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This story is a little different from my normal ones. Hope you enjoy it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mantra by Sarah Miller "And in the late 600's, the first recorded King, Songsten Gompo, supressed the Bonists, and Buddhism became the state religion. OK, read chapters 17 and 18 for next week. We'll continue with the evolution of Tibetan Buddhism. Have a good weekend." Professor Dave Plunkwell gathered his lecture notes as his class streamed out the door. After answering a few minor questions, he took the stairs to his office on the next floor. As he moved his key toward the lock, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Startled, then annoyed, he paused. He had nothing in there worth stealing, but one never knew. Could the intruder still be inside? Yes, he heard a scraping sound. Quietly setting his briefcase down, he pushed open the door, reaching immediately for the baseball bat he kept next to it. But he then pulled up short, facing the current department head and the Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences. Glancing around, he saw three more faces, one familiar and two only vaguely remembered. "One moment, gentlemen," Dave said as he retrieved his case and walked behind his desk. "What can I do for you? Or more to the point, why did you break in to my office?" The Dean, who seemed to be in charge of this whole gathering, spoke first. "Dave, I let them in. Your department is about to get a rare opportunity, but one that must be kept absolutely confidential. I thought it best that we hide in your office. John will make the introductions," he continued as he vaguely pointed to Dr. John Ballou, the head of the Department of Anthropology. "I'll be leaving now." And he did. "Dave," Ballou started, "You know Harry." Pointing to a tall, thin man with graying hair and a pencil mustache, he continued, "This is Dr. Martin Fletcher from Chicago. And Dr. Hans Mueller from Heidleberg." Dave shook hands with Fletcher, then the rotund Dr. Mueller. For the benefit of the two visitors, Ballou then introduced Dr. Harry Benjamin, who also taught Asian archeology. A small orgy of small talk ensued, as everyone knew the others' work. These were the cream of the crop in the world of Central Asian prehistory, and there was much to catch up on, even though they'd never met each other in person before. "Dr. Mueller has a proposal for us," continued Ballou, turning the floor over to Mueller, who was beginning to sweat in the crowded, stuffy office. "As you all know, early Bonism, the original religion on the Tibetan plateau, is still pretty much a mystery. Since it was absorbed by the Buddhists, its rituals have been closely guarded, even more than usual among Tibetan Monks. But I believe I have found a Bonpo Monastery dating from the third century. It was abandoned sometime shortly after Songsten Gompo's death. I have heard that most of the Monks were killed, refusing to convert. A few joined a Buddhist Monastery. This discovery, I think, holds the key to the early evolution of Bonpo into the Black branch Buddhists. And if we get lucky, there is a lot to learn about the origins of Bonpo itself. "The major problem, of course, is that it is 185 Kilometers southwest of Lhasa. Off limits to tourists. The Chinese will never allow us in. If they knew about it, they'd destroy it. They barely tolerate religion now, and this would give the Tibetans something to rally around - their ancient Heritage." "So how do you propose to get there?" asked Dave. "The Nepalese border was closed after the riots in Xigaze. And the tours coming in from Chengdu are very closely watched." "Overland." stated Mueller flatly. "We can pick up some Sherpas and head over Thorang La, east of Annapurna. We'll look like normal trekkers, until we disappear over the border." "So why involve all of us?" queried the skeptical Dr. Benjamin. "You plan on taking any artifacts out? You certainly won't have time to study them there." Mueller hesitated, and glanced around somewhat furtively. "Yes," he finally answered. "We will bring out what we can. It will benefit our museums, and we should all get at least one major paper out of it. This monastery represents an era no one knows much about. The current monks just won't speak about it." "Is it even legal to bring this stuff back? I know if the Chinese or Nepali catch us, we'll spend a long time in jail." "Has that ever stopped you before, Dave?" "No. Guess I'm getting old and cautious. Well, count me in. When are we leaving?" "Can you get someone to cover the last month of your classes?" "Probably. Since Ballou is involved, shouldn't be a problem." "Good," Mueller declared, "then we'll plan on an April 20 departure. Here to London, to Calclutta. Another day to make it into Kathmandu. I have some contacts there I need to get in touch with. You're all aware of the climate, pack as light as you can. We'll pick up clothes for the trek when we get there. We shouldn't get above 15,000 feet in the pass, but it will still be miserably cold. Well, gentleman, I'll see you in Calcutta." As the three visitors left, Dave Plunkwell, sat at his desk and brooded. It was one thing to sneak a few trinkets out of some primitive, Third World hellhole. Tibet, no matter what the rest of the world thought about it, was under Chinese control. Very tight control. No country wanted their treasures plundered (and Dr. Plunkwell had no illusions that he was doing anything else), but in this case there was also a political element. The Chinese army had already demonstrated a thorough disregard for human life, so there was cause for worry. Indeed, he was getting old, and he really wanted to continue doing so. ***** Squalor. Ungodly squalor. Dave Plunkett was extremely grateful to be rid of the sight as the aircraft lumbered upward out of Calcutta, northward toward the roof of the world. Shangri La to the ignorant Victorians. An area that has seen thousands of years of war, ruled on occassion by the Mongols under Chakra Khan, various Han rulers, and sometimes even by the Tibetans themselves. A harsh place, but with a majestic beauty. But first, Nepal. And they watched the distant Himalayas float serenely past as they descended into the valley of Kathmandu. The screech and shudder of a nearly botched landing woke the party of four from their reverie. The mid-afternoon sun felt good as they exited the airport. An April warmth was trying to dispel the chill of winter. They found a taxi and checked into their hotel. It wasn't extravagant by Western standards, but it was clean and modern. And the restaurant served food oriented toward the Europeans and Americans that provided the bulk of its clientele. They enjoyed an early dinner and retired early. They were to meet their outfitter at 7:00. ***** "End of the road!" shouted Trisong Deutsen. "Horses be here somewhere soon!" All four of our intrepid explorers climbed slowly from the Land Rover. They couldn't believe their luck in getting one - a rare and expensive item in this part of the world. Trisong had done a splendid job getting things together for them. But this was as far as they could take it. The dirt track simply petered out as they drove upwards into the clouds. Ten long minutes later a group of seven horses was led up to Trisong, who then parted with a considerable stack of paper money. An hour later they had the vehicle well hidden and the horses loaded. They were soon riding close together, hunkered down against the chill wind descending from Annapurna. Trisong led, picking his way across a trail that Dave could not even find. A day and a half later they crossed the invisible border into Tibet. The announcement from Trisong cheered them on. The wind had died, but it was still damn cold as they skirted a glacier. Shortly after that, they began their descent onto the Tibetan Plateau. ***** "Holy Mother of God!" Martin Fletcher whispered, more to himself than to the group. "You are closer to being correct than you think, Dr. Martin," stated Trisong. "This temple started as Bon, but later used by Black Hats. Dedicated to Maha Kundi Bodisattva, the 'Mother of Buddhas' you would say." "Yes," agreed Fletcher, "but just look at that thing." It was an activity already in progress. The Monastery was four stories high, made of very fine stonework. Not unusual, except that it was perched atop a steep outcrop. Three sides dropped several hundred feet into the valley, the fourth side going up at an equally precipitous rate. There was no obvious way in. Trisong took the lead once more, and guided his horse up a narrow canyon. The walls grew steeper and taller, until the Monastery disappeared from view. Soon the terrain grew too rough for the horses, and they all dismounted. Tying the horses to scrub trees, they followed Trisong another 100 yards. He stopped in front of a small opening into the cliff. "Through here, gentlemen," he stated solemnly, "is the way in. I shall remain with the horses, while you explore. We shall camp here. It is well hidden. There must be no lights in the Monastery windows. Not if we wish to live. Go now, it is a short journey." Benjamin went back to the pack horses to fetch a flashlight. He left Trisong setting up camp. The cave turned out to be very deceptive. It was very narrow and small for 20 yards, then it turned abruptly and widened out into a large tunnel. They followed the tunnel for about 600 yards and came to an iron gate attached with only one hinge. Moving it aside, they entered the Monastery itself. Dave Plunkwell felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, but couldn't figure out why he was spooked. They continued onward, down a hallway with many small rooms to either side. All were empty. They eventually walked through an archway into a huge room. The walls were lined with shelves. Some type of very dense wood, very fine joinery, and reinforced with bronze fittings. The shelves were filled with manuscripts. Thousands of them. A few samples revealed some painstakingly detailed illustrations. They all appeared to be done in Sanskrit, the universal written language of the ancient Buddhists. In one corner, Plunkwell found a fine chest, filled with what appeared to be ceremonial objects. There were several prayer wheels and a number of Phurbas - multi-bladed ceremonial daggers. At the bottom were a stack of Thangkas, ceremonial paintings. He recognized many as depicting Avalokiteshwara, the goddess of compassion. Others depicted Khandro Chenmo Yeshe Tsogyel, a noted female Lama. Many others depicted Dorje Trollo, a wrathful manifestation of the second Buddha who fought against self-indulgence and self-centered arrogance. These were very fine artifacts. Some looked the same as the ones they'd all studied, some were quite different than anything known to the rest of the world. Dave was beside himself with joy. He picked up a particularly fine prayer wheel and read the first inscription, Om Mani Padme Hum, the basic mantra. The rest of the inscription he didn't recognize, but he tried to decipher it by reading the Sanskrit syllables aloud. As he read the syllables, there was a flickering light, seeming to eminate from the ceiling. He felt someone walk over his grave again. He shivered, and concentrated on the script. While he knew he wasn't the foremost expert in reading this ancient script, he knew it fairly well. He was puzzled that he couldn't make sense of it. He placed it in his jacket pocket to work on later. He removed a very nice bone Phurba as well. As excited as they all were, it was time to head back to camp. They had several weeks to explore and make sense of this place. And it was a very puzzling place. All of the manuscripts the others had examined had a lot of odd syllables in them, making translation uncertain and difficult. A lot of hard work lay ahead. For now, though rest was called for. Five days hard riding over treacherous terrain left all of them, and the horses, exhausted. They emerged from the cave to the smell of something indeterminate cooking over a small smokey fire. But they ate up anyway, and soon after nightfall everyone was asleep. ***** Dave Plunkwell did not sleep well. He was plagued by odd dreams where he would have breasts, or female genitals, or just long hair. The imagery was constantly shifting. His appearance in the dreams also shifted. He very seldom dreamed, at least that he remembered, and he was sure he had no desire to obtain the body parts he'd dreamed of. It was all very odd. He awoke less than refreshed, and had to choke down the thin gruel served up for breakfast. At least Trisong had agreed to do some hunting. Maybe they could at least get a little fresh meat for dinner. The next morning saw them in the upper floors of the Monastery, which seemed to span seven stories, including the basement areas inside the cliff. This appeared to be primarily living quarters, small, sparsely furnished rooms, and a soot encrusted kitchen. They'd had to pass through a rusted iron gate, which somehow bothered Plunkwell. It seemed out of place in a Monastery. The middle three floors also appeared to be living quarters, though larger and better furnished. There were a few Thangka, paintings depicting various aspects of Buddhism, and better quality bedding and fabrics. They assumed these were the quarters of higher ranking monks. They found nothing of real interest here either. Late afternoon found them back in what appeared to be the ceremonial areas, and they decided to call it a day before the light failed. Arriving at camp, they found Trisong cooking some sort of meat on a very hot griddle like device, reminiscent of a Mongolian Bar-B-Que. He would not say what it was, but they all ate with gusto and were highly satisfied. It had been many days since they'd eaten anything fresh. Once again Dr. Plunkwell had his odd dreams. Priapic women danced around him as he grew breasts and joined them. His face flashed back and forth between a feminine visage and his own craggy features. Once again he awoke somewhat drained. The thin gruel didn't help his disposition. Nor did the odd looks he was getting from the rest of the expedition's members. The constant itching of his chest made things even worse. The entire day was spent browsing through the vast archives and looting anything that seemed worthy of further study. Manuscripts were carefully packed and placed in bags which would be hauled by two extra horses. Fletcher and Mueller were thoroughly engrossed in this activity, with Dr. Benjamin helping a bit less enthusiastically. Dave Plunkwell walked listlessly around the room, occasionally pausing to read something interesting. He was very tired, and running a slight fever. His colleagues, seeing his pale, sweating skin, didn't press hard for him to do much work. A serious illness at this stage could be catastrophic, both for the victim and the expedition. The nearest medical facility was five days hard riding from here. Better to let him rest and try to recover. Deciding to get some fresh air, Dave climbed to the top level, again pausing by the gate. Oddly, it appeared to have been locked from the lower floor. It was apparently not a defense mechanism. Did they actually lock up their novice monks? Dave finally reached a window overlooking the steep valley walls to the northeast. His heart froze when he glanced out. For less than a mile away, slowly climbing the steep approach, was a platoon of Chinese soldiers. His illness immediately forgotten, he bounded down the stairs, breathlessly careening into Mueller on the second floor. "Chinese!" he gasped. "About a mile! Armed. Lets go." He continued his descent to gather the other two expedition members, closely followed by Mueller. Both knew what the results would be if they were caught here. Grabbing what sacks they could, they ran back out their entrance, hidden from the approaching patrol. One word was all Trisong needed to hear, and the fire was extinguished with a scoop of dirt. Struggling under the load of manuscripts and artifacts, they made their way down to where the horses had been temporarily corralled. They were soon mounted and on their way. It would take the patrol only a short time to discover that the place had been looted, and only a short time more to find their encampment. There was only one way down, and they were taking it as fast as they dared. They were still high in the canyon, and the going was very rough. The Chinese were on foot, but they had to have horses nearby, and they would race to where this canyon exited into the broader valley. If the expedition could beat them, they had the advantage. Trisong was picked as guide for a reason. He'd run smuggling routes through this region for his entire adult life. The Chinese, while formidable opponents, could not be locals. The Tibetans loathed the Chinese Army. As the sun dipped below the mountain, they rounded the shoulder of the canyon exit. There was no sign yet of the patrol. Trisong immediately led them up a steep slope, following a faint trail into the thick forest. With an hour or so of light left they headed deep into the forest, climbing rapidly away from the main trail. After about 45 minutes, they stopped in a small clearing and dismounted. In the quiet evening air they could hear faint shouting in Chinese. Mueller translated the bits he could make out. The Chinese seemed to be confused. They couldn't find the expedition's track in the dim light, and could see no sign of them ahead. They seemed to be making camp at the mouth of the canyon, hoping to catch the looters when they came down. There was nothing left to do. They tied the horses up and dined on stale jerkey. With nightfall, they fell asleep on pillows of leaves. Dave Plunkwell was still being visited by his nightly demons. He floated slightly above a layer of mist, aware of his breasts swinging freely, naked in a warm breeze. His auburn hair wafted around his face. He felt the sensation of his penis shrinking, forming feminine genitalia. He was joined by other apparitions, ghostly, swaying gently in the dark. He was trembling with fear. He was being buffeted in an increasing turbulence. His eyes popped open, the friendly dark face of Trisong peering into his eyes. "We must get moving, Dr. Plunkwell," Trisong whispered. Sunrise in an hour. We should be well away before the enemy awakens." Dave noticed that everyone else was up and moving. The night was just beginning to fade into the gray of dawn. He quickly mopped the sweat from his face. Ignoring the itching and lightheadedness, he found more jerkey for breakfast, gathered his blanket, and mounted his horse. They quietly moved off, following Trisong along some unseen path. ***** It was on the fourth day of flight that they saw a Nepali border police jeep pass on the trail below them. They were, at last, in friendly territory. At least in theory. The Nepali authorities would take no more kindly to their looting than the Chinese had. They still had to find their Land Rover, which was another day's ride, according to Trisong. But they could at long last make a fire and get something hot to eat. Dave's dreams had continued unabated. And physical changes had been noted by the others. They attributed them to Dave's illness. But Dave didn't know what sort of illness he could have. The itching was no longer confined to his chest. It was a constant struggle not to scratch his crotch. It would be unseemly, like some uncouth baseball player. And he seemed to be growing breasts. They were small, and he was sure no one else had noticed them. His face seemed to be getting smooth, and he was sure this was the reason for the strange looks he was getting from the others. His fever was climbing, although not yet serious. He had lost weight. Probably as everyone else had. It had been a grueling trip. But why were his shoes so loose? These thoughts occupied his mind until sleep replaced them with the strange dreams. ***** The hot shower was the most divine thing Dave had ever experienced. Eleven days without bathing was not unusual on these types of journeys, but he still didn't like it. The hotel staff had kept somewhat more distant than usual. Dave threw his clothes in the trash. They would never come clean after the abuse they'd received. But now, the blessed water. Warm water. Clean water. Dave's exhaustion melted away as the water streamed down his face, caressed his chest, and ran down his legs into the drain. He nearly forgot his illness. A lapse that lasted only until he dried off. His chest was quite sensitive. Looking in the mirror for the first time since he'd dragged his sad body into the room, he was shocked. His wet hair hung down beside a thin, soft, hairless face. The face sat above a hairless neck, attached to a hairless torso. Protruding from said torso were two small breasts. Small, that is, from a woman's perspective. To Dave, they were quite large. They were, from anyone's view, noticeable. His torso seemed smaller, ending in a thin waist and slightly flared hips. He expected to have lost a few inches from the trip, but not like this. He looked quite girlish. Something was happening to him. The key had to lie in the dreams. They made no sense to him, but he always seemed to end up female. He seemed well on his way in reality, as well. Biting his lip. Dave slowly got dressed. His underwear hung loosely on his hips. His shirt draped his shoulders - he had to roll the sleeves up to keep them from swallowing his hands. He had to punch another hole in his belt to keep his pants up. He had to stuff paaper into his shoes to keep them on his feet. With his frail looking face and limp brown hair, the effect was ludicrous. He looked like some homeless waif. But there was no choice. He had to go down and meet the others, to be seen in public. Surely their four minds could provide a solution to this...problem. Harry Benjamin blinked rapidly when he spied Dave coming through the French Doors leading to the dining room. Hans Mueller just stared slack- jawed. Martin Fletcher simply wore a look of concern. There were few patrons at this early hour, but Dave felt the surreptitious stares as he made his way slowly to the table. The bartender frowned. The homeless were not welcome here. His frown changed to a look of puzzlement as this western wastrel was welcomed by the three trekkers. Shrugging, he turned away. It was none of his business. "My God!" Benjamin finally got out. "What the Hell has gotten you? You look like you've lost 40 pounds!" "Maybe. Everything I own is at least two sizes too large. I was hoping maybe you guys had an idea." "We must think on it," replied Mueller. "Eat something, and we shall go back to your room to discuss it." Dave ordered a light meal from a reluctant waiter. It was only when Fletcher promised the meal would be covered that the waiter agreed to bring it. It was dismal. Luckily, there wasn't much of it. Dave handed the waiter enough cash to cover a very small tip, about five percent. It seemed to the rest of the party to be overly generous, but the waiter went away sulking. The four intrepid explorers walked up to Dave's room, missing the whispered conversation between the sourfaced waiter and a pale skinned European in a tweed jacket and black Fedora. "So, my young David," started Mueller when they were comfortably ensconced in Plunkwell's room. "You are thinner, and smaller. When I see you standing up, I am thinking you are a few inches shorter than you once were. It is quite obvious you have been the victim of some manner of, what is the word? Yes, a spell. Something you did in the monastery is no doubt to blame." The expected reaction of the others should have been disbelief, scorn, a mocking of these words by a person who used to command a great deal of respect for his mental prowess. But there was only a thoughtful silence. "I am loathe to agree with you on this Herr Doktor," replied Benjamin. "But there is no other explanation. Let's see what you brought back. Perhaps it holds a clue." Dave hauled out his two bags of loot, a task made more difficult by his diminished stature. He spread out numerous Thangkas, Phurbas, textual scrolls, and his mysterious prayer wheels. They started with the scrolls, concentrating on the painstakingly drawn syllables of Sanskrit. For an hour they found nothing out of the ordinary - these appeared to be conventional Bonist texts. Eventually, Fletcher's eyes drifted over to the prayer wheels. There was something odd about them. Walking over and picking one up, he frowned. "David," he started, "you didn't pronounce any of these prayers, did you?" "Well, yes. There were some syllables I wasn't familiar with, but they seemed similar to a few I did know. But even after trying to pronounce them, I couldn't quite make out the meaning. You familiar with them?" "Most. They seem to be addressed to Tara." "Yes, I got that part," interrupted Dave impatiently. "And I see the syllables for Han warriors. And what I think is the syllables for ritual intercourse. But I can't make out much else." "Some are pretty obscure," stated Fletcher. "But here's one that resembles the one for slave, or maybe servant. And this one is really weird. Looks almost like wife. It's not, but it is close." Mueller then wandered over and examined the artifact. Frowning, he studied it intensely. "Yes, Dr. Fletcher. I think you are on the track. From the results with Dr. Plunkvell, I think we can conjecture. It is obvious he is turning into a woman." Ignoring Dave Plunkwell's grimace, he continued. "Something must be causing this. The only thing could be something he did or saw at the Monastery, where this started. This prayer wheel has many suggestive syllables in it. You remember of course that the Tibetans and the Han fought many wars. Tibet was eventually part of the Han dynasties. But early on, Tibet was independent. "Also remember, the Bon were believers in ritual intercourse. They became part of the Black Hat Buddhists, who continued this Tantric tradition. But at times virgins were scarce. Women in general were scarce. Possibly they invoked the Goddess Tara to transform Han prisoners into women. Tara is the mother of all Tibetans, possibly she provided "daughters" in this way for her devotees." Stunned, the other three just stared at him. It made sense. It was the only explanation any of them had come up with. The unspoken question was, is there a way to reverse it. No one thought so, but they all began poring over what manuscripts they had. ****** Three days later, no one was any wiser, at least as far as reversing this transformation. They had in fact found oblique references to it, but no mention of a reversal. The question was becoming urgent. Dave's changes were making him too much different than his passport picture. In a few days he would either have to return or obtain a new identity - an unlikely prospect in this part of the world. "I'm going back." This announcement by Dr. Benjamin at breakfast did not surprise the others. "Then I shall accompany you," stated Mueller. "Martin, you and David must return to your home. We will find what we can. Surely the Chinese will have gone by now. With Trisong's help, we shall outwit them anyway." Dave nodded, trying to hide the tears in his eyes. He knew the importance of getting back in front of reliable witnesses. Martin Fletcher was respected, but known as a jokester. No one would believe them if they waited too long. The two went upstairs to pack while Benjamin and Mueller discussed their plans for reentry into China. Thirty minutes later, Dave and Martin were checked out and saying their goodbyes to Benjamin and Mueller. Moments later, their taxi pulled away on its journey to the airport. Unnoticed, a large black Mercedes pulled out behind them. "Young sirs," said the driver, "there is a car following. Is it of your party?" "No," said Martin, a bit puzzled. "Are you sure they're not just going to the airport as well?" "No sirs, I take short cut. My friend Thonmi, he work at hotel, he say you good guys. So I take shortcut. Save money. Most taxi, they go another way." "Shit," muttered Dave as he turned around to look. "Shit, shit, shit. That looks like Gerhardt Hassan. I met him at that conference in Munich two years ago. I didn't like him. Not sure exactly why, he just struck me as a real weasel." Dave's fears were almost instantly affirmed as they entered a rather deserted stretch of road. The Mercedes pulled past them then cut them off sharply. Their driver was very astute. Not understanding everything that had been said, he nevertheless picked up on the fear. So he was prepared. Braking sharply as the larger car skidded to a stop in front of them, he spun the wheel and pulled around the other car, wheels riding halfway over a ditch. Leading a cloud of dust and gravel, they regained the road and were half a mile ahead by the time the Mercedes' driver recovered and pointed his car back down the road. Dave and Martin fretted as the big car gained on them. This broken down Fiat couldn't stay ahead of the shiny new powerhouse. They didn't stands a chance on this stretch of road, straight for the next several miles. But their driver knew that as well. As they heard the powerful engine approach, their driver suddenly hit the brakes, causing the Mercedes to spin as it tried to avoid a collision. Steering sharply, they headed off down a gravel side road. Soon enough they heard the roar of the Mercedes engine and its large tires spewing out gravel. Dave could see their driver grinning in the rearview mirror. "Just wait," he said. A moment later he slowed quickly, still skidding around a sharp turn. He coasted to a stop. "Just wait," he repeated in response to the looks of alarm on the faces of his passengers. Soon enough, they saw what they were waiting for. The big Mercedes approached the corner at what they estimated was 85 miles per hour. Pure stupidity on a gravel road. Too late, the driver slammed on his brakes. Amid a shower of gravel, the car sailed past the turn, through a clump of bamboo, and into a field. The car bottomed out, rocks ripping the undercarriage apart. As the occupants scrambled out, the car burst into flames. The Fiat turned around and headed back the way it came. Ten minutes later they were at the airport. Dave made a quick call to Mueller. "Yes, thank you," Mueller told him. "We've seen someone skulking around. I think they are also looking for our Monastery. Do not worry. We've told the desk clerk how we are going to look for this thing. Except it is in the wrong place, and someone will have the Chinese looking there. We will be fine. Go now, don't worry, and good luck." Rain splattered against the window as the plane rolled down the runway. After climbing 500 feet, the plane banked as it entered the clouds. Kathmandu disappeared from view. Dave didn't care. ****** A collect call from New York between planes brought John Ballou to the airport. As Dave and Martin straggled out of the gate, Ballou pulled up short. He'd been expecting two of his top professors. And there was one, dragging someone along, he couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. But he or she did look vaguely familiar. "John! Thanks for picking us up," Martin practically shouted as the two shook hands. "No problem, but I don't think I've met your, er, companion." "Oh? Well, John Ballou, this is Dave Plunkwell. Dave, John Ballou." Ballou stood there, mouth all agape. He had to admit, this creature looked a bit like Dave, but was quite a bit shorter, and at least 50 pounds lighter. "Yes, John, it's me." Dave spoke up. "One of the artifacts had an, uh, undesired side effect. I'll explain in the car." Retrieving their luggage and a couple of air freight crates, they tipped a couple of porters to lug this load to the parking lot. They barely managed to get it loaded into Ballou's van. "OK," said Ballou as soon as the porters were out of earshot. "Hop in and start talking." Dave finished the tale as they pulled into the parking lot behind the Anthropology building. Dave held the doors as Martin and Ballou struggled to get the crates into a basement storage area. They finally ended up in Dave's office. "That's a hell of a story, guys," started Ballou. "I guess I have to believe it, or figure out how you found a woman who looks so much like the real Dave Plunkwell. So what are you gonna do?" "Well, John, that's the problem. I'm not through changing. I hope I'm not going to get much smaller, but every day my breasts get slightly larger, and my face turns a little more feminine. Where it counts, it's a done deal, at least from the outside. Based on the rate, it should be complete in about a week. Martin's offered to let me stay at his place for a while, since I can't really go back home. All my neighbors know me, and if I tried getting into my apartment like this, they'd have the cops there in no time. We'll try to sneak in sometime and pick up a few things, but the rest will just stay. What I really need to know is, do I still have a job?" "As far as I'm concerned you do. But what are you gonna use for documentation? Payroll will want your social security number and a birth certificate. But aren't you gonna even try to change back?" "Yeah, Mueller and Benjamin went back to grab some more scrolls. But from what we've found so far, it doesn't look good." "I'm glad you're taking this so well. I'd be nuts by now." "Numbness. In spite of having a very odd feeling body, I'm getting used to it. And we've been so busy I haven't had time to dwell on it. Maybe I'll go nuts tomorrow." "OK. Both of you look like shit. Go get some sleep. Take some time off. You can come in next week to start sorting through your crates. I'll make sure Dave's pay keeps going to the bank - he won't be missed until the Dean tries to find him next Fall. We'll have to see how things go from here." ***** "That's it for today. Please read chapter two. And we'll have a quiz Next week." Regina Plunkwell quickly gathered her lecture notes and strode back to her office. She had office hours in another hour, and needed to get some small chores out of the way. As she reached her door, she saw it was slightly ajar. Not again, she muttered, throwing it open. "Hans! Harry!" She exclaimed. "Dave?" asked Harry tentatively. "Yeah, its me. But it's Regina now. So, you made it. It's been five months. I thought you were in a Chinese prison by now." "Well, it was close. We made it back, and spent four solid months at the site. We did a complete inventory of the scrolls. We obviously didn't read them all, that will take years. We brought back a fairly substantial number, but nowhere close to all of them. They appear to be fairly mundane texts. We could find nothing that would let you change back. I'm sorry." "You did what you could. I'm adjusting. But what was close?" "Oh," said Harry, " we ran into our little friend Hassan on the way out. Persistent bastard, I'll give him that. But Trisong has many friends. We'll not be bothered again. By the way, if you're interested, I have half the scrolls down in the museum. We should be able to get at least two or three papers out of this." "Yes, I'd be delighted. I've already been through some of the first ones. And you Hans? You've got the rest?" "Assuredly, Fraulein. I too shall profit from this. It is unfortunate that David will not. There was some hope of sharing further adventures with him." Dave was taken aback by being called 'Fraulein'. Giving Hans a peculiar look, he went on. "Look Hans, it's still me, Dave Plunkwell. Well, Regina Plunkwell now. No need to be so formal. And why shouldn't Regina be open for more expeditions?" "Well. Pardon me, Regina. It is just my Teutonic upbringing, you know? Formality to the women, it is a habit. That is perhaps why I don't believe you will be going out in the wilds again. It is a rough place, only for men. You cannot possibly defend yourself." "Maybe, " she said as she stood and approached Hans. Three seconds later, Hans was on the floor shaking his head. "Or maybe not." "That proves nothing, it is just a trick of the Judo" said a shaken Mueller as he stood. "I think you understand all too well the rigors of fieldwork. I still think it is no place for a woman." "Then I guess we won't be teaming up again. Too bad. You know I've been invited by the Bhutan government to do a survey next season. I'm taking Martin, and Harry, if he wants to go. Well, good luck. I probably won't see you again for some time." Mueller stood scowling as Harry accepted the invitation. He finally stormed off. "Did you really get that invitation? How? No one's ever heard of Regina Plunkwell. By the way, I'm glad you're still with us. Ballou told us what you went through. He's OK for a boss." "I didn't get the invitation, my old body did. You know, when I got back, it was hard to convince Ballou that it was really me. I was only 5 feet 5 inches tall, my breasts were already forming, and I was basically unisex where it counts. But there was enough left of my old face, and I answered a bunch of questions correctly. He promised he would help, and I got to keep my job. But I was never completely sure he believed me until the Bhutanese delegation showed up. As it happens they were Black Hats. I had to explain what happened. They were none too pleased about our little incursion, but verified the curse. They called it an enchantment. Ha! "They pretty much validated Mueller's theory. But they were surprised. They hadn't heard of it being used after the Fourth Century. That at least gives us a tentative date for the Monastery, which they had thought was only a myth. They left on good terms, and Ballou was finally, totally convinced. He pulled some strings to get me a new ID, and here I am." "So, we're really going! You're the first outsider they've let in to do this sort of work. This is exciting. But I do have to wonder about Mueller's points. It is a very rugged country. You're not exactly Indiana Jones anymore. Can you handle the physical aspects? And how are you holding up anyway?" "Don't make me put you down on the floor too," Regina grinned. "I'll do OK. I'm not as strong as I was, but I am not some china doll. I won't break, at least no quicker than you. Anyway it won't be that bad. This time we've got government sanction, even their help. I can still ride a horse too." "So how do you like it?" "Man, you're a pig!" "No, really. What's it like?" "You wanna try the prayer wheel yourself?" "Good God, no! Its just that we've been friends a long time. I just want to make sure you're coping OK." "Then I'll tell ya. This female stuff can be a real pain, but it does have its pluses. Men make it easy. They always underestimate me, so I always win. I submit papers as R. A. Dunkwell, and they get accepted before anyone realizes I'm a lowly female. Its hell, but I am going to win. Bhutan will make my career." "Lets hope so. At least we won't have to worry about Hassan, or any of his slimeball friends." ***** April, the next year: Regina Plunkwell, having left her classes in the care of slave- like graduate students, boarded the DC10 for Rome, followed shortly by Martin Fletcher and Harry Benjamin. A pair of eyes shifted, following their every move. When the gate door shut, the eyes led their owner's body to a pay phone. No one took any notice. The End