 CHAPTER 1 RITTEN RED AND RECORDED BY ALLAN DRAKE Elizabeth McKenna remains the sole guardian of both the enigmatic yellow sheets and the delicate blue tulip. They were secreted on a lower shelf in her walk-in pantry, long after the collapse of the national elections, long after El Nino inexplicably reversed its northern flow to turn stubbornly southward, long after her husband packed off to climb the Himalayas with empty excuses, looking to find himself, long after he was caught selling her precious passport to traffickers on the Tibetan plains, long after he escaped, kayaking down the Brahmaputra with a nameless thirty-year-old schoolteacher, long after Liz's lonely, sleepless nights were replaced by stargazing on the bluff behind her Montana home, long after the city's first August frost crept through her gardens and left her with an urgent forgetfulness, long after hopelessness lingered comfortably in the garden's shadows, among the flowers and trees, and yes, settling over the misaligned sundial lifted by her great-grandfather from its moorings in Rasputin's open-air chapel during the St. Petersburg campaign. Long after any of this, she arose in the morning of November the 1st, 2007, from her bed, with the limp but incessant thought to leave it all behind, plans and memories, hopes and fears, yes, even her confusions, her uncertainties, and turned herself outward beyond the observatory to willfully open her whole being to uncertainty, fearlessness, all without hesitation, without a single thought. As she looked again towards the observatory, she wasn't expecting the dormant words of Goethe to seize her so violently. Just for once have the courage to surrender yourself to impressions, to allow yourself to be moved, to be uplifted, yes, to be instructed and kindled by something great. The thought took hold and grew, assuming a life of its own. Impulsively, absentmindedly, she reached into the dark pantry, playing her strong small hand through the air like a blind conductor. Until her ranchers' fingers, with their close-clipped nails, closed upon a tan duffel bag. How long had it been since it was last used? It was comforting to feel it against her palm. She hugged it to her. It held no memories. It was as empty as her mind. In less than a minute she was out of the double front doors. Their shiny oak finish flashed in the rising sun as they closed. They released an imperceptible tap of oak against the rubber-sealed doorstop, and they settled into immobility, remaining unlocked. Where she left without keys, without money, without food, without wallet, without her stolen passport, without anything that might identify her. With nothing but the clothes she wore, and the tan duffel bag containing the yellow sheets and the blue tulip. Why would there be anything to concern her? She refused to entertain the thought. She had what she needed, and she needed nothing more. She would forestall all sense of worry until the circumstances required her to think otherwise. Meanwhile, she followed the well-worn trail before her. She would focus on the sound of her meryl trail shoes as they scraped the earth. If she anticipated anything, it would be the simple, natural calls of morning birds, one foot before the other. Time existed only in the moment. What she had to do now was disappear, melt into the landscape. Why? She heard the question sneaking among echoes coming from the arroyo before her, growing louder as she quickened her pace. The echoing sounds of why were not her concern. They were but shoes on the dry Montana gravel, empty questions coming out of the broad, big sky brightening before her. Questions were for politicians and militarists, the slothful deaf word-smiths that got her where she was today, the party-goers like her husband, like her father, her grandfather, and great-grandfather, like her neighbors and office-mates, they the captives. Late on the gravel sounds, listen for birds. She on the other hand had a purpose. Life was suddenly simple. She shifted the duffel bag to her other shoulder. The steady walk lulled her. It was then she made the first in a series of small errors, because she let her mind wander. And in that wandering she missed the shadowy images of the two women sleeping behind the massive rolls of hay in the adjoining field. The scraping of her shoes woke them. They remained immobile, but followed her with their eyes. Liz climbed the familiar trail towards the top of the plateau. She was on foot now, not riding this trail on Tiresias, her faultless gelding companion. Tiresias could see out to the far horizon. Nothing escaped him. Up there on the plateau, the horizon reached towards you, while it stretched away, far out towards the curved horizon, as if to encompass the whole earth. She tried to see with his eyes, but the distance was a faint blur. Another mistake. Should she return for her glasses? No, she thought. She would make do. After today, looking into the distance, would not be a concern. Once Liz reached the summit, the two feminine figures followed in pursuit. As they too reached the summit, carefully concealing themselves from Liz's occasional scans of the horizon, they passed a third figure, watching from behind a clump of weathered rock. The silent, burly man smiled. The small triangular patch on the brim of his hat bore the black letter initials N-Y-S. He remained motionless except to pull from his inside jacket pocket a pair of small binoculars. At the place between the two optical barrels, where a focusing ring would normally be found, a short antenna poked skyward. Whatever he saw was seen by others as well. Liz continued her northern trek. Within an hour, the sun was beginning to climb the sky with a boldness she did not anticipate, and the wind began blowing in her face. She slipped on her wraparound sunglasses. While the brightness permitted her a better vision of the surrounding landscape, she was reminded that the sun could also be unforgiving. Still she was in her stride, although she had neither horse nor prescription glasses. Nothing between here and her destination would escape her keen observation, her dogged perseverance. Morning hunger crept upon her. She paused from her walking to wonder at the wisdom of leaving her house with nothing but the duffel bag. No, it was all right. It would be less than an hour before she reached Bootswell's hole. The even pace of her walk, here under the wide blue dome that was her haven, her comfort, her home, helped her to relax. It encouraged the flow of her inner dialogue once more. She was once again in the safety of the expansive morning light. Nothing out here could harm her. And even her impulsive, disassociated lizard-like thoughts. The great short horned lizard. The milk snake. The northern alligator lizard. The sagebrush lizard. The smooth green snake. The snapping turtle. The spiny soft shell. The western hog-nose snake. The skink. The cor de lean salamander. The great plains toad. The Idaho giant salamander. The northern leopard frog. The plains spadefoot. The western toad. The all my friends. All going. Each a representative. Each in danger of leaving the earth, joining the stones and the pebbles. The ever-present flattening earth. In another hundred million years all this would be flat, she thought. Montana has insisted on this since time immemorial. Her thoughts were pushed aside by the sound of a low rumbling wind. Could the earth itself be trembling? It reminded her of something her drunken brother-in-law said at last week's fundraiser. How inappropriate Chuck could be. He was going on with his predictable, improbable tales. The lives of the pioneers, his ancestors. But suddenly he made an unexpected switch. He launched into a string of horrid stories. Atomic testing in the southwest. Whole towns came out to view them. There were family gatherings, fourth of July fireworks. Hundreds of families watched from downwind as the rough clouds billowed towards them, dropping blankets of radioactive dust on mothers and fathers, children and grandparents. Innocently, spectators brushed the dust off with their bare hands, as casually as they would beach sand. But this was Montana. Nothing like that had ever come to Montana. Or would. Liz had a goal and nothing was going to stop her from achieving it. She picked up her pace, once again walking directly into the wind. And her the sharp sound of gravel being kicked caused her to swivel around quickly. No, nothing was going to stand in her way. Certainly not the two women standing stock still on the trail a few hundred feet behind her. No, nothing would stop her. Not even the mushroom cloud blossoming on the horizon upwind from her. Behind the two women, who were now running towards her. CHAPTER II There are times when the mind can't register an event because the event is so foreign to our normal sense of reality that it's unable to process what it is clearly experiencing. This was one of those times. The mushroom cloud that Chuck had conjured for everyone so often in his drunken stories had just entered Liz's reality. A nuclear weapon had exploded only eight miles away and the shockwave was moving towards her. This was also a time when her training took over, ignoring the words, this can't be happening, that continued in an endless loop inside her head, because at that moment her body knew what she had to do better than her mind did. Moments ago she had reached the top of the steep winding trail and had stopped at the edge of Beelzebub's washboard, a nearly vertical two thousand foot rock face that she had been climbing for the past two years, mostly because her husband Derek had once told her she couldn't possibly do it. Her common sense could rear its ugly head and make her hesitate. She slung the strap of the duffel over her left shoulder and under her right arm, and then stepped off the ledge spinning in mid-air to face the cliff. As gravity took over and she started downward, her arms automatically stretched toward the cliff face. Her shoulders and legs tensed, awaiting the jarring impact that was going to arrive on another fraction of a second, but as she dropped below the ledge she still had time to notice the two women, still moving toward her like insects caught in molasses. She thought they'll never make it, but their movement appeared to shift into high gear just before reality grabbed her once again, in the persona of the jagged granite that snatched her fingertips from the air and slammed itself against her face and side. Fighting to maintain a grip and ignoring the pain Liz kept rotating until she was square with the cliff and could feel the toes of her meryl trail shoe's grip then slide, then hold fast to ridges in the granite. Her fingers burned fiercely and the muscles in her arms felt like they were going to rip apart, but they finally settled into place and she was secure for the moment. What the hell is going on here, she thought. Detective Jennifer Toomey and her partner Alice Beltner felt a detonation rumbling through the ground before they heard or saw anything. Jennifer had been scanning the area as she had been trained to do, when tailing someone, focus on the target, but keep your eyes moving, left and right, behind you and in front of you. She noticed a man crouching behind a large boulder off to her left, looking through a pair of fancy-looking surveillance binoculars at Liz, or Rock Woman, as Jennifer referred to Liz in her reports. The man's dark brown pants, jacket and cap did a good job of blending with the surrounding terrain, keeping him pretty well hidden, except for the white sneakers he was wearing. They might as well have had neon lights on them they stood out so much. Jennifer was glancing back to the right to signal Alice that they had company, when she saw the shocked look on Alice's face. She heard Alice cry out, RUN! And in the same instant she spotted the unthinkable black cloud blossoming out of the ground, miles behind them. What do you do when you might be in the blast radius of a thermonuclear device? Do you just stay there and wait for the fire-bowl shockwave to reach you and blast the flesh from your bones? Do you try to shelter behind something, hoping that it has enough mass to shield you from the blast? Do you stop to puzzle out the various possible ways you might either die or survive an incident you never imagined might happen to you? No. You let instinct take over, and you do whatever it screams in your ear, or whatever your partner screams, which in this case was RUN! So the two women turned together and started moving toward Liz, knowing their only choices seemed to be a nuclear bomb blast or a huge cliff. Jennifer had seen the odd little twist Liz had accomplished in mid-air and knew there must be a reason for it. Reaching the edge, a few feet to the left of the spot where Liz had disappeared seconds before, Jennifer reached forward and, touching the ground with her right hand, spiraled outward and slid over the edge. Facing backward now, Jennifer could see Liz clinging to the rock-face four or five feet below her and to her left. Digging her fingers into the cliff she grabbed, and lost, and grabbed again, until she managed to slow herself enough that she was holding on with her right hand, parallel to Liz but just barely. Her feet were swinging wildly, and her left hand couldn't seem to find anything to grasp. "'Above your head,' the voice shouted, "'above your head, to the left.' It was Liz giving her directions. Jennifer stretched and grabbed wildly and found a sharp groove in the rock that she could wedge her fingertips into. "'Now your feet, probe the rock for anything you can slip your toes into.' Jennifer complied, trying not to show how badly she was shaking. Within moments she had found small ridges that the toes of her boots slid into nicely, but knew she wasn't going to be able to hold on long, especially with the ground vibrating so strongly. The man in brown clothes and white sneakers was on the run too, only he had a third option the others didn't. He was moving as soon as the two women were, but he was only concerned with reaching Liz in time. When he started the women were actually a little closer to her than he was, but they were running slightly uphill, and he was off to one side, on a level with Liz but out of her line of sight. He felt he could probably reach her before the two women could, and if he pushed himself, maybe even before the blast would. "'Now we're talking about a matter of seconds here, but a few seconds can actually be quite a long time. Most people assume that the explosion of an atom bomb nearby would mean instant death for anyone within a range of twenty or thirty miles, but the truth is that a great many factors can influence how bad the blast is, how quickly it moves and who lives and who dies. If a bomb is exploded in the air close to the ground, the heavier air and whatever material is available to absorb the radiation, people, wood, rocks, metal, water, will be overheated and vaporized instantly. Then as the material expands from the heat, will be pushed outward from the blast center, causing the shock wave that knocks down almost anything in its path that isn't tied down. People, wood, rocks, metal, water. How hard it hits any particular material will be determined by a few factors. How big the bomb was to begin with. There are baby nukes and oversized angry hulk-like nukes. How much really large material is in its way to slow it down. And how far away the material is from the blast center, because the shock wave will dissipate over time and distance. If the bomb is exploded high in the atmosphere, where there's very little air to push around, it has a very different effect. The radiation ends up being converted into X-rays and ionized gamma rays more than anything else. This bomb was exploded about eight miles away, in a lake, past the low valley they had just climbed. Brown clothes man knew that the two main reasons people die in nuclear explosions, whether immediately or slowly afterwards, were from the shock and the heat from the blast, or from thermal radiation. The blast was the quick and painless way to go. Instant incineration if you were close enough. The radiation was the choice no one wanted to make. Again, depending on how close you were to the center of the blast, you could die within hours, linger for days or weeks, or linger for many excruciating years, if you were very far away but received a large dosage of radiation. The effects could surface many years later in the form of various cancers. Any way you looked at it, this wasn't the best time to be in this particular spot. If they couldn't avoid the blast, and couldn't get away before fallout radiation reached them, they wouldn't grace the covers of any beauty or fashion magazines, ever. Of course, brown clothes man didn't have time to think about any of this, not about the size of the blast, the prevailing winds, or the time and distance it would take him to reach Liz at the cliff's edge. Not about the fact that he had grabbed his sneakers because he had misplaced his hiking boots in the dark. Not about the hat that he gave an automatic tug to as he stood up, pulling it lower down on his forehead, securing it for the leap forward. The hat, which he wore constantly, was a source of puzzlement for many who met him. They always wanted to know what the NYS stood for. He usually obliged them with an answer tailored for his locale. If he was in New Jersey, he would say, Why, it means New York sucks, of course. If he was in Texas, he'd reply, not yours, Dixon. Just six months ago at a rock concert, an attractive young thing had asked him about the cap, and he told her it was the name of his band, the nihilistic yellow squirrels. She had seemed impressed. Either it was a good name for a group or she was too stone to know the difference. Of course none of these names were even related to the real name behind the acronym, and at the moment he really didn't have time to think about any of that. He also didn't have time to realize that this was a relatively small nuclear device, although that would occur to him soon enough. For now he just needed to get to Liz on time. What he didn't notice in his push forward was that Liz had already stepped off the cliff, so when he looked up and saw her gone, his step wavered, and he almost stumbled, but he was too close to the cliff's edge, and over he went, head first as he had intended, but without Liz in his arms. Scant moments before Browncloth's man made the leap into space, Alice had also arrived at the edge, just on the other side of Jennifer. She saw what Jennifer did, and knew she would never be able to do the same, but, turning around, she crouched down and tried to inch her way off the edge. Unfortunately she crossed one foot over the other, and began a slow tumble backwards into thin air. Browncloth's man saw none of this because he had been running, head down, focused on the spot where Liz had been a few seconds before. The reason he leapt so easily outward was because that was why he had come up here in the first place. He'd been camping in the area for months, keeping an eye on Liz. When she wasn't outside he often came up to this area to do base-jumping. He had been packing his chute near the plateau edge, when he saw Liz start her climb far below, so he strapped his chute on and hid in the rocks and waited. He hadn't intended to reveal himself to her yet, but he felt it was sheer luck that he had been able to be here for her now. Although they wouldn't know it for a while, these four people on the edge of Beelzebub's washboard had a few things going for them. This wasn't a huge bomb, so its blast radius would be relatively small. It had been submerged under water, in Flathead Lake, eight miles away when it went off. This wouldn't be good news for the towns bordering the lake, towns like Elmo or Dayton or Rollins, and it would flatten Wild Horse Island, but it would end up being good news for people slightly farther away, because the lake's water and the island would dissipate much of the shockwave, causing the ground to shake more, but sending a smaller shockwave through the air. Since there were light breezes coming in from the northwest, much of the radioactive fallout would drift away from them, towards Wyoming instead of British Columbia. If they could avoid direct exposure to the blast, and continue to move further away, they might have minimal exposure to the radiation. Unfortunately none of them knew this yet, and had just made choices that left two of them hanging to a cliff face for dear life, one falling through space, and a fourth tumbling slowly through the air twenty feet below. As Brownclothes Man vaulted into space, just thirty-two seconds after Liz noticed the mushroom cloud, and leaned toward the only body he spotted dropping away below him, Liz looked up from her perch on the rock face as he flashed past. No, it couldn't be. I don't know, a deck or something. Elizabeth? Elizabeth, can you hear me? Liz opened her eyes. Derek, she said clearly, wanderingly. She looked up slightly, took in the concerned faces of the two nurses spent over her, and asked annoyance now in her voice, where is the bastard? The doctors were walking quickly, in that purposeful every second counts and lives could be lost, way medical staff at hospital often exhibits. The patient is delusional, believes an atomic bomb has been dumped in some lake in Montana, and that she was running from the fallout. Also talks about having to protect something in that duffel bag she had with her, but all the bag contains is a couple of pebbles. She remembers her husband Derek, he is with her now, but she thinks he has run off to the Himalayas with a schoolteacher, and she last saw him parachuting off a cliff. Talks screen? Clean. Whatever is causing this, it's not drugs. We should MRI the brain. Do it and talk to the husband, find out if there's any history of psychosis, or if she's bumped her head recently. On the other side of the river, Bruce Stifer, glane professor for nuclear physics, walked across the wits bold floor art, bars of colors within squares. The department's new atrium building, the green center for physics, had officially opened only a month ago, and Diffo was still getting used to the new interconnectedness the structure was supposed to foster, not to mention the new colors. He reached his office, successfully avoiding a group of first year undergraduates, and sat with a sigh behind his desk, a mahogany monster much too large for the size of the room. The desk was empty but for the male. Diffo booted up his computer and started sortings for the pile of faculty memos, journals, letters, and student papers. He wrote a quick reply on one of the memos, redened throughout a couple others, and finally came to a letter that hadn't been opened by his secretary. On the envelope, the words Professor Bruce Differ, physics, MIT, were neatly printed in black ballpoint pen, in one corner in red and underlined, personal. Differ frowned and took a Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He selected a slim blade and carefully, with great precision, sliced open the envelope. He used a cuff of his shirt to wipe the microscopic traces of paper dust off the knife and returned it to his pocket. The letter comprised of a single small sheet of yellow writing paper. On it, printed in the same neat black ballpoint, there were two words and nothing else. Had professional detachment allowed it? Dr. Friedman would have felt sorry for Derek McKenna. The man was visibly shaken. I just don't understand it. She describes everything in such detail, her house in Montana, the mountain trail, the mushroom cloud, the two women. She is worried about her horse, her horse. She won't even let the children have a hamster. And your wife has shown no signs of anything going on prior to this? Has she made any changes lately, or has she been away? No, nothing like that. She is very efficient. The kids, shopping, the house, social activities. She runs it all like clockwork. We have a big planner on our kitchen wall with everyone's schedule for the week. And everything was normal until about 10 o'clock Thursday morning when Liz didn't show up at her book club meeting. Dr. Friedman nodded. But she was admitted here only at 12 p.m. Do you know what she did in these two to three hours? I've found out today. Yesterday I went through Liz's clothes to take them home to wash. I noticed that she had new shoes I'd never seen before for hiking or something. I've been around all the big outdoor stores downtown. And one of the sales assistants recognized Liz when I showed him a photo. She bought the shoes on Thursday morning. He remembers because it's the day he goes to the climbing wall and they had a chat about climbing and trail running. She tried on a few pairs and chose these. Merrell's, he says they are. He says it's one of the best brands. Derek ran a tired hand across his chin upon which uncharacteristic stubble was forming. The thing is, she's not into outdoor sports at all. And she's never been climbing. So why did you buy the shoes? Dr. Friedman leaned forward, interested at last. Maybe she was planning a holiday or a surprise. Or maybe she wanted to take it up. She doesn't like the outdoors. She goes to the gym. We have one in our basement. Machines are more efficient, you see. She can exercise there every day, whatever the weather outside. And she can measure her workout intensity and everything. But John, this sales guy, he says she really knew her stuff. He asked me if I ran trail two in where we go climbing. Perhaps she wanted to try something different. Perhaps she didn't want to tell you until she'd mastered a new skill. Or maybe she didn't want to worry you. Derek sighed. But that's just it. Liz hates change. She likes routine. It makes her feel safe. She wouldn't just take up a new hobby without reason out of the blue. And we still don't know why she suddenly ran down this street screaming. And why is she saying all these things now? I mean, she's never even been to Montana. And I, do I look like I'm out near to you? Or as if I know one end of a parachute from the other? No, the doctor thought. He had a heavily built frame and appeared to be reasonably fit. But he was also dressed entirely in dark brown clothes. And this made him look more like a monk than someone into extreme sports. But the worst thing is Derek's voice broke along with his emotional dam. That she doesn't remember we have children. I'm sorry, Mr. McKenna. The only thing I can tell you is that your wife's symptoms don't seem to be physical. We've run a complete set of tests and everything has come back normal. As far as we can tell, your wife is physically healthy. I'm transferring her to the psychiatry ward for further assessment. Derek's shoulders slumped. Jennifer blinked slowly as awareness set in. The hand moved from her knee to the inside of her thigh, traveling higher slowly but steadily. She closed her eyes again, giving herself up to the sensation of that touch, experiencing just it, ignoring everything else. She sighed contentedly as the hand continued to stroke. She spread her legs a little to allow easier access. The hand slipped under the elastic of her panties. The alarm went off. Damn, Jennifer swore. Hang on, don't stop. She rolled over, the hand moving with her, and stretched an arm out to the alarm clock, which increased its volume with every second beep. God, I hate this thing and I can't reach. She moved up, causing the hand to slip deeper down. Hmm, there. The beeps stopped. So did the stroking. What's wrong? That clock is a mood killer, and we have to get up. Alice said mournfully. She propped herself up on one elbow and smiled down on her partner. But early shift today, so we'll have the whole evening to play. She lowered her head and kissed Jennifer's pouting lips. Promise? Jennifer asked, wrapping a leg around Alice's hips. Professor Difer slowly put down the letter. He took his glasses off and started polishing them, his brows creased, his eyes staring ahead. Finally he put the glasses back on and took up the telephone, dialing a number from memory. It's Bruce, he said. I got another one. Just an empty sheet again? The voice at the other end asked after a pause. No, the same paper and everything, but this time there's a message. Well? Difer adjusted his glasses, adjusted them again, took them off. It says, we know. End of chapter three. Chapter four of the Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet. The LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project, 2007. Chapter four, written and recorded by Chris Hughes. The crunch was a surprise, but then everything was a surprise. The cold snap, the arrival at Narita, so many arrivals, so many departures, so many arrivals and departures that she wasn't even jet lagged. Time and geography left behind. The succulent pleasure of anonymity. Geographical uncertainty and her assignation. Abiki, such a sweet word. Here with Mr. Aki, Aki-san. Mr. Aki-san on the 60-something of Yoko Randoma-something. See Mr. Aki-san. Eat with Mr. Aki-san. You must meet Mr. Aki-san. E held up another of the morsels. Translucent, white like lake ice. All waves and curves. Sculpturous, Palakian, architectural and grandiose. Shinkin, Aki-san nods. Shinkin? Sumane. Sorry, she asks. Shinkin Kenoko, he tells her. Fungus. Mushroom from the sides of trees. So white, she tells him. Yes, white. Kogetsu, he tells her. A bright moon. Kikurage, white tree jellyfish, I think, he tells her. Cloud mushroom. Kikurage. Yes, for the lungs. Periperi, crisp, high, like biting mountain air. Mountain air, indeed. The sun slides behind Fuji. Red-orange light spills over the cloud-pile carpet. The contrails cross skyscrapers of Nishishijuku, like mushrooms themselves. One could pluck them for the table. The windows cold to the touch. Tsumitai. The glass panels beginning to cast back the watery restaurant light. White-clad waders aglow in the neon, swimming amongst the mushrooms. And the smell of heat, alien amongst the formality. A furnace is called to life. Milling with kitchen scents, daikon, ginger. Aki-san's western cologne. Provocative vapors of warmed rice wine. Rice wine, indeed. Pacing should be in the plan, thinks E. After the kikurage, more theatrical courses. Waders sweeping back the chromed covers to unveiled dishes. More alien fungus. More curious creatures. More sake. More stiff and formal Japanese conversation. The elevator that stops at every floor. Aki-san shows no sign of the pinch on his finances. Curious creatures don't come cheap. Nor the style, the fashion, the exclusivity. Nor, of course, the asignation itself. The abiki. Sweet word. No sign of much else, either. Aki-san in the spotlight. Aki-san establishing his character. Aki-san would speak in the third person, if he spoke of himself at all. As the meal slithers and swims and splashes and lopes its way on, the sky outside turns to stacks of gridded light. White stands as with red aircraft warning commas. The cloud carpet shimmering with neon of the roji and makanami beneath. Spots from Klig lights chase around the misty screen like a game of pong. She knows the feeling. Perhaps more jet lag than she'd admit. Or rice wine. Or jet lag and rice wine. Jet lag and rice wine like chlorine. The restaurant feels more and more like a swimming pool. American and Brit expats floating at the bar. Aki-san tilts his head like a curious hound. He's noted her sudden smile. A smile, no doubt, like a pebble in the pond. Am I funny, he asks. You like my story, he tells her. Yes, very, she tells him. And it occurs to her that last week is a blur, that Tuesday, in fact, is a blur as well and Wednesday for that matter. And that this day is only, in fact, the day after you arrive. The evening after you arrive, to be precise. Though the precision ends there since, if pressed, he could not tell you where she landed from. And this pleases her immensely. Aki-san bows his head sharply, his eyes sparkle. Their meeting is going swimmingly, as they say. Good-o, he tells her. Good, good. While in Hamburg, he starts, but is interrupted by a waiter, bowing profusely and whispering a susurice of Japanese. Aki-san startled, Aki-san breaking stride. Aki-san pulling up lame. Aki-san looking from E to the waiter and back to E, grinding like a bad transmission and, pop, the chopsticks come down. The arm sweeps out and the waiter turns to E as if on a string. He has a message, Aki-san sputters, and the waiter bows. For you, he says, and the waiter bows again. You again, important, he tells her. E looks to Aki-san into the waiter and back to Aki-san into the waiter and returns the nod and out comes a small folded piece of paper. E takes the paper, but what? But the waiter is still there and joined by another, and this one is motioning, motioning, touching her on the shoulder, another surprise, and Aki-san aghast. They motion, they point, a waitress by the door has joined the charade, and two beckons. E looks to Aki-san. I don't understand, she tells him. Aki-san silent, and then at the turn of a tap, the Japanese flows out, two fluid, atomized into white noise with occasional bubbles, burbling, unintelligible English. E grasps at the stream, but it pours through. She stands, Aki-san stands, clattering the dishes. Aki-san stands, helpless, drowning before his fellow diners, his Ibiki dissolving like the cheapest tissue. The waiter still motioning and with a mental shrug, E following, a life of surprises. She emerges into the brightly lit lobby, eyes adjusting to another waiter, already waiting with a bow in her jacket. The little scrum slips into a waiting elevator. The elevator starts down with such intention she can almost feel herself flying, and almost as sharply the elevator slowing, her weight pouring back into her like from a pitcher, and the lights flicker once and once again. The doors slide open to a floor half lit through smoke by emergency lights and electronic klaxon. The Japanese klaxon E thinks, a klaxon tuned to be persistent yet soothing, insistent yet polite. Mind the smoke please, locate the exit please, go now please, thank you for coming please, leave now please, and smoke there is, and sour, eye-burning chem lab fumes at a maelstrom of hundreds. A wet cloth is produced and E is flotsam, E is jetsam, E is swept away from her scrum, E is swept into the swirling crowd and around the half lit room, branching through metal doors and spilling down quarter lit stairs. A life of surprises, flotsam indeed. The lights only illuminate the smoke, bright bubbles floating at the ceiling, dark and visible rhythmic steps lie below. One floor turns into two step step, and two into four step step, down down through the sour smoke and eye-watering fumes and warm metal doors, hot like car hoods, and panicked spray of panicked words from her anonymous mouth-covered companions, traveling likewise down the invisible steps, step step. Her scrum may be just ahead or just behind, or still spinning above, flotsam indeed. As four turns into eight, eight into 16, and perhaps 16 into 32, who can say the smoke thins and the air cools and two more floors and the cold rises up and doors open onto a haze of flashing lights and police fans, crackling loudspeakers and helicopters, a haze of ladder trucks and pumper trucks, boop boop sirens, news vans like antennae bugs and snow, a snow-covered plaza, snow-covered streets, snow-covered awnings and cars and people, all under a snow-covered sky. Snow falling still. East sloshes through the trampled snow with the crowd toward the barricades, barricades manned by police, police decked out in body armor and full-face shield helmets, police dressed as riot police, many, many riot police. In the crowd ahead is a westerner, a gaijin, poking up like a stubborn weed, a stubborn brown weed and a precisely moan lawn. The brown weed turns, a recognition, a possible identification. E doesn't yet know what has happened, what is happening, what slew us open to wash her from the restaurant and where it was to wash her, but she knows to move away, to move away from this man in brown. Instinctively, the man in brown is to be feared. Lowered head, hunched shoulders, smaller, smaller, she hurries her step, possible into probable and probable into certain identification made, the man in brown is moving in E steps faster across the street and unto the sidewalk opposite, turning into the flow of the crowd, drawn to the spectacle at the Yoko Randoma something. A note still to read, but first a doorway, an empty hole, away from the man in brown. Halfway up the block, a gate opens unto an alleyway of overhead wires and banners, a buzzing fluorescent storefront shops and melting snow steaming on neon, a deserted alleyway, unmolested snow, deep unmolested snow, unmolested snow to her knees, traitorous snow that makes running impossible, traitorous snow laying a traitorous trail like crumbs in the forest, unhancell, ungretel, flotsam indeed. Up the alleyway, just a city block, escape no stranger but an old, old friend. She'll round the block and spiral back toward the high rise, recross the crowd, return to the alley, reuse her tracks. The alley opens unto a broad, brightly lit street, softened by the snow, deserted of traffic, deserted of pedestrians, quiet as church, all heartbeat and breath. Blocks ahead through the swirling snow, beyond the cones of orange sodium light to perfecture plow, yellow flashers sparking, go smoothly about its business. E. plods on, the snow deeper here, piled by the icy wind against the darkened buildings, suddenly the whine of an electric motor, a taxi hissing pass. She's turned, only in time to see her pursuer emerge from the alley, quicken the pace, step, step. As E approaches the corner, a yellow box van across the intersection rumbles to life, and E breaks into a churning, fighting run. The whir of tires slipping on ice and then engagement in the engine gunning. Not good, not good at all. The crowd ahead, the crackle of loudspeakers, a flash of police lights through falling snow, the roar of the engines splitting the night, dispersing loud, loud heartbeat and breath, echoing through the high-rise canyon, behind her, behind her, and now skidding to a stop in front of her. Doors swinging open to forbidding shadow, trapped, the yellow van in front, the man in brown behind, flotsam indeed. Out jumps a figure bundled in red, pulling back a hood, a woman, a six-foot woman, a blonde six-foot Western woman in a red parka in Minato Marae 21, Tokyo Toe. Well, she says, the six-foot blonde Western woman tells E, what are you waiting for? Get in, sweetie. End of chapter four. Chapter five of the Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet. The LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project 2007. Chapter five, written and recorded by Cibela Denton. Corey lifted his hands from his keyboard to grab double hands full of his shaggy brown hair. Cradling his head in his hands, he groaned a groan of intense dissatisfaction with his efforts. Damn it all anyway, he thought. Nothing was going well in any of his novels today. His characters kept doing the strangest things and he couldn't seem to control them. First, Chuck had set off an atom bomb, then Derek had parachuted off a cliff. Corey smiled to himself with the thought of telling his two roommates what they got up to in his novels. Then Jennifer and Alice, two of his closest friends, kept appearing in all his story incarnations whether he wanted them to or not. He tried writing a new story set in Japan but Liz had shown up. Oh, Liz, everybody knew he was completely in love with her except, of course, her. She was tall, five foot ten in her stocking feet and had gorgeous blonde hair cascading in waves down her back and hazel eyes. Even when he changed her physical details in the story, her adventurous attitude and intelligence came through in at least half of his female characters. Corey heard a key at the kitchen door, the main one they all used. Not knowing who it was, Derek, his girlfriend Jennifer, her girlfriend Alice or their other roommate, red-haired Chuck, he decided to stop writing for the night. He was in the living room at his laptop and dexterously he closed the document and opened his favorite Dungeons & Dragons scenario website. He was dungeon master that night and he had not done nearly enough planning since he had been writing all day. His character was a druid, of course. He loved to play other scenarios. Nevertheless, his games were pretty popular among the crowd so they often asked him to play dungeon master. He loved playing God and creating the scenarios. When they were all gathered round the table, Corey, wearing his green velvet hooded cloak and the lion-headed amulet he'd gotten from eBay, a number of rolls of the polyhedral dice got the game underway. Everyone was drinking. Well, everyone except Liz because she wasn't staying over. Not that Corey had minded sleeping on the couch and giving Liz his bed but she wouldn't hear of it. She never would, damn it. Hey, let's go to the fair tomorrow, Derek exclaimed. I know we weren't planning on it but it's only a three-hour drive and the weather is going to be great. Jennifer, at that moment, sitting in Alice's lap, slid out and sat down in her seat next to Derek. Playfully, she leaned over and lightly thumped his arm. It's four hours if it's one and I have to work on my term paper. At least I should and Alice has to work. Me too, said Chuck. Have to work, I mean. I don't. You, Liz, asked Corey. Nope. I say let's do it, she answered, addressing the whole table. Further discussion had led to the game wrapping up very early at only about 11 p.m. Corey, Derek, and Liz were going to the North Carolina Renaissance Festival which everybody called fair and as the gates opened at 10.30 they were going to leave about seven. Liz was driving and Liz drove like a maniac driving way too fast in the sports car her parents had bought her as a college graduation present a few months before. Corey worked in a bank, Derek worked at the sportsplex and Liz was working in their old college's admissions office. Alice and Jennifer were working on their senior year and Chuck, who'd graduated, was a manager at the local bookstore. Still, retail meant working weekend hours and Chuck usually worked at least one day of the weekend. Early the next morning they were off. Derek napped in the back seat. Corey occupied the front bucket seat next to Liz, his favorite place in the world and he and Liz sang all the pub songs they could remember all the way up to Charlotte. They got there in a little under four hours and the gate show was already over when they finished dressing. Liz looked in Corey's eyes, a goddess in her Renaissance court garb of Elizabeth I's era and Derek was wearing his favorite pirate attire. Corey, in deference to Liz, was wearing his court garb as well and Liz looked approvingly at him. The $200 doublet in poofy pants were worth it for that look. She took his arm, his chest swelled proudly, he felt it so that other people must see it and they entered the gates of the fair. Their first stop was the Tortuga Twins show which was just getting underway. Then Derek took off after a girl they knew, the black haired, black eyed Maggie the Rose seller. She wasn't selling roses at the Carolina fair but she did at the fair back home in Georgia. Corey and Liz exchanged a knowing look. Polyamory must be fun if you can mentally handle it, he murmured. Liz arched one eyebrow. Not for me though. Me neither, but it seems to work for Derek and Jen. Yeah, hey, I'd like a glass of mead. Let's get one, Liz said, pointing to a drink stand across from the back of the Tortuga Twins stage. They wandered after that, had lunch, steak on a steak and one of those huge smoked turkey legs for Corey and a chicken sandwich for Liz. And Liz decided to have another cup of mead. She rarely drank and as Corey wasn't drinking she decided to get a little bit drunk at the rent fair. Corey, you'll drive home, won't you sweetie? She asked, leaning toward him, her cleavage mesmerizing to him who loved her, her goblet full of her third cup of mead artfully displayed by her crooked right arm. What could he do? He was completely in love with this woman and here she was, asking him a simple favor. He'd have given her anything in his power. Course, he said, and she leaned up just a little to kiss his cheek. Then they went to watch the human chess match. Held in the jousting ring on a huge rollout chess mat audience members were invited to play characters in the match. Little children were selected as pawns, people in costume for King and Queen. Liz and Corey, the best dressed in the crowd were selected as Black King and Queen. Other attendees played other pieces. Liz was laughing and flushed as she asked Corey to escort her over to get another cup of mead. He complied and then they returned to the jousting ring. Derek was there, Maggie was there, and the jousting was about to begin. Corey was fingering his amulet, the one he wore for fair and D&D and recalling that the eBay seller had called it medieval or Renaissance and wishing he knew more about it. It was certainly very, very old and made of bronze. Corey liked to believe it was worn by a real druid in time immemorial and dated far back beyond 1400 or so as the seller had dated it. Maggie'd been selected as one of the Green King's favorites and the whole crowd seemed to enjoy the jousting despite it's being scripted. Derek and Maggie went to have some lunch as they'd not eaten and Corey and Liz strolled along the fair. In the corner near the jousting arena Liz turned to Corey and lifted one arm to play with his amulet. Her eyes didn't meet his and it was all Corey could do not to pull her full against himself. He put a hand out to steady her and settled it on her waist. Why haven't you ever asked me out, Corey? She asked in a light hearted tone. He answered in kind. You want me to ask you out? I see you nearly every day. No, she said in a soft whisper that didn't seem to belong to her. I mean seriously. Corey hardly knew what to say. Well, you were dating John when we met and John and I broke up almost a year ago, she broke in. But you, but you've, he broke off and started over. We're friends. Yeah, but that's not enough for me any longer, Liz said in that small whisper, her eyes finally meeting his. Corey saw their desire and a longing to match his own. He didn't need to think any longer and he dropped his leather mug to the ground and dropped his head to kiss her. He pulled her closer as his body cried out for more. He was vaguely aware of the disappointment of kissing her while she was wearing so many heavy clothes, but that was almost instantly drowned out by the thought that he was kissing Liz. Her mouth opened with a soft groan as she invited him to kiss her more fully. Moving his hands across her back, he urged her ever closer. Damned hoop skirt, she said, laughing, breaking away from his kiss. I guess that's my answer. Alice said he liked me, but John did a number on you and yeah. Sunday morning saw Liz run into Jennifer in the hallway. With a faint blush and a grin, she confirmed Jen's wide-eyed glance at Corey's door. Liz slipped back inside, noting that Corey's amulet was on the floor. She put it over her head and let Corey's robe drop to the floor. He opened an eye to look at her. You're beautiful. I'm fat. You're not, you're curvy. Girls today think they have to be skinny as a so-called supermodel. Do you really think a guy wants to sleep with a girl like that? It'd be like fucking a bag of antlers. Liz laughed and threw herself back into his bed and his arms. Somewhere in Japan, a tall blonde woman in a red parka was speeding away in a yellow van with a small woman called E. Somewhere, an Elizabeth McKenna was lying in a hospital. Some Derek was wafting on a nuclear breeze to the bottom of a chasm. And on top of Corey's wallet, on his nightstand was an envelope with no return address and a Eureka, California postmark. He'd gotten it in the mail that day, but hadn't yet opened it. In that envelope was a piece of paper of the same type that a physics professor had looked at only just then. It was a yellow sheet of legal note paper and it contained the very same words. We know. The amulet around Liz's neck warmed, but she didn't notice. End of chapter five. Chapter six of the Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet, the LibriVox nano-rimo project for 2007. Chapter six, written and recorded by Tom Higgins. Twisted and turning, the young girl stumbled through the turbulence of adolescence. The scabs of early mistakes she left intact, to remind her of the possible pitfalls of gentle meanderings. No dragons, no ring-bearers, and no young incense on far-flung starships. No time traveling scarf-wearers. She toyed with all of these. In her teenage wisdom, she played with saving the world, fixing injustices and with all good intentions, making humanity safe for its own company. Twisted and turning, the young girl fought seasons of correctional maneuverings, and in her way, formed something of her own ethical operations manual. The three-ring binder was worked, reworked, and then worked once more before she implemented it in her early 20s. First, limitations. She worked long and hard, not only to pave over those vectors, which impacted the underlying fabrics, but to cut off all access to them entirely and forever. It was the one brief flirtation with wearing her underwear over her clothes and going up, up, and away. If she gave herself the leeway, she would have laughed now with the machinations that she had set up to close that opening, the dramatic Wagnerian epic she lived through for several months, that left her with a new found respect for Galacticus and several lucrative investments in comic merchandising. Certain limitations formed themselves into her daily breathing. Fictions of all sorts were a dangerous flirtation with the coulda bins that left her sore and bruised with the linebacker's impact of unexpected consequences. Sweeping generalizations, hasty revenge-laced daydreams, even the steamy sideways pleasures, had barbs she would rather not have to dislodge from her gobsmacked mouth. Those who came to know her sensed her quiet need for a status quo, bubbling under a constant sense of wonderment. Even while she moved across the thought scapes of the fringe possibilities, she clutched at her stability with the same survival instincts with which an arctic explorer clutches his Parker. Second, living. How would she live, given that her motions and meanderings spun off as they did to infuse the world around her? Free running was as close as she could come to describing it to herself and, on occasion, to those few people she grew to trust. Sebastian had explained it to her during one of her expeditions. Her crush on him was overruled by the importance of what he had to teach. She fouled it away in a small white banker's box for that mythical time when she could sit and enjoy her selfish indulgences. She sifted through his foreign frame of heart to get at the stuff she knew would matter to her. Sebastian and David twisted and turned with their troupe of brothers, showing her the Superman and the Monkey Vault, the half-flips morphing into running dashes up the sides of nearby cafe walls, the merging of shoulder and sinew into dumpster lids and sidewalks. While their muscles rested, she prompted them to explain about overcoming obstacles, about spotting the clutter of the everyday, and about reaching the goals lodged between impossible and untenable. Living was possible, and if she did, Nightfall was mirrored in her bedroom south window. The futon's reflection floated over downtown skyline. Each pillow read the backwards name of a city or a country she had in some line or some time visited. Yorkie in your top, Nalem, Nalem aside, Daniel Nizny, the table she was hovering over went off and on in places with red brick lights and white arcs of headlights. Her forehands moved in a dance of slow-shaking terror over the pile of yellow sheets of paper. We know. Her eyes took them in one at a time. We know. What we need to ascertain in this hearing is exactly what did we know and when did we know it? The gavel came down with several lull explanations. Other, other, other! She blinked twice. Her starched uniform held her in place while her focus returned. Senator, with all due respect, she weighed her next words with great care. The active participation of this body in these acts is a matter of public record. Asking us for an explanation of your intentions is outside of this report's aims. The room fell silent. A wave of digital flashes and cell phones being dialed followed. The volume ramped up in short order. To the individual sounds of questions, gavel poundings, accusations, and defensive scapegoating drowned each other out. The live cam feeds to the watching cloud of millions overloaded and sputtered out. The common systems of several we know web forms filled with a sweater full of threads, each traveling and unraveling in the battle of ideological supremacy. She looked out over the cityscape. The old t-shirt rubbed against her flesh as it finally warmed to the apartment's small heater. She could not remember going down that alley of possibility did not recall a workup of the possible outcomes. She did recall snapping back to her pre-planned course of the evening. She did recall. She recalled recalling. The pile of yellow sheets were neatly stacked now in several uneven columns. The stack closest to her had one yellow sheet left. She had a staring contest with that lone sheet's message and having been defeated, picked it up with tired hands. The realizations that led up to those ponderously stacked columns of messages started amassing a few months ago. Her methodologies having been proven and her caution held tight in her mind like so many rosaries, she had taken to what Corrie called her walkabout. She made up her mind about it one afternoon in London as she sat half listening to his latest story idea. And then Gene Shepherd's voice comes up, you know that way he gets when going on about. They had talked about Gene Shepherd more than a little on that and other visits. She had found a large collection of his radio shows on a small website and made her way through what could be unearthed if his works over the next couple of years. The Connected Federation of Fat Heads had mailed her discs packed with MP3 files without care for enumeration. They were spreading the good words and that was enough of a reward, they told her. She thanked them with an Excelsior and the occasional Assaults are Bottle. The Post Office box was often stuffed with copies of his books as she plucked them one after another from eBay or Amazon. Storytellers, more often than not, tell a story. Shepherd was telling a story about telling true stories. It was not nearly as overt as was often done, probably very much his intent from the get-go. When fans or professional interviewers would ask him which parts of his narratives were real and which were made up, Shepherd would look at the person asking with a sadness, general reserved for dim-witted dogs and then lovingly make up a tale which they believed to be the real answer. On sunny days, she would sit at cafes and on hillsides weaving her own true stories, crafting consequences and stitching up holes with the seemingly careless skill Shepherd had taught her. Watching as they unfurled around her, she quickly spotted her flaws and noticed any jarring clashes in the pattern's patchwork. Eventually, she sat amused by the outcomes and chuckled on occasion at the ways that even sorrow could bring happiness. You're not listening again, Corey sulked, as he sipped at his water. What? Me not being riveted by each and every word that flows out of your being? You think I wanna wind up secure than one of your plots? Her smile shown with equal parts truth and huckster spiel. In return, he broke out in a true smile. Okay, okay, so enough about my word counts. What is this about some sort of walk about you're planning? She told him about the globe-spanning romp. Her recent return on investments was affording her. The world is solemn enough now, I think, so I wanna go explore some. Sure, it's not perfect, but imagine the borefest that would be. So okay, I step away from what I am all about for now and go see what the world is about. She outlined the details to him as best as she could outline them to herself. The arc of the sun led her across the terrain. Her transitions got increasingly complex, flowing from free-running to parkour, blurring intent and expression which flips and turnarounds. Drunk beyond plan one night, she heard the first message. We know. It came from the barstool beside hers. The crowd rumbled on over the Batman's faltering swing. Excuse me? She slurred to the rough shape of a man on the barstool. His eyes moved from her to the TV and back to her. It's okay, love, you're not all out yet. Her focus came up sharp. She needed an exit and Tank was going to be no help. She let a giggle loose at that thought as she worked out of her drunk. She let her eyes move over him, exit to exit. You're talking for a kitty pie. She let herself slur just enough to set the trap. And you all too quiet for this bar, he said, emptying his pint. Gafford changed her venue then. Her arms snaked around his neck, down his torso and across the inner thighs. My picture of yours, sweetie. When they spilled into her hotel room, she moved them towards where she remembered the bed being. You think I'm not so a guy? He grunted as he stripped him of his jeans. She inched her fingers inside his underwear. Reply hazy, try again, she chuckled. The answer rose in her fingers. Exits and fallbacks. She went to the white banker's box and pulled out something she had worked out in her youth. Naughty and delicious. She remembered the first time she had tried this. Her body moved in time with his. Warm tectonic plates building up pressures. That would be released in several powerful quakes. The first now ready inside her, moving out, yes. And now the second, taking over his intentions, yes. And again, stronger this time catching his unreadiness, guiding him now with her hands. The uncontrollable and inevitable quake of his own pressures, ready for her command. And now the exit spread from her heart, beating warm, slow. And cut, great work, guys. That was avian worthy. She felt the towel move over her, reached a hand toward where Brock should be. His fingers gave hers a squeeze. Oh, it was a pleasure, honey, she said, getting up off the set's bed. Around her, the crew ran around rearranging for the next shoot. She walked into her jeans wobbly from the last vestiges of the drink and her hasty transition. A small figure ran beside her. Tell her an other amazement yet again. Oh, if we can just clone you, it would be a mint made reel. With both hands, she hefted her breast into a waiting Ramon's t-shirt. Manny, are you trying to devalue the goods? Ah, you're wise beyond words. Can you do another shoot today? We have Justin lined up. She followed the move she had worked out for this. We'll always leave them wanting more. Tell Justin he is a love, and Belinda will be better for the scene. He has a thing for her anyway. They'll make magic for you. Sure, sure, sure! He answered, while setting his speed dial hounds to work. Walking past the crew's trucks and soon to be repoed porches of a hired talent, she made her way from the condo that a production company used for their shoots. The traffic was light, and the sun was shining on its chosen people throughout the Los Angeles. Four million possibilities moved around her. Cars crashed about in their fossil fuel death march. Airlines drew random Tecto boards overhead. Yet through it all, she heard a distant whisper. We know. She spun around to see who had said it. Her eyes took in a stark yellow billboard with the black letters, we know, stretched across it. A random LA bar saw her first failed attempt to recapture the incident. She drank heavily, she slurred at strangers, she winked at knowing possibilities, but nothing came of it, other than a few fumbling evenings of sidebar musings. The Bikowski method was quickly ditched for more reasoned approach. Someone was telling her something. That alone was a start. Someone must have noticed the contrails of her passages, maybe noticed the rippling shift of normalcy around her movements. For years she had tried to carefully follow her through ring binder of operations, but the inevitability of discovery was always a tick, tick, ticking. The words we know had been her wake up call to that inevitability. She did not know who or why or even why, but she knew the game was afoot. After several days of regrouping and furious questioning, she reasoned that her walkabout was as good a place as any to be. So off she went, following the arc of the sun. Tokyo, speeding bullet train, amidst a gaggle of school kids, she held a conversation with a 13 year old named Shindu. It started when he noticed her book on the game of go. She had picked it up the day before in hopes of bettering her end game. That book, Shindu said, after a few rounds of polite conversation, will not help you figure it out. We know. The train slid through the time and space as she framed a response. We, Shindu smiled, yes, and trust me, we know how I'm in pointing this out. You are nice. You are honest. His eyes darted around the car full of his classmates. We, we also have a secret. He told her his tale. Moscow jumped to Berlin, roll into Paris, half dive into Madrid, free fall into Johannesburg, monkey vol through Macau, traversing points uncountable, all running together in her head as she came to rest from her walkabout in her waiting apartment. Names fell off her fingers onto the waiting laptop. Sally, who roamed between this and other realms of the possible, searching for her loss, trapped by it and defined by it. Ishimon, who swept through the small towns seeking the perfect bar fight. Harry, who kind himself as much as those he deemed worthy to aid him in his deceptions. Jenna, who invented then reinvented ways to keep her mind off the whispers they all seem to be hearing. Rashid, who dressed everything in the garments of his parents' ideologies. Pieces, pieces, pieces, all of them needing to be put together, none of them corners. This would not be easy, she thought to herself, exhausted from the journey. She had set out on her walkabout with a mild amusement to see what the world had become. Now she sat reexamining what it had showed her, what she never thought it would show her. That, above all else, is what sent her fear running loose in her mind. Limits and liabilities damped the fear, curbed it back from possible damage for the moment. Everyone she met had heard the message, had seen it pop up here and there. Most of those she met were able to, in some way or another, move through or shift what others like to call reality. Sam had spent a serious night with her, figuring out if there was a difference between moving and shifting, if there was a passive versus active, or if it was the same thing with subtle shades of control. Well, then a few of those she had met were disturbed by the mystery in ways she thought dangerous, and those she wrote out on one list. The one she met who were tackling the mystery as an adventure, a quest, or in methodical ways, she put on another list. Names of those who saw this as a reason to give up or give in, she wrote on a third list. The last list held just three names. Three very bad knights and three very hasty eaglets were bound up in those names. Those were the ones who saw this as a way to take what they thought was their rightful power. Encrypted with a set of keys she had arranged with some of those whom she had met, the lists were sent off to the mailing list they had set up on Google. She waited for the responses. In a month of back and forth on the mailing list, they had come up with one plan of action they could all agree on. Sam and Dimitri set an emotion, and the rest fleshed it out. The idea was to stir the pot, to turn the brownie and slam dance of the universe into something they could use to tweeze out some answers. Jenna had the marketing savvy and ensured the order the we know viral meme would spread across the globe in the way that viral memes do. Her part was the scattershot special deliveries. Dimitri and Shindo were taking up the YouTube MySpace and other social networking fronts. The others would all be moving on the ground in quiet ways to watch for reactions and catalog them for the mailing list. With each yellow sheet she sent out, her mind flickered to possible outcomes. She quashed them down almost as fast as they sprung up inside her tired mind. She flitted across the country playing Mr. McFeely to her speedy deliveries of potential reactions. She had her misgivings about the whole thing. She said as much on the list. The group was comforting, but under the comfort was a strong need to know what the mystery was about and why it had crept into their lives. She agreed, even after a busy night of deliveries. One more for the night. Her eyes looked once more on the skylight of the city and her mirror department. Soon she would lay down on the bed and sleep a dreamless sleep. She held the last yellow sheet in the night in her hands, set off. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of The Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet, The LibriVox Nano-Remo Project 2007. Chapter 7, written by Kristen Ferreri and recorded by Dean Weiss. The next morning, Liz ran a search on YouTube. New and new videos had been posted by who knows who 754. The screen name their group had invented for their collective internet personality. That was odd. They had all agreed the night before that they would begin their efforts the next morning before work, which for Colin would have been around six a.m. Next, she did a quick search on the Yahoo forums. Still nothing. In fact, there were no signs anywhere that any other members of the team had been active. Liz sighed disenchantedly. Seriously, was she the only person on earth who knew how to get anything done? She reached for the phone to dial Jen's number. There were four rings then a beep and Jen's voice. Hey, you've reached Jennifer and I can't get to the phone right now, so leave your name and number and I'll probably call you back. Another beep. Hey, Jen, Liz said into the receiver. What's up with the internet deal? I thought we were starting tomorrow and there's no sound of anyone yet. Give me a call. I'm going to track down the other people. Next, she tried dialing Colin. This time there wasn't even an answering machine. The phone rang for a solid minute and a half before Liz finally hung up. It was the same with every number on the list. None of her friends were at home or even within reach of their cell phone, so it seemed. She tried emailing them, no response. She signed into her chat client, but no one was online. She blew a puff of air upward into her sandy bangs in frustration. How were they supposed to get to the bottom of the phenomenon Colin had jokingly dubbed the yellow pages? Liz returned to her computer and pulled up half a dozen random forums and created the screen name Who Knows Who 754 on each one, then posted a question. Hey guys, anyone else notice the yellow flyers that say who knows, scattered around? They're everywhere around here. Are they some kind of teaser campaign or something? She had send on each of the six forums then left the computer to make some coffee. 20 minutes later, she had six reply notifications in her mailbox. She tried each. First, the famously international Librevox forums. Someone named Corey had replied to her. Eagerly, she clicked the first link. Hey, who knows, the reply said. I've moved your question to the off topic forum. I don't think you meant to pose this in Readers Wanted unless you want to coordinate a collaborative reading of the flyers. There followed a long discussion on whether the Library of Congress would clear the flyers for public domain. Liz rolled her eyes and closed the windows, literature nerds, go figure. Google, Wikipedia and Twitter were equally unhelpful. No one seemed to take the request seriously. Either she was mocked for being a noob or ignored entirely. Suddenly, her speakers chimed at her. A new email, she opened the mailbox. It was from Librevox, a private message notification. She reopened the Librevox forums and locked in. The private message wasn't from anyone she was used to seeing on the forums though their post count was a surprising 1337. The body of the post consisted of a block of text quoted from her original post and a response. Maybe you should ask them directly. Maybe you should ask them face to face. Liz's heart began to race. Calm down, she told herself. This is probably just another crank, but I have to be sure. I have to explore all possibilities. Liz hit reply. Where can I find them? She asked and sent the message. She spent a tense six minutes and 45 seconds. Yes, she counted the seconds in front of her monitor watching her mail notifier and muttering, please, please, please, over and over under her breath. Finally, there was a reply. She refreshed her inbox and opened the new message. The note read 1337 post court. What on earth? The post count? Liz furred her brow then remembered with a jolt that post court was a name of a street two blocks from her apartment building. Liz had never changed from pajamas to street clothes so fast in her life. She grabbed the first thing out of her pile of unfolded clean laundry, a pair of cut off jeans, a lime green t-shirt, words New Jersey is for lovers printed on the back and her magenta socks with the pom poms on the cuff. She pulled on her cowgirl boots to complete the ensemble, shoved her keys, driver's license and credit card into her pocket just in case and ran out the door. 1337 post court looked like a relic from the Victorian period. Gargantuan brick walled, ivy covered and completely decrepit. It rose from three teetering stories above the pavement before culminating in a weather torn roof. Liz checked the printout she had made of the private message. Could this be the place? Maybe they mistyped the address, she thought hopefully. She briefly entertained the idea of running back to the house to see if they had sent her a correction. So sorry, I meant 1338. But she knew in her gut that it was impossible. She remembered wistfully her cell phone lying on the dresser and wished she'd had the presence of mind to bring it with her. Then she took a deep breath and knocked on the front door. No reply, of course there'd be no reply. She tried the handle, unlocked, of course again. She tipped out inside and left the door slightly ajar behind her just in case she had to make a rapid escape. Everything about this place was so coincidental. She didn't trust the door still to be unlocked if she had to get out quickly. Liz did her best to be quiet as she made her way down the cobwebbed hallway, but it was nearly impossible to be completely silent in cowgirl boots. Still over the clacking of her heels she thought she heard the sound of a distant sobbing. She paused. Sure enough, there were rapid, uneven breaths coming from down the hallway. Liz was struck with a sudden burst of courage. She ran all the way to the last door in the hall and burst in. It was the strangest room she had ever seen. The walls looked freshly painted, but whoever had done the job had chosen a drab, dirty looking tan. The furnishings in the room were expensive but sparse and messily placed. A smattering of cushioned office chairs in no apparent order. A corkboard hung on a single wall and among the 10 or 15 newspaper articles pinned it to it, Liz spotted one of the yellow flyers. Overhead hung a huge television monitor so gigantic that Liz thought it might have been stolen from a billboard or a sports arena. Finally, in the center of the room was the source of the sobs. A woman who looked about 40 years old and who was wearing nothing but a stained hospital gown was duct taped to a folding chair. She struggled against the bonds but she was thin and clearly undernourished and Liz could tell that she was quickly exhausting herself with her struggle. She stepped forward. Excuse me, she said, let me help. She reached for the duct tape that held the woman's arms to the back of the chair but as Liz's fingers brushed her skin the woman snapped her eyes open and gasped. You used to be me, she whispered. What, Liz gasped? Listen, there was an urgency in the woman's tone which made Liz forget her situation entirely and pay close attention. My name is Elizabeth McKenna, the woman said. Do you recognize the name? Does it sound familiar? No, Liz said reflexively but then she hesitated. It did sound familiar. Familiar and somehow terrifying. Think, Elizabeth McKenna demanded as if she knew what Liz was thinking. Try to remember. I don't remember, I'm sorry. But as Liz said those last two words there was a deafening word of static and then the monitor flashed on. It was a scene from a pornographic video and Liz's first impulse was to look away in embarrassment but then she saw the girl's face. It was like a half remembered image from a vivid childhood dream and she couldn't tear her eyes away squinting to block out all of the image except the girl's face. She's you too, Elizabeth McKenna said. Do you remember yet? I remember Liz said. I think I remember anyway. But I don't know what you mean when you say she's me. How can she be me? She's not you, you're her, Elizabeth corrected. Liz waved her hand impatiently. Whatever, how can either of us be the other one? How can both of us be you? Or both of you be me? Or whatever it is you said. Elizabeth's haggard face drooped in disappointment. I was hoping you could tell me. Suddenly the monitor blinked off and as Liz looked around the room her eye caught sight of the yellow flyer. She laughed. I see now, she said, who knows? That's really cute. I am glad you think so, said a third voice. Liz's fingers had remained on Elizabeth's shoulder to comfort her. And she felt every muscle in Elizabeth's body tense at the sound of that voice. Liz herself felt a shiver go down her spine but she was wound so tight by now that she couldn't tell if it was because of any real danger or just the terrifying situation. Slowly she turned to search for the source of the voice. Are you the person who wrote to me? Liz, I've written to you more times than I can count and a handful of the yellow flyers floated into the room from the doorway. Liz leapt to her feet. Come here, I wanna see who I'm talking to. Do you know what's going on? The woman who stepped into the room was tall, very tall. Nearly seven feet, Liz guessed at first glance, she was dressed all in red, a long red skirt, red shoes, a red blouse, and a long red parka that reached far past her knees. On anyone else the parka would have brushed the floor. As the woman in red stepped into view, Elizabeth McKenna began to sob again, this time with real, frightened tears. I'm the same person as you, the woman in red whispered. What I need to know is who knows why. This is the end of chapter seven. Chapter eight of The Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet, the LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project 2007. Chapter eight, written and recorded by Betsy Bush in Marquette, Michigan, November 2007. Hey, up Chuck, shut that thing off. I snarl at my roommate and throw a pillow at him. Chuck groans, rolls over, and hits the snooze button. Seven minutes later? Dude, you've gotta go to work, get up. I holler across the room. Leave me alone, Corey. I was in the middle of a good dream. Chuck murmurs, but he gets up and heads to the shower anyway. I thought getting a nice, tidy bank teller job would give me the opportunity to sleep in on weekends. I thought wrong. At least I get to take advantage of Chuck's employee discount at the bookstore, and I don't have to pay shipping. I met Chuck during our first year of college in the freshman English class. We've been friends and roommates ever since. We were both English majors, which means that neither of us know what we want to be when we grow up. We've spent a lot of time writing these storylines for D&D and our live-action role-playing group. We must not have been too geeky because a couple of girls joined the group, and we managed not to scare them away. Are you going to the Flotsam tonight? Chuck says as he comes back in rubbing his red head with a towel. I don't know who's playing. Derek's new band, Nile is to Yellow Squirrels. Yeah, probably. I'll call Liz and see what she's up to tonight. I know very well that Liz will be wherever I am tonight. I'm going to head to the library and do some research for this new plot I'm working on. I'm sick of playing the fantasy medieval themes over and over. I want to try something new. Maybe ancient Rome or Greece or something we've never done before. I get up and get ready to go. The garb wouldn't be any worse than those ridiculous pumpkin pants, that's for sure, Chuck ponders. The girls would look great in togas, too. They don't show nearly enough skin in those big ol' hoop dresses. I stuff my laptop into a backpack, and we head out together. Chuck drops me off near the campus library before he heads over to Bookland. I love going to the college library on Saturday mornings. It's always empty, nice and quiet for some stream of consciousness writing. I sure don't miss studying, writing papers and cramming for exams, though, going to colleges overrated. Getting into my favorite chair behind the new book's shelf, I pull out the laptop, and an envelope falls to the floor. I had forgotten about that letter and the excitement of the new fling with Liz. I open it and read from the small yellow sheet. We know. I roll my eyes and think to myself, jeez, what kind of marketing scheme is this, leaving me in suspense for their brand name? Kind of like those old Burma Shave roadside signs. We know. Our beer smells like skunk. But you won't mind. When you're drunk. Drink blue tulip beer. I wad the paper into a ball and toss it into the chair next to me. I open the laptop and start going through my morning online routine. Check email. Nothing but spam. Check my Travian games. No new attacks. Check my friends' blogs. No new drama there. Check the fantasy game writers forum. Same ol' medieval. Oh, wait. What's this enough topic? A new thread with a subject line of, we know. Hello, Corey. I look up to see my old physics professor. I thought you had graduated. Getting up to shake his hand. Hello, Professor Diefer. Yes, I've graduated. But I still can't get enough of this library. How's your book going? Diefer may have been a science man. But he had a literary streak in him, too. That's how I managed to get through the class with a passing grade, talking sci-fi with a prof after class. Diefer chuckles. It turned out well. Let me show you. He beckons me to follow him around the shelves, where he points to the spine of a book on the new book's shelf. Doorways of dimension, tracking alternate realities through quantum magnetics. Congratulations. I can't wait to read it, I say, as I take the book from the shelf and flip through the pages. I'm glad to know that at least one person will read it, Professor Grins. Well, it was good to see you, Corey. I have to get going. I'm teaching one of those weekend distance learning courses. Diefer walks away while I bring the book back to my chair and become sidetracked, reading the introduction, where he describes how quantum magnetics allows for infinite possible realities, or alternate universes, to exist for any given moment. The point at which all events in time and space converge is called the singularity. Each alternate universe has a unique quantum magnetic resonance like a radio frequency. By tuning into different signatures, we can catch a glimpse of ourselves in these alternate realities. Like touching the surface of a mirror, we cannot penetrate into the alternate realities. But Diefer explores the possibility of breaking the surface as if it were a pool of water. Once the surface tension is broken, ripples spread out across the universe that affect the time-space continuum through these doorways of dimension. As I turn the page, a wad of paper sails over the top of my book and into my lab. I look up to see where it came from, but there is no one nearby. Unfolding the paper, I notice that the one I had tossed into the chair next to me is no longer there. The wrinkled page still says, we know. But down near the bottom, written in pencil, is the following. M1020.B7706, and of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of the Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet, the LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project 2007. Chapter 9, written and recorded by Smokey B. M1020.B7706. Thanks to his brief assistant ship at the library, Corey knew this was a call number for a book on music, more specifically on orchestral music, orchestra. The word struck a chord within him. For some time now, Corey had had a sense that things in his life were being orchestrated by others. It seemed that while he had once had purpose and initiative, now certain forces pushed and controlled him in ways he did not fully comprehend, like diaper pressuring him to take that job in the bank or these yellow sheets that followed him everywhere. And, of course, Liz. He'd had little to do with that tongue-tied and fumbling as he was with her. She deceased command from the get-go and it was she who had organized his sock drawer and taught him to memorize long strings of numbers, drilling him daily with differing digits till he left the bank, rattling off streams of account numbers and personal data into a pocket-sized digital recorder, all of which Liz transcribed into a notebook, never telling him why. Corey decided to follow the yellow sheets code. Arriving on the third floor, he moved quickly toward the Ems in the southwest corner of the building. His fingers trailed along the spines as he moved past the shells toward the window. M990, M1000, M1010, M1020. He stood close by the window now, overlooking the sundial plaza as he laid his hand at last upon the book he sought. Through the window he saw the little-known balcony attached to the physics lab, from which he had watched Liz and John eat lunch outside the library every day last summer. Inevitably his eyes went toward it. There was someone on it now, someone hard to see in dark, dark clothes, someone pointing something. As the shot rang out across the campus, Professor Differ, heading due north from the sundial, strolled calmly on without reaction, his thin lips curbing in a satisfied smile. Meanwhile, in a gleaming 18-wheeler southbound on I-95, Liz toyed with the charm at her throat as the afternoon sun gleamed upon it. It was warm again. Differ had sworn it was not radioactive or dangerous. Inside it, he claimed, was a small device developed by MI5 to pick radioactive locks by transmitting myriad frequencies in virtually every conceivable sequence. So, Liz had dryly opined. It's like a garage door opener. Differ had not been amused. The device had had to be smuggled out of England via eBay, and with Differ's help, his contact had designed the casing to appeal, especially to Corey, whom Differ knew was obsessed with fluids. Liz had been happy enough to steal the amulet from Corey, whom she had never truly cared for, but when the time came to hand it over to Differ, she wasn't so sure. At first it had been fun to run around with a distinguished older man, especially one so brilliant and mysterious, who lived by his own rules, but gradually his talk of alternate dimensions had gotten out of hand. The idea itself was fine, even admirable and intriguing, but if late Differ had begun to rant, literally to froth about how they all thought he was insane, and no one read his books, and that they sent him maddening scrolls on yellow sheets to warp his brain, but he would show them that alternate dimensions were real. He would just need power, a lot of power. He even claimed to be part of a secret society founded by Isaac Newton to use science and reason to perfect human society by any means necessary. Finally, Liz had found charts and maps whereon he sought to pinpoint old US missile silos in Montana. That's when she hit the road. Much of what she'd embezzled from Corey's bank had gone to Differ's research, but a good deal still remained. Between that and the occasional porno film and recompense to liaison with Japanese businessmen, she had a tidy sum stashed deep in her bag, all in cash. It was risky but untraceable. Never prone to superstition, Liz nevertheless felt it a good omen to have met Derek at the start of her journey. Corey had wrecked her sports car weeks ago, swerving round a squirrel on his way back from the comic book store. When she finally took flight, Liz borrowed a page from her high school days and caught a cab to the truck stop. She'd not expected much, nor did she need it. Prepared for a portly purve with reddened eyes and itchy palms, she'd found a godsend of a man with a grand physique and a kind demeanor. There he stood beside his spotless black Kenworth, trim and toned in brown slacks and vest. His NYS cap pushed back on his head at a generous angle. It was not hard to get a ride. Liz didn't care to wear, but as it turned out, no less a place than Miami, Florida, was Derek's destination. Some time on the sands, Liz thought, would do her no end of good. Now, lulled almost to sleep by the hum of the wheels and the thrum of the engine and the soft mellow music on the cab's impressive speakers, Liz was glad for the 15 hours they would need to reach their destination. There was a dependable strength in Derek which she could not fully explain, and she was glad to be beside him. She yawned and stretched. You're welcome to lay down in the back if you want to, Derek told her, hitching his thumb towards the curtains behind him, through which lay a small compartment called a sleeper, with just enough space for two well-acquainted people to be comfortably cozy. Liz stretched again, arching her back. What's this music? she asked. A guy named Anuar Brahem. Liz, I think that's how you say it. He's from Tunisia. Where is that? North Africa. It's pretty. I love it, Derek replied with a pause. I got into Arabic music when I was in the Army. I did a lot of things I can't talk about and I would get mad about a lot of stuff over there. He trailed off, shaking his head at the memories. Liz put her hand on his knee and smiled at him. Derek blushed. You want some food, he asked, or something to drink? There's a fridge back there and some chips and stuff. Liz undid her seatbelt. I could go for some chips, she said, as she parted the curtains. There's a gun back there, Derek said suddenly. Liz froze. I don't mean to scare you, just want you to be safe. It's under the pillow, so be careful. Even inside a rig, it ain't the safest thing in the world, sleeping by the roadside. Truckers get killed all the time. I understand, said Liz. I'll be careful. Lifting her knees, she crawled into the sleeper compartment behind them. It looked like a room in those Beehive hotels she'd so often known in Tokyo. Just enough room to lay down with a tiny fridge and a chauffeur too. The pillows lay behind the driver's side. She'd not been alarmed by Derek's comment. Being Southern born and bred, Liz had fired countless rounds through sundry guns for years before she ever kissed a boy. Gripping its center, she lifted one pillow. Underneath it lay a heckler and Coke, USP45 auto. Liz exhaled contentedly. It was a beautiful pistol. She had no doubt Derek could ably use it and she herself was far from helpless. She replaced the pillow, spun on one knee and scanned the shelves, finding the chips. They were baked, not fried. Liz half climbed, half rolled back into her seat, not bothering with the belt. Ancient K, USP, huh? Liz asked, don't Navy SEALs carry those? Derek seems startled and impressed. Among others, he said with a slight sly grin. You know, on paper, I never even left America. Officially, my entire military career played out in Hot Springs, Arkansas. His laughter filled the cab and Liz was much delighted. Here was a man she could trust and respect, not some milk-sob dungeon master or dirty old man with issues to prove, but a real, alive man with muscle and brains, integrity and honor, sympathy and self-respect, not to mention a Kenworth and a kick-ass pistol. What was he hauling, by the way? She made a mental note to ask. Right now, though, she seized upon his warming ease and drew him closely to her, not physically, that is. But as she saw her man relax, she coaxed him further from himself, wanting to know him and to hear his thoughts. He, in turn, drew much from her and thrilled her with his mind. He seemed to have read more books than she could name. In fact, he was a LibriVox junkie who'd crammed his iPod full, thrilled to pass his driving time with such sublime companions. And he truly listened when she spoke, not like Cory who was always on about his silly stories or Difer who spoke of little else beside his theories and his persecution mania. Finally, just outside of Jacksonville, Florida, they rested for the evening in the sleeper, laying close together but not entwined. Derek waxed upon the clear night skies in the desert and Liz seized this thread of cosmological concepts, hoping to clarify and reinforce her own understanding. Speaking first of black holes, quasars, and quarks, she asked, have you ever heard of multiple dimensions and alternate realities? You mean the idea that there are infinite possible worlds and that all events in time and space converge in something called a singularity? Mm-hmm. She nodded eagerly, nudging closer to him with a fiendish grin he snicked an arm around her waist and drew her sharply toward him. I've got a singularity, he declared, in my pants. End of chapter nine. Chapter 10 of The Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet. The LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project, 2007. Chapter 10. Written by Digisage, recorded by Kara Schellenberg. Her face displays a puzzled reaction. You have a singularity in your pants? Doesn't that hurt? Uh, no, I mean to say, well, Derrick says, looking sheepish. Continuing the charade, Liz asks, shouldn't you get that examined by a doctor? Um, you didn't strike me as this naive from our earlier conversations, Derrick states, looking disappointed. No, I get it. I like you and all, but doing it in the back of a truck with someone I have known for a short while doesn't turn me on very much. Derrick asks, well, what did you expect when you decided to go hitchhiking with random truckers? Liz leaves this question unanswered. The fact is that this dirty situation turned her on a great deal, but for some reason she felt that in this particular instance, she should not use her sex as a weapon. You don't have a wife or a girlfriend or anything? Liz asks. Actually, I do have a wife, but she went batshit insane and forgot about me. She didn't leave me or anything. She just literally forgot who I was. She forgot about her children, too. Weird. Wow, that totally sucks. No wonder you want it so bad. I'm guessing your insane wife hasn't put out very much. Liz asks, devilishly. You guess correctly, Derrick replies, with an eager look on his face. Yeah, well, maybe later, but not now. Liz discovers a new way to use her sex, temptation. He'll do whatever she wants now. Looking for a change of subject, Liz asks, so what work did you do for the Navy? Derrick looks offended. I already told you I can't talk about it. It's not easy keeping this stuff to myself. Please don't tempt me. Oh, what a bore. Your mysteriousness was really warming me up. Who knows what brawny, manly things you were up to? What do I care about military secrets? I can keep my mouth shut for the most part. She winks at Derrick, more female manipulation. Wow, this is easy. Derrick looks less offended and more eager. Oh, you like brawn? Liz almost laughs, barely stifling it in time. How can men be this naive? Oh, yes, I do. Liz overtly looks at the mattress in the back. It's looking a lot more cozy back there. Derrick cuts her off to continue his story. Yes, well, where to start? Derrick's mood suddenly changes. He looks terrified. Where to begin? There are a lot of things in this world that most people don't know about. Really, screwed up things. Things the government hides from people, not because they want some advantage over other countries or anything like that. Some things they hide for the continuation of public sanity. Liz looks surprised. Everyone's heard of government conspiracies, but I didn't think any of them were ever true. You're telling me they are? No, actually, I've never heard of a conspiracy that was true. The one particular project I worked on has been such a perfectly kept secret that no one in the public has ever heard anything about it. Liz, intrigued, asks, if it's been so perfectly kept, why are you telling me now? I mean, I really want to hear your story, but it doesn't make sense. Derrick, looking gloomy, says, I'm not happy with the Navy. In fact, I'm furious. There were a lot of promises they made to me in exchange for my service, doing work that no one else would do, and they never made good on those promises. My life is in shambles because of that, and I'm sick of it, so I don't care about their secrets anymore. It'll probably get me killed, but I just don't care anymore. Liz, almost shaking with anticipation, begs him to continue. Derrick continues the story. Right, screwed up things the military covers up. Lots of things, I'm sure. I only know about the one I dealt with. It turns out that certain people can manipulate the minds of others. Liz stifles another laugh. After all, she's manipulating him right now, or at least she was. Derrick's gloomy feeling spreads over her. Liz screams, her metal is suddenly burning hot. She takes it off her neck, also burning her hand, and throws it on the floor. Damn girl, what happened? Derrick asks, trying to recover the swerving of the truck after jerking the steering wheel with surprise. Oh, ah, my necklace irritates my skin sometimes. Some kind of metal allergy. I'm all right now, please continue. Derrick, shaken, continues. It's like a drug, a highly addictive drug, once a person realizes they have this power over others, it consumes them, it changes their personality, they become more powerful, their sanity suffers, the images they put in the heads of other people cause enormous problems, terrifying problems. Derrick continues, short of breath. There have been times when the population of an entire town has gone completely insane, and I spent 10 years dealing with this. Liz, her smug feeling of triumph over men completely gone now, says, okay, I can see how this would be a problem, but it still doesn't seem that terrifying. I mean, images can be scary, but so scary that the military needs to prevent it, how exactly does the military prevent it anyway? I'll explain the prevention later, Derrick continues. It's not scary at first, until they send you to kill these people. The manipulators always see you coming, and they use all their powers to stop you. A normal man wouldn't even notice they were being diverted. However, the military has some extremely powerful drugs that give one a sort of immunity. They must have injected gallons of that stuff into me. The drug isn't perfect, though. It prevents me from being manipulated, but it makes the images scarier. I spent my entire career completely terrified every minute of the day. I had to take anti-anxiety medication by the bottle, except for when I was on active duty, in which case I had to simply endure. And the worst part is that there were a few manipulators that got away. I got close enough to them for them to notice me, to remember me, and to loathe me, but I didn't manage to kill them. I became their obsession. Liz, starting to catch on to exactly why this is a huge problem, asks, why did you do this work for so long? It was fun at first, exhilarating. Only after my first few kills did things start to suck. The drug helped less. It always prevented them from manipulating my physical motions, but the images kept leaking through in greater detail. The Navy promised me that a newer, better version of the drug was on its way, but I never saw any of it. That's the first promise they broke. I tried to quit. They wouldn't let me. They said that all of the provisions for the end of my career would be canceled if I didn't finish my 10-year term. I really, really needed those provisions, so I was forced to continue. After 10 years, they totally screwed me over. What did they promise you, Liz asks? They promised protection for me and my family. The manipulators that got away would seek me out for as long as they lived. They promised that once I was done, I would have a safe place to live, guarded by all kinds of technology to keep the manipulators from even knowing I existed. They promised they'd fake my death and erase my name from history. In the end, they didn't even pay me. After 10 years' work, I had about $1,000 in savings and no skills or experience that could be applied to a non-military career, not even counting the fact that I couldn't tell anyone about it. Liz, really feeling sorry for this guy now, asks, how are you dealing with all this now? Derek, looking almost suicidally depressed now, replies, I was doing okay for a while until they found my wife. The government saw it coming and tried to prevent the manipulator from getting to her. Their method of prevention was far more barbaric than what they had me do in the past. Also, it didn't work. How did they try to stop the manipulator? Liz asks, shaken. A nuclear bomb dropped from a plane. Once you have a hammer, every problem looks like a nail or so they say. They accidentally dropped it a few miles off target. It landed in a lake and did barely any damage when it went off. So yeah, I'm pretty fucked up. First, my ex-employer tries to nuke my wife and then a manipulator drives her nuts and she forgets about her family. And I think the manipulator knows I'm alive, having read it from my wife's mind before she went nuts. Liz, totally blown away by this, has one burning question remaining. What exactly was your method of prevention? Derek, really not wanting to admit to this answers. You can't just shoot these people. Whatever it is in their minds that gives them this power can spread to other people once they're dead, in which case the whole purpose of killing them is defeated. The military discovered how to prevent this after many hours of torturous testing on less dangerous manipulators. They gave me a plastic bottle of sulfuric acid. I have to pour it on the manipulator's eyes and wait until the eyes are gone. Liz almost vomits. Derek can see her reaction and tries to calm her. He puts his hand on her leg. This is really why I don't want to tell anyone about this. I'm sorry to have done this to you. No one should have to carry this burden. And now you know how dangerous the world is. There are still a lot of manipulators out there. They're getting stronger and breeding. Liz doesn't know what to say. The next few hours are completely silent until they both hear a police siren. Derek looks in his rear view mirror and sees a police car, lights flashing. Derek pulls over to the side of the road. The cop walks over to the truck, asks Derek to get out. Derek wasn't speeding and he's positive all the lights on his truck are operational. Why did the cop pull me over? The cop looks Derek right in the eyes and says, we know. And walks away. End of chapter 10.