Chapter 15

Delirious, delirious.

That’s what everyone keeps telling him. They say he’s delirious, delusional, diametrically detached. But the voices are returning. The story he was told wasn’t true, the one even he was starting to doubt after seven years locked up in the place where they made it official and fed him drugs to soothe him and his rattled sense of reality. It was true. Because it was happening again.

Seven years ago a boy named Gerry Donovan was made aware by his German shepherd Spotty that dogs were intergalactic beings who controlled the universe. They sent agents to every world, in anticipation of an evaluation of the population’s long-term worth, and Earth’s ticket was up. Gerry learned that Spotty was in fact not only his loyal pet but the ruler of these tyrants, who had deemed humanity unworthy. Fortunately, Spotty spared Gerry, as well as an astronaut named Oswald Hamilton, who had happened across the same realization, along with his trusty, footstool-shaped robot companion named Omni 117, after coming across Gerry’s diary, which floated about in space after the dog and the boy’s departure from the doomed planet.

Various adventures resulted, in which the last humans in existence learned the true canine adversary was not cats but flies, whom when captured were banished to the Nullification Zone. Spotty continued his ‘weeding’ of planets, with his humans as his pets, until he grew tired of them and left them behind one day. Eventually, Gerry and Oswald ended up as the hosts of a talk show on the planet Golem, until Spotty came to collect them again. He said the time of reckoning had come.

Somehow, Gerry ended up back on Earth, where he was committed and everyone told him those events were figments of his imagination. He stewed on that, in his stupor, for seven years, and began to believe it. After all, one view of reality was just as likely as another. He had now experienced three, and had decided any one of them could be real. Perhaps everyone was really just in a drug-induced haze, locked away in a padded room, having their dreams taken from them and replaced with a life where they were told what was really going on, despite what they believed. Gerry was the lucky one, knowing how he did the hand that held him down. When he wanted someone to blame, he could point right toward the nurse who visited him three times each day, with the needle and the serum that informed his reality.

In all actuality, he had began to like this state. Even if it wasn’t true, he had decided it might as well be, for all he cared. He accepted it, as someone accepts that a spoon goes inside your mouth if you want to eat. He ate his truth, willingly, for seven years. For seven years truth was something someone gave him.

Then he heard the voices again. This was how it had all started before, the voices, the ones that told him there was another way, another view of reality, one that would shatter everything he had ever known. He knew immediately that there was going to be a fourth world waiting for him, if he could just understand what the voices were saying. He needed help. He couldn’t do it alone. Spotty. He needed Spotty.

But Spotty had been put to sleep. That’s what he had been told, and he had no reason to doubt it, after the grand parade of the cosmos had been played out and the toys put away and he had been safely nestled into this new womb of his. Spotty, the dictator whose pride of his galaxy had moved him to nurture its inhabitants by removing cancerous growths from it, was gone, put to sleep from among those he had condemned. And it all made perfect sense. That was the greatest gift Gerry had received. He understood everything.

And so he waited for the voices to come into focus, so he could embrace his fourth world, where new gods would be waiting, and his final battle would finally be fought. He had found his Source.

Chapter 14

“Is it just me or do you - should I call you Virgil? - is your mind a little fuzzy?” Mahmoud announced. They were now waiting, anxiously, for Bob to appear, and had seated themselves in the guest chairs, angled around, in front of Oswald’s desk, so that they would greet Bob as soon as he appeared. Oswald had made the suggestion to situate themselves that way, to give Bob his usual impression that he was the most important person in the room, as he was used to, only this way he’d know they were doing it mockingly. Mahmoud found it a little curious, but she played along, probably to humor Oswald.

“My…mind is fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You mean other than because my own mind is a little fuzzy? I wanted to mess with you,” Mahmoud said. “You don’t feel it?”

“I suppose I don’t,” Oswald said. “Then again, I’ve had storm clouds in my head for the past few weeks, so it’s not very likely I’d be able to tell if there was something else wrong up there. It’s like I’ve been seeing the world on a rainy day. It’s the same world, but it’s different, and it’s hard to distinguish anything. It’s all just rain and dark skies, and the ground changes. That’s how I distinguish it from something akin to snow. Snow covers things, makes everything different on account of new dressing. Rain, however, warps things, so that it’s not just something entirely new, but something that’s entirely the same, only not. It’s very confusing. Do you follow me at all?”

“Since I’ve lived with this my whole life, I’d have to lose it to see any differently,” Mahmoud said. “But I think I know what you mean. You’ve put on a pair of sunglasses.”

“Exactly,” Oswald said. “Only these don’t come off very easily, which is what your experience must be. As for your fuzzy mind, can you explain that a little more?”

“Since we’re doing that,” Mahmoud said, “I guess I can try. The French have a term, deja vous.”

“Yeah, we use it too,” Oswald noted.

“Then you’ll understand,” Mahmoud said. “It’s as if I’m in possession of knowledge I cannot remember gaining myself, like seeing something and knowing, or at least thinking, I’ve seen it before. With these thoughts, my head becomes--”

“Fuzzy,” Oswald said. “Right. I gotcha.”

“Then you understand,” Mahmoud said.

“Yes,” Oswald said.

“Then you also have a fuzzy head,” Mahmoud said.

“Well,” Oswald said. “I don’t know. It’s like I was saying earlier.”

“We have screwed up minds,” Mahmoud concluded.

“Exactly,” Oswald said. “I’ll agree to that, wholeheartedly. We have screwed up minds. Which could apply to anyone, but we‘re cornered the market on this one. I‘m wearing sunglasses, and I guess you‘re wearing glasses as well, and they‘re the tinted kind. You‘ve walked out into bright sunlight, wearing your glasses, and your glasses tint on you. You just weren‘t expecting sunlight.”

“I was expecting rain,” Mahmoud said.

“Which is perfectly normal for you,” Oswald said, “and getting there for me. You expected rain, but found sun penetrating the rain, or maybe you came out just as the rain ended.”

“Let’s stop trying to analogize it,” Mahmoud suggested. “It is giving me a headache.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Oswald said, “but I’m actually anticipating Bob’s arrival. Why isn’t he here yet? I actually want him to be here. Now it’s conclusive. I really have gone insane.”

“Don’t say that,” Mahmoud said, playfully knocking him on the shoulder as she laughed. “You’re cursing us!”

“Usually Bob would be a curse,” Oswald said. “Plus, he curses a lot, so we’re full of curses here. Maybe that explains our, uh, rain.”

“Do you know how Gerald views our rain?” Mahmoud mused.

“Who’s Gerald?” Oswald said.

“Gerald,” Mahmoud repeated, “You know, Do-little. The person you’ve previously been in contact with.”

“How did you know his name?” Oswald said. “I didn’t know what it was, and I‘m the one who‘s actually talked with him, let alone knew who he generally was before you walked into this office. I’m still expecting a follow-up conversation with him, in fact.”

“You won’t need one,” Mahmoud said. “I think I might have an explanation for the fuzz. The deja vous belongs to Do-little. To Gerald. I can’t explain any further, but that’s what it is. I believe we’re telepathically connected.”

“Not to make things any weirder than they already are or anything,” Oswald said. “I’m somehow becoming less comforted by the minute, and I can’t imagine way…”

“Bob will come in handy,” Mahmoud said. “I now know how you’ll come in handy, too. If you give it a little concentration, you’ll be able to distinguish what the fuzz is, what‘s being said, or thought.”

“Bearing in mind,” Oswald said, “that I can’t even find this fuzz you’re talking about, let alone recognize it, how am I supposed to fine tune it?”

“You’re a mess,” Mahmoud said.

“Tell me about it,” Oswald said.

“Actually,” Mahmoud said, “I could.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Oswald said. “And now you’re going to say, ’you could have, if you could work this mojo out in your mind.’ Right?”

“But you still can’t,” Mahmoud said. “Can you?”

“No, I can’t,” Oswald said. “And it’s probably better that way.”

“It probably is,” Mahmoud said. “Besides, it’s probably unnecessary.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? I’m just along for this ride--” Oswald started, and then followed the thought for himself. “I’m responsible for the ride. I’m the chauffer. How wonderful is that? Not very, that’s what I say. I am not amused.”

“I don’t think you’re required to be,” Mahmoud said.

“If I’m understanding any of this by now,” Oswald said, “you don’t serve any purpose at all. How does that feel? Crummy, isn’t it? To know this Gerald, this Do-little, is more important than either of us. He’s got a cat helping him out, for pete’s sake. He’s the big banana in all of this. The punk.”

“You’re poor wounded ego,” Mahmoud said, “Mr. Astronaut. Nice action figure, by the way. What does it come with, a footstool?”

“Ha ha,” Oswald said. “The manufacturer either has a really good imagination or a really bad one. It’s a robot, and I was thinking of calling it Pliny, just so you know.”

“You gave up on the comic strip,” Mahmoud reminded him.

“Out of my head!” Oswald exclaimed.

“Afraid I can’t do that,” Mahmoud said, giggling. “Here’s another blow to your ego. I’m probably here to help you out.”

“Very funny,” Oswald said.

“I thought so,” Mahmoud said. “Now, where’s Bob?”

“My thoughts--” Oswald started. “Not funny.”

“What?” Mahmoud protested, innocently. A knock at the door interrupted any further reply she might have been formulating. It was Bob Taliaferro, and he showed himself in without waiting for admittance. He eyed the room for a minute, and betrayed nothing of his reaction to the two persons who had obviously been engaging in a lively conversation before his entrance. He closed the door and began looking at a sheet of paper he’d taken with him.

“You’re ready?” he muttered, without taking his eyes from the sheet, and then handed it to Oswald with his eyes training on him now. “You’ll want to sign this waiver. I see you’ve met Padma. I don’t know what else to call her so I’m just going to use her first name.”

“Very informal of you,” Oswald said, accepting the waiver and turning around to sign it, not acknowledging Bob.

“Charming,” Mahmoud said, training her own eyes on Bob.

“I try to be,” Bob said. “Try, but fail. What’re you gonna do about it? Throw an intervention? Be ready for the test, or both of you can kiss my ass. I mean that in the kindest way possible.”

“As you always do,” Oswald said to Bob’s back, as he left the room, leaving the door open behind him. Oswald realized he still had the waiver. “Figures. He wants me to go to his office. And he’s in one of his moods. Maybe I should be thankful, and maybe I’m going to roast for what I’d like to do to him all the same.”

“I wish you wouldn’t actually think it,” Mahmoud said.

“Sorry,” Oswald said.

“If only,” Mahmoud said. “He’s coming back. And he’s got someone with him.”

“Great,” Oswald said. “Wait a minute, maybe this isn’t so bad.”

“What isn’t so bad?” Bob said, walking into the office again, accompanied by a gangly twenty-something male. “You’d better be able to explain this kid. He came into the premises half an hour ago, and claimed he needed to see you, and claimed further that he’d actually walked here so he could.”

“It’s true,” the man said. “I walked here.”

“Shut it,” Bob said. “Give me the waiver, and if the boy proves a security risk, it’s your ass.”

“He apparently cleared security already,” Oswald noted, as Bon snatched the waiver from his hand.

“Smart ass,” Bob said, and left the office again, with the door in the same condition as before. The three people left in his wake shared a solemn moment to celebrate.”

“Gerald,” Oswald said.

“That would be me,” Leopold said. “I see you’re up to speed on the voodoo aspects.”

“Unfortunately,” Oswald said. “You know me, I guess, already. This is Padma.”

“Padma Mahmoud,” Mahmoud said, extending her hand. “Proud member of this society.”

“I guess that’s what it is,” Leopold said. “Do I know you?”

“In a way,” Mahmoud said.

“You’re absolutely right,” Leopold said, the meaning dawning on him. “In a way. Then I guess you know your boss there wasn’t shitting when he said I walked here. I…walked here. It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Where is here, exactly?”

“Generally speaking, Florida,” Oswald said. “This is a R&D facility, and I get to engage in the next step in that process. They make exciting new crafts, I take them for a spin, see if they’re hazardous or not. I feel very secure when I come to work.”

“And I’m here to help him,” Mahmoud said.

“You don’t have to be so enthusiastic about it,” Oswald said.

“You’ve got a sub today,” Leopold said, “Don’t you?”

“I’m beginning to understand,” Mahmoud said.

“You’ve said that already,” Oswald said. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Depends,” Leopold said.

“On what?” Oswald said.

“On whether you want to find out what the point of our little society is,” Mahmoud said.

“Honestly,” Oswald said. “Right now? I don’t know…”

Chapter 13

Leopold was presently attempting to avoid one of the most obvious questions of existence. How delicate was Sam, at her advanced age? Oh sure, that question applied to any life, but it took on new prominence when the subject of advanced age was breeched. The paradox of growing old to the same physical helplessness as when growing up from infancy proved the answer: control was an illusion. At any rate, that was the message of a film Leopold enjoyed, and he decided the same applied here, even if the context was different. He didn’t like to thin about it until something brought the subject up, but even then he was satisfied he wasn’t afraid of the implication. He watched Sam walk on ahead of him, and considered mortality.

You don’t have to be old to die, Sam retorted, and she sounded offended at the notion. Everything is inevitable. My bones will break, my eyes will roll, my tongue will slacken, yes my paws will dangle above me. But that would all happen even if I was ten years younger. Get over yourself, and quit lagging behind.

Deep in the woods now, so that Leopold had lost all sense of location, they trampled. This was not something he was unfamiliar with, since he had often taken Freckles for walks down ATV trails. He wondered what it must have been like, to create such trails, and he thought it should be very much like this, only now when someone traveled these paths it was in an all-terrain blur. The destination was no longer important so much as the thrill of the hyper-experience. He had never known that thrill, but knew the sensation of being lost, which was probably just the same, the frantic trampling thru brush to try and resituate himself. He’d done that, sometimes by himself and sometimes with Freckles. He had that sensation now, but he had a guide, and he assumed Sam knew her way around. Still, it wasn’t much comfort, since Leopold had no idea where they were going. The destination was a comfort, he realized, and maybe he had a form of claustrophobia.

You’re wandering around in that mind a lot, Sam observed. Tread carefully.

Leopold did not much care for that attitude. “You know--” he began.

Yes, I do, she retorted.

“So you can read minds,” Leopold said. “Pliny probably would have caught on to that already. He would have had a few choice words for you, too, and probably some for your parentage.”

Pliny isn’t your friend, Sam said, and you’ve come to that realization before. Try to keep up, in both senses.

“Wait a minute,” Leopold said. “You’re right. Who the heck is Pliny anyway? And why would I have, heck how could I have invoked him out of the blue like that?”

Give it some thought, Sam said. And remember, we have patience to fall back on. What about you?

“I don’t know anyone who ever went by that name,” Leopold said. “None of my friends, none of my relatives, ever mentioned anyone like that. There’s an historic figure or two, but I’m not really that familiar with them. I think they were Roman. Philosophers of some kind, maybe, but then again everyone but the rulers, and even some of those, seemed to be. I guess the reality stars of the day. Maybe Pliny is a clue? Maybe the name is supposed to mean something?

“Come on, help me here! You mutt! I didn’t really mean that. I guess I say things like that, and maybe I don’t really mean it, and maybe I sort of do, because it’s easy to do that sort of thing. Heck, there’s not exactly a canine civil servant, is there? There’re people out there who’ve gone the extreme the other way, PETA and Vegans and whatnot. I guess that’s how we do things, to extremes. Well, maybe not everyone. I really wish you’d help me here. You make me sound like an idiot.

“Which is what I suppose I am, I mean you did pick me to receive some spectacular message about animals, right? There’re two types of people who get those things: those who need it and those who are asking for it, and the second group is sort of like the first. Basically these things turn out to reveal us humans as the barbarians we try to convince ourselves we’re not. Which makes me…so proud…to have been chosen. I can barely contain my excitement. Really! I’m the bad guy here, give me my comeuppance!

“Okay, now I’m just making a farce out of this, I’m rambling, and I’m not thinking about what I’m supposed to be thinking about, am I? Give us the power to think, and we stray, is that the message? But then again, I seem to have stumbled on the fact that humans are not alone in the thought department, which throws a whole volume of, uh, human thought away. Animals act of instinct! They, y’know, don’t have a soul!

“I’m still digressing. Well, you’re still not helping! Why did I conjure this Pliny guy? Why? Why? Why do bananas fly? Why do bananas fly in the clear blue sky? This is being so helpful…

“Help me out.

“Help me out. Please help me out. Give me a clue. Something that would push me in the right direction. Give me a starting point. Give me a swig of water, I’m dying of thirst.”

I promise you you won’t, Sam said.

“Okay, sure,” Leopold said, and the trampling through the woods was not helping his frustration. “You’ll respond to that. Very helpful, very encouraging. Thank you very much. I’m sure glad we know there’s an astronaut who shares my…affliction. Yah, I said it. It’s an affliction. I could just die of thirst, even though you’ve said otherwise. Putting aside the fact that I can hear the thoughts of assorted dogs and cats, what’s to say they all aren’t lying to me, misleading me, leading me into a trap? Who says this…gift isn’t one of those curses? That’s a popular story device for a reason. And it’s not just paranoia.

“I’m doomed. What a lovely thought. I could die, of thirst, right now, happy. I’ve deciphered the reason, my fate. I’ve answered one of the most important questions of existence. I suppose I should be happy about that, too. Not everyone realizes this. Oh sure, that’s sometimes a good thing, not knowing how you’re going to die. It makes things relatively painless. I get to enjoy my pain. I guess some people get off on that. Maybe I could. Yah, I guess I could.

“Lead on, o Death. Lead me to my doom.”

Knock it off, Sam said. Cool your britches and start talking sense again.

“It’s hard to do that,” Leopold said, “when you’ve lost control.”

Convince yourself that you’re a chicken, Sam said. That would be more entertaining. Go ahead. She stopped momentarily, to emphasize her sarcasm.

“Okay, I get it,” Leopold said.

You’d better have, she said. Her tail never wagged.

“With great power comes great opportunity to be an ass,” Leopold said. “I guess I should apologize for the correlation with the donkey.”

Only words, Sam said.

“Okay,” Leopold said. “Thank god you have patience.”

Oh, we developed that on our own, Sam said.

“These answers I’m going to find,” Leopold said, before correcting himself, “These answers that are finding me, I guess, I’m glad about them. I really am. Okay, now I’m just sounding selfish.

You’re sounding like someone who doesn’t know what to expect, Sam said. You sound perfectly normal. Get on with your puzzling.

“Sure,” Leopold said. “Fine, I can do that. I won’t try to get answers from you, get any clues. I can do this. Pliny has to be someone, a real person. I already ruled out people I know, but maybe I shouldn’t have. I sort of know the astronaut, but I don’t, really, this Oswald I used to think of in such different terms. Pliny. Pliny was his companion. His friend. Pliny was Oswald’s friend. They spent nine months or whatever in the space station together. Damnit, I can’t even claim this victory for myself. You helped me, even if you didn’t really.”

Cheer up already, Sam urged. And quit moping.

“You try that,” Leopold said. “It’s not as if you’re the most cheerful thing in these woods. Don’t believe me listen to the bird chatter.”

I do, thank you, Sam said.

“That’s it? You’re just going to leave it at that,” Leopold said.

Yes, Sam said.

“Well, thank you very much,” Leopold said. “I’ve bent pretty far these past twenty minutes or so, and all I get back is a grudging dismissal from you. That’s rude, no matter what species you are.”

Get over yourself, Sam said.

“I’d love to, but that’s what humans do,” Leopold said. “Our defining aspect is our ego, and we’re damn proud of it, even if some of us try to create scenarios where there is no self. Imagine that. How can you experience something without being there?

“Wait a minute. This isn’t a religious experience, is it? Am I going to meet my maker?”

You aren’t going to die, you aren’t going to have a mystical experience, Sam insisted.

“Okay, then,” Leopold said. “I guess I’ll just have to keep an open mind.”

Try to keep that in your mind for a few minutes, she said.

Leopold was by nature impatient. After a few minutes of silence, which he was sure Sam enjoyed, he said, “Are we there yet?” He tried to understand what he was supposed to understand, but his impatience got the best of him, and as soon as he realized that, he realized he was continuing to miss the point. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to work with whatever this journey was headed toward, but he did realize that by realizing this, he was making enough progress. That must be why he had been chosen, what Boo had tried to explain to him. He had enough patience within his impatience. Armed with the thought that he must have a psychic bond with the astronaut Oswald, he became aware that there was another presence rattling around up there as well, and that he had already invoked it, just as he had invoked the astronaut. Sam might be insisting that this was not a mystical journey, but in his experience there were already elements of it there, and there was plenty of reflection being done in his experience.

Leopold would have enjoyed a little less inevitability.

Chapter 12

The ants advanced, fearless of the consequences. Oswald knew he could just as well stamp on them as worry about them, yet it was their reckless attitude that was arresting him, freezing him. They were still coming at him. What were they saying? This was the one thing he didn’t know. He could hear them, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, or for however he knew this, what they were thinking. They were acting aggressively, and without provocation, and they weren’t red. This shouldn’t be, he thought frantically, and he continued thinking it as they reached his position by the office window. Why would they come from the door? Was the facility likewise overrun?

Another unspoken question lingered at the tip of his mind as Oswald found himself engulfed in the insects, and he lost the courage for anything else but frozen panic. His eyes searched frantically for something that might rescue him. Perhaps something that would be more enticing lay about. There had to be. Ants weren’t carnivores. Then again, humans couldn’t hear ants, either, and yet here Oswald was, detecting the mounting murmur of these creatures, as if they were building up to something.

The door slammed open before that could develop. A woman, of Arabic descent, burst in, and clapped her hands twice, sending the ants scurrying off and away, leaving the woman with a satisfied smile on her face and Oswald would total astonishment on his. He still did not know what to do. He didn’t know this woman, and he was frightened by how well she’d taken the presence of the ants. Perhaps there were superheroes on earth now, and no one bothered to inform extra-terrestrials of this?

“Relax,” the woman said, “and no, I can’t read your mind.”

Oswald did not relax. “You’re scaring me,” he noted.

“No, I’m Padma Mahmoud,” she said, offering her hand, “your new assistant. Don’t call me Moody.”

“New assistant?” he tried to understand.

“Bob thought you might need one,” Mahmoud said, “after you experience.”

“Oh did he now,” Oswald said, coming to a decision on what he thought of the situation, and he was liking it less and less now.

“Not that one,” Mahmoud said. “Shake my hand, please. I want to be courteous.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop frightening me first,” Oswald said. “What do you mean, ‘not that one’?”

“You know what I mean,” Mahmoud insisted.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Oswald said. “Let’s say for argument’s sake I don’t. What are you thinking of?”

“It embarrasses you,” Mahmoud said, still stubbornly holding out her hand. “You haven’t really thought about it in that way yet, but it’s how you really feel. You have something few others have. An alternative awareness.”

“Get out of my mind, lady,” Oswald insisted.

“I’m not in it,” Mahmoud said. “It’s in your eyes, and it’s also why the ants were on you. They were trying to talk some sense into you. They’re tiny. It wouldn’t have worked any other way.”

“They wanted to…talk,” Oswald said. “Please close the door.”

Mahmoud complied, with the none proffered hand and without turning around. “See. It embarrasses you.”

“No, I just have this hang-up of not wanting to appear insane,” Oswald said.

“That hasn’t really been working,” Mahmoud probed, “has it?”

“You said--” Oswald began.

“That I wasn’t assigned to you because of that,” Mahmoud continued for him. “I haven’t lied to you. But it is in your file, and I sometimes help myself to things I think are pertinent to me. I was proven correct, just not in the sense I had originally conceived.”

“You’re still frightening me,” Oswald said.

“Bob wanted me added to your assignment because he’d like a level head,” Mahmoud said, “and the only way to ensure a level head, which this project demands, is had from a man just come back from space is to oversee his work. Believe it or not, Bob does have a sympathetic bone in his body. He wouldn’t throw you back in headfirst and expect you to not land on your head. He also has logistical concerns, as you must understand.”

“Quit making Bob sound so rational,” Oswald said,” finally placing his hand into Mahmoud’s, to find she had a firmer grip. “Pleased to meet you, I guess. Now, tell me how you know anything about my…embarrassment.”

“Intuition,” Mahmoud said, “aided by the fact that we share a common…peculiarity. When I was still in my mother’s womb, she took a little tumble as she attempted to continue her regular chores around the house. Out of the many irregularities that might have resulted for me, I ended up with the ability to employ some of the uncharted regions of the brain. I found I was attuned to animals. One day, as we were taking a ride on a camel, and the rest of that day I don’t like to talk about, I became aware of the fact that the camel wasn’t content with the amount of water he was holding. I tried to give him some of our rations, which did not go over very well with my family, and from then on I realized my full potential. Realize might be a misleading term in this instance.”

“And from then on you were known as Camel Mahmoud,” Oswald joked.

“Not funny,” Mahmoud playfully protested. “In a way, I assume the conversation those ants tried to have with you had to do with your own camel incident. You misinterpreted something you heard, or saw.”

“Well, now that you mention it,” Oswald said, “I might have been a little hasty with an interpretation or two. This is not an easy ’gift’ to get used to.”

“I’ve known plenty others who have lost their minds,” Mahmoud said. “When I saw your file, I feared that you, too, had lost yours. I am satisfied that you haven’t.”

“I’m, uh, glad I meet with your approval,” Oswald said.

“It’s not my approval you should be worried about,” Mahmoud said. “Bob might have already added me to your assignment. He might also subtract you from it. He hasn’t decided, and he’s on his way to.”
“He’s on his way here?” Oswald said. “Now? You might have mentioned that. God, what am I going to do? I’m sunk, I’m history, I’m toast.”

“You’re panicking,” Mahmoud said.

“You haven’t been here long, have you?” Oswald said. “That’s Bob’s methodology. I’ve seen a lot of talented people slip through the cracks of the company because of Bob’s whims. I’m surprised I’m still here to begin with. I should already be sacked. Maybe he’s got something up his sleeve. Or maybe he’s had it to sack me in person. I’m doomed.”

“You’re paranoid,” Mahmoud said.

“And embarrassed,” Oswald added. “We’ve already been over this. But now that you mention it, how did you end up here? Did you come here specifically to spy on me?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but yes,” Mahmoud said. “I read about your homecoming, and some ticks you had developed since returning, and thought, here’s another candidate. You must understand that my life has been reduced to two areas of interest. That they coincide here is a relief for me. I have this theory, and I need to prove it.”

“Theory, huh,” Oswald said, beginning to be numbed. “Does it sound any less crackpot than anything else?”

“As much as anything sounds absurd, no,” Mahmoud said. “It has to do with the animal kingdom, and who sits at the throne, and where. It’s not where you’d think.”

“Fascinating,” Oswald said. “What does this have to do with the project?”

“I believe I could test this theory,” Mahmoud said, sounding enthused for the first time. “Think of it, to know how our world works, to be the first ones to know it.”

“You’re losing me,” Oswald said. “Physics has already told us that. And a lot of men died getting us to that point.”

“I don’t speak in that sense,” Mahmoud said. “I speak in terms of the universal condition. I speak for those who speak, but who are not heard.”

“Cryptic,” Oswald said, and then frowned. He was beginning to understand. “Oh crap. You’ve got to promise not to talk like that again.”

“It was something that needed to be said,” Mahmoud said.

“It could have been said differently,” Oswald said.

“Still, I have made my point,” Mahmoud said. “You have no idea what a relief it is to have been able to say that and to be understood, even if the wording was not to your liking.”

“I have an idea,” Oswald said. “So the ants just wanted to talk.”

“They were agitated,” Mahmoud said. “You anthropomorphized them, and nothing agitates an animal more than that. Some are amused, others are not. It has something to do with domestication.”

“So those ant boxes some companies hawk,” Oswald said, “those don’t count?”

“I doubt that those ants are taken out and placed on the palm of a child’s hand,” Mahmoud said. “At least very often.”

“And what about zoos?” Oswald pressed.

“I try not to go,” Mahmoud said. “There is a large variety of emotion in those, even in the more liberal ones. It can be overwhelming.”

“I’ll take that off my checklist,” Oswald said. “Dolittle is going to be so pleased.”

“I’m sorry,” Mahmoud said, “I thought you said ‘do-little’?”

“Dolittle,” Oswald repeated, “it’s an Internet alias. You aren’t the first person I came across to understand my condition.”

“You will excuse me if I don’t know immediately how to take this news,” Mahmoud said.

“Don’t worry,” Oswald said. “As much as we seem to have come to a ready understanding, Dolittle and I came to the same one. A bit differently, but I’m reasonably certain that I can trust him. I mean, I can trust you, right?”

“Of course you can,” Mahmoud said. “Forgive me, once again, if I am uncertain about this Do-little. I have this feeling that we have just come across a…stumbling block.”

“Maybe you have, but I haven’t,” Oswald said. “We’re an exclusive bunch, but that doesn’t automatically mean we’re limited. There’re billions of people out there. If three of us happen to share this, then so be it.”

“Three who happen to have stumbled upon each other,” Mahmoud said.

“You’re only making this sound worse,” Oswald said. “Haven’t you been trying to do the reverse since you came into this office?”

“I suppose I have,” Mahmoud said, “but that was before I--”

“Realized you weren’t the sole authority on this,” Oswald suggested. “It’s scary. Maybe you haven’t thought of it that way in a while.”

“No, I haven’t,” Mahmoud said. “I think I would have preferred it to stay that way.”

“Then you probably would not have experienced the full reward of it,” Oswald said. “Heck, this should be scary. I’d be worried if it wasn’t.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Mahmoud said. “What else can you tell me about this Do-little?”

“Maybe more than I’d like,” Oswald said. “Maybe less.”

Chapter 11

“Going to work today, honey?” Pamela casually inquired as she poured herself a cup of joe. She might have suspected it by the way Oswald was furiously fighting his necktie, which was something he wore only when he was nervous. “Save yourself the trouble. About the tie. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Says you,” Oswald noted, a finger caught where it shouldn’t have been. “I appreciate the sentiment, but now’s really not the time. I’ve got to do this, and I will do it. Tie this thing, I mean.”

“I’m sure you will,” Pamela said. “I know about your call from Connecticut. Who do you know there?”

“Call? What call?” Oswald said, sincerely confused, and the tie wasn’t helping.

“The one you received yesterday,” Pamela said. “I overheard some of it. I didn’t understand what you were talking about.”

“So you did some investigating,” Oswald said, still distracted. “Something of a Pliny, isn’t it? You doing that, I mean.”

“As far as I could tell, it was a residential number,” Pamela continued. “There has to be someone you know there, or someone you’ve previously contacted?”

“No, no,” Oswald said, the tie still winning. “The caller initiated, everything. I don’t know who he is, never seen him before.”

“But you must know why,” Pamela pressed on. “Why he called. At least it wasn’t a she.”

“I hope you don’t seriously, or haven’t seriously considered that,” Oswald said. “That I would be having an affair.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Pamela said. “It would be a natural conclusion.”

“And this is an unnatural beast,” Oswald said, and as soon as he did he seemed to know how to handle it. “There. Uh, that’s better.”

“Good,” Pamela said, presuming she had struck a cord. “This wasn’t a pimp, was he?”

“A pimp!” Oswald chortled. “God no, the guy from Connecticut was not a pimp. This was not a hotline. As far as I know, you make those call yourself. Not that I have any firsthand experience.”

“Pliny might say otherwise,” Pamela said. “Your reputation, Flyboy, that might, too.”

“My reputation,” Oswald snorted back again. “You haven’t talked to Pliny about this, have you?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” Pamela said. Her hand was hovering over her cup, where it sat on the counter. She might have been entertaining a nasty destination for the coffee therein.

“No, no,” Oswald insisted, popping some pieces of bread down the toaster, now that he thought of it. “But I’d rather not have him involved in this. Again.”

“I have a right to be concerned,” Pamela said, “to involve Pliny if I find it necessary.”

“It’s not,” Oswald insisted. “You found out how useful he was the last time.”

“Yes, I did,” Pamela said.

“Please,” Oswald said. “You’re not still entertaining some of his more idiotic malaprops, are you? The guy knows exactly the wrong thing to say, for almost every situation. I love him, but he‘s a dope when it comes to anything but engineering. Even you wouldn‘t have enjoyed Volkov’s company.”

“What does the Russian have to do with it?” Pamela said, picking her cup up and taking a sip.

“Nothing, except the point of irritation,” Oswald said. “Why does nobody understand that plain and simple stress might account for my behavior, my reactions since the assignment, or during it?”

“Pliny said you were fine up there,” Pamela said.

“Pliny says a lot of stupid things,” Oswald said. “We’ve already been over that.”

“You have,” Pamela said. “Doesn’t mean it’s the last word on the subject.”

“You really don’t trust me?” Oswald said, as his toast popped up. He hated to turn away just then, but he had to. Only one thing was worse than a potential argument, and that was lukewarm toast. The butter was pretty much useless at that point. He didn’t need his new sense to know Pamela did not share the sentiment, but it was a significant priority for him.

“I’d love to,” Pamela said. “As long as you started playing straight with me. I deserve that, don’t I?”

“It’s not about you,” Oswald said, buttering his toast. “I have some things to work out. Dr. Rolland agrees as much, and if you won’t take my word for it, please trust the person you and the Agency sent me to so I could explore my neuroses. They’re quite amusing, actually. I could probably make some money from them.”

“Like the comic strip idea?” Pamela said, and purposefully took another sip to smother any other reaction.

“That was not a bad idea,” Oswald retorted. “I just grew uninterested in it.”

“And as interesting as this conversation is, it can’t go on indefinitely,” Pamela said, transferring the rest of her coffee into a traveling mug. “We can talk more later.”

“Yes, Dr. Rolland,” Oswald joked, and cleared his mouth of crumbs when his wife advanced to kiss. “I’m fine, really.”

“I’m sure you are,” Pamela said, and pointedly stared at the ring her cup had left behind on the counter. “There’re two ways for that to go. We’ll see which one.”

The old Oswald would have cleaned it up immediately. The new Oswald had once already trashed the entire kitchen with the intension to clean everything, like he needed a reason. After that, the room had become considerably less pristine, and it was Oswald’s project to observe the ways in which it changed. Warren, for instance, came down for breakfast, pulling a plate out of the cabinet and placing it squarely on top of the coffee ring, thus smudging it onto both surfaces. “Pop tarts,” he announced, and Daddy obliged, while also hollering for Hattie to come join her brother. When the pastries rose from the toaster, Oswald placed them on Warren’s plate, and watched as it was carried to the table, where a part of the ring would be transferred to a new location. Pamela must have been expecting for this sort of thing to be a proving point for Oswald, to see how long he could last before breaking and cleaning things again. Or she might be assuming that he was intending to try and break her, to make her do the cleaning instead of him for a change. The result was that the kitchen was not cleaned and Oswald’s experiment could continue.

The coffee ring, such as it now was, would soon dry out, leaving a sticky smudge behind, and Oswald was impressed with the natural artistry of it. He also enjoyed the Pollackian spackles of sauce on the stove, and the coffee grinds littering the counter. Soon the ants would be back, and Oswald treasured that the most. There were other rings, like these left behind by glasses that had been filled with water. The sheen, off of every surface was gone. The kitchen no longer appeared new; no, far from that. Oswald wondered if he should have been keeping a diary on the transformations, but decided that recording it would have taken away from the purity of the experience. All he wanted to do was experience it.

“Daddy could tell us a story about this,” Hattie observed, and Oswald noticed how the ants had already returned. He was careful not to indulge himself too much, especially not in front of the kids. In truth, he didn’t have to. Even a glance was enough to tell him everything he wanted to know, and he was fearful he might fall into a trance if he strayed longer. “Eat your breakfast. We’ll be going soon.”

This was the first morning in a long time he would be driving his kids to school. When Pamela absolutely could not, which was often, they had taken the bus, and Oswald knew how Hattie especially did not like to do that. How Pamela had convinced him not to drive them as soon as he’d returned, he didn’t know. The only place he had been going to was the office of Dr. Rolland, and those sessions were in the early afternoon, where he wouldn’t have an excuse to wait around for the end of the school day. He had been discouraged from doing that, the fear being whatever came up in that day’s session might pose a danger for his state of mind. Oswald considered that hogwash, an excuse. But it had only been for a few weeks, so he played along. He had gotten quite good at playing along, and if anyone had cared to notice, things would have changed. He just didn’t know if for the better or worse, but he was inclined to pick neither. These questions were not a result of any personal concerns but rather out of imagined fears. What they didn’t know was far worse.

Oswald was going to work, and waiting for him there was the next step in the shoes of his new identity. The boy from Connecticut played a role, but what that was he didn’t know, and maybe the boy didn’t either. The only thing Oswald knew for certain is that he had just scratched the surface of whatever was going on, or for whatever he was beginning to understand.

So he dropped his kids off at school and headed for what he knew to be the next leg of his destination. Bob Taliaferro was there to greet him, and neither was pleased about that, but both pretended to be. Oswald excused himself to his office, which he hadn’t seen in a very long time. “Hello,” he said, to the old friend it was. Nothing had changed, as if no one had stepped foot in it in the year he’d been away. He took a look around, to reacquaint himself, and for the first time noticed the hole in the corner, between paneling. It had been there before, he realized. He had just never noticed it before.

“Strange,” he murmured, and as he did so a succession of ants marched from it, in a single line such as he’d never seen in real life. They were coming straight at him, and what‘s more, he could hear their chatter. They sounded angry.

Chapter 10

When she did join him, Boo curled up in Leopold’s lap, and said nothing, just as if her role really was concluded. He waited, she slept, and a knock on the patio glass alerted him when the time was up. Reynard sat there, calmly. Leopold gently slid Boo to the couch, where she gazed up at him and leapt down, venturing off to another haunt, while Leopold went to see what the fox had in store for him. He wondered if he should make an introduction. “Hi, I...”

Gerald Leopold, I know, said the fox. We run a tight operation, no fooling, okay a lot of fooling around, but we get the essentials taken care of, and that’s what’s really important. So let’s get going already.

“Where are we going?” Leopold asked, wondering if he should use the patio, or the door at the bottom of the stairs, in the hallway outside of the apartment.

Oh, I’m not going far, Reynard said, and you might as well use the door. It’ll give you greater peace of mind.

“So I take it you’re not going to be with me long,” Leopold said.

The cat already told you that, Reynard said. And please, get a move on it. You feel like chatting, we can do that when you’re outside.

“Fine,” Leopold muttered, crossing over to the closet, before remembering he might want his cell phone, which was on the kitchen table, where the new plant was being pruned by Boo. “Shoo,” he indicated, with a word and a hand, and Reynard looked impatient, which sent Leopold walking a little faster this time to the closet, where he retrieved his jacket, and then he put on his shoes, and then he was out the door. Once he was outside, he noticed Reynard a little off from the patio, clearly not interested in meeting up with him, but rather the other way around, which Leopold obliged. “This won’t be long, will it?”

Consider the next few days worth of your experiences to work like how you calculate ‘dog years,’ Reynard said. They’ll be in collapsed time. You won’t return home to any questions about where you’ve been, since you’ll be back before your sister comes home from work today. Don’t ask me to explain it exactly. Something to do the difference between animal and human experience. You just don’t notice, so it doesn’t matter. By the way, I hope you like walking. We don’t do automatic transportation. We have other tricks.

“I’m fine with walking,” Leopold said, though he was concerned for his shoes, and the bottoms of his pant-legs, which always seemed to suffer the brunt of his foot travels.

You should try paw pads, Reynard suggested. They always wear well.

“You can even hear my thoughts,” Leopold said.

Sure, you hear ours, Reynard said. It only seems natural that we’d hear yours.

“But you understand what I say when I talk, too,” Leopold said. “How do you cross the communication barrier?”

Something like, we just do, Reynard said. Anyway, that’s more a question for the one you’re going to see.

“Please don’t tell me he’s a wizard,” Leopold said, “or a professor confused for one, with smoke and mirrors and all that.”

No wizards, Reynard said. No professors, no smoke, not where we’re going, no mirrors. It’s a little more concrete than that. A little more realistic, a little less fantastic. At least it’ll have to seem that way, since you’ve already cleared the first hurdle. Do you find me fantastic?

“Yeah,” Leopold said, impishly. “Sure I do! You’re fantastic, Reynard. Seriously, though, I think I’ve reached the point where this isn’t so bizarre anymore. You’re the third animal I’ve heard now, and the second I’ve spoken with. I understood ants. Either all of this makes sense or none of it does. There’s too much for none of it to, so all of it does, and so here I am, talking with a fox, and letting him guide me. To where exactly?”

To whom, Reynard said. I’m getting tired of reminding you about that. You don’t seem to catch on very quickly, which I suppose was the selling point for Boo. She’s a little devil, that one. Did she tell you about the German Shepherd?

“Sure she did,” Leopold said. They were walking through woods, through fields, through pretty much anything that did not bare an immediate mark of civilization, and there was plenty for Leopold’s shoes and pants to worry about. As it was winter, much of that meant he was getting wet, which he managed by trudging through varying amounts of deposit. Reynard never slowed down, even when he sank in several inches with each step. In fact, sometimes, he never broke the surface, even though he was of a considerable size. As with every such scenario, Leopold struggled to keep up, no sympathy lost on him by his guide. “She said that he led a boy down a path he wasn’t ready for. Like a trap.”

Something like that, Reynard said. Don’t worry, though. You’ve proven your worth, as she suggested. The only surprises you’ve got ahead of you are of entirely practical matters, how you arrive at your answers, and what those answers are.

“But I never asked any questions,” Leopold said.

Answers are not meant to have questions, Reynard said, just as you do not go in search of something you are looking for. You only think you are. You find something by accident, not by design. If you look for something, you find exactly what you expected, not what you didn’t expect, which would seem to be the point of the search. How could you expect the unexpected? Therefore, how can you find something by looking for it? How can you ask a question and expect an answer? The answer comes without the question. The question is framed for the answer, not the other way around. You have a popular television program to the effect, don’t you?

“I wasn’t told this was a quest for philosophy,” Leopold said.

You weren’t told anything, Reynard said. Was that not your complaint?

“I wasn’t complaining,” Leopold protested.

You asked a question, Reynard said. A question is a complaint. Pay attention.

“I am trying, you know,” Leopold said.

That’s both the pity of it and the joy, Reynard said. Joy isn’t my concern. Perhaps you would do well to be quiet and think about it. You’re a nuisance to me, and a charge. Nothing more. Understand that.

“I’m beginning to,” Leopold said. He wanted to ask how much longer it would be, but knew what the fox’s response would be, and further that the fox already knew this desire, and that the only result was that Leopold was starting to sulk. But he carried on, even as Reynard drew farther away as he lagged behind. Yes, it was becoming depressing, this quest he had never signed up for, not that the fox’s logic couldn’t twist even that truth around. It was ridiculous, and Leopold was not afraid to admit it.

Maybe ridiculous was exactly what it was supposed to be, or one way it was supposed to be seen. If he told any of this to anyone, it would certainly seem ridiculous to them, there was no question about that. He couldn’t even be sure how the astronaut was taking it, how he’d reacted to the phone call, beyond what he’d said. From what Leopold gathered, he wasn’t even having the same experience. It was as if he was being manipulated, to be made useful for whatever Leopold was heading into. He probably wasn’t even aware of it.

Then again, that might be true of Leopold. He could be a pawn in a scheme hatched for the astronaut, the one someone had already made an action figure for. In that case, Leopold would be the bizarre footstool robot, serving the astronaut’s needs in an appropriately subservient design. It was somehow a less pleasant thought, with the roles reversed. Maybe he had a problem with ego. In truth, he always had. Admitting that was brutal.

Okay, a voice said, and it took Leopold a minute to realize it was Reynard’s. He took a look around his surroundings to reacquaint himself with the reality of his situation. Reynard had stopped, in a dense forest, along a well-worn path probably used by ATVs, and Leopold discovered that he had stopped, too, instinctively. Reynard was well off in the distance, so that he could have been any fox, his distinctive patch of white on the back of his neck not visible from there.

“You could come back,” Leopold said.

Or you could meet me here, the fox said.

“Fine,” Leopold relented, and complied. “I don’t see anything.”

Of course you don’t, Reynard said. There isn’t anything to see yet. There will be. Be patient, and please don’t miss me too much.

“That’s sarcasm,” Leopold said.

And you are observant, Reynard said, trotting off. When you want to be. It won’t be long. You can take that literally.

“I will,” Leopold said defiantly, realizing he’d forgotten to say goodbye to Boo, and satisfied he had no interest saying so to Reynard, not the least of which was because the fox shared this particular sentiment. So he decided to. “Catch you later, Reynie!” The only reply was a huff and the resulting breathe shot into the chilly air, which was all that was still visible of the fox now. The trip had taken ten minutes at least. Leopold took a look at his watch, and decided to count the minutes of ‘won’t be long.’

When another ten minutes had passed, and he was beginning to freeze something reminiscent of solidly, Leopold began to contemplate writing the whole thing off and turning back around, confident he knew his way back, and that all he will have lost was a half hour. Then he began to think about what Reynard had said about compressed time, and what that might mean for what he will have lost, and decided it could be as little as a few seconds, like he had never gone, and that thought soothed him for the next twenty minutes, when finally something stirred behind him, shaking itself and letting identifying tags tell at least part of its story. Leopold turned around and told the rest himself.

“Sam,” he said. “Fancy meeting you hear.”

It’s not a bit pleasant, Sam said, and you know it, so wipe that smirk off your face and let us be on our way. We have much to do, and I’m not in the mood to fool around.

Chapters 8+9

“You do have a problem, Virgil,” his shrink, the esteemed Catherine Rolland, M.D., assured him. “It’s a psychological one.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Oswald acknowledged, seated, but not lying, beside Rolland in an office cluttered with books and based on a floor so far up in a building in the middle of a busy city all he could see was clear blue sky, and piles of books jutting into it. It’s what Rolland would have called juxtaposition, but only because the similar sounding word jutting would have already been associated with the scene. The jutting books created a juxtaposition with the clear blue sky. Like something you’d read in an English class, or a spelling bee. Only, don’t forget which of the two you have to spell. It would be silly if you carried on with two t’s rather than move on with an x then a t. “Very reassuring.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me,” Rolland said. “You perceive yourself as being too important for the work you do. It results in a poor temper, poor interpersonal relations, and poor judgment. In effect, your problem is with ego.”

Every session was like this. It just became more specific based on what Rolland had already decided, on the first day, and every day was her chipping away, chipping away at her generalities, until at last she arrived at her conclusion. If only she knew everything else Oswald could tell her. She’d believe it was psychological, all right. “Previously, I had excellent interpersonal relations,” he reminded her, though he was willing to grant the ego. He had a healthy one of those, and wasn’t afraid to admit it. “But of course, I’ve always had the ego, too. I’m not sure how the temper factors into it. Maybe the judgment part.”

“Good,” Rolland said, “you’re opening up more. We’re making progress after all. But it’s important not to rush. You say you’ve always had good interpersonal skills. When did you first realize this.”

“Maybe when they made the action figure,” Oswald said.

“Mind the sarcasm,” Rolland said. “Go on.”

“Okay,” Oswald said, forcing back a grin from the corners of his mouth. “I was always a schoolyard hit. Recess was the first period I excelled in. The rest followed, after I determined I wanted to become an astronaut.”

“And how did you come to that ambition?” Rolland prodded, with her pencil.

“I don’t know, really,” Oswald said. “It might have been the first time I saw one on television. It was during a children’s program. Their jumpsuits caught my interest, and from then on it was either become an astronaut, or a garbage man. Sarcasm detectors duly noted, but I’m being serious.”

“Naturally,” Rolland said. “Go on.”

“I could also have busted ghosts,” Oswald said, “but that’s another story. Sarcasm detectors noted. Yes I was, and so let’s get on with this. I began to apply myself. They don’t let Joe Dodgeball into space. Maybe it would be fun to play a game of that in Zero-G, but it’s not exactly the point. So I applied myself, ‘got serious,’ and took myself seriously. But I was still the social type. I didn’t lose that. I didn’t want to. I figured, if I discovered astronauts on TV, on a children’s program, there was no reason why I couldn’t become one and still have an outrageous personality. So I learned most astronauts are about as exciting as your average house plant. They have an exciting job. Maybe in most cases one element of excitement is enough. Computer geeks hyperventilate over code, right? Sports fans, though, they’re something else. They retain the excitement both as spectators and participants. So what if they’re usually lousy participants? That’s not the point. They have it both ways. It’s a full-contact thing. The spectator part encourages you to jump up for a good play. You experience the highs and lows vicariously, in a very real way.

“And that’s how I felt about becoming an astronaut. These guys have a completely different view of existence than anyone else. Sure, athletes condition themselves, religious orders restrain themselves, but no one else so fully touches the ‘other’ they prepare themselves for as astronauts. Mystics would come the closest, but that’s a different story. That’s all about channeling something, not touching it. Astronauts are pure. They don’t fool around. If they do, something goes wrong, and when something goes wrong, someone dies. So they can’t fool around. But they can have fun. I would see footage of that sort of thing, and think, I’d love to be able to experience that, to know no one else can know, really know, what drinking a substance that won’t fall if you tip your cup upside down. Sure, you can simulate weightlessness, but you know it’s an illusion. You know when you step out of that room, that simulator, your foot will touch the ground. You’ll know you won’t have…escaped something.

“And when you see a picture of the earth’s profile? It’s not the same. It’s like a war movie. Please. That’s not war. It may not be entertainment, exactly. It might be an experience. But it isn’t war. So I applied myself. I applied myself so I could know what it was like to take a small step. The giant leap had already been taken, and the next one is still decades away, but the small steps are still there. They’re like dancing on a cloud, like stepping outside an airplane when it’s above the clouds. You’re in something insubstantial, but it sustains you, suspends you. All along you know exactly how you got there, what it takes to keep you there, because that’s the way you got there, and the reason you stick around. You’re making it better for the next generation, so they’ll take that next giant leap. It’s something.”

“I--I’m sure it is,” Rolland said. “Go on.”

“There’s more,” Oswald said, half as a question and half as a statement. “So you want to know what happened to my interpersonal skills? Somewhere along the line I realized the enormity of what I was a part of. I became complacent. It happened at the worst possible moment, when I had finally achieved my dream. When I got into space. I stopped believing I could have it both ways. I slipped. I let space take hold of me, numb me. I forgot about objectivity. Pliny and Volkov became pests, to be ignored, to separate myself from, instead of integral components of the experience, components vital to it. I hadn’t prepared myself for them. So yes, I have a problem with ego. I centered everything around me, around my experience. They didn’t prepare me to think otherwise. Except if you count the anonymous concept of the team.

“Yes, I was part of a team. The team needed to work together. The team needed to co-exist. The team needed to accomplish certain things. The team, the team. I was an astronaut. What did I care about a team? There were three of us. That’s not a team. That’s a collaboration. That’s a cohabitation. But it’s not a team. It was not a part of my dream. They were forced on me, and they did not serve much purpose. They were a deterrence. They stood between me and my experience.”

“Did you attempt to inform them of this?” Rolland asked.

“I’m shitting you,” Oswald said. “You wanted something about ego, so I gave you ego. Made me sound crazy.”

“Mr. Oswald,” Rolland said, “we’re not going to make any progress unless you stop playing games. You have an issue with control, with authority. We must explore this further.”

“Yes,” Oswald said, “we must.” Up until the team nonsense, he had been perfectly honest, but he needed to satisfy her concept of ego, so he drove on, and in truth felt bad about it now. He had no desire to mock her.

“Sarcasm,” Rolland tut-tutted.

“I’m sorry,” Oswald said. “Sincerely.”

“That be all for today,” Rolland concluded. “We can touch on some of the other issues tomorrow. I’m glad you’re speaking more. It does, however, mean we’ll have to explore the interpersonal issue more. I know your reputation. Until today I wasn’t sure I believed it.”

“Oh, today’s the most I’ve talked in a while,” Oswald said.

“Then this is working after all,” Rolland said, “isn’t it? You must be glad.”

“Very much so,” Oswald said. “I can hardly wait until next time.”

“Sarcasm?” Rolland hazarded.

“Not so much,” Oswald said, and almost meant it. “I sincerely thank you.” He was entirely glad to get up, get away from the jutting books, no mater how well juxtaposed they were with the clear blue sky, and leave Rolland’s office. The doctor was convinced of her own effectiveness, and he was glad to humor her, but he didn’t believe he needed helping. As long as those who did believed he was getting that help, and benefiting from it, were satisfied, he was equally glad to play along.

The part about his motivation to become an astronaut, about the two elements of excitement, Oswald believed had a part in what had happened to him. He really had lost one of them, on the way down, in exchange for bringing the other back with him. It was fair enough. The new Virgil Oswald was busy enough keeping up with his new perspective to bother with old matters. He had abandoned the comic strip without a second thought, as if it had never been important. He could heard avian conversations. Nothing could compete with that, not the newspapers, not even television, which he had followed faithfully since boyhood and the advent of his ambitions with those children’s programs. They went something like this:

Lovely to see you.

Not so lovely to see them.

So don’t bother already. They leave just as soon as we arrive.

That’s the beauty of it.

And that’s the beauty of it, thought Oswald.

***

Come see, Boo prodded, and so Leopold came to see, and what he saw was a fox run through the woods just beyond the apartment. So what do you think?

“I’m thinking it was quite a thing to see a fox in my backyard,” Leopold said. “And that it couldn’t have been a mere coincidence.”

You may be catching on, Boo said. It might even be time to breach a subject or two. Reynard here wanted to know if he could get away with it.

“Get away with running through a residential area,” Leopold finished for her.

Exactly, she said, and as it turns out he could. Lots of animals aren’t so lucky, especially on your roads. But some drivers are more patient than others. You’ve seen some of that, haven’t you? How someone will hold traffic up, just so a raccoon can take his time crossing back over to the forest, after he figured out some human had made it more difficult than it needed to be to cross the road. Which reminds me, why did the chicken cross the road?

“To see if he could get away with it,” Leopold said.

You catch on fairly quickly, Boo said. Only it wasn’t a he in this instance. Still a chauvinist, though. A pity.

“Well, I didn’t want to say ‘it,’” Leopold said, “and you didn’t exactly provide a name. You said chicken. It’s pretty generic.”

And so is ‘he,’ Boo said, in your primitive dialect. Which sucks to be restrained to. Cats have a much more elegant language.

“Like French?” Leopold offered.

I said elegant, not obtuse, Boo said. Those people exaggerate everything. And they split the sexes ridiculously. Like a car is a male or female machine. But English isn’t much better there. Cars aren’t female. Ships aren’t female. Propane stoves you use on holidays aren’t female.

“Touchy subject,” Leopold gathered.

Yup, a real bright one, Boo said. You remember how I was going to tell you about the last time one of you came close? It happened because a German shepherd got a little out of control, and let a boy who wasn’t ready into the circle. We ended up with a story about alien dogs who ‘weeded’ populated worlds for those worth keeping around, with some potential, and those without, whose worlds were destroyed. It was a complete debacle. The boy wasn’t ready, or couldn’t handle it. At any rate, he became a complete nutcase, but thankfully, nobody noticed. Couldn’t really let something like that get out, not that anyone would really bother to believe it. You stood out because you approached your dog skeptically, allowed the notion that he might have said something to you to have a look around your mind. You didn’t completely reject it, but you didn’t fully believe it, either. You gave it the benefit of the doubt, and some thought.

The ingenious part of our whole act is that, once you decided you believed, you couldn’t take it for granted. You had to concentrate, to continue believing, even as you weighed my contributions in further skepticism. It was fun to watch you entertain those thoughts.

“Well, thanks,” Leopold said, “I guess.”

You don’t have to be so reluctant, Boo said. Okay, I guess it’s in character, and the reason I’m even talking to you, so it’s fine. There are other things you have to do now.

“Things I have to do?” Leopold said, tentatively.

If you want to know more, Boo said. If you want to believe, to understand. Unfortunately, I can’t help you the rest of the way. It’s not my job. I have other duties, other interests.

“I’ve seen your interests,” Leopold said, and simulated licking himself.

Ha ha, Boo said, not so amused. That’s more of that sarcasm. Don’t lose it. It’s cute. You’ll finish this out with a dog. Yeah, it’s sad to say, but it’s the fact of the matter, and now that you’ve come this far you might as well accept that too, right?

“I don’t mind dogs,” Leopold said.

Too bad, Boo said. Reynard will introduce you, but there’s more still for you to do before that. You’ve still got the astronaut’s information, right? Put it to good use. He’ll come in handy.

“Just call the astronaut,” Leopold said.

Yes. I can’t stutter, Boo said. Call him.

“Fine,” Leopold said, and Boo was already gone when he looked around again, as if it was mandatory for the guide to do that. Except of course that was perfectly normal for Boo. “Didn’t need her to call the astronaut anyway. This is just a little crazy. All I need is for that German shepherd to be my next guide. Maybe I should be looking for a job more strenuously. Where’s the note? Ah.” In what was far too easy an action to sit well with Leopold, the number was dialing and the astronaut was picking up.

“Hello?” Virgil Oswald’s voiced asked. No reply came. “Is this a prank call? Don’t you know that’s rude this soon after touchdown?”

“No, this isn’t a prank,” Leopold managed. “Listen…Mr. Oswald. I don’t know how to say this. I have a web log, called SPIDER MONKEY. Um, have you by any chance visited it? Maybe posted a reply to it?”

No answer for a very long few seconds. “…Yes,” Oswald said. “How, if you don’t mind my asking, would you have known?”

“I’m betting the complicated answer you wouldn’t really need,” Leopold said. “Please confirm this.”

“Listen, kid,” Oswald said. “Listen. Um. Shit. This is weird. I wish I’d never received this call, if you don’t mind my saying. And then, I’m also glad I received it. Shit. You know. Shit. I’m sorry, I’m not cooperating very well. Shit. I’m just at a loss for words right now. You can understand.”

“You’d better believe it,” Leopold said, and for good measure added, “Shit. I’ve been directed to you. I’ve got something I have to do, and you’re supposed to be useful.”

“That’s certainly reassuring,” Oswald said. “Wait. I think I might know how. You need to go somewhere?”

“I think so,” Leopold said. “I’d be more helpful, but my…guide isn’t exactly herself. She’s a cat.”

“That explains,” Oswald said, “a number of things.”

“She’d have something to say about that,” Leopold said. “I can’t believe I’m saying that about a cat. Oh god, I can just imagine what she‘d think about me saying that. And I can‘t believe I‘m talking like this. And she say, ‘that‘s why we picked you.’”

“Sounds like you’ve got issues,” Oswald said. “If only I didn’t have them too.”

“Tell me about it,” Leopold said. “You can do that later.”

“Yeah,” Oswald said, “after you have, y’know, a better idea of what you need from me.”

“Sounds good,” Leopold said. “Actually, I guess that would be, sounds weird.”

“No, it’s starting to sound normal,” Oswald said, asswipe.”

“What was that?” Leopold said, astounded.

“Sorry,” Oswald said, “just had to be sure this wasn’t a prank. I don’t think you would have responded that way if it had been. Talk to you later.”

“Sure thing, Asswipe,” Leopold said. He heard a snort, and then the conversation was done. Somehow it seemed even more surreal than the ones he’d been having with Boo. He shook his head. Nothing, just a bit of a headache. He decided he wasn’t going to pinch himself. He was awake. Things had just took a turn for the weird, or as Virgil Oswald, the Astronaut had remarked, somehow they were perfectly normal. And they were, somehow. Leopold didn’t know quite how, but it was starting to seem normal. He saw as the fox made his approach again, this fox named Reynard, the one who had dashed through Leopold’s backyard, on the grounds of an apartment complex, just to see if he could. Who was going to introduce Leopold to his next guide.

If he ever found a coffee shop to hang around, as he’d planned, Leopold would be there right now, enjoying a mocha latté. He’d be out walking Freckles, except of course that meant exposing himself to more of this, and right now he felt a little daunted. Not overwhelmed, but daunted. Overwhelmed would be like the boy who met the German shepherd, and who went stark raving mad. Then again, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d found out some ugly truth Boo was trying to keep from Leopold himself, about vicious dogs and the jealous cats who hide their secrets. Or maybe he himself was going stark raving mad. It was always a possibility. No work and all play make Johnny something something. Maybe employment was the nourishment of sanity, and that’s why everyone seemed to think it was so important. That’s why so many beggars held signs insisting on the end of the world. Right? Or maybe they were just lost Shakespearean soothsayers, which was an equally grim scenario.

He’d gotten an Astronaut somehow involved. An Astronaut, or perhaps the lesser known astro-nut. Leopold knew about those. He’d written about them in his boyhood cartooning days, along with the captain of the notes, who desperately needed something to stave off, so he chose boredom, and proved a mostly successful champion. He no longer cartooned. Virgil Oswald was no astro-nut. He was an Astronaut, and he was not involved in Leopold’s bad case of concentration. It might not have been a dream, but it was a nightmare.

To try and sooth himself, Leopold decided to log back onto his blog. He read Oswald’s reply again. It was still the only one, which was somehow encouraging. Boo snuck in, and played with the humidifier again. Leopold picked her up, and chucked her out of the room, closing the door while he was at it. But it was no use. He didn’t want to be in there himself anymore, so he left, and went to sit on the couch. Boo did not come to join him, immediately.

Chapter 7

Being the fretting kind, Leopold should have felt right at home. He couldn’t even look in the direction of his sister’s room without fretting over the imaginary reactions his blog was now receiving. E-ridicule. Well, if that word was going to be invented for anyone, Leopold supposed he was mostly honored to have it coined in his honor, or whatever form it might arrive in. Honor was the last thing he was thinking about, and in truth his blog was the first. He couldn’t escape it, and when his sister returned home he joked that he’d spent too long surfing the Web again. Feebly, to his mind. But his sister didn’t seem to notice, or care. Leopold would take either one.

Boo remained mum the rest of the evening, even when she occasionally came to rest in his lap, or near him. The next day, however, she had other idea, possibly because she sensed Leopold was avoiding his sister’s computer, and instead using his one (which he did when he didn’t want the Internet to bother him). You’re going to want to check it out, she announced. Something of definite interest.

Not knowing when precisely he started taking advice from a cat, Leopold followed suit, and discovered this message:

Aside from all the Star Trek elements, I understand what you’re saying, and furthermore, you could say that I can relate. And I have a ride home to thank for it. You might have heard about it on the news.
Far from being encouraged, Leopold freaked. Boo tried to reassure hi, and then let him know who had sent it, by indicating below her. It was his Virgil Oswald action figure, dragged from his room. Boo had previously indicated her access to it by carrying off with the footstool robot, which Leopold found beneath the stove.

“You want me to believe an astronaut shares this with me,” Leopold said. “That sounds even crazier than I do.”

If you choose to believe so, Boo said. Whatever strokes you, but it’s your loss, and I had been under the impression you wanted this. I could hardly contain myself.

“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” Leopold said. “Here all along I thought you’d been ignoring me.”

A boy scorned, Boo said. Not so dangerous. Anyway, it’s my prerogative. I am a cat, after all. What else would you expect? For me to drastically alter my behavior, just because you can hear me now?

“This is just a quick question,” Leopold said. “How annoyed are you by some of the things I’ve said in the past? Y’know, before I could hear you like this?”

Not very, Boo said. We take such things in stride. Like I said, we’re patient. There’d be a lot of trouble if we weren’t.

“This ‘we,’” Leopold said. “Just what does that constitute?”

Oh, everyone, Boo said.

“Everyone?” Leopold blanched.

Everyone, Boo said coolly. But it’s not like we’re one big fraternity. Or sorority. We’re just in the same kingdom.

“There’s isn’t any one animal in charge,” Leopold asked cautiously, “is there?”

No, Boo said. But that’s a subject we can return to when you’re better prepared. And less sarcastic.

“I can’t help it,” Leopold said. “Humans are sarcastic creatures.”

Tell me about it, Boo said. Not literally, she quickly added. Believe me, we’re more than familiar. Don’t forget about cats in Egyptian culture, in the ancient times. They were a bother. We don’t miss them. You’ve improved in that regard.

“That’s nice to know,” Leopold said.

And that’s more of that sarcasm, Boo said. I suppose constant things aren’t so bad, if you like predictable. And most humans do. So what about this flyboy? You got your wish. Are you going to cash in on it?

“My wish?” Leopold said. “What do you mean?”

You put that message out there because you wanted a response, Boo said. You got one. So now what? Please don’t go all recidivist on me. We made too much progress, maybe not a whole lot, for me to write you off now. You’re the most promising one we’ve seen in almost a decade.

“So, I’m not so unique,” Leopold said.

You wouldn’t say that if you knew, Boo said.

“Enlighten me,” Leopold said.

I would love to, Boo said, but you aren’t ready.

“That’s so patronizing,” Leopold said.

And it’s a familiar feeling, isn’t it? Oh yeah, Boo said. Chew on that. You aren’t my only entertainment. Which was true. She presently began to bat around the top of the humidifier again, and Leopold indulged her for a few minutes, and then swatted her away. He wasn’t in the mood, but she was, and so he had to do it again not long after, and then again, and so on. She was as persistent as she said she was. Finally, he picked her up, left the room, and closed the door behind him. Boo was dropped on the floor, and Leopold went to shower. Once again, he tried not to think about it, yet he was finding it harder. He silently cursed the cat, and knew she probably heard it.

***

“Okay,” he said, “so what do I do? Call him or something?”

That would probably be a start, but not one I could facilitate, Boo said, and Leopold remembered how he’d used ring tones against her in the past. Don’t worry about that. Like I said, we don’t hold that stuff against you. It’s entertaining, besides. At the very least. Try going back on the computer. You should be able to find something that way, right?

“Maybe,” Leopold said. “I couldn’t be sure. But I can try.” Which he did, without checking back in with his blog, or even thinking of posting something else, which he was less interested just then in doing. Contacting this astronaut was a less dicey proposition, and he’d never contacted someone important before. He snuck back into his sister’s room, closing the door on Boo, and started his search, which felt almost familiar for some reason, although he hadn’t done much of that recently. He shook it off, and sifted through the results. He found some comments from tabloid sources claiming Virgil had gone insane, or that his mind had been taken over by Martians, and all of it sounded more like Hollywood than reality. Leopold had seen enough of those films to recognize those notions. But there must be truth in them, as another film had suggested, while also getting some mileage out of ill-fitting skin. This was not what Leopold wanted to find out. Except it was exactly what he wanted to find out.

This must be the struggle Boo insisted he needed to work out, and it was immensely frustrating to give slack to a cat, an admission he felt comfortable with, since he readily agreed about his continued reluctance, and in fact found comfort in it. As for personal details, Leopold found it in the last place he looked, NASA’s official profile. Why should have thought to look there, besides the fact Boo would have suggested it as the most obvious?

Now that he was invoking the cat so often, Leopold knew his crossroads were ending. He opened the blind and had a quiet moment as he looked out upon the expanse between the apartment and the next nearest structure, being another apartment complex, nearly identical to his own. The familiarity comforted him. There was no surprise out there, especially since this was not the first time he’d looked out this window. There had been a shock the first time, though, when he saw the formation of rocks that signified the sunken level the apartment rested in, compared to the rest of the building. He and his sister claimed the only apartment at this level, on this side of the complex, and the solitary nature suited Leopold well. On the other hand, they couldn’t agitate anyone below them with their sliding patio doors, as their neighbors above them did. This activity was also one of the reasons Boo liked the top of Leopold’s bookcase so much, where she lorded over the parlor and stuck her hind leg up to preen. It was all very adorable.

Just like that, he was thinking of that darn cat again. There was no escaping her. If he wasn’t already mad, he might soon go that way. He knew if he opened the door, she wouldn’t be there, but rather perched somewhere, attentive to things Leopold might be privy to, if he dared. Was he so inclined? God help him…

Virgil Oswald’s e-mail address, at least his NASA address, sat on the screen. VOswald, Leopold read, Voswald. It sounded extraterrestrial, creepy. Bad omen, he decided. Better to not g through with it. Maybe he could have one of those lobotomies that are all the rage with avoidists. He could walk around like Frankenstein’s monster, maybe even call himself Frankenpold or something. Good, good. Make it humorous. That’s a good ticket. Make it comfortable, comforting.

Yeah, Leostein. That sounded good.

***

“You do know how much of a pain this is, don’t you?” he said.

Oh, I have an idea, Boo said. Leopold had opened the door. But ‘no pain no gain,’ right? That’s one of your human mantras. We find those amusing. If I were to create one of those, what do you call them? web sites, I’d probably fill it with mantras. With a fishbowl in the background. Think your sister would like fish?

“After what you did with the plant?” Leopold said. “You’d better be joking.”

It was your plant, Boo said, and she got a replacement, which you were careful to insist was her responsibility this time. Not that it would make much of a difference.

“Damn your logic,” Leopold said.

That’d be a strange way of rewarding it, Boo said. You get a diploma, I get eternal damnation. Yeah, real fair, as always.

“You can’t make me feel guilty,” Leopold said. “You already explained your concept of animal patience.”

Coming from anyone else, Boo said, ‘animal patience’ would not have such a positive connotation.

Chapter 6

If anything, this ride was making story time easier. Oswald recounted each new day’s worth of experiences for his children, Hattie and Warren, as he tucked them into bed. Pamela had agreed not to take this away from him, even as she continued to question him and he continued to insist everything was fine. He had always told his children stories before bedtime, even when he was in space and his only inspiration was the less than obsequious duo of Pliny and Volkov, who had perhaps forever ruined his appreciation of humor. He used no books, no familiar conceits. He simply told his children stories. Oswald did not possess a literate mind in the traditional sense. He had no aspirations for the Great American Novel, no ambitions to become a bard on the street corner, or subway. He just wanted to entertain his children, if even for a moment. They knew so little of him otherwise. Some day they would no longer be so eager to fall asleep to his tales, and perhaps then he would vanish from their lives forever.

Just not right now. Oswald was regaling Hattie and Warren, captive as always, of the tale of the mourning dove, who fought for her meal with robins and blackbirds, and she was one of two species unwanted by the man who left the seeds in his backyard. Knowing this, she offered a truce with her longtime rival, the blackbird, so that they would, together, stand up to the tyranny of the man, withstand the arrival of the robin, and enjoy the meal that had been provided for them, for whomever might come upon it. They sealed their pact around noon, and made their stand at the feeder hanging from the abandoned jungle gym, rusting in the backyard of the man who chose favorites but left food for all. The robin chastened, it withdrew, and it and its friends flew away, all aflutter. The dove and the blackbird, the chastened and unwanted, then had their fill, and moved on. The man in the house, having observed all this, rapped his window, but was too late.

The story, of course, was true, and Oswald had experienced it himself, upon observing his neighbor’s yard and hearing the rapping on the window as he stood outside his own house. He determined then and there to set up his own feeders, and after going to bed, reflected on the thought all night. The next morning, he found his wife already gone to work, with a note requesting he consider doing something productive today. Oswald only grew resentful, and stewed by going back on the Internet, with the intention to compare feeder models, but he fell back into the familiar habit of the past few weeks as he began to search for similar conditions as his own. Different phrasings, different aspects, they all brought up the same results, alien abduction conspiracies and other ramblings of what Oswald firmly considered nutcases. He knew he was rational, but all he could find was the irrational. Finally, out of desperation he looked up “Dolittle,” and found, after several dozen pages, a reference made by a blogger calling himself by that name, who described experiences remarkably familiar:

Feb. 23
As if I pealed away one fabric of existence, I’ve discovered a new way to look at the world, one that doesn’t necessarily revolve around humans, but rather features us in a kind of play. Like Shakespeare said, about the world being a stage (and how Q made it out to be the galaxy, and how Picard, as always, got annoyed, as if there was no other way to handle an imp). Y’know, just thinking about that episode, it gets me thinking, how the only way Q was ever seen was as a pest, until he began to play things in a more cooperative way, like the time he became human, or the time, in the last episode, where he helps Picard prevent himself from destroying human life entirely. The Captain, who was never a bigger fuddy duddy than when he was around Q, can never seem to grasp the notion that what humans are doing right then, is not all they are capable of. And then there are other times, when Q isn’t around, when Picard thinks humans are the best thing since sliced bread. In fact, the only time humans aren’t presented that way is when Q is around, but the writers go out of their way to approach him condescendingly, as if to say we’re not all that we could be, even there in the future, even if that’s the stance they always take when presenting the latest aliens to hassle with. All Q wants is for them to acknowledge there’s plenty they don’t understand, and the first thing would seem to be tolerance, despite what they insist.

That’s a little of what I’m experiencing, and I don’t know what else to do but write about it here. There’re individuals like Q here. What to do about them?

Oswald was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do next. He stared at the words “0 comments” and wondered if he should change that. It would expose him. If he was wrong about this Dolittle, of whether they were experiencing the same thing, he would sound like an ass. He could easily be incredibly obtuse with his note, such as “Yeah, righteous,” and leave it at that, but he needed more. He needed to know there was someone out there who shared this…curse with him. It was a curse, all right, knowing there was something he couldn’t share, not if he wanted Pamela, or Pliny, to still talk to him, and not demand more than just continued counseling. This Dolittle, this blogger, could take this curse, this stigma away, at least in spirit. Oswald did not want to lose his new vision, just the isolation of it, which was the ironic thing about it. He could see, he could understand so much more now, but he was forced to keep it to himself, as if he couldn’t.

Dolittle could change this. At least potentially. Could Oswald risk it? This was even greater agony, having even a thought that he could find release, and relief. 0 comments, it continued to read, almost to mock him. He hovered the cursor over it, saw as it lit up, in anticipation, a link waiting to be followed. To hell with it. Oswald decided he would, and wrote a message to Dolittle, speaking of seagulls, mourning doves, and blackbirds, and then noticed there was another post waiting, and this one said:

Q does talk, and Q is annoying, but he always proves useful. There was also the time he made Picard aware of the Borg, and maybe that was his most profound statement. It’s not safe out there, but that’s no reason to back away.
This could not have been a reply to his message. No, it couldn’t have. Oswald reserved too much optimism. It was mere coincidence, but it was also affirmation, which he was comforted by. All this Dolittle could do was read his message. It wasn’t as if he’d sent an e-mail address or anything. Oswald had ventured, and he had done it safely. There were other things for him to do, such as research feeders. Birds were going to become his new hobby, whether Pamela approved of it or not. She’d already struck down the possibility of a pet dog, after Pliny had gone and she had returned with the kids. She’d remarked on it, like an afterthought, and kissed him, and gone off to bed. He’d told his story to Hattie and Warren, and that was the end of that day. If only Pliny had not come over.

All the same, it might have been the last time. Oswald was committed to returning to work soon, and so he now made a phone call to the office, to feel out their readiness for him. “Yes, I’d like to talk with Bob,” he said.

“One moment please,” the voice on the other end replied. “While I’ve got you, didn’t it used to be Uncle Bob?”

“It used to,” he said. After the workshop had been closed to elementary school-aged students, Oswald noticed Bob’s continence around children, even Hattie and Warren, had grown colder, more remote. “He doesn’t still go by that, does he?”

“Well no, only around you,” the voice said, lingering longer than Oswald would have liked. He hadn’t spoken with Bob since before the mission, and he was less interested now than he’d become then.

“Bob here,” the new voice announced, as if Oswald would have taken Bob Taliaferro to be anyone else, although he would have given anything.

“Nice to hear your voice again,” he said. “I might not be long now.”

“Good news,” Bob said, absently, and Oswald knew why. “No rush. Come back when you’re ready.” As if off cue cards, he sounded like.

“Thanks,” Oswald said, and hung up. He was soured enough, and returning there specifically, with Bob, was the last thing he was interested in doing. It would make Pamela happy to know he’d made the gesture, and Oswald was not the kind to tell her he did so and not actually have done it. He wanted to rack up some points with her, he needed to, or what remained of his old life would completely unravel. If only he could guarantee himself the opportunity to return to work, the same work, at a different place. That was impossible, especially now, and there was no use denying that. He sighed heavily, and had a look out the window, where the neighbor’s yard was being visited by the dove again, in search of what everyone else wanted. The only denying going on was being done on him, and by him.

It was a rotten situation, and he tried to ignore the dove, who assured him everything would be fine. Easy for the bird to say. Who else was listening to it? Maybe this Dolittle. And then again, maybe not.

Chapter 5

It was in the process of not thinking about it that Boo let Leopold know the answer, as he was reading one morning, about Wolfe’s adventures with Kesey, still snug in bed. She wouldn’t leave him alone, as she’d been doing while he read about Peter Pan on past mornings. She inserted herself into the reading experience, by inserting her head into his hand, the one holding the paperback, and played at that for a while, and then settled off to the side, where the window with the blinds continuously drawn met his bed, her mission now complete. It was Leopold’s turn to understand, and as he read about Perry Lane, he found that he could, if he just concentrated, and so he did.

It’s about time, she said to him.

The book fell from his hand.

Look, it’s as simple as stretching out your mind, she continued, speaking but without moving her fuzzy jaws, and continuing to stare out the window, at what Leopold now thought he could identify, though he couldn’t see it. Another cat, an orange one, much bigger. Boo leapt out of the bed, and Leopold followed. They were hunting Ginger. Only, Boo traced a path to the patio’s sliding doors, sheathed by more blinds, vertical ones, and sat down by her perch, which contained two apartments. Leopold, meanwhile, prepared his breakfast, aware that this was both a normal morning and an extremely unusual one, too, but he couldn’t quite decide yet how he should be thinking about it. The one thing he was sure of, however, was that Boo’s greetings signified a show of power, which she was otherwise and other times mostly incapable of demonstrating. The hallway, the common laundry room across the way, these were arenas of independence, and Boo never seemed to mind losing them until the next time.

Leopold understood how Boo asserted herself. Presently he attempted to part Boo and Ginger, from their prison visit through the glass, and for the first time he heard Boo hiss, so he let her have her fun. He took his bowl of grainy cereal to the table, where he took the seat, as always, which faced Boo, her perch, and the visit now in progress. As an indoor cat, as her owner and Leopold’s sister had long ago decided, this was as close to freedom, a picture show, as Boo would ever get. Her favorite spot was on that perch, where the blinds were graciously parted. Leopold had a magazine to read, a CD playing, and his breakfast, but for as long as it lasted his interest lay in Boo’s encounter, and he heard nothing of it, and thought nothing of that.

So he could hear Boo, if he wanted to. Maybe that was the extent of his newfound awareness, which he had been wondering about for most of his waking hours. None of his dreams concerned this development, at least not yet, but with this new power it was as if he were sleeping when he was awake, and awake when he was sleeping, where his R.E.M. coincided with the usual explorations of buildings he had never really seen, on campuses he had never been to. One of them was seeming more real, and it wasn’t reality. He happened a glance over at Boo, and saw her, the excitement over Ginger now passed, resting lazily atop the perch, waiting for something else to happen, or for another novelty to interest her.

The CD ended, after the breakfast had, and the magazine finished not long after. Leopold had the rest of the morning now. He took a shower and brushed his teeth, and throughout all of it he threw his thoughts on Boo’s words to him. How would she have even known? And if she did, why wasn’t it a big deal for her? For the same reason he was taking it in such strides? He didn’t want to ask her, just yet, for answers. For one thing, he had a hard time believing himself. This was just a dream, right? And the dreams are real, the dreams are real, like an elephant in the room, waiting for someone to notice.

All he could think to do was write about it in his blog, which meant booting up his sister’s computer, the slowest one on the planet, not because it was old or anything. In fact, the only thing anyone could figure was that there seemed to be too much crap on it, bundled crap, not stuff added personally. As Leopold waited, he tried to frame his thoughts, like composing a résumé, where the most convincing document would make it attractive rather than revolting, or worse. Coincidentally, Leopold was also currently on the job hunt, as if he was after big game, and he was wearing all the wrong colors. With the screen finally ready for him, Leopold logged in and took a look at the blank form, inviting him to swing another note along the SPIDER MONKEY. Just a few thoughts away from perceived insanity, he mused, and laughed, because as far as he knew, no one had ever climbed on the MONKEY’s back, had ever read a word of his ramblings. His fingers tensed, hovering over the keyboard, and he began to type.

Some minutes later, he clicked on the publishing icon, and watched as it loaded up. He took a look at his handiwork, and laughed again, and closed the window. Boo had found her way into his sister’s room, where these days, since the humidifier had been added, the white cat was no longer as welcome, because she enjoyed swiping at the top of the device, which gave way easily enough, to the base, which was filled with water, Boo’s real prize. She had no greater pleasure these days than to bat around anything associated with water, be it one of the dishes Leopold and his sister were testing, or one of the two humidifiers. Then there was the plant on the kitchen table, the one she had pruned, and greedily observed as Leopold would pour more water into. Was it the plant or the water she was interested in?

Both, Boo’s reply came, which startled Leopold more than the first time he’d heard her. Both, she repeated. Can’t a girl indulge herself? What else is there to do? Feeling better about it, by the way, after expressing yourself in one forum where you won’t be looked at cockeyed by admitting this? Liberating, I know.

Leopold still could not bring himself to reply. He wasn’t frightened, exactly, but he was taken off guard; a barrier was being breached, to something he should not have any knowledge to, and the penalty was not punishment, but puzzlement, and that was the only reaction he found he could have. It was a strange reward, but it felt like that, too. He was chewing on this, still seated in his sister’s computer chair, at her computer desk, in front of her computer, yet he was looking at Boo, who was busily exploring around this strange device, where she sometimes followed captured cursors with her eyes and a paw. Leopold also had a newly-acquired cell-phone, with a ring tone of a meowing cat, which he had used one time to terrorize Boo. Clearly technology was not something cats were attuned to.

That’s true, she said, crossing over to the window sill, where assorted trinkets and more blinds got in her way, but not entirely so. It’s not something we bother with. It’s certainly not something we can bat with our paws, and so there’s very little fun in it, and then very little point. But we can be amused, if we want to be. For instance, finding the source of that humming.

“The fan in the tower?” Leopold offered, without realizing he was cooperating for the first time.

No, something else, she said. It’s not something you’re aware of, but don’t worry about it. There’s plenty more of that, and it’s probably best not to worry about.

“But I will think about it,” Leopold insisted. “For one thing, thinking hard is the way I got to hearing you.”

No it isn’t, she said, demurely, and jumped down from the sill, next to the humidifier, which she began to swipe at. Why keep such a thing so hidden? It seems counterproductive, a waste.

“That water serves a purpose just as it is,” Leopold said. “Besides, spilling your water doesn’t seem so smart by those terms.”

My water? she laughed, and then let loose one of her chirping meows, unlike any Leopold had heard before. That water is easily accessed, but it’s not the water I want.

“Cats can’t be finicky,” Leopold said.

Oh, she said.

“And please don’t do that,” Leopold said, brushing her away from the device, and knowing full well that wasn’t the end of that.

Persistence, she said. It’s a good way to make a living.

“Even with all the failures?” Leopold said. He was playing along now.

Especially with them, she said, and walked coyly around a bedpost, knowing Leopold was wise to her tricks. The things with doing are never the easiest ones to do. There are always deterrents, naysayers. People who say you shouldn’t do it. Let them worry about it. I have more fun doing it, and no fun with moralizers explaining why it’s wrong.

“Instincts aren’t always right,” Leopold said.

Who said anything about instincts? Oh, right, she said. That’s what we act on, according to your kind. A tidy way to explain it. She gave in, then, and then ran off, with Leopold watching, bemused, and not a bit understanding. But he was making progress, which was all Boo was after, and she had no time table to follow, only whims and Leopold’s readiness, however long that would take to fully arrive, if ever. Things were delicate, but not so delicate that she was pussyfooting it, as the human expression went, out of caution, but rather out of patience. She was a model of that.

Leopold, ignorant as he remained, knew he was on to something, and decided to make another post on his blog. As freeing as this form of communication was, he would not divulge all of the details, but enough so that their basic form was evident, to those attune to it. He felt it meant something, but he still couldn’t decide what that might be, and so he would play along and hope he could, or at least piece enough of it together himself so that he could ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d bitten off the deep end.
He shook his head, logged the post, and went to look for something else to do, and hoped Boo would leave him alone. He got his wish.