his voice, but with visual signs, including subtle movements of his ears and eyelids, as well as distinct coloration changes about his eyes and mouth. Occasionally, too, Mariner produced scents and musical tones.

A student of linguistics, Paul noticed that this language was efficient because it lacked the redundancy of human languages, and it was free of syntactic conventions. The language intrigued him enough that he wanted to study it in detail. But with his attention constantly diverted to other topics, he couldn’t even coin a suitable name for the new method of information exchange. He settled on flashtalk.

I want to reassure you about your experience with me, Mariner flashed. I’m very real, but physically, I’m about five hundred thousand miles from here. He pointed vaguely upward with his pipe. I’m orbiting Earth beyond the moon. I’m using the basic principle to materialize myself. I do that by organizing the matter and electromagnetic radiation in your time and space. So you perceive me just as you would perceive anything else.

Paul nodded, but didn’t understand. Using flashtalk, he asked, Do you—the real you—resemble the image I’m perceiving?

No. I created an image familiar to you so you would be comfortable. If you had seen the real me, you wouldn’t be here.

Are you that ugly? Paul joked aloud. Mariner didn’t laugh. For the first time, Paul was surprised by his visitor’s demeanor, and he didn’t like it. He frowned and stepped back.

Oh, I’m sorry. In my haste, I was careless again. I mistook your intellectual quickness for emotional neutrality. To answer your question, I’m not ugly. I just don’t look human. And I’m neither male nor female.

Paul’s questions were piling up quickly. He was curious about Mariner’s sex, but asked, Do you experience human emotions? Love? Friendship?

"We have emotional states similar to yours, but they don’t dominate us. We keep them in perspective so we can use them effectively. We recognize fear, for example, but we never dwell on it or allow it to paralyze us. And we never turn fear to hatred as humans do. Instead, we interpret it as a signal to prepare for a future challenge.

I’ve noticed that you sometimes use your fear this way—but only after it has preoccupied you for a while. In time, your species might adopt our way consistently.

Our way? asked Paul. Whose way? Who—or what—are you?

See? Mariner responded obliquely. Right now you’re using your fear to solve problems. Good!

Then he looked intently at Paul’s face to announce a change of subject. We know your kind very well. We’ve been studying humans before there were humans. You could say we invented you.

Paul opened his mouth to ask another question, but Mariner pointed across the river at the forest. Look over there.

As Paul focused on the dark grove of sequoias, it appeared to fade and flatten, then transform into a grassy savannah, bleached pale by unremitting sunlight. Under Mariner’s influence, he was instantly aware that the landscape was eastern Africa, and that he was looking some two million years back in time. He felt his heart rate increasing as he scanned the vista.

A group of slender, ape-like creatures, about three feet tall, occupied the center of the scene. Two of the animals were copulating, and three others crouched on their haunches, feeding themselves by picking at a carcass laid out before them.

One of the hominids, carrying a heavy stick in one hand, strode to the stream that separated Paul and Mariner from the living tableau. Before bending down to drink, the animal surveyed his surrounds warily, but he showed no sign of seeing the human observers. He can’t see us, explained Mariner, because we are still in your time.

Paul frowned, not understanding. Then his eyes fell on a pregnant female, sitting contentedly under a skimpy tree eating berries from her hand.

Lucy! he exclaimed.

"Good! You recognize her kind. Australopithecus afarensis. Her species was the most successful of your ancestors to have lived on earth. Thrived for more than one million years."

Paul slowly drew in a deep breath. Then he quietly said, I’m afraid we’ll not survive one-tenth that long.

After a pause, Mariner said, That’s why I’m here.

Paul stiffened, knowing intuitively that Mariner’s calm remark carried a meaning far more portentous than its simplicity suggested.

But he remained silent and continued to scan the plains. After another minute, he turned slowly to Mariner, his eyes asking for elaboration.

Come with me, Mariner directed, and the two men moved smoothly to the grassy expanse populated by the prehuman animals.

As they approached the three feeding hominids, Paul suddenly gasped. My god! He averted his eyes, and pointed at the carcass’s face. It’s human!

Not really, Mariner said casually. It was a failed experiment.

Though Paul wasn’t particularly squeamish, he took a few seconds to brace himself before looking again. As his scientific objectivity took over, he moved closer to inspect the carcass. Its skull is larger than those of the others, he noted, and it looks more human than ape-like. What is it?

"Your paleontologists haven’t found any fossils of this species. You can call it pre-habilis because it was a precursor to Homo habilis, which many of your scientists think was the first human. And in some ways, it was—depending on what you call human." Mariner was lecturing carefully, in English. Paul was rapt.

"We created this species by adding the appropriate code to the DNA of Lucy’s kind. We gave it two improvements over her species—a much larger brain and an opposable thumb.

"I should say, we thought we were making improvements. We hadn’t anticipated one major detail. We left out xenophobia—and without the instinctive fear of strangers, pre-habilis didn’t have a chance."

Knowing well that humans are highly xenophobic, Paul waited for Mariner to explain.

"Lucy’s kind never developed a fear of strangers because there weren’t any other hominids to fear. The only ones they knew were kin, and their gregarious nature allowed them to trust their kin. Xenophobia wasn’t wired into their brains. We created pre-habilis’s larger brain from this basic brain. It was a mistake. Watch."

Mariner lifted his arm to point, and the scene changed. A small group of pre-habilis specimens were hovering around a cluster of richly fruited berry bushes, contentedly chattering among themselves while harvesting and eating. Two females stood back from the feast and accepted an abundant supply of berries from an assortment of males.

Noticing how the males developed partial erections when approaching the females, Paul surmised that the gifts of berries would be rewarded later with sex.

Is this how we learned prostitution? Paul asked whimsically.

You didn’t have to learn it, Mariner said. Males trading food for sex is an instinct—quite natural. It was marriage you had to learn.

Paul raised his eyebrows, and Mariner continued. "Hominids and their human descendants are social animals. They don’t naturally form partnerships for life like pair-bonding animals. Humans are like bono-bos. You copulate primarily to promote social ties, not to reproduce. Misunderstanding this simple fact has created a lot of human misery. To secure a mate for life, females sell, not only sex, but themselves. They risk losing their identity and becoming the property of males.

As for the males, they have lost their freedom to pursue and fight for females. As a result, they channel their competitive sexual instincts into political games and warfare.

Paul smiled. His current project explored the natural political behavior of humans. A gleam in Mariner’s eye told him his visitor knew this well.

Paul turned back to watch the tranquil scene. Then he saw a troupe of Lucy’s kind walk calmly toward the gathering of feeding pre-habilis. One of the feeding males saw the intruders, and grunted a notification to the others. In unison, they looked up and watched the approaching hominids for a few seconds. Then, without showing any sign of alarm, they returned to their previous activities, evidently expecting no more than friendly visitors for the plentiful feast.

The more primitive animals, brandishing clubs and rocks, quickly surrounded, then slaughtered, their large-brained cousins. In a few violent seconds, their might had granted them the right to the spoils of victory—fruit and fresh meat.

Physically shaken by the carnage, Paul turned away from the brutes.

As you know, Mariner said, his voice irreconcilably calm in the aftermath of the slaughter, things haven’t changed in two million years.

His heart still racing from the adrenalin generated by the violence, Paul wanted to argue. How can you say that? We’re civilized. We have rules—laws to protect the innocent and the gentle. We don’t eat our own kind. We don’t prey on one another.

Even as he said this, Paul knew he was dead wrong—a point Mariner reinforced by directing Paul’s perceptions again. In quick succession, several scenes unfolded in Paul’s mind.

Six soldiers performed ethnic cleansing by shooting two children, then taking turns raping their mother. Three shivering men, survivors of a plane crash, huddled about a small fire chewing the tenderest parts of their dead companion. A mother shook her crying child, then repeatedly smashed it against a table until it cried no more. A mortar shell burst in a bustling marketplace, scattering a crowd of panicked villagers.

The vision lifted, and Mariner continued. As I said, things haven’t changed. Reasoning has little to do with human problem solving. Humans show gestures of using reason to solve their problems, but these ceremonies are rarely more than the posturing shown by lower animals. Male monkeys show dominance with phallic displays; humans display their spears or missiles.

Paul shook his head disgustedly.

Sometimes, Mariner continued, if one side can show clearly superior strength, the subordinate humans capitulate without fighting a battle. That’s called democracy—majority rule.

Paul bit his lip and nodded.

But when posturing isn’t sufficient, you humans turn to violence as surely as any other animal. And now, for the first time in your history, you possess the technology to eradicate your entire species. This means you now face an evolutionary crisis.

Understanding vaguely that Mariner was offering him an opportunity to accomplish what he had tried to do in his research and writing, Paul asked, What do you want me to do?

Mariner smiled warmly, emulating Paul’s affection, compassion, and gratitude. Then he addressed his student gently.

I’ll tell you eventually. But first, I want you to know that taking on this mission means you must relinquish your cherished privacy. If successful, you’ll be hated, scorned, vilified, and persecuted. In the end, you might lose your life. You can still decline, but this might be your last opportunity to do so.

Paul shrugged and responded immediately. Okay. I’m ready.

That was quick! I know you have an adventurer’s temperament, but are you sure you know what you’re risking?

Nothing, really. I’m accustomed to people hating me. I’ve been scorned all my life by people who aren’t able to understand my ideas. My main reason for living has been to give life to my daughter, and through her someday—I hope—my grandchildren. And through my work, I’ve hoped to help all the children of our species. And that work is already vilified by people who peddle hate and ignorance. Besides, there are many ways to lose my life. The worst way is wasting it. So, you see? I really have nothing to lose.

Are you certain I didn’t inject your decision into your mind? asked Mariner.

Paul had fleetingly considered this possibility. "I’m certain. This isn’t a new decision. For many years I’ve seen Homo sapiens as a failed species—like pre-habilis—and I’ve wanted to help us develop into a species that can, not only survive a million years, but evolve into a much higher life form. The only difference is, until I met you, I didn’t believe it was actually possible."

How do you know I can help you? asked Mariner.

I don’t. But you’ve spoken to me from the burning bush. I feel I’ve been visited by a god. You certainly can’t do worse than we’re doing. So if you say you can help, I believe you. Now let’s get on with it. Start teaching. I’ll do my best to learn.

Mariner chortled and wrapped his arm around Paul’s shoulders like a proud father.

I want you to know I’ll be with you throughout your ordeals. Not always in person like this, but sometimes in spirit—as ideas that come into your mind. For now, however, wrap up your other work. Then we can start in earnest.

Paul considered this, then responded, Thanks anyway, but I don’t think I could get back to it after all this. Is there any way you can help me?

Absolutely, announced Mariner with a grin. He vanished.

Paul looked about, suddenly disoriented. It was dark, and he stood in chilly blackness by the river bank. He had forgotten why he had stayed out so long. He searched his memory, but it revealed no answer for these questions—and not one trace of his encounter with Mariner.

He recognized his position from the familiar mixture of sweet aromas of the forest and the musical sounds of the river. He yearned for his warm bed, but in the darkness he couldn’t find his bearings. He began to worry that he would remain in the forest until morning when the sun would light his way.

Then he saw an isolated star sparkling through the trees at a position just above the horizontal. He thought this odd in the forest. He could ordinarily see stars only by looking straight up.

Well, why not? he asked aloud. He began to walk toward the star, assuming it could only shine through a clear path. In walking, he noticed another anomaly. The star moved—first right, then left, then right again, leading him unerringly along the twisting trail.

When he emerged from the trees, he could see the warm yellow glow of his kitchen window across the meadow. But no star.

Chapter 3

Paul returned from the forest tired and hungry, yet driven to work on his book. He paused before entering his cabin, as he called it. Lit by moonlight, the two-story Victorian hotel reigned over its territory—a twenty-acre lot carpeted densely with fescue and guarded by a platoon of oak trees. A small stand of apple and pear trees bordered the meadow between the oaks and the redwood grove. A four-bay livery stable squatted about fifty yards behind the main building at the end of the driveway that ran along its left side. He remembered his first impressions of the old hotel. Its wide veranda, trimmed with wrought iron and wooden gingerbread, evoked images of summertime parties with self-satisfied, cigar-smoking men and gaily bedecked women of a fabled California a century before.

He had bought the place on a whim, negating his plan to buy a simple cabin. He rationalized later that he would someday restore it to its original magnificence, but he didn’t actually believe he would. In fact, he didn’t know why he bought it. Soon after moving in, he sealed off the second floor with its four cavernous guest rooms, and settled into three rooms on the first floor. Leaving untouched the lobby and its 1890’s vintage furniture and operating gas lamps, he converted the parlor into his library and the dining room into his bedroom. These rooms sandwiched the kitchen, whose fireplace shared a chimney with the library. Paul sometimes blamed his impulse to buy the hotel on this feature. As a midwesterner originally, he spent much time in the kitchen, and the fireplace seduced him. It made his ersatz cabin seem cozy despite its size.

Entering the back door into the kitchen, he picked up an apple from a wooden bowl on the table and went directly to the library. He sat before WorkHorse, his faithful computer, and started to read chapter nine, titled Vocal Rituals, of his current book, Natural Human Political Behavior.

Man is a reasoning animal, declared Seneca. But Seneca was unrealistically optimistic. Humans reason like cats swim. They can do it, but they avoid it whenever possible.

As he scrolled to the end of the text, a vivid image interrupted his thoughts. A band of primitive hominids slaughtered a group of humanlike primates. Perplexed, he pushed himself back from the keyboard to ask what his unconscious mind was trying to tell him. Then, abruptly and completely, his memory of Mariner and the earlier events of the day reappeared.

With a chuckle, Paul leaned back in his chair, combed his fingers though his hair, and massaged his scalp. Mariner’s guiding words took the form of his own thoughts. Wrap up my other work, he thought, then we can start in earnest.

Good idea, he said aloud. He opened a new computer file, and for the next four hours, summarized the remainder of the book. He provided this record for Rhonda. If no one else cares, he thought, at least my daughter will want to keep it as a memento.

At two a.m., he switched off WorkHorse with a sense of finality and patted it affectionately. Goodbye, old friend.

He walked slowly about his cabin, stopping to bid farewell to each treasure in his collection of mementos, for he didn’t know if he would have time to do this again.

His thoughts turned again to Rhonda, whom he still called Punkin. Her nickname originated when she was five, and he was amused by how her orange hair matched her Halloween pumpkin costume. Her hair had turned a rich auburn in the nineteen years since then, and she was now a beautiful, vivacious woman with a effervescent sense of humor. Her freckles disappeared when she was an adolescent, but he still imagined he can see them sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.

In other ways, too, he still considered her a child, and he blamed himself for fostering her dependency on him. She relied on him too much, even though she was secure in her career. Many men had pursued her, but she had never formed an exclusive relationship with any of them. Paul knew her dependence on