oXXo or Six Color Process or helo2charlie (standard:science fiction, 8165 words)
Author: kupecz99	Added: Oct 02 2000	Views/Reads: 3936/2579	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A few years ago in a land very near, Charlie was an engineer. A good man, wasn't he? But Charlie started to have strange thoughts and feelings. Has he become a danger to himself and others? Do you wish you knew Him now, or would be too scary?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

back to shoveling. 

"...And how are your guys?...  you're kidding!  Right in the middle of
the sermon?  ...oh God...  I know just what you mean... 

"...Charlie?  I don't know what's the matter with him. You know, he's
always been the happiest guy in the world, nothing ever bothered him, 
but he's odd lately.   We'll make plans to go out somewhere and when 
the night comes he just forgets about it.  He says he's too busy, and 
then he sits at the dinner table doodling all evening.  He used to like 
going out so much.  And he talks to himself; I don't think he even 
realizes it.  He's doing it now. 

"...No, he's out shoveling the driveway.  Actually he's just standing
out there in the snow watching me through the window."  He was, more or 
less, watching her, her sparkling gray eyes, her laughter.  Perhaps his 
mind was  elsewhere. 

"...Or we'll be talking about something and he'll drift off and just
stare into space.  And listen ...he isn't interested in, you know, 
anymore.  He says he's tired, and then he gets up in the middle of the 
night and fools with his damn computer instead of me.  Do you think 
it's his change of life?  ...I know they say men don't have them, but 
it's a lie. ...I wonder if he isn't having a fling with some secretary 
or something..." 

Susan laughed, and tossed her dark curls away from her eyes.  She made a
face at the phone.  "Right... Is this a life?  Maybe I should get a 
job..."  Charlie  was nearly done shoveling the drive, the sky was 
almost black.  Susan said goodbye and checked the oven, then she called 
Charlie and the kids for dinner. 

*       *       * 

Everyone else in bed early, Charlie Gauss settled down in the family
room with a small Scotch on the rocks.  Was there a funny smell in the 
house, or was it just his imagination?  He watched the cable news, 
then, halfway through a report on Reagan's prostate, began to flip 
through the channels.  He was hoping to find a good science fiction or 
horror movie -- Susan couldn't stand them. -- No such luck. He settled 
for a PBS special on the Voyager spaceships. 

Charlie sat back in the chair, let out a lungful of air, as if he had
been holding his breath for a long time, for years, and took a sip of 
the Scotch. 

Charlie and Susan had decided at Christmas-time that it would be okay to
put his year-end bonus into this super RCA TV and stereo.  It would be 
a lasting treat for the whole family.  It was, too.  Tonight the rings 
of Saturn looked  spectacular, nearly three dimensional in the 
blackness of his living room's dark space. 

"Shit."  He said to himself.  He had that same pounding headache again. 
 Lately all it seemed to take was half a drink and there it was, as if 
it had been hiding out in the back of his skull and waiting for an 
excuse to come out. 

And not only that, but that smell was in the air again.  "Like a tiger
fart," he said, "ammonia, sulfur and methane."  He was familiar with 
chemical smells from years of working in the various film plants.  In 
the past month he'd searched through the whole house several times 
without finding any place where it smelled stronger than any other, and 
he was determined not to go through the same routine again this night. 

He wasn't really concentrating on the TV show.  "I'm getting older," he
thought. 

Starting off in a production line at Kodak, scrimping and saving,
waiting to think about getting married while he worked his way through 
night classes, and waiting to have kids while Susan worked at the 
K-Mart so they could save up for a down payment on their own house, and 
so on, the years passed. Always working, waiting, saving.  Not that it 
wasn't always fun: Planning together, anticipating the future together. 
 It was.  Still, he, honest to God, had thought he wasn't going to make 
it, sometimes. 

But that was all in the past.  Now, his work was interesting, the family
wasn't hurting for money, everybody was in good health.  "What is there 
to feel bad about, you jerk?"  He asked himself, "You've made a good 
home; you've been a good man." 

The shots of the planets, moons, rings, were so sharp on the new TV he
could feel the coldness of the far ends of the solar system, as the 
Voyager flights were shown moving  farther and farther out, as the dead 
surfaces of the outer planets' moons were shown.  One of the ships was 
flying by Uranus; the announcer pronounced it "Urine-us" instead of 
"Your-anus." "A hell of a pair of alternatives," Charlie said, which 
brought him back to noticing the smell again. 

He probably ought to be concerned about whether something were poisoning
the air his sleeping children were breathing.  Instead, he, himself, 
was taking deep breaths of the scent.  The foul air seemed chill and 
refreshing as he sucked it in, even though the family room was warm.  
"There's no limit to human perversion," he said, "I'm poisoning myself, 
and this actually smells good to me.  And I'm talking to myself, too." 

It was so strange they had found rings around Jupiter and Uranus.  When
he was a boy he'd always thought the great rings of Saturn were 
mysterious, significant, somehow unique. 

He switched the set off.  The Voyager program had not been worth staying
up for, tomorrow he would be over-tired. 

He woke up still sitting in the same chair, hearing his own voice
saying, "Ah yes, the sixth color is starting to come up nicely now."  
It was nearly 4:00 am. 

He got himself right up to bed, then, where he tossed and turned for a
few hours. 

*       *       * 

The next day Charlie could barely drag himself to work.  How
oppressively drab the streets and even the sky were!  It seemed like 
every car on the road was that silver color, so practical because it 
didn't show dirt much.  The practicality of it made his heart sink.  
The few brighter colored cars were coated with road grime and salty 
slush residue.  "Dirty snow," he said, "this is the end of the  world." 
It reminded him of Jupiter's grungy, dirty moon. 

Things were no better in the office.  The carpeting seemed greasy.  The
one really attractive secretary had a pimple on her nose; the others 
looked like beaten dogs.  Marty Stein smiled at him as he passed near 
Marty's cubicle.  Marty, though a younger man, was still the best 
systems analyst who worked for him, and, on most days, Charlie 
considered him a friend, as well.  Today Charlie didn't have any 
friends.  He looked the other way and ducked into his office. 

Charlie passed the morning clearing up routine paperwork.  They got a
good day's work out of him as usual, even though he caught himself 
staring out the window and doodling "O"s and "X"s several times.  "Hugs 
and kisses," he thought, "hugs and kisses." 

*       *       * 

At lunchtime in the cafeteria, he ran into Bill Dolan, the chemical
engineer, and mentioned the odd smells at the house. 

Bill, a thin methodical man, talked his way through the problem for
about fifteen minutes.  He suggested that Charlie have his refrigerator 
and drains checked out, offered to do some research on toxic waste 
dumps that might be near, and to drop by the house, as well, to see if 
he could identify the smell. 

"That's a lot of trouble for you, Bill, I'm sure it's not necessary." 

"No trouble," Bill said with a pleasant smile, "After all, I have a
family too.  I know how something like this can bother you... 

"The only other easy thing I can think of is there might be a jar of
cleaning fluid or solvent, could be  anything, you know, something 
small, close to the furnace or an air vent.  You might want to check 
one more time." 

Charlie phoned Susan as soon as he got back to his office.  He asked her
to call the Roto-Rooter and the refrigeration man.  When he hung up the 
phone he found that it was wet.  "What?"  Tears were rolling down his 
cheeks.  Susan had been so pleasant and cooperative on the phone -- as 
she always was.  Why should it touch him so, now?  Why should he feel 
so grateful?  He wiped his face dry. 

What a nice guy Bill Dolan was!  After all, they hardly knew each other
and had little in common.  It was amazing how simply good-hearted 
people could be.  He found himself sobbing and had to stuff a 
handkerchief in his mouth. "Oh my God," he said, "I am overtired."  It 
took him a while to get back down to work. 

*       *       * 

Close to quitting time he logged in to his private area on the company's
mainframe computer.  There was no interoffice mail left there for him.  
On the menu, however, among the various project headings was one he 
didn't recognize, "OXOX."  He called it up and the screen flashed: 

oXoX 

C. Gauss 

Experimental Proprietary InPlanComStor Program 

3,845.45 MB in storage. 

Load oXXo to continue 

"What the hell is this?"  Charlie had no recollection of ever seeing
anything named "oXoX" before, or "oXXo," either.  "In Plant...?  
Interface Planning Committee?.."  None of this was familiar, made any 
sense at all to him. Thirty eight hundred megabytes was something more 
than the memory of the entire mainframe.  He scratched his chin.  Ah 
hah! Of course.  It didn't do anything; it was just words on the 
screen.  It must be Marty.  He was the only one with the nerve and 
sense of humor to pull something like this.  Just to say "Hello, 
Charlie, how've you been? 

Marty was gone for the day.  He called up his mail file on the computer
and left a note to meet him for coffee after work the next day; they 
hadn't really talked in months, now that he thought of it, except for 
the usual work-a-day exchanges.  Then he had a brainstorm.  He keyed 
back into Marty's "mail box" and built a phony file.  He called it the 
"PornoStim MaxoOrg FunProg." 

*       *       * 

Leaving the office, Charlie found himself smelling the same chemical
smell again.  Maybe it wasn't something in the house at all.  Maybe it 
was a sign of some neurological problem, something in his own brain 
that was triggering off a phantom scent.  Or a sinus inflammation -- he 
had felt stuffy sometimes lately. 

Charlie wanted to lie down for a rest when he got home.  Sarah was
crying because she couldn't understand her multiplication homework, and 
Susan had scolded her for waking Chuckie up from his nap on the couch.  
Chuckie was crying, as well.  Susan gave Charlie the bill from the 
refrigeration man; fifty dollars, and he had said they would need a new 
refrigerator before next summer. 

The plumber was still working in the basement, pulling pounds of roots
out of the drain.  A dentist's drill would make a better sound. 

"You called me just in time, mister.  This wouldda blocked up and
flooded you next good rain.  I still gottabouta half hour to go here."  
It was putrid, but it didn't smell anything like ammonia, sulfur or 
methane. 

Charlie and Susan both went to bed early, right after the children. 
Susan surprised him.  Just when he thought she had fallen off to sleep, 
she sat up and turned the lamp on. "You like our life, don't you, 
Charlie?" she said, looking intently at him. 

"Sure I do, why wouldn't I?" 

"You always seem so depressed lately." 

"I've just been tired," he said, putting his arms around her and burying
his head in her lap.  Then he turned over and pretended to be asleep.  
"Shit.  I hate it,"  he thought.  And then he was asleep. 

*       *       * 

3:47 the same night.  The chemical smell was so strong it woke Charlie
up.  He went down to the basement, with the household flashlight, as 
quietly as he could, and poked around behind everything for a half hour 
or so till he found it, behind a loose partial sheet of plywood, left 
over from shelf- building, that was leaning against what should have 
been a solid wall of concrete blocks. 

There, in a hollowed out space, a sort of tiny cave of mysterious,
shimmering poured concrete -- the type with mica mixed in, that 
sparkled as if thousands of tiny stars were imbedded in it -- Charlie 
remembered, from when he was a very little kid, a bakery, which had 
seemed very special to him. -- He had loved waiting outside of it for 
his mother -- not for the cakes or cookies that were to come, but 
because it had a sidewalk like this, sparkling -- and, while he waited, 
he  could pretend he was floating off into the sky, into the stars -- 
There, in this cave full of stars in his basement wall, Charlie found a 
small machine, about the size of a nine inch TV. 

Charlie thought he had never seen anything more prettily made and put
together, something of the fineness of a very high quality hand gun, 
though larger and with more parts. 

Illuminated by five banks of flickering colored diodes, it was made of
different polished metals, gold connectors, tiny brass screws, hand 
machined copper sleeves and steel rods, miniature brass steam grommets, 
a dozen rubber pistons, each with its own colored anodized aluminum 
pad-back, and a silver flywheel which spun so rapidly that it became 
only an oscillating blur in its periodic cycles.  All of the parts 
moved at different rates, incredible for a device this small.  The 
whole machine barely made a sound, only a tiny whooshing, which 
couldn't be heard if you moved three or four feet away. 

He could smell silicone lubricant, and when he put his nose very close
to one corner, a strong ammonia-methane scent. When he put his hand on 
it, it felt pleasantly cool and solid. The slight vibration somehow 
conveyed a sense of power far beyond its size.  There were no wires 
going into it or any sign of what might power it.  Charlie had a sense, 
it seemed obvious to him, that the machine was somehow running off of 
variations in the earth's gravity, over a large area. 

There was a green and blue barber pole striped tube, a little smaller in
diameter than a small garden hose, running out of one upper corner of 
the machine.  It stuck out about six inches or so, and then turned 
fuzzy and disappeared into the air.  Charlie wiggled it around.  As he 
did so he began to feel nauseous. 

Charlie dropped the hose, put a single drop of Singer Sewing Machine Oil
on to the multi-variable shaft and set the MVSO switch back to its 
orange setting. 

He slid the plywood back to the wall as neatly as he could, sliding
several cardboard boxes of junk to hold it in place. 

Feeling very drowsy, sort of wondering how he had gotten out of bed,
Charlie was humming to himself as he went back upstairs.  When he hung 
the flashlight on its hook, he noticed a glow coming through the 
archway to the family room. His personal computer was up and running, 
though he couldn't remember having used it in the past three or four 
days.  The modem also was on and blinking furiously. 

Some text, or something, was flowing across the screen then it stopped,
froze, as if startled that he had come into the room.  It said: 

oOOOoXxOOoxXXxxXXxxXOoOo 

XXXxXXxXXooOOOxxOoOOOoXx 

OxOoOOOoXxxXXooOOOxoOOOo 

xXXooOOOxoOOOoXxOOoxXXxx 

OoxXXxxXxXooOOOxXxxXOoOo 

? 

STEN MOD  CCOM MODD       trn/str bloc  str bloc  trn/str all  str all
n/t 

Charlie hit the "ctrl" key, not knowing what else to do, and the "x"s
and "o"s were replaced by a...  message. 

helo2charlsysyurgodfathrwalagrey 

urgodmanagnnfflnbdysn6clrdnyt?nd 

The computer beeped three times and the screen went blank.  The modem
had turned itself off.  Charlie took the floppy disk out.  It was 
labeled "oXXo" in what looked to be his own handwriting.  But he'd 
never seen it before.  He loaded it back into the drive.  The screen 
said: 

oXXo 

C. Gauss                                                 1              
        Proprietary InPlanStenTran ProgramD 

No text in buffer 

Frustrated and confused, Charlie thought he remembered having seen
something like this at the office, but he was so sleepy now he couldn't 
be sure.  He closed the computer down and went back to bed. 

*       *       * 

In the morning, Charlie felt more rested than he had in years.  A cover
of new snow had fallen during the night, and the streets looked like a 
thousand picture postcards.  At the office, he was intrigued by the 
faces of the staff gearing up for another day. 

Marty didn't see him come by.  He was sitting at his computer console
scratching his head.  A pair of stick figures, apparently engaged in a 
sexual act, cavorted on the monitor screen.  A loud alarm buzzer was 
going off.  Charlie chuckled to himself and slipped out to the 
conference room. 

He spent the whole day with Bill Dolan and a key group of new-product
chemists and engineers.  They had to discuss the thousand details of 
pre-production on a new high resolution five-color film process, a 
special government project.  It was interesting to Charlie, he enjoyed 
it.  When they had their morning break, Charlie told Bill about all the 
roots in the drain. 

Right after work, he walked to the coffee shop, just a block away from
the office.  The potentially difficult day had passed with exceptional 
smoothness, exceptional progress.  He was looking forward to telling 
Marty about it; their next six months' work would be a lot easier than 
they'd anticipated. 

Even in less ebullient moods he got a kick out of going in there; it was
a real diner, made from a trolley car, with black and sea-foam green 
enameled panels, and chrome and glass everywhere.  He sang "Baubles, 
Bangles and Beads" all the way to the table where Marty was sitting.  
He kissed the young waitress' hand and snarled at her.  Afraid that he 
was some kind of incomprehensible, dangerous, alien weirdo, she blushed 
and ran into the kitchen till after he sat down and stopped singing. 

"You're in a good mood," Marty said, "What's up; how's the new color
film coming?  Are we ready to run on it?" 

They ordered coffee.  Charlie paused too long, and Marty went on, "Say,
Charlie, somebody did something to my private access files.  Are yours 
OK?" 

"Um.  Odd thing..." he felt confused by the question; he couldn't
remember what it referred to.  Then something seemed to click in place. 
 he felt an odd warmth, a kind concern in this small dark man sitting 
across from him. "I need to talk to you, Marty.  Something weird 
happened last night." 

"Ahh..." puzzled, "Last night?  But you left the note for me yesterday
afternoon." 

"Oh, that's right, sorry; this is something else.  It happened later. 
When I left the note I thought you might know something about what was 
left in my private access.  But you don't, do you?" 

"I don't.  Ah-hah.  So Charlie..." 

"What." 

"Did you want to borrow my MaxoOrg FunProg?  And if you don't, do you
know how the hell I can get rid of it before the Vice Squad raids me?" 

"Guilty." Charlie said, chagrined.  "Sorry again.  I was so sure it was
you playing a practical joke on me yesterday.  The MaxoOrg is just a 
letter with the addresses and the times hidden.  Type in 'Message 
received.  Delete.' It wasn't that funny; was it?'" 

"You fooled me; it was very cute.  So Charlie, what was put in yours,
and who did it? 

"I...  Oh, never mind that for now.  I need to ask you...  I mean, it's
nothing serious, but it's important to me...  " 

"Ok.  Something happened last night?" 

"Yeah...  Marty, you majored in psychology, right?" 

"I did that...  about a million years ago." 

"Look, I want you to tell me if you think this... what I think happened
last night, is psychologically possible. Could you?  Would you try?" 

"Whoo!  I don't know...  I'm not qualified to..." 

"Guess.  Make something up.  I  ...Oh hell, this is embarrassing. 
Listen, forget I'm the boss; I do think of you as a friend."  Charlie 
pulled his chair up closer to the table and spoke more quietly, his 
voice quivering with excitement. “Do you think a dream can change your 
life?" 

"You didn't get born again last night, did you?" Marty asked
uncomfortably, "'Cause I don't know anything about that." Charlie shook 
his head and shrugged.  "OK. ...It's possible a dream can change your 
life, in a sense.  They say things can build up in the subconscious for 
a long time and them come together all of a sudden.  It could come out 
in a dream." 

"Ok, I thought so.  Right, that's part of it.  The dream.  OK, this is
the funny thing.  ...God, I feel so dumb I don't want to say it...  Let 
me go back."  Charlie settled back in the chair and closed his eyes for 
a moment. 

"Marty, when I was a kid, the first thing I ever got excited about,
mentally, I mean, maybe in any way -- I was only about eleven -- was H. 
G. Wells Seven Novels." 

Marty, obviously having no idea where this might lead, was trying to
look supportive.  "Read 'em.  Great stuff.  The Time Machine, Invisible 
Man..." 

"That's it," Charlie continued in his reverie, "Boy, was I turned on. 
All through Junior High and High School I kept reading science fiction, 
and dreaming about living on other worlds.  Amazon space queens, 
bug-eyed-monsters, all of that.  I loved the notion that someday, 
someday, I'd visit an alien world, see sights so strange, meet people 
so strange that...  I don't know what.  You know what I mean? 

"All right.  Then when I left high school the whole idea kind of died. 
You grow up; you get serious. 

"But you know, the first time I saw the facility here-- back when I came
to work on the assembly line down the road-- the first time I saw the 
curved brick walls here, the glass block windows, the chrome railings, 
I said 'That is where I belong.'  That's what got me going to night 
school.  Can you believe it?  Just the look of this place, made me 
determined that I was going to work here some day.  Do you follow me? 

"The technology was pretty primitive then... the computers... the
robotized lines...  all that was still to come.  It was just the look 
of the place, it all connected with my old daydreams...  And it wasn't 
so stupid, really.  It took a long time to work my way up, but by the 
time I got here, the gizmos were waiting for me, the systems to be 
developed, the challenges. 

"So here I am, right?  Feeling pretty good.  High Tech Charlie.  Because
of the way a building looked hooked into my fantasies.  Do you follow?  
Those simple-minded adolescent fantasies led right into real life..." 

Charlie was stalled, yet he felt quietly  ...joyful. Marty, the younger
man, had somehow been drawn into the mood. He smiled a dreamy smile, 
"Charlie, I read those same books. It's like I even get a little thrill 
when I use my electronic bank card.  I'm living in the Future.  I love 
it." 

"That's exactly it," Charlie answered, looking right at his friend now. 
Grim. 

"OK.  But Marty, it wore off.  Somewhere along the way the excitement
evaporated.  I did everything I could think of to shake myself out of 
it, to pass the time...  I tried spending more time with the family.  
That didn't work.  I thought maybe a hobby would help, so I fooled 
around with the computer, I even built my own little machine shop at 
home so I would have something to do with my hands. 

"Blah.  I just kept sinking.  I was ready to look for a teaching job and
quit.  Move to New Mexico and raise sheep. Anything.  Charlie the Burn 
Out.  I was starting to think I was going crazy.  I was talking to 
myself.  I'd have memory lapses..." 

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Marty said, "I didn't realize it was that serious.
And what happened?" 

"I forget.  No, just kidding."  He laughed. 

"OK.  A couple of nights ago I watched a TV show about the Voyager
spaceships.  I think that's what did it; the next morning, yesterday, I 
hit bottom.  It just seemed like the end of the world to me.  I 
couldn't figure out why; I didn't really care.  Thank God, I didn't 
care enough to try suicide, either, or I might have." 

"Oh my God.  Charlie, what can I do?" 

"No, no, wait.  Then last night the weird thing happened.  I was so
depressed I went to bed early, I mean right after dinner.  I remember 
lying there in the dark, feeling hopeless. 

"In the middle of the night I woke up, or I thought I woke up, but it
was a dream.  I thought I could hear this announcer-type voice in the 
darkness saying, 'Charlie, you've been depressed because travel to 
other planets is so difficult.'  I knew exactly what it meant. 

"And I said, 'That's right!  That's what's been bothering me!  That is
it.' 

"Seeing that show about the space flights made me realize it.  It took
them fifteen years to get out there, just to the edge of our own solar 
system -- even unmanned. and when they got there, there was nothing but 
frozen rocks, dirty snow.  Alien worlds...  maybe in a hundred years, a 
thousand. Maybe never.  Not in my lifetime, anyway." 

"And?"  Marty looked more puzzled than before. 

"And the more I think about it the more I think that that's what the
problem really was.  I never realized it was so important to me, that 
it had never stopped being important-- A stupid childhood fantasy.  
God, I still had my heart set on rocketing to another galaxy.  Me, 
forty-five years old." 

"And?"  The younger man couldn't see how all this connected up. 

"And that's it.  I don't understand why or how or what happened -- but
it happened.  I don't want to go somewhere else anymore. 

"Our earth is plenty good enough for me.  Plenty.  I woke up this
morning feeling like a kid on Christmas.  I love being here, I'm 
excited about my work again, I'm crazy about my family.  The people I 
see in the streets... everybody into their own thing, everybody doing 
their best to get along, everybody walking around on this beautiful 
world.  I mean, it's amazing -- Like I never saw it before.  Like I've 
been asleep." 

He seemed to have run out of steam, to have become self-conscious, and
looked to his friend grinning sheepishly. "Maybe I just finally did 
grow up. ...What do you think?" 

Marty paused, then he avoided the question.  "I think I'm awful glad you
feel better today than you have been.  I think you're a good man and a 
good friend, Charlie." 

"I mean, do you think it will last?" Charlie said, like a child, ashamed
to ask for reassurance that monsters do not exist, "Do you think a 
dream like that can resolve problems that way?  It's not as if there 
was any solution.  It just said what the problem was.  It must have had 
some symbolic meaning for me." 

"Jesus, Charlie," Marty said, looking overburdened, "I took five courses
in Psychology, and one was all rats.  What do I know?"  Charlie grinned 
at him again, and shrugged his shoulders.  "OK.  OK.  Let me take a 
shot at it. 

"I'd say you're right.  Chances are that there was more to that dream
than you remember, and you don't remember any of it except that last 
tag line.  'You've been depressed because space flight is impossible 
for you'" 

"...because travel to other planets is so difficult. "Charlie corrected.


"Whatever.  The thing is that you don't need to remember all of it, any
more than you need to remember the details of a long calculation, once 
you've gotten the answer. You've broken some thought pattern that was 
set up a long time ago.  Shadows of it may return, but once the pattern 
is broken, essentially you've won the battle. 

"What is important is that you feel like an important problem has been
solved.  That's real; believe it.  How's that for dime-store 
philosophy,"  he concluded, "I guess you can sue me if I'm wrong." 

"Coffee-shop psychology," Charlie said, "It's pretty good.  I think
you're right.  That is real...  Marty, I appreciate your listening to 
me.  I had to talk to somebody, and you've set my mind at ease. 

"I'd hate you to think I'm just too cheap to go to a psychiatrist.  Even
though it's true.  Oh gosh, it's getting late; I guess we both better 
get back home." 

There was a brief embarrassed pause, then they talked a little more
about one thing and another and went their separate ways. 

"Promise you'll talk to me if things get bad again," Marty had said. 

*       *       * 

Charlie, on his way home, an hour or so late, enjoyed the drive.  The
slanting afternoon light brought out deep colors in everything.  He 
even enjoyed the odd chemical smell in the car without stopping to 
wonder if his catalytic converter were going bad.  It was, indeed, a 
beautiful world, magical, supernaturally beautiful, and he was a pretty 
lucky man to have good friends and all.  When he got home he found 
Susan sitting in the living room with her hands shaking and her coat 
on. Chuckie was curled up next to her, asleep. 

"Oh my God, Charlie, why did you pick today to come home late?  Maybe we
should have another car.  You stay here with Sarah, I've got to take 
Chuckie to the hospital." 

"What's the matter!" 

Chuckie woke up and smiled at his dad.  Susan put him down on the floor
to play with his Pound Puppy and pulled Charlie into the kitchen. 
(Little Chuckie dropped the Pound Puppy and crawled over to play with 
the colored ring toy.) 

"Have you noticed that Chuckie hasn't been talking much lately?" 

"Sure, we've talked about it.  Calm down Susan, he's a normal kid.  They
go through stages.  ...did something happen?" 

"Charlie, but it could be something else.  I mean, not just a stage. 
This morning when Sesame Street was on – you know how much he loves 
Bert and Ernie -- I came in and there he was, sitting staring into the 
corner -- and after lunch he was doing the same thing.  Just sat there 
staring for twenty minutes.  And when I finally called his name he 
twitched." 

"Twitched?" 

"Twitched.  All over.  I called Dr. Grohman, and he wants Chuckie in the
hospital in half an hour at the latest, for some tests and X-rays, and 
maybe a Catscan in the morning." 

"X-rays?" 

"Yes.  We've been waiting for an hour now.  He says there's a chance it
could be epilepsy, or even a brain tumor. Or it could be nothing.  But 
we have to make sure.  Dr. Grohman wants to show the tests to a 
neurologist" 

"Jesus.  I'll take him right away." 

"No, Charlie, you must be tired.  Just stay here for Sarah; she'll be
home from practice any time now.  There's a snack for both of you in 
the kitchen." 

"No, Susan, I feel fine, I had a very good day.  You just try to relax;
I'll take him right now.  He's my son, too." 

Charlie scooped Chuckie up and out to the car.  While they were riding,
they sang "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain" and "Take Me Out to 
the Ball Game". 

Just when they got to the hospital turn-in, Charlie stopped the car.  He
had a kind of flipping-over sensation in his stomach, and an elusive, 
pounding sort of migraine headache that blurred his vision for a moment 
and seared through his body right down to the toes.  For a second he 
thought he was going to scream and panic, then everything snapped into 
focus and he was fine.  "Ah," he said, "Right."  He made a U-turn and 
drove away, looking over to his son, "What a great kid!" he thought, 
"How could I love him any more?  Dammit, X-rays and a Catscan.  Wow.  
That could be dangerous.  That could blow the whole deal." 

By the time they pulled up to the picnic shelter in Ellison Park, they
were both chortling while someone plunked on the old banjo in Dinah's 
kitchen, Chuckie's all-time favorite. 

Charlie didn't mind the nippy breeze a bit.  He brushed the snow off of
the park bench and watched while Chuckie climbed to the top of a big 
mound of earth left from an Autumn planting of birch trees.  Charlie 
felt proud and rather excited, seeing his son whirling and whirling 
like a musical top in the bright splash of the last rays of sunlight. 

An old man with a black cane walked by, also enjoying the sunset.  He
smiled and said what a nice boy Chuckie was, but when Charlie just kept 
smiling without saying anything, the old man passed on more quickly, 
shaking his head. 

Charlie was enjoying the fresh meth-ammonia smell so much, and the sight
of Chuckie, who rather looked like a short, squat blue telephone pole, 
with three colored doughnut-like rings over it, twirling around and 
around so happily.  He looked down at himself:  his own sixth ring was 
now completely separate from the purple fifth, and blushing into a very 
healthy looking bright yellow. 

Then he got up and used the pay phone in the shelter to cancel Chuckie's
hospital appointment. 

*       *       * 

When they got back home, Susan didn't really have to ask him how it
went, Charlie looked so pleased, but he explained to her that the 
doctor had run a few standard tests and apologized for scaring them.  
Chuckie was quite normal. "Better safe than sorry, though,"  Charlie 
said, giving her a big hug. 

That night, when Charlie took the kids up to bed, the three of them
rocked the house with their rendition of "If You Knew Susie (Like I 
Know Susie.)"  Then Charlie did imitations of Cindi Lauper, David Lee 
Roth and Michael Jackson singing and dancing to "I'm a Little Teapot," 
till Chuckie and Sarah could hardly catch their breath, they were 
laughing so hard. 

Later, he told Susan he would meet her in the bedroom. Then he stood in
the darkness at the foot of the bed, and could make out the innumerable 
amazing pale pink and white shades of her skin, the tender darker 
circles at her chest, the crackling electric hair at the crown and 
groin. 

It was not that she could exactly "see" him, but he thought perhaps her
dim senses might get at least part of the message, so he displayed.  He 
let his rings glow, spinning in alternate directions, and constructing, 
as if he were back home.  It felt good. 

Surprisingly, Susan's response was emphatic.  Her Alpha, Beta, and Theta
rhythms formed huge standing waves, all interlaced with resonant 
harmonics; the lymphatic tides rose and fell like a swelling sea, 
casting a ghostly greenish glow, which spilled down the sides of the 
bed, and spread across the floor -- it was so rich Charlie could have 
skated on it. 

Entranced by the spectacular emanations, he joined her, tenderly covered
and filled her with the plasms and extensions of his first four rings, 
while the fifth sorted and wove through all of her emanations, 
completing and quickening the patterns, and the sixth, newest one, 
sealed them both within a golden shell, which would exclude any 
distracting static. 

Her mid section was engorged, swollen and moist, releasing increasingly
complex pheromone fragrances which he experienced partially as audible 
sub-bass pulsations and also as dermally sensible.  It felt to him as 
if he were something like a huge purple beech tree, branches sweeping 
down to the ground, and her aromas, one following another, warm breezes 
passing through his thousands of leaves. 

"Oh Charlie," she said, "Oh, Charlie, where have you been all my life? 
Oh Charlie," she whispered, "This is out of this world."  She was 
panting, sweating, and smiling. 

"Yes, sweetheart," he said, "isn't it?" 

A moment later, holding her lightly, he said, "Susan, my love, I know
I've been strange lately, but it's all over. I promise you.  I'm back." 


"Mmm," she said. 

"You've been so good and kind.  I don't know how you could stand it. 
It's like I've been asleep.  I didn't know who I was." 

"Mmm," she said. 

*       *       * 

When he was sure Susan was sound asleep, LoXoL2Charlie, as he now
thought of himself, crept quietly out of bed and downstairs to his 
personal computer in the den. 

Before getting down to it, though, he went on his hands and knees and
stuck his head under the desk.  No problem.  The green and blue barber 
pole striped hose was firmly connected to the little addition he had 
built on to the telephone communications device -- the other end still 
disappeared cleanly into clear air -- he'd have to build some kind of 
little safety box around the hose -- the Radio Shack would have 
something he could modify.  He was always afraid the cat would find it 
as it was, and chew a hole into it. That would be the end of her, too.  
2Charlie winced at the thought of their nice little cat spattered all 
over what would be left of the walls.  For the time being he piled up 
books and boxes around it, and promised himself he would get it done 
tomorrow after work.  "It's always something," he said. 

He sat back and enjoyed the full flow of methammonia for a few minutes. 
The past three months had been more strenuous than he ever expected.  
Finally, he booted the PC up and kicked the modem out of "Standby," 
dialed up the office mainframe from the keyboard and logged into his 
private access.  The screen flashed: 

oXoX 

Gauss 

Experimental Proprietary InPlanComStor Program 

Press "CTL" key to continue. 

Then: 

oXoX 

3,847.36 MB in storage. 

Load oXXo to continue. 

"Oh shit," he said, and put the oXXo disk into itsdrive, and repeated
the whole process.  At last the screensaid: 

oXXo 

C. Gauss 

Proprietary InPlanStenTran Program 

No text in buffer 

Etcetera.  Cursing the cumbersomeness of the software,he linked up the
oXoX, called up the last transmission: 

oOOOoXxOOoxXXxxXXxxXOoOo 

XXXxXXxXXooOOOxxOoOOOoXx 

OxOoOOOoXxxXXooOOOxoOOOo 

xXXooOOOxoOOOoXxOOoxXXxx 

OoxXXxxXxXooOOOxXxxXOoOo 

Called for the translation: 

helo2charlcharl2sysyurgodfathrwal 

agreyurgodmangdnfflnbdysn6clrdnyt?nd 

And the de-sten: 

INTERPLANETARY STENOGRAPHIC 

AND TRANSLATION PROGRAM 

GREETINGS, SIR OR MADAM, 

HERE IS YOUR TRANSLATED 

AND EMBELLISHED 

TRANSMISSION FROM 

OXOX 

INTERPLANTARY COMMUNICATION AND STORAGE SYSTEM 

2Charlie laughed then, it reminded him of a Honeymooners episode in
which Norton had to play Swanee River to warm up every time he wanted 
to play some other song on the piano. 

Hello, 2Charlie. 

Charlie2 says you're a good father. 

We all agree you are a good man. 

Good enough to fool anybody. 

Isn't your sixth color done yet? 

END TRANSMISSION 

"Okay." 2Charlie said to himself.  He set up to transmit, laying part of
his fourth ring down flat over thekeyboard, dividing it into seventy 
six independent segments for typing. 

"LoxoL2Charlie here," he typed, "Listen guys, I don't understand how the
hell you do it, but my human body and my Geelix body are now both 
functioning perfectly in the same space.  100% success.  It's a damn 
miracle! 

"For a while it was pretty hairy.  I kept flipping from one
consciousness to the other, and there were days when I hardly knew 
where or what I was.  So warn the next guy to take it a little easy.  
By the way, When the sixth ring is coming up and coloring you have to 
stay away from alcohol. It'll give you a bitch of a headache. 

"Anyway, it's great here.  The people are real nice and it's very
pretty.  How's Charlie2LoxoL doing?" 

His answer came back almost immediately. 

"GeeliX2earth here," it said, "Glad you're back with us.  Charlie2LoXoL
says he wishes he could talk to you direct, but what can you do?  He 
says you are a horny bugger." 

"LoxoL2Charlie here," he typed, "Tell him I didn't miss a minute of what
he did to oLo last night. 

"Oh hell, I forgot to tell you all, ChuckieoXolChuckie had his third
ring come in complete yesterday.  He's been driving me crazy trying to 
learn Communications Code. 

"Ask Charlie2 if he can think of something really nice I can do for
Sarah, I've been neglecting her while this was going on.  And tell him 
I'm crazy about Susan.  I think we should talk to her. 

"What do you hear from the BigWigs2?" 

"GeeliX2earth here," it said, "LixiL2Gorbachov is settling in pretty
well and having a good time, but Laaxaal2Reagan is still kind of fucked 
up.  We don't think there's anything to worry about, though.  The place 
is too nice, and we're all going to make sure it doesn't get ruined." 

"Loxol2Charlie here," he typed, "I wonder, though, if the BigWigs2 is
worth the headache.  I swear, if those assholes get any worse I'm going 
to cancel the project.  We're much better just looking for people on 
our own wavelength, so to speak. 

"That reminds me, I have a new candidate, guy named Marty Stein.  I
think he'd be real interested.  Send him the brochures." 

"GeeliX2earth here," it said, "do you really think he'd fit in?" 

"Loxol2Charlie here," he typed,  "Super nice guy, very bright.  Anyway,
that's for the brochures to decide, isn't it? What do you want, more 
2BigWigs?" 

"GeeliX2earth here," it said, "no thanks." 

And so on, for a time, the program continued, searching out the nuances
of each of 2Charlie's English phrases, compressing it, turning it into 
elegant quaternary code, spurting it through the vast darkness of 
intergalactic space to where its companion program would translate it 
into the subtle, musical Geelix tongue -- and vice versa, all in an 
instant, so that there were no gaps of time, only the flow, back and 
forth of pleasant conversation.  After a while, 2Charlie felt he was 
caught up enough.  "Tomorrow's another day," he said and went back up 
to bed. 

*       *       * 

A couple of months later, on a fragrant spring morning, Susan called her
old college friend Marge.  Along with birdsong from the back yard, the 
air was filled with the squawks and sproings of the Saturday cartoon 
shows.  Charlie was at the table, reading the paper, finishing his 
coffee. 

"Oh hi Marge," Susan said, "God, it seems like forever since I've talked
to you!  ...No, we've really got to get together sometime... 

"Oh, no, Chuckie's fine.  It was just a phase he was going through.  You
can't help but worry, though.  Sarah never did anything like that.  
...Yes, he won't stop talking now. We're thinking about starting him in 
school early, he's so bright.  I think he gets bored with the nursery 
school.  He says, 'Dere such babies, mom.' ...It's true; that boy is a 
regular three ring circus." 

"And Charlie?" He raised one eyebrow; she laughed."...What do you mean? 
...What dirty laugh?  Well dirty laugh yourself.  Let's just say that 
Charlie and I are getting along just fine these days.  Charlie is a 
good man."  She sat her self down on his lap. 

"No...  I know.  He didn't.  Really?  And where's this Frederick's
store?  ...No. I'm going to try it myself...  No, I don't care.  For 
God's sake, we've been married for twelve years."  Charlie pinched her, 
she yelped quietly, shushed him and wriggled around. 

"...Oh Marge, I know what you mean.  Yes, even thought that's good. 
Maybe we're just getting old, but sometimes it gets boring going from 
day to day." She put her arms around Charlie’s neck, leaned her head on 
his shoulder.  "I ask myself if this is all there is to life.  It's the 
oddest thing, I've always been so happy.  ...Do you think traveling 
would do any good?  I've always had this urge to go to Paris and London 
and maybe Dublin....  Or somewhere.  Didn't I ever tell you that?  Oh 
well, dream on... 

"...Marge, excuse me, I've got to run.  I think Sarah must have knocked
over a bottle of ammonia or something when she was ironing her jeans 
this morning..." 

"I'll go," Charlie said quietly. 

"No, no, Charlie," she whispered, her hand over the phone, "you work so
hard all week.  It's all right, I'll go. 

"...Right," Susan said into the phone, "she irons her jeans.  Another
normal disaster; the smell could knock your sox off.  Bye now.  Hugs 
and kisses." 

Susan hung up.  She sat there in Charlie’s arms, rocking back and forth,
nuzzling his neck. 

"Mo-om..." The two-note pre-teen whineroo; Sarah was in the kitchen
doorway, looking at them.  "Da-ad.  Eeugh! That's...  weird." 

·	* JK * · 


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