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KOLCHAK: THE NYLON STALKER. (Based upon characters created by Jeff Rice.) By Way Zim. June 18th, 2005. Cleveland, Ohio. If and when this story hits the wire, the name within the byline will be quite different from the old war horse of a reporter, virtually at death's door while covering the strangest event, ever to occur in the erratic history of my career. But although a succession of occult incidents since the early seventies, had nearly caused my demise on more than one occasion, this time, as a pop culture icon proclaimed, It was personal. Yes, I live to write again. While the aftereffect of my survival was not what this crotchety caretaker of the public trust would have wanted, perhaps it's better than the other option... Oblivion. During my long journalistic trek, through the dark shadows of blood and bureaucracy, the name; Carl Kolchak, was scarcely one to strike fear in most official circles. Generally it simply created indigestion in the craw of those stout guardians of red tape and rampant non-denial denials. Still, it was mine, and I stood by it under the worst of times, even when it was scribbled in badly iced letters on my farewell cake just four days ago. June 14th. The building which housed the small offices of INS remained largely unchanged on the outside, though most of the interior trappings of the old wire service were gradually replaced by shiny cubicles and rows of iridescent monitors. Even the old editor and staff were gone, either shuffled off that mortal coil, or currently playing shuffleboard in retirement heaven. Tony Vincenzo had made too many trips to Manny's, his heart finally surrendering over one more corn beef sandwich. Or was it the pickle? Ms Emily, sweet old gal, had moved to Florida, where she'd made Willard Scott's list over several more years before passing away peacefully, as was her nature in life, without a fuss. Ron Updyke had actually married, after moving to NYC for a job with The Wall Street Journal, surrounded by reporters as anal-retentive as himself. As for me? Unlike those aged elephants, who wisely sunk themselves in the primordial tar when their time came, this old bull chose to stay on. It quickly became apparent to Tony's young replacement, Jacob Emerson Kane, that it was easier to promote than fire me. Perhaps he recognized some benefit behind wreaking a few china shops to gain notoriety. So while I received some autonomy in my articles, the grinder of electronic editorship barely left enough grist to raise more than the odd eyebrow. Over time, however, space was reduced to only infrequent filings from this old dog. The Andy Rooney of print, set against an information age whose blogs dealt in outrages which surpassed even the most controversial of my early work. All too soon, the name of Kolchak prepared to retire quietly from the field of battle. But even with old dogs, there was still some bite left... The festivities surrounding my departure were actually quite touching, the young women dressed in barely more than the tasseled showgirls of my Las Vegas years. They dutifully lined up to deposit generous kisses upon this old wrinkled forehead, some even given sincerely, while Kane gave a short speech praising my relentless dedication to the field of journalism. A bulldog of tenacity was how he put it, though Vincenzo would have used some saltier language to describe our long love/hate relationship. Still, the recurrent terror had also brought some moments of smug satisfaction. My fond musings, in the face of faint praise, was given a potent jolt from the unexpectedly firm feminine kiss on my dry lips. What did they say in classic film noir? "The moment she walked into my life, everything changed?" My moment had been in Las Vegas, and the dame? a slender gal in a sleek golden dress, a hostess in one of the smaller casinos of Sin City. Gale Foster, one hundred and one pounds of unabashed blonde charm and calculated innocence. The single soul whom I'd thought to share my sordid life with, until a rampaging vampire ruined it for both of us. As a reward for my assistance in helping the bewildered authorities rid themselves of this supernatural threat to life, limb, and city kickbacks, they showed me the road out of town. Likewise, most of my few allies on the strip were firmly asked to leave, and Gale Foster vanished from my life forever. Or so I'd thought. There was enough of Gale in the young woman smiling down at this seated old fool, she could only have been either a daughter, or very close relation. The bright hazel eyes twinkled with a sardonic wit as her full cheeks dimpled prettily. "Dad." It must have taken too great an effort to keep up the pretense, that melodic throaty voice laughing at the frightened deer expression on my face, even as the office gossips discovered fresh fodder for the water cooler. Still, I could appreciate a good joke even if it was on me, the prankster idly pushing a stray strawberry blonde lock out of her eyes. "Don't worry, Mr. Kolchak. I'm not your illegitimate love-child out to collect support. Just a curious girl come to find her mother's old boyfriend," she reassured me, looking as beautiful as Gale, even while clothed in a rather severe tan dress suit. "I wouldn't have thought she'd do that without trying to contact me," I responded in mild protest. "And I did try to find her after Las Vegas. I put ads in every paper I could find, on both coasts, and in-between..." "She really didn't want... Look, can we go someplace for a drink?" this mystery connection to my past requested, suddenly shy around my associates."I know this is your party, but..." "I'll get my hat," I replied quickly, happy for any excuse to escape this maudlin scene before I was required to get weepy. Even as I donned a very battered straw topper, she gave me another Gale smile. "Mother told me about that, how I'd recognize you." "Then we do have a lot to talk about," I admitted lightly, ignoring the stares as together we headed for the ancient rickety elevator. "If you don't mind someplace rather seedy." "Lead on, McDuff," her cheerful voice declared to my back, oddly comfortable after finally meeting this old suitor of mom's. But sometimes things just seem right. That was usually before we discover just how wrong they're about to become. It was said that that one day, as one of a vanishing species, this ancient reporter, ink stained and foot sore, would pickle himself with a bottle of sour mash bourbon. While I had rarely touched the stuff for many years, today required a return to old habits. My usual haunt was a dive known as Eddie's, home to barflies and broken relics such as I. My drinking partner hardly seemed surprised. "Before things get too stressful, I do have a name." "I would hope so." I smiled, though it was nearer a grimace than a grin."She was considerate like that." "Don't be that way," scolded the girl lightly."You don't know how much you meant to Mom. From what she could tell me, it was just too painful to see you hurt like that. And neither of you needed pity..." "Pity?!" "I'm just saying, she was protecting you as much as you wanted to protect her. And just for the record, my name is Karen Foster Klein. My dad, her husband after a long period of mourning, is Daniel Klein, a dentist from Akron. I'm thirty-two, a graduate of Columbia University in New York City, finished within the top five percentile. I now work as a freelance columnist..." "Are you sure you're not mine," I interrupted with bitter irony, wondering what other familiar traits this poor girl had been infected with. "God help you." "Well, unless Mom had an unusually long pregnancy, since she'd meet Dad some eight years after Las Vegas, yes... I'm pretty sure." Karen ventured, matching my sour mash tone before letting out a heavy sigh. "And it wasn't until I'd decided to study journalism that she finally told me about you." "So, how is Gale?" "She knows I came to see you," confessed Karen, sounding contrite for the first time. "I suppose a rather routine life was comfort for her. Mom won't call you, Carl. But after I get back, we might find an excuse for you two to talk..." "And what was the real reason you wanted to see me?" I asked bluntly, feeling she was being abit evasive. "It wasn't just about mending fences, now was it?" Karen Klein, the daughter that might have been, looked like a naughty child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. More than a little red- faced, she told me about the peculiar episode which began her own odyssey into the unknown. June 9th. Cleveland, Ohio. Karen would have done this would be dad proud, the way she'd dove into her studies. Apprenticed to The New York Times with such enthusiasm, she'd actually gotten feature bylines on several major consumer fraud pieces, well before most of her class-mates. Following in my favorite pastime of tilting windmills, she chose the role of advocacy correspondent after graduation. She clocked only a year on the New York beat before moving to Cleveland, earning a sweet syndication deal for distribution on the eastern seaboard, as well as Ohio, Pennsylvania and Illinois. It was no small irony that a number of her stories had passed through our service, perhaps even right under my nose. Still, her confident beauty and precise elocution prompted the downtrodden to seek her out, and suspect services to shut their doors at her approach. But until early June, the assorted scams, defective products, and sordid business dealings, rarely strayed from the conventional. That was when Karen got a call from an old friend. The search for eternal health and youthful vitality was as profitable as it had been in my time, the charlatans as plentiful, the information superhighway offering new avenues to the procurers of snake oil remedies. Still, the old often represented itself with pleasing new faces... From Karen Klein's unpublished notes: Jillian Crane, a voice from the past, privileged prom princess who'd married badly after high school. She'd been petite, impossibly slender, very blonde, and somehow friends with this former yearbook geek. Jillian said it was because I gave her good ink, who ever talked like that? on some school play she'd done. And to return the favor she took me in hand, as she put it, dragging me on shopping expeditions, and to some parties I wouldn't have gone to otherwise. Though I was hardly the social pariah she tried to make me out to be, it did open up some interesting options down the road, so I suppose it did me some good after all. After graduation, we went our separate ways. The last word I'd had on her was several years ago, and that was on CNN News. Jillian had gone to a prestige college somewhere in New England, met an up n coming assemblyman, and married into her future role as First Lady, or at the very least Mrs. Senator. But only a short time later, this aloof but otherwise inoffensive woman found herself a victim in a regional political potboiler. I won't rehash the specifics, happening as it did when every other eastern state governor seemed caught in a corruption scandal. The pay to play schemes, the surfacing of the obligatory mistress, though in this particular case, it wasn't a Ms, and Jillian became the long suffering wife, smiling gamely for the camera. She eventually vanished quietly from the headlines, with hurtful rumors and innuendo hinting at a sizable settlement for her to do so. I'd heard that Jillian finally moved back home, dabbling in real estate sales, and dotting on her two daughters. Jillian also, apparently, tried hard to regain some of that social standing she'd enjoyed before her world fell apart, going to some interesting lengths to do so. She eventually had to pay the piper for the attempt. It was late Thursday morning I got the call, after putting the finishing touches to an Op-Ed piece about defunct and dangerous amusement park rides. Jillian's voice at the other end was trying for a casual tone, but she failed miserably. "I've been touching base with some of the girls from our old clique," she explained, more than a tiny tremble behind the strained cordiality. "Your name is in the papers all the time, and I was wondering..." "Wondering?" I'd spent too long among some quite skilled liars, not to know that Jillian was fishing for the courage to ask my advice. Concerning what, I couldn't guess. "Would you be free for lunch? Today?" she finally blurted out, the line crackling slightly, or was that her voice? "Geno's about noon?" I ventured without hesitation, my girlish, as well as my journalistic curiosity aroused. "My treat, of course," Jillian added gratefully, openly disturbed by whatever news she wanted to share."And Karen?" "Yes?" "Thank you so much in advance. It's important to me that you come." Geno's Bistro was main stream Italian, barely, done up in the stereotypical checkered curtains and table cloths, canned Sinatra and like crooners playing on satellite radio in the background. But the food was decent enough, and they had a nice outdoor area for warm days like today. When Jillian finally arrived, it was as if a shadow settled over our table, the immaculate looking woman deeply stressed as she plopped down in the faux iron wrought chair. "It's been too long." My greeting was rather weak, even as her appearance surprised me more than little."You look great, Jillian." For someone whose life thus far, had been less than settled, Jillian Crane looked beyond great. Nearly picture perfect, with no signs of the knife, anywhere. She was dressed in sensible but still sensual clothes for the weather, a light beige blouse, translucent enough to outline her cream demi bra, the modest denim skirt falling mid thigh. Her face, while obstinately middle aged, had a strong glow of returning youth to the lean cheeks, the haggard emerald eyes sparkling with a strange vitality. "Thanks." Jillian didn't sound too convinced, the worry lines around those stunning eyes ruining this flawless picture. Still, I hadn't come to indulge in such catty critique, not when she was so troubled. "How's your family? Your girls?" "Lily just turned five, she's started a summer dance class." There was a return to the old Jillian in her prime, happy when talking about her babies. "She's so funny, pirouetting about the family room. And Lizzie, Elizabeth..." She faltered, choosing her next words carefully, but I couldn't let her back off that easily. "Jillian, just tell me. We both know you want to get this off your chest. Is it something to do with Elizabeth? Is she in trouble?" There was an all too human struggle going on, weighing her options, deciding whether to trust the friend from long ago, or distrust the reporter she'd become. "I believe my daughter is going to die," Jillian blurted out unexpectedly, "and when she does, it will be my fault." Pain was created from the fitness fads of the past thirty years. What was once poison lessened the age lines on our faces. Millions of dollars went into the coffers of self styled gurus who promised a centered self. And among the oddest programs to emerge out of this sea of self loathing, was an internet temple known as Janus ReGen Institute, it's motto 'Exordium Requiro An Terminus.' "It was really hard, trying to rebuild my life after the scandal." Jillian explained, while passing me some pictures of herself and the girls. The Jillian in the photographs was so different from what she'd become, a real woman worn at the edges. Still, even with the fine wrinkled laugh lines, the slight droop beneath bright eyes, her daughters love for their beleaguered mother chased away some of the ghosts. But apparently it wasn't enough for Jillian. "People can be cruel." "Those who were my friends, those few who truly were my friends, didn't know how to handle me when I came home. Those who were my husband's friends... well, they made it nearly impossible to establish my credentials other than as sorry backstabbing bitch!" she told me angrily. "It took me almost two years to find even a few clients who didn't see me as a clich?. I'd looked into some minor surgery, maybe, botox for my worry lines, shopped around for a mentor of any kind to straighten out my bruised psyche. But after attending numerous business and personal image seminars, it seemed as though I'd exhausted my options." Her two little girls, Lily in a simple pale yellow sundress, her sturdy body still clinging to baby fat, but that round face simply adorable, framed by a short pageboy crop of sandy hair. Liz, now eight, already showed signs of that spitting image of Jillian she'd have in her teen years. Mother and daughters seemed to reflect a happy family. "How did you become involved with Janus Regen?" I asked gently, feeling a touch of the mother myself. I wanted to make sure nothing happened to these two precious girls. "You'll laugh." Jillian rolled her eyes somewhat. "It was Caroline Mayfair, Carol The Chunk?" "Jillian!" "I know, I know, she really wasn't. But like you said, people can be cruel," Jillian rejoined, affecting a melancholy smile at private memories. "Still, while she started out as a joke, it was soon enough turned around on us. Carol ended up married to Brian McBride, heir to McBride Pharmacy chain? And she married well, apparently the two of them are very much in love." "Didn't she used to tutor him in algebra?" I'd asked with some incredulity. While not morbidly obese, Carol did stretch the limits of a full figure somewhat. But it was a strange world, and about to get stranger. "Evidently that wasn't all, but that's not the point," Jillian continued, sparing an odd glance over her right shoulder. "It was not long after my homecoming that I bumped into Caroline at the downtown mall. Inspite of everything, she was truly glad to see me, and as I shared my problems over a latte, Caroline was very sympathetic." Janus ReGen, came out of nowhere two years ago, originally a rumor on the web, of a unique counseling site coupled with a holistic regimen of herbs and oils. But while it seemed perfectly tailored for mainstream consumption, evidently the group only catered to a quite select clientele. "Caroline looked perfect, though she was still a somewhat husky woman," Jillian told me. "But it was as if the Janus program had idealized the image, like retouching a photograph. According to her, Janus had saved a stale marriage bed, had revitalized both of them and ironed out the kinks. Brian was more of a go getter in his dad's company, and Caroline..." "turned you on to Janus." Jillian grimaced, absently twirling a strand of angel hair on her plate. "It's not that easy to join the program. Except if you have a sponsor." She handed me a deep black business card, with a slick glossy surface. Apart from ReGen with a Latin script beneath in golden embossed letters, there was only a simple web address on the other side. I gave Jillian a quizzical look. "She didn't explain a lot, at first. Just told me to log on and Janus ReGen would do the rest." "And what did they do?" "Karen, they knew me, from the first key stroke. And this was only typing in the url. As soon as I'd found the site, a script message appeared welcoming Jillian Crane, guest of supplicant, Caroline Mayfair." She shivered almost imperceptibly at the memory. But sometimes vanity overrode fear. As she explained it to me, Janus requested she pass through the portal, in this case a high res amorphous golden shimmer on her monitor, requiring only a finger touch to signify consent. From there, the laurel bordered web pages lead her through a series of questions, very specific to Jillian's life thus far. With each, she was asked to supplicate herself, repeating the phrase 'Exordium Requiro An Terminus.' By the end of the session, she was strangely elated, even as Janus sent her a list of instructions, to be used with the package of herbs and oils being express mailed to her home address. For the next three months, she was to do exactly what was required, and when her boon was granted, payment would be due. "It sounds like a hacker prank." I was annoyed that Jillian would call me for something like this."Caroline could have sent them your personal information, and any number of Trojan viruses could have done the rest..." "I'm not an idiot, despite what people might say about me!" she shot back angrily. There was fear behind the vitriol, but also terrible disappointment in my skepticism. "This was from my work station at the office, and I had a tech professional put in some serious protection, just so some geek wouldn't go joyriding with client files." "Ok, I'm sorry," I soothed her, not yet convinced. "So, what happened next?" "Two days later I received a UPS parcel, containing a set of nine glass vials. Each one contained either crumbles of leaf, or a citrus scented oil. According to the instructions, during the concurrent lunar cycles, I was to drink a tea made from the leaves in one vial, from breakfast to dinner. At moonrise, I would find a secluded spot to strip down, caress my body with the oil from a single vial, and recite this prayer. "Janus petitions Artemis to favor this supplicant. 'Exordium Requiro An Terminus.'" "And you did all this?" "It couldn't hurt. At least that's what I thought when I started," she explained carefully, as if trying to describe some irresponsible act to a disbelieving parent. "And it was kinda exciting, after being so straight-laced and responsible. The first night, the moonlight seemed to reflect off my glistening skin, almost as if it was bathed in an inner glow. I tingled with a pleasure I hadn't felt for far too long..." "And when did the changes begin?" "It took time," Jillian admitted sheepishly, touching her face almost protectively. "But after that first night, it was as though the inner glow had become a permanent part of me. In my actions, in my thoughts, my dealings with other people. My outward appearance didn't really begin to take hold until near the end of the treatments." "And then payment became due?" I saw that Jillian was ready. Ready for what, precisely, I couldn't say. "Before that, there was Caroline," she answered tearfully, "And her baby." "She had a baby?" "It was why she'd looked so fat when we'd met. She was just a few months from her due date, but it was anything but a happy event for her. Caroline miscarried during the last lunar cycle," answered Jillian, clearly thinking of her own little girls now. "And as I know now, she understood exactly what boon was required by Janus." "And you believe that this cult now wants your elder daughter?" I counseled her somewhat pompously. "Jillian. Stillbirths are not uncommon, especially among women who might have the weight problems she had. Why would this have anything to do with you? or Liz?" "Because shortly after the death, I went back to Janus on a hunch. Caroline's name wasn't there. But mine was, and a statement that payment would be due. This was just the other day, at moon waning. My offering is to be presented no later than the end of the next two cycles." "And how do you know it's Liza that they're after?" I pressed, idly offering Jillian a tissue to dab her eyes. "Because of the questionnaire, because as much as I love both children, Lizzy will always be my firstborn, and Janus knows that..." "As God said to Abraham," I murmured softly, and she nodded vigorously. "And I need your help to stop this. I'll pay anything..." "I can't say I understand, Jillian." She was clearly distraught, and I was still inclined to think this whole thing as a fantasy. But her plea for help touched my crusader's sensibilities. If Janus was playing at some blackmail scheme, it was my job to investigate. "But give me the card, and I'll see what I can do." June 14th. Chicago, Illinois. Karen ordered another drink, downing it with one deft motion, her pretty eyes narrowing in a study of my reaction to her story. How could she know, how easily this all came back to me, the first blind step into darkness? The tantalizing promise of a scoop to elevate ones' career to Pulitzer Prize level, or drop it back down into that dismal pit of hack journalism. "So? What do you think, Carl?" she asked, waiting for a scornful response. I smiled softly. "This sounds vaguely familiar. Sometime you should ask me about the strange stories I've covered. But for now, please, go on. How did a web site in Cleveland lead you here?" Seeing only respectful interest in my face, Karen relaxed, happy to find a fellow believer in this sour old reporter. "The first thing I did was call in a favor with a chemist friend working in the municipal crime lab, and together we went over the card Jillian had given me. Nothing unusual was found. Brad even tested for odd electro-magnetic variants, but it was simply a regular business card. Then I finally tried to access the site itself..." Karen Klein's journal; Jillian was right about one thing. I had always seriously underestimated her. As rough as her logic was, there was no reason why Carol should have lost her baby. After a little snooping, I'd found nothing in her history to suggest any serious risk factors toward carrying a child to term. But nothing smacked of the supernatural, and I was prepared to pass on Jillian's fears as some kind of sympathetic psychosis. Still, the whole Janus scam... well, I had to find out just what was going on, didn't I? Even at first glance, the welcome page was anything but. My initial reaction was that it was a simple ink black screen, yet there was a subtle swirling motion, almost hypnotic, like the colored dye affect in some cheesy sci fi movie. If there was some subliminal messaging going on, perhaps it easily influenced certain individuals. "Karen Foster Klein." As Jillian had said, it was surprising how quickly the system grabbed the identity of the user. But while I likewise kept my anti intrusion programs updated, new viruses and troublesome codes popped up almost daily. Perhaps Janus knew I was coming. "Your presence is not welcome." Nothing would have been better than something, at least where this AI was concerned, as I felt encouraged by it's response. I always detested closed doors, and having Janus try to shut me down only inspired me to go further. "What did curiosity do for the cat?" It asked me a question, as if reading my mind. Like some psychiatric programs from the mid eighties, cued responses recalled from an online inventory, it all depended on predictability from the respondent. "I suppose it got a free trip to Disney World," I typed in, waiting for the electronic mind scramble to begin. "The Cat has nine lives, after all. And Josie had her pussy cats." "As amusing as this is, it doesn't address the question." Typical mimic response but then it got truly dark. "But the story was never the issue, rather it was the quest itself. Did Gale teach you that? or someone else? Someone you've yet to meet. Perhaps we might be able to fulfill this supplicant's petition." "You'll answer all my questions?" I was more than half convinced this had to be a live connection, the exchange too fluid and spontaneous. If I could save the dialog... "Not quite," Janus told me bluntly, all the while that golden script softly shimmering with a naturalistic hue, unlike any display I'd ever seen. "You will discover a different truth. Your petition has been accepted." The screen went dark once more, this time with an absoluteness to signify end of discussion. I tried for several more minutes to reconnect, but Janus was done with me for the present. I. on the other hand, was far from finished. Now I was just plain mad. Arthur T. Faber, the quintessential geek, an instructor at Case Western, was the cybernet answer to Sherlock Holmes, specializing in decryption protocols which frankly scared the hell out of me. But he seemed to have a soft spot for fox journalists, as he tagged me, and had helped out with several online frauds. "The deal with a complex interface like this is, that unless you're... well, someone like me or close to it, you need a lot of help to keep the whole system from crashing," he explained with his usual lack of modesty. As he pushed his half rim glasses back up his long narrow face, his only concession to style, Faber frowned somewhat. We'd been trying to crack the Janus code for hours, but even using every trick he knew, the wall refused to fall. As he said, the only programs which came close were serious black ops, and those were largely hypothetical. "The best I can do at this point is to try and back track to the source," he explained cautiously in dark frustration. "If I can't unlock the door, I could at least, possibly, get you a physical location." "Arthur, you're a prince among programmers," I gushed happily, giving him a small peck on a sweaty cheek."Whatever you can get for me, I appreciate it." "Enough for dinner and a movie? Or something like that?" His earnest advance made me smile. Faber's intense obsession paid very well, and perhaps he was less a rent a wreck than a fixer upper. We could work on that before any date... "We'll discuss it over coffee, after I'm done with this," I promised. "Then I'll hurry, and we can get to it sooner," he joked. At least I thought it was a joke. "That's sweet, Arthur, thank you." I was more than half convinced he'd have the information for me that night, and I wasn't far wrong. But in the meantime I'd other fish to fry. I visited another source on campus, armed with only a vague reference, but he was less than helpful. At first all I got was a smart ass suggestion that perhaps I was too old for fairy tales. Eventually he mentioned a name nearly legendary in some circles. An ancient history instructor teaching out of that Ohio bastion of liberal arts, Oberlin College. Not at all surprising amidst the strangeness thus far, he was known to both student and faculty alike as simply, The Professor. "Of course I've heard of Janus ReGen, Ms Klein," he told me sagely, after politely dismissing some rather attractive female students from his office. "Being a fan of the old Gods, I do try to keep track of their various incarnations, even when corrupted by the popular media." "We're talking about a very odd , perhaps dangerous business concern here," I interrupted rather bruskly. "As much as I need your expertise on what Janus is, I didn't mean to imply a literal connection." "The curse of our age," The Professor laughed, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "is that we lose the pure joy of wonder all too soon. The ancients did something which we find hard to do. They looked to the natural world to reveal itself, gilding the borders of the unexplained with gold and oak leaf. Indeterminacy has its pleasures, and its pain." "And you contribute this to Janus as a God of Duality?" I countered, his grin ever wider as he shook his head. "More like a conduit of change, as the simple Freudian explanations fall apart under tight scrutiny. He is the portal, but that covers alot territory. Not just Alpha and Omega, but all the grey areas in-between." "I'm not quite sure I follow?" The Professor rolled his eyes, as if I were a prize pupil giving a sub standard response on one of his tests. "'Yes or No.' Is that what we're restricted to, Ms Klein? One door closes and another opens? Now imagine as that portal shuts, you find yourself in a hallway full of doors? Instead of a single option, you're given a multitude of choices, along with their consequences." "And Janus offers both action and after affect. Or inaction and after affect? Professor, what does 'Exordium Requiro An Terminus.' mean to you?" "'To seek the Beginning', or perhaps 'The Beginning requires an end.' depending upon the ultimate goal of the initiate or supplicant," he murmured softly."Abit old school, since Life is largely reliant upon cycles of some kind or another. Often the very old or young are sacrificed in order to close the circle. A predatory act, if you will." "And given the arbitrary nature of Janus." I felt engaged inspite of myself. "How would a supplicant couch his, or her, request? How could you hope to get anything but chaos in return for any petition?" "If you could be more specific?" The Professor intoned, giving me an expectant gaze. "You have something in mind? More than just a casual debate..." "Of course, Professor." I reluctantly handed over my notes thus far. "It is a matter of confidence, I'm sure you understand." "As always, especially in the presence of pretty young ladies, I'm most discreet," he promised with a saucy wink and a nod. But as The Professor began to skim my longhand, he got quite serious. "You can see my problem, Professor," I remarked far too lightly. "Indeed," he rejoined, studying everything but my face, perhaps trying to find a hidden camera somewhere. "Though given the near infinite facets of the World Wide Web, I'd be amazed that it took so long." "For the Gods to find a home in cyberspace? If we believe this to be the case." "You're not the skeptic you claim to be, Ms Klein," he scolded me. "And I've never been that convinced the denizens of Mt Olympus really left us. Perhaps the electronic ether isn't that different from the void, and retirement might chaff for some deities." "But why now, and why this way?" I couldn't quite let go, imagining that once I started down that road, it would never end. "I mean, what does it benefit an all powerful God to run an online help site?" "How do we know Proctor & Gamble doesn't really front for Phoebos?" The Professor challenged me. "How can we be sure that many contemporary institutions haven't propagated new venues of worship for the Olympians?" "I just need to know how to stop it, if I can ever figure out where it is. Because Jillian believes, and while she does, her daughter is in grave danger." "No matter how attractive the internet might be, there should be a tangible temple somewhere," mused The Professor. "Of course it could be anywhere. Any city, any town. But how does one challenge the will of a God?" "Yes?" "Make a better offer. But be prepared for the fireworks if he doesn't take it." I got home late, The Professor and I arguing the finer points of his philosophy over pizza and red wine at his on-campus crib. While he was unwilling to step back from the notion that any direct challenge would end badly, he was intrigued that Janus seemed to encourage my attempt to try. "I have to wonder what he wants from you. And just what precisely was your petition? If you can discover that, it could well be the key to undo circumstance and coincidence. It's a slim chance, but if consequence falls apart..." Even as I understood his point, The Professor advanced a more intimate choice, ventured by superior laughing eyes. But the softer moment was interrupted by a low buzz from my cell phone, and I had to check it. I did feel slightly guilty upon seeing several text messages from Arthur. As intellectually seductive as The Professor was, there were miles to go before any promises could be kept. He took the disappointment with good humor, grasping my hand at the door and gallantly kissing it. "Despite my doom and gloom, don't take all of it to heart, Karen," chuckled the mythologist. "The Gods do recognize valiant effort, from time to time. That's your weapon of choice, I think. Keep your motives pure, and I look forward to continuing our discussion, at a later date." Just past one in the morning, I was unlocking the door to my small apartment when Arthur phoned me again. "Where were you? I've been trying to get you since 8 o'clock," he demanded as I picked up. "I do have this job, Arthur." My frustrated libido annoyed by this onslaught of would be lotharios. "I've had a long day chasing contacts, so if you could back off abit..." "Sorry." He sounded like a pouting little boy. "I got the information you wanted, and I thought it was important..." "Arthur," I warned, wanting the data without all this bratty baggage. "I appreciate your hard work. I'm just tired and cranky right now, so if you don't mind..." "I managed to decode a subroutine which was hardly the skeleton key we hoped to find. However, it did allow me to narrow my search quite abit. It was a staggered trail which lead me on a merry chase, through several systems on the east coast, down through Mexico and looping back into Texas. It terminated somewhere in Illinois, though the online address doesn't jive with any RW location registered in the area given." "Well, what city is this system in?" "It says Chicago, but that covers all the boroughs and then some, out to a radius of forty miles," he told me. "It could be a dummy address, but I don't think so. The routing code ends with this system. Does this mean 'No Coffee?'" "Make mine an espresso with just a touch of cinnamon. But we'll have to defer it till later." my mind was tripping as this new set of circumstances fell into place."I'll let you treat when I get back from Chicago, OK?" He sulked at not getting his prize that night, but I managed to sooth his hurt ego somewhat before finally disconnecting. If the information I was after wasn't on the net, I needed a native guide to explore the paper trails in the windy city's archives. Thanks to Mom, I knew just the man for the job. June 14th. Chicago, Illinois. Karen Foster Klein, lovely crusading journalist, gave me a questioning look from across the small rickety table. If she was expecting derision from my corner, well, I'd been down that road far too many times myself. "So, some old Greek whosit..." "Actually I think he's Roman, Carl." "Some Roman God is causing a fuss in Cleveland, and perhaps even some ruckus here as well, if we snoop around long enough." My soft spoken musing raised an eyebrow from Karen, and it amused me more than just a little. "It wouldn't be the first time, not for this old news hound, in any case." "You're joking, Carl." She wasn't quite sure if I was pulling her pretty leg."Aren't you?" "A vain woman named Helen asked the Gods to preserve her beauty, using a electronic dating service to suck the youth from her very select clientele. That was just over thirty years ago." I chuckled dryly, recalling their stormy displeasure when Helen's offerings proved to be less than perfect. "I never knew any of this!" Karen exclaimed. "Mom never told me any of this..." "This happened long after your mother and I parted company," I answered ruefully. "And everything's recorded on tape with some of it transcribed to paper, all locked away in a safety deposit box. I keep thinking about publishing, but who would believe it?" "Nowadays, it's ridiculously easy to find your audience." She laughed, a great weight lifted by my confession. "If not in the bookstore, then on the web. I'd read them, for sure." "Then I'll be sure you get access." It tickled my cynic's nature, those bright eyes excited at the prospect of delving into the mystery which was Carl Kolchak. "But we have some work to do in the meantime. Still, it's late, and you look like you need some crash space." "I am a little wiped, Carl," Karen admitted with a tired grimace. "My bed is lumpy, but if you don't mind..." I offered, wondering at how easy this paternal concern came to me. "Lead on, McDuff." By the time we'd reached my place, just around the corner from Eddie's, Karen was dragging her feet slightly. I easily took the overnight bag and laptop from her, gently pushing her toward the bedroom. "I do have fresh sheets if you want em, and the bath is down the hall..." She'd found the overstuffed mattress, making it her own, and I simply pulled off her shoes before closing the door. While Sleeping Beauty slumbered, this old frog began a series of calls, reaching out to touch my contacts and find her mysterious address. June 15th , Karen Klein's journal; My hangover was blissfully mild, as the clatter of dishes woke me from what evidently had been a wild sleep. A stocking foot dangled lazily off the side of the fat mattress, my hair tangled as I tried to get up too quickly and failed miserably. After the long drive, and then drinking 'God only knows what' with Carl, I hadn't had that much trouble holding my booze since college. It took a few minutes more to reorient myself, but breathing deeply, my feet found the floor with only a little effort. The dear old man was defunctly domestic, but it was the thought that counted as he smiled ruefully at my entrance. "I don't entertain much." Breakfast was a bag of bagels, with fixings and coffee from the corner deli. While the spread was set out on nice plates, it was all assembled rather haphazard. "I'll take the coffee, Carl. As for the rest, it looks great." Evidently quite the night owl, he'd been burning the midnight oil, arranging a meeting for us with one of his contacts. "Morris Goodall is abit off," Carl apologized in advance. "But he's spent alot of time buried in the basement of City Planner's offices. There's a rumor he hasn't seen the light of day since 1997, and that was for an appendectomy." "And he can help us?" I mumbled through a mouthful of onion and cream cheese. "Let's just say," replied my associate with a dry chuckle, "where the super information highway ends, that where his world begins. And mine too, I suppose. You ready to take a ride with me?" "Just let me freshen up abit." My center restored with food and caffeine. Alittle water, a touch of makeup, a brisk brush through my hair, and I was good to go. Riding with Carl made me reevaluate certain things I usually took for granted... like breathing. While his navigation skills were still excellent, I suspected the rest of it would be up for review in a couple years. But even with a few close calls, we managed to reach our destination in one piece. Once out from behind the wheel, however, the old man returned to type, amazing to watch as he bullied security on the way to the elevators. What I would've given to have seen him at the height of his hubris. "There's really no deep dark conspiracy here," Carl told me sardonically. "I just like to keep them from thinkin ol Kolchak's gone soft." "Anything but," I murmured to myself, hoping I'd have half of his bottomless confidence when I reached his age. It was a blinding revelation that I understood part of what mother must have felt. It really surprised me that it meant a great deal we were on this crusade, together. June 15th. Karen was oddly quiet as we entered the subterranean chill of the archives, ancient enough that the musk of settled air startled our noses. I didn't tell her that I felt as dusty as the dead files, obsolete before the new technology. Morris was almost an antique himself. He was a gnomish thin man, hunkered behind his desk, custodian of the long rows of binders, leather bound text, nearly the whole architectural and zoning history of Chicago. His long bony face, brilliant gaze hid by oversized owl glasses, glanced up at us, a great toothy grin at Karen's approach. "Kolchak," his whispery voice greeted me, standing to full five foot height to offer a leathery hand to my pretty cohort. "And this must be Ms Klein. I didn't realize you knew any respectable journalists..." "Funny." "You've read my stuff, Mr. Goodall?" she asked politely, sparing me a saucy wink. "The darling of the underdog, and last hope of the unappreciated," he quoted like an exuberant fan boy. "I only wish you'd do more articles about the dismal state of Historic Preservation these days..." "As a matter of fact," she rejoined cheerfully, ignoring that he still held her hand after the introduction. "That's exactly what Mr. Kolchak and I are about, and why we came. If you could identify a place for us? We can't quite find it from other sources, so if you could..." "Not surprising," Morris retorted, though not to Karen directly. "Every so often we have some students come down here on research. They go through the archives with the aim to transfer it to the new media. Once it was microfilm, now it's the web. They're always missing stuff, so my job's still secure." "Can you find this address?" Morris reluctantly let go to accept the slip of paper from her free hand. "Already intrigued, Ms Klein. Especially since the numbers are all wrong." "Pardon?" "Firstly, this is a surveyed zone, not an address. Also, it's written in pre-1908 code, prior to a severe realignment of streets and neighborhoods. I can't quite see how your lot would get so lost that an online search wouldn't turn it up, but we'll see... now that's interesting." Goodall's apple wrinkled face gained a whole extra set as he grinned impishly, playing 'I've got a secret' with two bemused reporters. As patient as Karen seemed to be under the circumstances, I was decidedly less so. "What is it, Morris? I don't have alot of time left." "Half a moment." He deftly disappeared into the stacks. "Morris?" We heard the moving of books, and a few odd grunts before the little librarian reappeared with a short stack in his earnest grip. "Kolchak? Ms Klein? I really do think you're going to like this," Morris chortled. June 15th. Karen Klein's Journal, final entry; On the move once more, Carl indulged in a boyish display of sharp enthusiasm. Clearly his eccentric sense of irony was aroused, which by equal measure was both annoying to and contagious for his partner. "Kolchak, you old fool, you stepped in it again," he cackled, shaking his head slowly as we headed along the west river. "And all this time we blame our messes on crooked politics and old cows." I couldn't quite share the joke, not with a young life on the line, but perhaps a certain gallows humor should exert itself about now. Still, his macabre musings echoed The Professor's remarks about cyclical fate as we revisited the neighborhood where that famous spark first set Chicago's historic blaze in motion. Now, if Arthur and Morris were correct, the unassuming business, a mix of old masonry and modern glass facade, was the home to a very different kind of fire. "So how do we handle this, Carl?" I asked politely, trying hard not to snicker at the clearly nonchalant attitude of this elder reporter. Partly it was the annoying feeling of being an interloper in his world, an unreal territory far beyond my more grounded experiences. The rest was a vague suspicion which was confirmed by his sweetly sour smirk. "Young Lady? At this point, I'm winging it." "Well," I decided, opening the passenger side door impulsively, "I'm in the mood to do some window shopping." Janus ReGen had the air of a fly by night operation, it's legend, hastily painted block letters on the wide glass window front. I couldn't brush aside the impression that our visit was anticipated, peering through at the long unadorned counter, a row of linked chairs sitting hopeful, though no client could breach the padlocked front door. "Shall we see if there's a back door?" suggested Carl, so gleeful that I figured him for a reprobate from way back. "Carefully though," I cautioned, the lunch time bustle in full swing now. "We don't want to be mistaken for burglars." Almost as I spoke, we heard the deep throated rumble of a small truck throttling down, the hiss of air brakes as it turned into an alley to our right. The timing appeared impeccable and more than a little improbable, but we take our leads where we can... Carl was already gearing up to engage the burly pair, but I placed a hand on his arm and offered my most feminine smile as if to say. "It's my turn." Erin Brockovich, that accidental crusader, had once told a reporter she had two invaluable assets in uncovering the truth. Of course by now everyone knew what she meant, though the world was honestly too cynical to fall for such cheap theatrics. Or was it? Good sturdy Italian men, no nonsense under most circumstances but melted like butter before a pretty face, I didn't even undo one button to solicit information from them. Unfortunately what they gave wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. "Sorry sweetheart, we'd really like to help you out, ya know?" said the old man, Georgie, still trying to peer through my blouse with his x-ray eyes. "But we're just contracted to make deliveries to this address. There's not even a real warehouse, just a half dozen venders who likewise have nothing at do with Janus." "But who signs off on the order?" I pressed, pouting my lips slightly. "You guys just drop it off in the alley? What if someone takes em?" "Honey, you can get probably most of this stuff at any supermarket or flower shop," chuckled the younger man, barely out of his teens. "Who's gonna fence laurel leaf or extra virgin olive oil? Besides, everything's cleared electronically, we use a pass key to put the boxes just inside." "We'd love ta chat all day with you, yer very cute, but we're kinda on a schedule here," the elder delivery man interrupted somewhat testily, exchanging odd looks with his partner. "If you wanta talk more, or something, we could meet later. I know this bar not far from here..." I was only half listening, distracted as I was by the sight of Carl making odd hand gestures, a kind of scything motion which I couldn't quite decipher until I saw the kid slip an unremarkable plastic card into a door slot. In addition to the regular bolt mechanism, there was a flat metal plate in the jam, clearly meant to frustration any ordinary burglar. "Well," I cooed, feeling very silly, leaning back against the wall as I covertly slipped my wallet out of my small purse, "that sounds nice. Of course I can't promise I can make it..." "Sure, sure," soothed the senior easily, obviously the self styled player of his day. "But you show up by eight tonight, we'll treat you, OK? It's a nice place called Sophie's, five blocks south. Now we gotta lock up here, hon. Step back from there." It was tricky enough, timing it so that I could play my card without the two Romeos noticing, but I had hopes the lack of a solid click meant my misdirection would bear fruit. Perhaps olives or pomegranates. Regardless, even as I waved sweetly to speed my new boyfriends departure, they would have to be disappointed as Carl and I had other plans... such as breaking and entering. June 17th. How quickly two days fly by, especially after that strange encounter on the evening of the 15th left me in a shape I'd never expected, and poor Karen... I sit in her apartment, staring at alien mementos of a life thrust upon me, knowing that our places shouldn't have been so violently exchanged, that the Fates or Gods could be so blas? about this old man and a foolish brave young woman. Thanks to Karen's quick thinking we'd gained entry into Janus ReGen, though quite rightfully she suggested we find some food and drink nearby to wait out the business rush. She and I shared more small talk, mostly on my part, filling her in on the oddest adventures of my eclectic career path. It felt somewhat cathartic to find at least a good listener if not a fellow believer in those pretty eyes. "You lead such a lonely life, Carl." She sighed, reaching across that mahogany table top to give my wrinkled hand a platonic squeeze. "Sure, you had contacts, some friends, but little satisfaction..." "Till now, you mean?" I chuckled before grimacing painfully. I spoke to Karen but I was thinking about Gale. "But don't you feel sorry for me, youngster. No way old Kolchak's going down that road. There's too much water under the bridge to start any pity parade now. So just stop it!" "Yes, sir." She laughed at my stubbornness, easily falling back to stalwart, albeit a shapely brilliant comrade. "So are we ready to soldier on? It's almost ten..." Her instincts unerring, we found the business still buttoned up tight, save for the alley door which was held unlocked by one of Karen's credit cards. But despite the deserted look, we discovered upon entering that appearances were deceptive, the packages brought by that afternoon were gone. At closer examination, what was an empty space was less so as Karen shone a pen light at the far wall. What had been only blank white space shimmered, like her description of the Janus ReGen web site. If I'd been more cynical, perhaps things might have turned out differently, we might not have passed through the veil into that antechamber, two reporters driven by the wellspring of our passion... an insatiable need to know. The transition was jarring, as if there was a vacuum of air for less than a second, both of us gasping, though as much by the ornate surroundings as suffocation. It was almost like stepping back several thousand years, and yet the circular room was lined with countless wall monitors, half concealed by gossamer drapes as they observed seemingly mundane human activity. In the middle, however, was a raised dais of three tiers, some four feet high, ringed by four short marble pillars upon which were busts of the same androgynous head neither male nor female. Forever youthful, crowned by carefully sculpted ringlets, the alabaster faces wore different expressions of Humanity, from placid to passionate, fearful to stern. "Welcome, Ms. Klein," echoed a chorus which seemed to erupt from each mouth, though the chiseled lips never moved, ambiguous in gender. "We're pleased that you accepted our invitation." "I came here to stop the murder of an innocent," she protested, still slightly winded, glaring darkly at first one face then another. "Perhaps, but you followed the clues we laid down, followed them unerringly to the source. It was what we willed to happen..." countered Janus. "Uh, excuse me," I jumped in, "but wasn't this a Rube Goldberg way to invite us to tea?" "You were simply a tool, Mr. Kolchak, an accident of circumstance," snarled the voice. "So long ago, so many times before, you should have died. But as unexpected an influence as you were, we foresaw a useful purpose in bringing this young woman to us." "Sorry to mess with your grand scheme." "You were unintended, but Karen, as honest as Pandora in her quest for Truth, was groomed from birth to suit our needs," explained the entity, God or Trickster. "She is meant to investigate those areas of uncertainty, the nether realm just beyond the edges of our omnipotent periphery..." "I'm afraid not, Janus, or whoever you really are," Karen interrupted angrily. "You threatened a child to get to me. I don't take kindly to being used like that." "Isn't it more a kindness to know your greater purpose? To illuminate the dark zone of mortal existence? We could help determine where your skills might be best used, would reveal the greater need..." "Kind of like what I did," I mused, almost to myself at which point this being seemed to take great offense. "You were always the random element, Carl, the buzzing insect in the amphitheatre. Despite periodic good works, you did it for your own advancement, a shout to draw attention to your unfulfilled existence. But as you yourself realize, the time for your retirement is long past due, to return your remaining energy to the ether where another can make better use of it." "Just another death to suit your purpose, a chess piece retired," Karen snapped, taking a step toward the dais which began to hum with an invisible force. "Whether you called him or not, I can't stand by and watch as you kill him. I won't work for one so callous and cruel." "It is out of your hands," Janus chided her, a vibration now in the air which made my body tremble, our positions such that while Karen was almost as close as I to the center, still I would be quickly extinguished without harming her. It's strange to consider that at the instant of my inevitable demise, I felt ambivalent toward the fast approaching maelstrom. This was where a split second could have changed outcome, but my wounded pride held me back as Karen; my daughter that should have been, rushed toward the platform, an expanding mass of pulsating yellow energy at it's center. Janus was confused by her unexpected action, her death so certain that I finally made my choice. I flung myself forward, hoping to catch the edge of this advancing storm, to take the shot before it could engulf the woman I'd grown to respect, perhaps love more than just a little. It was too late for the both of us, this sorry old man and this youthful crusader. The energy of Janus absorbed us, our physical bodies disintegrating before so great a power. But the line separating spirit and substance had blurred, all feeling gone with only our consciousness remaining to carry us into the abyssal whiteout. It seemed that Karen and I were joined, on a level I couldn't begin to describe, like two souls cast adrift, holding to one another by the barest fingertips. At the last, however, I felt her presence tear loose as a new force intervened. I could hear a distant echo in my mind, dwindling until only one word reached my battered psyche. "Remember." I lost myself for what seemed a very long time, with no recollection of where I was or how to feel. When any sort of physical sensation returned, it definitely felt wrong, in what was there and what was missing. As used to an old body as I'd become, the greater level of energy, the return of a powerful tactile range, a mind racing through restored neural pathways, it only added fuel to my confusion. "You're restored, in a manner of speaking," came that damnable echo of Janus, even as I felt cool air against supple naked flesh. "Only a manner of speaking, Mr. Kolchak." "And where's Karen?" I demanded in a higher pitch voice which wasn't mine. I knew who it was, damn it! I knew..." "She was, and is no more," Janus answered, sounding as angry as I felt, the female body in which my consciousness lay going through a very distracting self-maintenance, fluids flowing, specific body parts experiencing a strong arousal. "But that's not to say that she's gone." "Ok, just let me clear my head and we'll hash this out," I temporized, greatly unnerved to have my thoughts uttered through her sweet voice. "Karen's gone, but she's not?" "The original essence which was Ms. Klein was lost to the abyss where you were dragged. We managed to reconstitute her body with every recollection, every scrap of her short existence carried in each cell, a copy of what her mind once held. But your own consciousness intervened, that stubborn will to live, it clung to the nearest literal form to make manifest that desire." "So who am I? Carl Kolchak or Karen Klein?" I was almost begging now, my usual cocky resignation gone. Was it a result of loss, or the strangeness of my new gender? "You are a Chimera, the improbable brought forth by your own selfish desires. Your life was forfeit, saved by the love of a girl who scarcely knew you, and yet that might be the way to correct this terrible mistake." Kolchak the arrogant, the old bulldog of tenacity, who'd performed the ultimate sacrifice for his personal truth, I could only humble myself now, hope against hope that Karen be brought back. "So, just dump old Kolchak into the ether and put her back in this body..." "By Fate or Misfortune, the brain must have a consciousness to keep it alive. While the restoration is possible, it will take time. Only your presence can help stir those buried experiences, draw them out until, like a jigsaw puzzle, Karen Klein can become whole." "And I die?" "You would return to the void, as you were meant to," admonished Janus before adopting an almost sympathetic tone. "This is your hero's quest, Kolchak, to live her life as it was meant to be, to reawaken memories slumbering in flesh and genetic heritage. You must be Karen in both body and soul, until her rekindled perceptions eventually eclipse your own. It is your redemption as well as her only hope." "She asked about the child..." "We consider her sacrifice as payment enough for both supplicants. The girl will live a long and fruitful life. We will likewise honor her intent when you succeed, Ms. Klein." "And how long before that happens?" "It will depend upon how well you live your life, Karen. Embrace those who love the woman, those who respect the journalist and virtuous crusader, they will help you understand all aspects of her inspiration." I couldn't help think that Janus was getting the better part of this deal, as unsettled as I was, still sorting out the novelty of the shape I wore, feeling very much the imposter as I played a part I was ill prepared for. But it was her face across the table, my own insecurities and doubts reflected in those... my lovely eyes, which strengthened my resolve to see this through. "Well, if I'm to do this thing," I murmured contritely, my Olympian host sensing a softening of spirit. "I'm going to need something from you as well." "Yes?" "Some clothes would be nice," I requested lightly, feeling the chill in sensitive places... So I tore down one of the banners to wrap myself in, picked up all that remained of our tragic heroine, a small tan shoulder purse, took advantage of the late evening lull to reach my car only to find I'd left the keys behind in eternity. Fortunately I'd picked up some skills from my shadier contacts, awkwardly hot wiring the vehicle so that I could return to my apartment unmolested. Molested! A word which had a frightening connotation for me now. There would be a whole new set of values to learn, and me without a road map save one. I'd always nurtured a faint hope over the years that we'd meet again, but as lovers, not mother and daughter. Still, I couldn't go to Gale just yet, choosing instead to gather everything of Karen's I could and get her back home, to Cleveland. I needed time, something which I now seemed to have plenty of, time to confront my own feelings, time to find someone to confide in. Thankfully, when I got the chance to review Karen's notes, they revealed a likely candidate. "Come, Ms. Klein," offered the enigmatic scholarly figure who could only have been The Professor. "I'm glad to see you back, whole and without a scratch. At least on the outside." "Not quite," I snapped, feeling irritable and ill-used, or was it that nasty surprise of nature which visited me in the morning, taking me most of the day to figure how to handle. "But I suppose you know all about it." "Why would I?" he countered innocently, inspecting me closer now. I was a mess, albeit a tidy one, a replica of a well dressed female with only the most cursory information to go by. I'd showered thoroughly, an interesting experience though I'd bypassed some potential pleasures. More from shame than anything else. I'd finally stopped my flow, carefully reading the instruction on the package as if I were rebuilding a custom Chevy as tending to feminine hygiene, found some pills to lessen the cramps. After a touch of lip gloss and a brush through my thick hair, I found the most modest lingerie, a tan business outfit, sensible flats. I felt unmade, that Karen, even after a rough night at my old place, had looked far better. "You're in good with the old Gods, Professor," I scolded him, as confident as I could sound under the circumstances."More an enthused fan boy, young lady... or are you?" he remarked, less casual now as the philosopher emerged. "Your aura is way off kilter." "You have no idea," I answered with a meeker voice, caught off guard by his covetous gaze, as much the letch as learned scholar, feeling the full impact of my circumstance all at once. I thought I knew better, but felt foolish in trying to hide anything from him. Letting slip a tiny sigh, I leaned back in my chair with a decidedly unladylike posture and confessed everything. For the record, he was scarcely impressed by my account, clucking