Chapter 12

"A light whip, huh?" I asked as Wizen and I made our way down a series of sterile corridors. "Is that because it has a third less calories than a regular whip?"

He gave me a puzzled look.

"Sorry," I said. "It would have been funny in my time."

We continued on, Wizen walking and me flying beside him in the chair. The corridors were nearly empty. I had had a similar experience when Wizen had brought me to the gymnasium where I had practiced with the chair, but that was just a short distance from the apartment in which Wizen and Francesca lived.

This trip took nearly twenty minutes, but I still saw no more than twenty people. I had always thought that the future would be crowded. Why were my dreams so inconsistent? I had enough room to occasionally throw in somersault or a twist just to keep in practice.

And the people we did see sort of freaked me out. They stared straight ahead, without emotion or even interest. It wasn't until we turned into a small room that anyone actually met our eyes. Two men in robes stood with the Green Beret, who was easy to pick out standing ramrod straight in his camouflage uniform. I extended my hand to him first.

"Ken Post," he said. "Green Beret. 1965. Nice to meet you, sir."

"You, too." I said. I realized that he was actually younger than I was, probably no more than twenty in actual calendar years. "Rick Handley. 2008. Journalist."

"It feels odd having a journalist watching my back," he said with a smile.

"No odder than it is for me to be backing up a Green Beret," I answered.

One of the others cleared his throat and Wizen introduced me. The older of the two was a member of the Council, a man named Karsk. The other, Slisken, was Ken's sponsor. I introduced Ken to Wizen.

Karsk was a humorless politician who waited impatiently until the pleasantries were over and then gestured us into an adjoining room. He moved to a console and depressed a series of keys that opened up another room. He introduced the man standing in there as Antin, curator of the Morling artifacts.

"Antin, the floor is yours."

Karsk stepped back, his political duties evidently over.

Antin pulled a drawer from the wall and extracted a ten-inch metal cylinder. He showed us that it was open at one end and closed at the other. There was a ridged wheel in the middle of the cylinder.

"Gentleman," Antin said, "this is the weapon with which one of you will face the Morling in three weeks. When they left last time, the Morlings left two of these behind. We tried to analyze one. It exploded when we tried to open it."

I traded looks with Ken as Antin continued.

"So this is the only one left. I have been instructed to make it available to you beginning next week for your training. My understanding is that Mr. Post will be using it five days a week and that it will be available to Mr. Handley for the other two."

"I probably ought to learn how to use a regular whip first, huh?" I muttered to Ken out of the corner of my mouth.

I heard a snort. We both gave Antin our full attention as he began to demonstrate how the thing worked.

Antin thumbed the wheel on the cylinder and a bead of light, resembling nothing more than a glowing marble, appeared at one end. A second later there was another beneath it, and then a third. The wand was a fountain of light. When the fourth appeared, the light started to droop to the side. In less than a minute, there was a three-foot long string of light beads. Antin indicated that Ken and I should approach. Ken couldn't resist reaching out toward the light.

"Stop!" the Councilman ordered. "Do not touch it."

Antin smoothly provided a more restrained warning.

"The light has been supercooled."

"We do not know how," Karsk said in disgust.

"You would suffer something akin to frostbite were you to touch it near the tip," Antin explained. "Instead, if you would slowly push your hand toward the rope, about two feet below the opening."

We both did as we were told. The rope light bent outward, as if it were a real rope. It produced a pleasant tingle in my skin.

"Wow!"

"How does it feel?" the curator asked.

"Fine." I wiggled my fingers. "That is so cool."

Ken appeared to agree.

"Now move your hand more quickly."

I tried to give the string of light a karate chop. It bent again. This time it also hurt like hell.

"Jesus Christ in a French fry," I yelped. "What the fuck?"

Ken did the same, but allowed only his eyes to betray the same stinging pain that I had felt.

"Once the light reaches a distance of approximately six inches from the cylinder," Antin explained, "it nears room temperature. It can exist in that state for five or six minutes. After that, the light particle will simply melt into the air. Before it disappears, however, the light rope will function just like a whip. The higher its speed, the more damage it does. At the highest speed, the tip of the whip can cut through steel.

"This is the only control. You can use it to make the light come out faster or slower. You can use it to nearly stop the flow of light. If you do stop the flow completely, however, you effectively sever the rope where it comes out of the cylinder."

Antin demonstrated as he spoke. Turning the wheel forward increased the speed at which the light appears. Turning it back slowed it. Turning it all the way back resulted in the rope of light dropping to the floor. Antin thumbed the control again and a new strand started to grow.

"Any questions?" he asked.

I could never resist asking a question.

"So it's sort of like fighting with a Weedeater, huh?"

Like the light whip joke, that one went over like a lead balloon. Ken was too "old." Weedeaters hadn't been around in the 1960s. The others were too "young." These future people probably didn't even have weeds.

"Your sponsors will know where to bring you for the training," Karsk said. "Good day, gentlemen."

We had been dismissed. In the outer lobby, Ken and I wished each other well.

"Tell me something, sir," he said as we were about to part.

"What's that?"

"Since you're from the future, I'll bet you could give a hot tip, huh?" He winked at me. "You know, when I head back home?"

"You mean like Microsoft stock?"

He shifted his weight from side to side.

"I'm not really a shareholder kind of guy," he said, adding a belated and embarrassed "sir."

I realized with a smile that we were talking about sports. I thought about the 2004 Red Sox, but that was nearly forty years after his return to the Earth.

"Late sixties," I told him. "Green Bay Packers in Super Bowls I and II. New York Jets in Super Bowl III. You'll have to trust me on that one."

"You're alright kid," he said. He turned as he and his sponsor headed for the door. "One more question. What's a Super Bowl?"

I got into work particularly early on Thursday morning. I had never had a "connection" before and I was determined to make use of the only one I knew. I drafted an e-mail to "Act2B^~2B." I told her first how wonderful that Saturday night had been for me, too, although I would respect her sensibilities and refrain from sending her a picture. I told her how impressed I was with her e-mail handle. An actress who knew symbolic logic — wow! Finally, I asked her if she knew anybody out in La-la-land who might know how to get a hold of a 58-year-old western starring Lash LaRue.

It was five o'clock in the morning on the West Coast and I was shocked to get a quick reply. She explained that she couldn't sleep ("LOL") because her new boyfriend had left her so unsatisfied. She said her e-mail address ("ROTFL") was the idea of a software developer roommate of hers. And she promised to ask around about Lash LaRue. She did inquire, though, what Ms. LaRue had going for her that she, Angie, lacked.

I fired back a response thanking her and telling her that her jealousy was misplaced. As for the new beau, she needed to give him some time. After all, I pointed out, it was unreasonable to expect the world to be full of Rick Handleys ("ROTFLMAO").

The VHS tape arrived by UPS Overnight Delivery on Friday morning. It had been a fairly slow week otherwise. Through Wednesday and Thursday, Shawn and I had patiently waited for the promised information from the governor's office. The longer it took, the happier we were. Every new day without proof of reimbursement simply reminded people of our earlier story. And in case it didn't, our editorial staff made sure that the paper reminded them. Shawn wrote a small follow-up on Amalgamated's recent lobbying efforts in the legislature. For my part, it was back to my "real" job of writing obituaries.

I tore through my assignments on Friday and raced home. After a quick frozen dinner and a beer, I slid the tape into the VCR and wheeled myself backward to watch. I had no sooner hit the play button than there was another knock at the door.

I was torn. The last time I "knew" that it was Mrs. Golding it had turned out to be Angie. What were the odds of that happening again, though? On the other hand, could I really take that chance? I hit the pause button.

"Coming!" I yelled.

I was two for two. This woman was also blonde. She was also beautiful. She was ten years older than Angie, true. But she did come with her own bottle of wine.

"Shawn! What's up?"

"Not much," she said with a shyness that was at once delightful and inexplicable. "Got a date tonight?"

"Uh, no." I drew out the vowel sound as I tried to fathom the reason for her question. I finally gave up. "Why do you ask?"

She held up the wine.

"Allison broke the news of her engagement today," she said. "I just thought you might need a little company."

"God!" I moaned. "Please tell me everybody doesn't know about this."

She shook her head.

"Only some of us." Her voice was a soft purr. "The ones who were waiting for you to start looking around a little more."

She paid no attention to my furrowed brows and pushed past me into my living room.

"Where's your corkscrew?" she asked as I shut and bolted the door.

"In the drawer beside the stove," I said. I was happy to have the subject changed, however briefly, to a subject that I understood. "Glasses above the sink. Please allow me."

I took the bottle, a very elegant and expensive white, and opened it. I poured a glass for each of us.

"I love your place," she said.

"Thank you." Was I supposed to offer her a tour? The only other room was the bedroom.

"I'm sorry," she said, glancing at the black-and-white image frozen on the screen. "You were watching a movie, weren't you? I don't recognize it."

"You've never seen King of the Bullwhip?" I asked. "I'm shocked, shocked. Are you sure you went to a real college?"

"Wellesley?" she asked.

"Never heard of it," I kidded her. "Would you, er, like to watch it with me?"

For the next hour, Shawn Michaels did a creditable job of feigning interest in a movie that normally would have put even me to sleep. The whip duel at the end was amazing; Wizen would be pleased. But its lack of Oscar nominations was not a big mystery.

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