Strange Worlds

By Richard D. Clark

A Clark Productions Book

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

About the Author

Richard lives in Waco, Texas with his wife Debbie and his dog Lady. A retired programmer, he works part-time down at the dollar store to get out of the house when he is not writing or working on some pet programming project.

Table of Contents

The Relic. 5

Balance of Accounts. 7

The Relic

Commander Ghin stood on a pile of rubble and surveyed what was left of the city. At one time this city had been a mighty metropolis, the people of this planet filling the streets, the tall buildings that reached toward the sky humming with activity; but that had been ten thousand years ago. The city was quiet now, except for the hiss of dust from an errant breeze sweeping down the rubble-strewn street. Ghin tried to imagine what it would have been like if the aliens hadn’t died off so suddenly, but all he could see were the gray piles of rubble, the blind, gaping windows leering with broken-glass teeth, and the crumbling, time-ravished buildings.

He had hoped that they would encounter some aliens still living on this planet, but he realized now that it was a dead world, filled with advanced technological artifacts that, in the end, could not save them from destruction. There might be a ghost or two in the moaning of the wind, but of the living, there were none.

“Commander Ghin,” called Dr. Zorn slowly pushing his large body up the pile of poured stone and metal where Ghin stood. “I found something!”

“What is it Doctor?” Ghin asked. Zorn was the Mission Archeologist and was in his element on this dead world. While Ghin preferred the living, Zorn relished the dead and loved nothing more than to dig through tombs and buried cities, looking for the secrets that had been buried with the dead.

“An interesting artifact, Commander, a truly interesting artifact!” Zorn said, puffing. “Come, let me show you.”

Zorn followed the archeologist into what looked like a cave and into the bright light of a portable lantern. The inside of the cave was a dwelling that had somehow survived the pile of rubble that had been flung on top of it. Technicians were carefully cataloging and dismantling what was left of the furnishings to take back to the Science Museum.

“It’s back here, in this room,” Zorn said. “This dwelling is in amazing condition, due in part to the debris mound covering the building and its sturdy construction.”

Ghin stopped at the door that Zorn held open. “What is this Doctor?” Ghin asked, pointing to a placard on the door.

“A notice of some sort, I believe. It’s what led me to this room in the first place. This must have been an important room in the house.”

“What does it say?” Ghin asked.

“We are still trying to translate the language. Notice the symbols: ‘Jenny’s Room’. The symbols obviously denote words, but we haven’t determined their meaning yet.”

“And your discovery?”

“Right here,” Zorn said proudly. On the wall was an image, framed in metal.

“What is it?” Ghin asked looking at the ancient artifact.

“Ah, that is the question, indeed,” Zorn said. “The scanners indicate that it is various chemical pigments on a cloth backing. Notice how the pigments are combined to make a picture. Absolutely remarkable, a unique find. This is something we never thought of and this is why our exploration is so important. Making pictures using chemical pigments. Amazing.”

Ghin smiled at the scientist’s enthusiasm. “And what does the picture represent, Doctor?”

Zorn sighed. “I wish I knew. Maybe a local deity, an official dignitary or ruler? At this point I am not sure. It is obviously a picture of some importance, given its position on the wall and the message on the door.”

Zorn carefully removed the framed image from the wall and turned it over.

“I sprayed it with molecular fixative so it is safe to handle,” Zorn said. “Notice that there is the same writing on the back that is on the door. Hopefully, this will provide insight into the purpose of the image and the culture of the aliens. I really feel that we have made an important discovery here and I can’t wait to get back to Zardon and discuss this with the Science Council.”

Ghin gingerly grasped the picture and slowly traced the writing with his index tentacle.

‘Paint By Number Set #23. The Mona Lisa.’

Balance of Accounts

“Mr. Jones?”

Theodore heard someone calling his name, softly, from very far away. He looked but only saw a gray mist in every direction.

“Mr. Jones?” The voice called again, closer. He tried to peer through the mist and slowly became aware of his surroundings. He stood in a small office, with a man sitting at a large, wooden desk. The man rose and motioned to a chair.

“Mr. Jones, please sit down.”

“Where am I?” Asked Theodore.

“You are in the processing center. Here is my card.” The tall, thin man handed a card to Theodore. He read the simple, block letters on the plain, white card.

Department of Transition

Mr. Death

Coordinating Agent

He looked up at the man, who again motioned to the chair. Theodore slowly sat.

“I will be right with you,” said Mr. Death. He turned to a filing cabinet behind him; pulled open a door marked H-J, and began to look at the file labels.

Theodore looked down at his clothing. He was wearing a hospital gown. The last thing he remembered was walking up the stairs to his apartment, then a hot, stabbing pain in his chest.

“Ah, here it is,” said Mr. Death, pulling a file from the drawer. He closed the drawer and laid the file on the desk. He sat down in an overstuffed leather chair and folded his hands over the file.

Theodore looked down at the card he was still holding. He hazarded a guess. “I’m dead?”

“Not quite. You are in the pre-death stage. As I said, this is the processing center. We settle the accounts and complete the paperwork.”

Theodore looked at the man, bewildered. “What happened to me?”

Mr. Death opened the file and looked at the top page. “You had a heart attack, to put it plainly. There were complications with your surgery resulting in your imminent death.”

Theodore shook his head, then pressed his hands against his temples and closed his eyes. This had to be some kind of nightmare.

“No, Mr. Jones, this is no dream,” said Mr. Death. Theodore snapped his eyes open wide and stared at the man behind the desk.

“Your mental confusion is the result of your spirit being brought out of your body. Since you are not quite dead, you are like a man trying to balance on a fence. It can be a bit disconcerting. However, it will pass once the contact with your body has been terminated.”

Theodore gripped the sides of his seat. “But I don’t want to die!” He said, looking around the room for a way to escape. The only exit was a wooden door in the wall beside the filing cabinet. The sign on the door read, “Transfer Center.” He knew he did not want to go out that way.

“Believe me, Mr. Jones,” said Mr. Death soothingly, “I understand. It is your time, however. Here is the death certificate. You will die at 1:32 PM, Central US time, at Morgan County Hospital.” Mr. Death glanced at a clock on his desk. “In about 5 minutes.”

Mr. Death placed the certificate on the desk, along with a pen. “I do need your signature on the line marked with an ‘x’, please.”

Theodore pushed away from the desk, tipping over his chair. “I’m not signing anything! I want out of here, now!” He backed into the wall, then whirled and started pounding and kicking the wall. The wall suddenly seemed to give and he fell out of the office, down into the gray mist. Theodore opened his eyes and stared up at the faces that were anxiously looking down at him.

“…back,” a man dressed in a white smock said. The man looked at the heart monitor on the rack beside the bed and then squeezed Theodore’s hand. “You gave us a scare, but it looks you’re going to be all right.”

The man wiped his sweating brow and turned to consult with a another man and a nurse standing at the foot of the bed. He heard someone say, “Good work, Doctor.” Then, “Mr. Jones, your wife is here.”

Margaret came into his field of view. “Theo?” She asked, her voice quavering. He reached for her hand but his arms felt like wooden logs. She grabbed his hand and stood shaking, holding back sobs. “I was so scared. I was afraid you--” She stopped, realizing what she was about to say. She took a deep breath and stopped shaking. “I am so glad you’re okay. I love you.”

“You too,” he said weakly. He felt himself slipping away into sleep with the fading memory of a tall, thin man. “We will talk again soon…” Theodore heard someone say as he closed his eyes.

Theodore was home, resting in a chair beside the living room window. Margaret was in the kitchen and he could hear the clink of glasses as she put away the dishes from the evening meal. Their apartment was on the second floor, so he had a good view of the street. Theodore watched the infrequent cars roar by, and the more frequent pedestrians stroll up and down the sidewalks in the waning light. One by one, the streetlights were blinking on as dusk approached.

He was tender from his operation, but he still felt good. He had cheated death; he was still alive. His doctor said it was one of those miracles you read about from time to time. Unexplainable, yet it had happened. The only thing that marred his sense of well-being was the dream. He could remember it with astonishing clarity. He had met Death, Mr. Death, who was going to send him on to the afterlife. He had mentioned the dream to his doctor, but his doctor had replied that it wasn’t uncommon in near death cases.

Yet, it had seemed so real. He could still feel the texture of the business card in his hand, the raised black lettering on the stark white background. He could hear the strange stillness of the office. He could see the death certificate that Mr. Death wanted him to sign. His name had been printed at the top in Gothic letters. He could even see Mr. Death quite clearly: a tall, thin man in a navy blue suit. It had to be a dream, though. It seemed so ludicrous by the light of day.

“I’m going to drop off the garbage,” his wife called from the kitchen.

“Okay,” he called back, watching as she carried a white plastic bag into the hall.

He turned back to the window and his breath caught in his throat. Standing in the light of a street lamp was a tall, thin man dressed in a dark suit, staring up into the window. Theodore couldn’t see his eyes at this distance, but he somehow knew the man was looking at him. The man stood for a moment and then started to cross the street toward the apartment. Theodore felt a chill touch his spine.

He turned at the sound of the door opening and a sudden, unexplainable dread filled him as he glanced at the opening door. His wife stepped back into the apartment, closing and locking the door behind her. He realized he had been holding his breath, and let it out with an explosive sigh.

She rubbed her hands on a towel, brushed at an errant strand of hair, smiled at him when she noticed him staring at her, and then turned into the kitchen to finish her chores. He looked back out into the street. The man had vanished.

Theodore’s doctor had prescribed light, daily exercise, so the next day, Margaret announced they would take a walk in the park. It was a pleasant day for a walk. The sky was sunny, but a touch of breeze kept the temperature comfortable. They walked one lap around the path that circled the park and then Theodore protested fatigue and plopped down on a bench.

“I have to run to the little girl’s room,” said Margaret. Theodore nodded. She headed toward the small brick building at a brisk walk. A man sat down beside Theodore on the bench. Theodore glanced at the man, and then froze. It was the man from his dream, Mr. Death.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Theodore said.

“No, Mr. Jones, it was not a dream,” said Mr. Death quietly. “I stopped by to try to explain the situation to you.”

“I know the situation: you want me dead. I don’t want to be dead. You can’t seem to force me, so I am going to stay alive,” Theodore said.

“Mr. Jones, I do not want you dead. I am simply enforcing the rules. Death is, for the moment at least, a law of the universe you could say. There will come a time when the rules will change, but for now, it is the law. You think you have cheated death, but you have not. In the grand scheme of things a death must occur, the accounts must be balanced. Right now, the universe is out of balance, and it is my job, however unpleasant, to make sure the imbalance is corrected. If you do not wish to die, then a death of equal value to yours must take place.”

Mr. Death looked at Theodore and said quietly, “The accounts have to balance.”

“Somebody has to die in my place?”

Mr. Death nodded. “Yes.”

“Who?” Theodore asked, weakly.

“I am sorry, that is confidential information. As I said though, it has to be a death of equal value to yours.”

Mr. Death stood. “Please consider what I have said. If you change your mind, simply call me and I will return.” He turned and walked briskly down the path, out of sight.

“Who was that?” Asked Margaret. Theodore jumped. He hadn’t heard her approach.

“You saw that man?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yes. What did he want?”

“Nothing, just asking directions. I think I am ready to go home.” She looked at him puzzled, but remained silent. She put out her arm and he grabbed it, rose to his feet and they began to slowly stroll home.

The afternoon was starting to wane as they came to the stairs leading to their apartment. Theodore was silent, thinking about what Mr. Death had said. “Let me rest for a moment before I try to tackle these steps,” he said.

“Are you thirsty?” Margaret asked. He nodded. “Well, just sit here and I’ll run and get some ice water from the apartment.” She bounded up the steps.

He slowly sat on the step and watched some boys throwing a football in the street. Whenever a car turned down the street, they stayed in the lane as long as they could, as if daring the driver to hit them. The speed limit on the street was twenty-five, hardly anyone did the speed limit. Behind him he heard the tinkle of ice as Margaret navigated the stairs with two tumblers of water. She sat beside him and handed him one. He drank deeply and they both sat in silence, watching the boys play ball.

“Well, lets try the stairs.” He said, standing. As Margaret stood, the tumbler slipped out of her hand and rolled off the curb. “Damn, “ she mumbled, chasing it.

A roar down the street caught his attention and he saw a large sport utility vehicle come speeding down the lane. At the same time he heard a shout from one of the boys playing ball, very close to the stairs. He turned to see the ball arching through the air off target. The boy stepped sideways to catch the ball, not looking where he was going. He was heading straight for Margaret.

“Look--,” began Theodore, reaching out, but the boy and Margaret collided, pitching her forward into the street. The SUV locked its brakes with a squeal of tires, but it had too much momentum and it slammed hard into Margaret. For an instant, Theodore could see her neck flex and her head bend at a horrifying angle as she crumpled the fender. Then she was pushed to the ground in a heap, as the SUV slued to a stop.

He ran to Margaret and stood for a moment looking down at her, his hands slick with sweat. His heart thumped once, very hard, and then he knelt beside her. Blood was running from her nose and her eyes stared blankly into the sky.

“Don’t move her!” Someone shouted. “I’m calling 911.”

He touched her face. The flesh was warm, but there was slackness in it. He felt for a pulse in her neck, but found none. Tears welled into his eyes and a sob racked his chest. He knew what had happened. This was the death of equal value.

He stood and staggered to the sidewalk. “Death!” He called into the gathering dark. “Mr. Death!”

“Mr. Jones,” said a voice beside him.

He whirled and faced Mr. Death. “You did this,” he said.

“No, “ Mr. Death said, “you did.”

Theodore reeled at the simple words, somehow knowing the truth in them. It had been his choice to stay, and he had been informed of the consequences of his actions. “Is it too late to fix things? Can you bring her back?”

“Is that what you really want?” Mr. Death asked.

“Yes,” Theodore said, holding back the sobs. “Please, take me instead of her.”

Mr. Death nodded. “Very well.”

Theodore stood in Mr. Death’s office, wearing the gown he had on his previous visit. Mr. Death motioned to the chair in front of the large, wooden desk. Theodore sat.

“Is she OK?” He asked.

Mr. Death nodded. “We are back to the same moment as your previous visit. Your body is in the hospital bed and slowly failing.”

Mr. Death placed the death certificate on the desk and placed a pen beside the paper. “I do need your signature on the line, please.”

Theodore signed the Death Certificate, and two more documents that Mr. Death placed into his file folder. “That is all the paperwork,” Mr. Death said, holding out his hand to Theodore. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

Theodore was expecting a cold, weak hand, but it was warm and the grip firm. “If you will follow me,” Mr. Death said rising, “I will take you to the Transfer Center.”

“Where do I go from here?” Theodore asked.

“I am sorry, but that is outside my area of knowledge. I just handle the paperwork, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Death opened the door and stood to one side, to let Theodore pass. Theodore paused at the threshold, then plunged ahead. Mr. Death followed, shutting the door behind him.

Midnight Visitor

Chuck, dressed in the white gown that all inmates of Poco State Mental Hospital wore to bed, gripped the motorist by the neck and slowly squeezed the life out of him. Looking down into the motorist’s twisted and purple face, Chuck looked into the past and saw his father’s face, and felt his father’s neck in his hands. He had killed his father for the beatings and the torture and the days locked in the dark, musty cellar where the bugs had crawled on him in the darkness.

The motorist, his eyes beginning to loose their focus, looked up into the eyes of the man choking him to death and saw what Chuck’s father had seen: eyes devoid of humanity and as predatory as a shark. It was the last sight the motorist saw as darkness closed around him.

Chuck dropped the lifeless body and stood looking into the wooded darkness around him. In the distance, the lights of the hospital glowed brightly through the trees. Chuck turned away from the light and headed into the darkness, the deep darkness that he knew since he had been a child. The darkness that called him, always called him, with a voice that he could almost hear but never understand. He stepped off the road and into the thick woods and let the darkness engulf him.

As he weaved through the trees in the darkness, he could hear his dead father’s voice behind him, talking to him as he did so often. “You’re nothing but a damned, worthless boy! A sorry excuse for a human being.”

“Yes, Daddy,” he answered the voice. “Yes, Daddy, yes Daddy.” The voice was a constant drone in his mind, a counterpoint to the crunch and snap of fallen twigs and the rustle of dead leaves. The voice finally faded when he realized that there was a light shining in the woods, the porch light of a little wood frame house nestled in a small clearing in the woods. He crept up to the house and keeping to the shadows, peered into a window. He was looking into the kitchen where a tall, dark haired woman was washing some dishes in the sink. Her back was to him so she did not see the white-gowned man staring at her, his fingers clenched into a fist.

His mother had dark hair, he remembered. His mother who stood laughing while his father beat him and threw him into the cellar. His mother who continually told him she wished he had died at birth or had been aborted because she didn’t want “some damn kid” ruining her life. He remembered the shock on her face as he split her head with an axe turning the dark hair red with blood. Looking at the dark hair of the woman who was washing a plate in a sink of suds, he felt the seed of hatred that always lay in his mind bloom to life. His mother had returned, returned from the dead and was washing dishes in this lonely little house. His mother that was dead and would soon be dead. He showed her then and he would show her now. He crept further back into the shadows and watched.

A phone rang and the woman turned to a small table by the window and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She asked. She was very pale, with a thin face and dark, brooding eyes. For an instant, Chuck feared that pale face, but his mother’s voice, snickering at him from the darkness of the trees and drove out everything but the burning hatred.

“Hi, honey,” the pale woman said into the receiver. “When are you going to be home?” The woman listened for a moment. “Okay, don’t be too long. Dinner is about ready. All right. See you soon. Love you too.” She replaced the receiver back onto its cradle.

The pale woman walked out of the kitchen and disappeared into a hallway. Chuck slid along the side of the house, looking into the windows he passed as he tried to follow her movements. The first two windows showed empty rooms. The next window revealed a couple of dressers and two long boxes lying on the floor. Chuck continued around the house until he saw the woman in a bathroom, brushing her long, black hair.

The bathroom wallpaper was a bright floral pattern that covered both the walls and cabinet doors. The woman opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and plucked a silver tube of lipstick from the shelf. The paper even covered the mirror of the medicine cabinet. The woman applied the blood-red lipstick and then paused for a moment, head cocked to one side, as if listening. Suddenly, she turned toward the window.

Chuck stepped back into the shadows; he could just see her profile as she looked out the window. She scanned the darkness and for a second, it seemed as if she looked right at him. He felt a chill wriggle down his spine as he looked at those dark, dark eyes. Then she looked away, put the lipstick back into the cabinet and disappeared into the hall. Keeping close to the house, Chuck crept around the outside until he came to a covered patio with a plastic table and two chairs and a sliding glass door, and the door was unlocked. Sliding the door open without a sound, he stepped inside.

He could smell the rich scent of moist earth and his mind suddenly reeled back in time; he was in a dark cellar with the smell of damp dirt all around him. Tiny feet were crawling on his arm, face and head. He clawed his way up the stairs to the cellar door and screamed at his mother to let him out, but his father opened the cellar door and slapped him back down the steps. He lay weeping in the dirt as his mother laughed from the cellar doorway--

A footstep in the hall snapped his attention back to the present and he quickly stepped into the kitchen. Looking around, he saw a long butcher knife lying on the drain, drying. He picked up the knife and caressed its razor edge. They would pay, those fathers and those mothers who tormented him, mocked him, and locked him away in the stinking darkness. They would pay—she would pay his mother who was dead and would be dead again. Chuck heard the woman humming as she walked back toward the kitchen. The song was slow and dragging, like a funeral dirge. Chuck pressed himself into the small broom closet that was adjacent to the kitchen and peered out through the crack as he held the door slightly ajar.

The woman passed by unaware and resumed washing the dishes in the sink. Silently, Chuck pushed open the closet door and crept toward her, raising the knife. She continued to wash the dishes, oblivious to his presence, humming the slow, tuneless song. Chuck paused for a moment, letting his hatred ripen, the knife held above his head, ready to strike. Behind him, he heard his mother’s voice say, “I should have smothered you while you were a baby. Why I let you be born, I’ll never know.”

Chuck’s face twisted in silent rage and he plunged the knife into the back of the dark-haired woman. The knife plunged deep, blood welling around the edges. The woman gasped, but did not make any other sound. She gripped the counter edge as blood seeped into her torn blouse and dripped onto the floor. Chuck jerked the knife from the woman’s back, ready to strike again, when the woman turned slowly to face him. The blood-red lips smiled as she looked at him. Chuck dropped the knife and stepped back, his burning hatred snuffed out in icy fear.

She held him with those deep black eyes as she slowly stepped toward him. His eyes drifted to that smile and he saw that her canine teeth were long and very sharp. She was taller than he was and as she grabbed him in an iron grip, he looked up into those black, bottomless eyes. Eyes devoid of humanity and as predatory as a shark.

Mind Games

The intercom buzzed on Johnny Mercury’s desk. “Your two o’clock appointment is here,” Kelly, his receptionist, said.

“Send her in,” Johnny said, coming around to the front of his desk. His office was opulent with wood-paneled walls, wooden desk and wet-bar, over-stuffed leather chair and couch. The thick, pale blue rug that filled the office gleamed under the overhead fluorescents.

A tall, black-haired woman, mid-thirties Johnny guessed, with translucent green eyes entered his office carrying a portable cryogenic canister. She was dressed in a pretty but inexpensive rose-colored pants suit.

“Miss Stephon,” Johnny said, flashing his best smile, “so nice to meet you.” He took her outstretched hand in his and felt a mild electric shock.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “It must be these shoes. They seem to attract static. Please, call me Kate.”

“Call me Johnny,” he said smiling. He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

She placed the cryogenic canister on the floor, and sat back in the chair, stroking the arm. “Is this real leather?”

“Yes. It cost an obscene amount of money, but I like my little pleasures,” he said.

“It must be wonderful to be able to live like this,” she said looking around the office.

“In my line of work, image is everything. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

“Well then,” he said, sitting behind his desk, “what can I do for you?”

“Well, this may sound a bit strange,” she said.

“I hear strange stuff all the time. It’s part of the job.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” She picked up the canister and placed it on the desk. “This is my father’s brain. He died yesterday of a heart attack. I want you take it to Mind Recovery, Incorporated.”

Johnny hid his surprise. “I am sorry to hear your father is dead. I remember seeing him often on the tridees. He was a brilliant physicist. I don’t recall seeing his death mentioned, though.”

“Because of what he was working on, we have kept it quiet until we can recover the contents of his brain.”

“If I may ask? What was he working on?”

She paused for a moment, biting her lower lip. “I guess it won’t hurt to tell you, as long as you keep the information to yourself.”

“Confidentiality is a must in the courier business,” he assured her.

“My father was working on a gravity polarizer. An anti-gravity unit, to put it crudely.”

“And you want to recover his research?”

“Yes. Well, the Institute for Advanced Research does. They funded his research. Personally, I am not sure what I think about having my father’s brain scanned.”

“I can understand that,” he said. “Mind recovery is quite invasive.” He cocked his head to one side. “The procedure is very expensive and not always successful. Why not just use his notes?”

“My father was a bit eccentric,” Kate said smiling apologetically. “He never kept any notes. He had an eidetic memory and said notes were ‘for the weak minded’.”

“I see,” Johnny said, nodding. “You said ‘we’ earlier. I take it you work for the Institute as well?”

She nodded. “I was my father’s assistant.”

“Please don’t be offended, but I have to ask. Why come to me? This all seems pretty straightforward. Why not take it yourself?”

“The Institute has received information that someone may try to steal his brain, extract the information and sell it on the black market.”

“You could probably get a military escort, if that were the case.”

“The military may be part of it. They have been trying to get the research classified for military use only. Since the Institute doesn’t accept government funding, they haven’t been able to; so far. They couldn’t make their case for national security either. But if they stole it...” She raised her hands in a “what can you do?” gesture.

“Interesting. Do you have a source for your information?”

Kate shook her head. “I guess it was some anonymous tip.”

“Obviously you feel it was credible, since you have come to me.”

“I thought it best not to take any chances.”

“And rightly so,” he nodded. “Well, then, I see no reason not to help you.”

He sat for a moment, thinking, then asked, “Is there anything else I should know?”

“No, I think that covers it,” she said.

“Very well, then.” Johnny stood and led Kate to the door. “Kelly will give you a receipt for the canister. I’ll call you as soon as I deliver it.”

“When can I expect your call? The batteries on the canister will last a week, but we would like to get the information recovered as soon as possible.”

“I understand. I will be leaving tonight, as soon as I can book a flight. I’ll put the brain in my safe until I leave.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” she said, flashing him a bright smile.

He returned her smile. “I appreciate the business. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He closed the door and sat behind his desk, looking at the small, silver canister.

“What do you think, Sam?” He asked, absently rubbing his right shoe on the carpet and touching the metal handle of a desk drawer.

A wall panel, or what looked like a wall panel, moved, changed to a pale flesh-color and turned into a naked woman. She strode across the room, opened the closet, slipped on a gold jumpsuit and then curled up on the couch, facing him. Her hair and eyes were the color of chrome.

“Sounds a bit run-of-the-mill,” Samantha said. “I’m surprised you took the job.”

“I’m not so sure,” he said. “She may be right about someone wanting the brain. It could prove interesting.”

Samantha’s haired turned red, her eyes turned green and her features flowed like melting wax. Johnny never got used to seeing his shape-shifting partner assume a new identity.

“If Kelly knew you were imitating her, she would skin you alive,” he said. “If you had skin, that is.”

“I know,” Samantha purred. “That’s what makes it so much fun.”

Johnny shook his head and punched the intercom on his desk. “Kelly, could you book me a flight to D.C. for this evening? Thanks.”

Johnny turned back to Samantha who had resumed her normal appearance. “Could you place the brain in the safe, love? I need to make a phone call.”

Johnny looked at himself in the mirrored-walls of the elevator as it fell to the parking garage. He smoothed down an errant hair and adjusted his tie. He checked the readout on the cryogenic canister. The internal temperature was just above absolute zero, just where it should be.

As he stepped out of the elevator doors, two burly men grabbed him by the arms. “Keep quiet and you won’t get hurt,” said the man gripping his right arm. He had a thick scar that ran the length of his jaw. The other thug was missing an eye.

“You know you could get a new eye,” he said to One-Eye. “Not that it would improve your looks any.” One-Eye just stared like a Cyclops at him.

“Shut your trap,” Scarface said, “or I’ll shut it for you.”

“You should work on your comebacks,” Johnny said. Scarface twisted his arm. “Okay, okay. I get the message.”

“Now,” Scarface said, “we’re going over to that blue Mustang. We just want the brain, that’s all.”

“I have heard that before. You get the brain and I get two slugs in the head,” Johnny said sourly.

“We were paid to get the brain. If they had wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“Okay, point taken,” Johnny said.

The thugs pulled on his arms and began to walk him toward the Mustang. A nondescript, black sedan whipped around the corner and screeched to a stop in front of them. Two men jumped from the car and fired silenced pistols at the thugs. Scarface and One-Eye dropped to the ground without a sound. Johnny stood perfectly still. The driver of the sedan pointed his long-barreled pistol at Johnny.

“I’ll take that canister,” the driver said.

Johnny sighed and handed it over. The driver placed it on the front seat while the passenger kept pistol pointed at him. Then both men jumped back into the car and the sedan took off, tires squealing. Johnny knelt by the thugs. Both were quite dead, shot right through the heart. As he stood, an unmarked Metro squad car pulled around the corner and Inspector Highworth stepped from the car.

“Were you camped out in front of my office or something?” Johnny asked.

“We got an anonymous tip that a murder was going down here. Looks like we were a bit late.” The Inspector looked at the bodies. “So what happened Mercury? Clients didn’t pay their bill?”

“Funny,” Johnny said. He recounted the events to Highworth.

“Inspector, over here,” Jackson, Highworth’s assistant, said.

“Come on,” Highworth said. Jackson pulled a pistol from under a parked car with a gloved hand. It was a military issue Enforcer. He waved a portable fingerprint scanner over the gun, looked at the screen and then handed the scanner to Highworth.

“Your prints are all over this gun,” Highworth said. “What do you want to bet that this is the murder weapon?”

“I don’t like to gamble,” Johnny said.

“All right, Mercury. Let’s take a trip.”

At the police station, Johnny called Kate and explained the situation. She arrived an hour later, looking haggard. “They won’t let me bail you out,” she said to him in the visitor’s room.

“I was afraid of that,” he said. “I should have a bond hearing in the morning. Since I have never been charged before, the judge should let me out then.”

“My father’s brain could already be scanned by then,” she said, shaking her head.

“Sorry. There’s not much I can do right now.”

“I know. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, at the hearing.”

Johnny nodded. It was all he could do.

It was just after midnight when a masked intruder slipped into Johnny’s darkened office and scanned the walls with a small flashlight. The intruder felt along the walls, and then pressed a panel with a gloved hand. The panel swung open to reveal an electronic safe.

Slipping a small, square box out of a satchel, the intruder pressed it against the door of the safe. The box hummed for a moment, then displayed a series of numbers on its small screen. The intruder punched in the numbers on the safe’s keypad and the safe clicked and the door unlatched. The intruder reached into the safe and retrieved the cryogenic canister.

The office lights winked on.

“Didn’t get what you were after earlier?” Johnny asked, stepping out of the closet with Inspector Highworth following him. Highworth pulled the mask off the thief and smiled. It was Kate.

“I just left you at the police station!” She said.

“Tell me Kate. Why are you here, looking in my safe, when you know your father’s brain was stolen?” Johnny asked. She glared at him but didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you then. Because you knew that the stolen canister was empty. You knew because you arranged to have it stolen. It was actually a pretty good plan. First, you hired a couple of thugs to attempt to steal the canister, then hired a couple more to kill them, really steal the canister, and leave a murder weapon covered in my prints.

“You set the stage nicely with that story about the anonymous tip the Institute received and about the possible military connection. I called the Institute and sure enough, they did get a phone call telling them that someone was going to attempt to steal the brain. I assume that was you. I also assume it was you that called in that tip to the police.

“Having your thugs use military handguns was also clever. If for some reason the police didn’t pin the whole thing on me, it would look like the military had stolen the brain. The military would deny it, of course, but they deny everything. Everything seemed to go according to plan, but when you looked into the canister you didn’t find your father’s brain. You must have realized then, I had switched containers. I had mentioned earlier that I was putting it in my safe, so you thought it was still here and came to get it.”

“How did you know?” She asked, a note of defeat creeping into her voice.

“That little electric shock when I shook your hand. It was a fingerprint reader wasn’t it?”

She nodded, a puzzled look on her face.

“You see, my carpet has an anti-static coating on it to prevent those nasty little shocks. I have used readers myself, on occasion. A thin layer of neoskin over your real skin and once you press the flesh, zap, it records a full set of fingerprints. Easy to transfer to any nonporous surface, such as a gun.”

Johnny paused, a puzzled expression on his face. “That leaves why. Why steal your father’s brain?”

She stared at him and Johnny could see the bitterness on her face. “Why? Because of the life we had to live. We could barely buy the essentials on what the Institute doled out for his research. My mother left him, and me, because of it.”

She waved her hand at Johnny’s office. “We could have lived like this. He had hundreds of offers to work in the corporate sector. We didn’t have to live like paupers, but he didn’t want to work for money, he wanted to work for humankind. ‘For the betterment of all’, he would say. I guess his family wasn’t included in that.”

Johnny shook his head sadly. “She’s all yours, Inspector.”

“Jackson, if you please,” Highworth said to a uniform police officer standing in the office doorway. Jackson led her out of the office.

“We’ll have no trouble getting the names of her accomplices,” Highworth said.

“What a waste,” Johnny said. “Oh, could you let Samantha out of jail? She hates to be cooped up.”

“Sure. And that reminds me Mercury. Next time you time pull a switch like that, I’ll rap you a good one. I just about crapped my pants when she started changing in the car.”

Johnny laughed. “I’ll remember that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a brain to deliver.”

The Golden Key

The white-haired man picked up the toy soldier and held it out to Toby who took it from the shaking, bony fingers.

“Is it for me, Papa?” Toby asked.

“It is for you,” Papa answered.

Toby turned the little metal man in his hands. The soldier was dressed in a red uniform with black belt and fuzzy black hat. The tiny soldier’s face was very detailed with bright blue eyes, a pert nose and red-lipped mouth. Toby set the soldier on the table. The little toy man stood at rigid attention.

Papa held up a tiny silver key. “This goes into the little slot in his belly, like so.” Papa inserted the key and twisted it several times. At each turn of the key, a loud ratcheting sound came from inside the soldier.

He removed the key and the toy soldier took a step forward, looked around, then turned and marched to the edge of the table. The soldier stopped at the edge, looked up, then looked down, turned sharply and marched to the center of the table. The soldier turned toward Toby, saluted, and said in a tinny, little voice, “Major Littleton, at your service, Sir!” Toby clapped his hands and beamed at Papa.

“He’s wonderful, Papa. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Toby.”

Papa placed the silver key on the table in front of Toby. “Use this to wind him up when he needs it,” Papa said, and then leaned on the table and started coughing. The coughs were deep, racking coughs that went on for several minutes. When the coughs subsided, Papa sat slowly on a creaking stool beside the table, sweat beading across his wrinkled forehead. He wiped his lips and looked at his bloodstained fingers, sadness filling his watery eyes. It was time.

“Are you all right, Papa?” Toby asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Come, let’s go for a walk.”

“In the garden?”

“Yes, in the garden.”

Toby reached for Major Littleton. “Leave him here for the moment. I want to talk with you Toby. I have something to tell you.”

“Okay, Papa.”

Papa shuffled out of the house and down the steps to the garden that covered what was at one time, a large front lawn. The grass had been tilled under years ago and replaced with corn, potatoes, squash, watermelons, tomatoes, lettuce and other vegetables. He breathed deep, coughing a little when he did so, but smiled at the earthy smell of the garden.

“I will miss this garden,” he whispered. Toby followed Papa into the garden.

“Follow me, Toby.” Papa continued down the path that cut through the garden and ended in a high wooden gate. The gate was set in a tall brick fence that completely encircled the house. Papa unlatched the gate and pulled it open. It swung aside with a rusty creak.

“Papa!” Toby cried as the door opened. “You said never to go outside the gate!”

“I did, Toby, but I want to show you something. Come, it’s all right.” Papa held out his hand and Toby grasped the bony fingers and let Papa lead him into the world beyond the fence.

“This,” said Papa motioning with his hand, “is what is left of human civilization.”

Toby looked around. They were standing on a path, like the path through the garden, only much wider and covered in strange stone. Ruined houses lined the stone path, looking like gaping animals with their broken windows and run-down frames. In the black path, large, rusting machines lay scattered among weeds that were growing up in the cracks of the black stone. A pile of white sticks lay near one machine.

“What is that, Papa?” Toby asked pointing at the pile of sticks.

“That is the skeletal remains of a person who lived here long ago. Let’s go this way.” Papa turned right and walked slowly down the white stone path that bordered the black path.

“It is time I told you what happened here,” Papa said, “so that it does not get forgotten and will never be repeated. Remember what I tell you, Toby.”

“I will, Papa.”

“I am an old man now Toby, ninety-eight at my last birthday. But I wasn’t always old,” Papa said with a smile. “When I was twenty I started working for a company here in the city. Can you guess what I did?”

Toby thought for a moment. “A toy maker?”

“Yes! Very good, Toby. I made toys for grown ups. We called them androids and they were like your little toy soldier. They did things for us. They did housework, they drove our taxis, they worked in the mines and went into space.”

Papa paused. When he spoke again, his voice was full of memories. “We sent an android expedition to Europa to study the moon. We knew that liquid water existed deep inside Europa, under the thick ice sheet. Where there is water, often times, there is life. The question we wanted answered was,