For Neil, John, Elise, Ray, Oster,

and all the others,

and all those they left behind

River of Hope

The swirling and buzzing stopped, and Sam blinked in darkness. He was lying down, on his right side. A pillow, sheets, a blanket. He was in a bed. He also wasn't alone. Steady breathing in his ear and an arm across his forearm made that clear. He frowned; he didn't want to wake his companion before he had a sense of where he was, so he would have to assess the situation without moving. His back was to the window, so he listened to the traffic as his eyes scanned the room. The bedroom was small but comfortable; it was probably an apartment rather than a house. The glowing dial of the clock beside the bed said "11:23." This was a city of some size, given the bustle outside so late at night. The window was closed and there was a chill in the room. It might be winter or fall. But the sounds outside weren't muffled as if by snow; they seemed heightened as if it had rained recently. Rain, cold, big city. That could be any number of places.

The arm across him was becoming annoying. It was weighed down with the press of sleep, but it was also just plain heavy. Sam blinked as he tried to deny the thought that flashed through his mind. He looked at the arm and fought a sharp breath of surprise. It was big, hairy, and masculine.

He stayed calm. He'd known if he kept leaping long enough eventually he'd leap into a sexually active woman, but he didn't feel particularly ready for this. The man sighed a sleeper's sigh and shifted, and Sam took advantage of the moment and slid from under the arm. The man rolled over and turned away, his sleep undisturbed. Sam breathed a sigh of relief in spite of himself. He needed a little distance to size up the state of affairs — so to speak. He slipped from under the covers and shivered in the chill. He looked down and saw he wasn't wearing a nightgown — he wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing, in fact — and he shivered as he looked for a robe. He moved across the room and stepped on the terminus of a trail of clothes in the middle of the floor. Whatever he'd missed had certainly been spontaneous.

There was an antique dresser with a mirror on top near the door. He needed to see what this woman looked like. His guess was she was young. What Sam had seen of the sleeping man indicated he was young, no more than 30. The pile of clothes also indicated the heat of youth. So, he thought as he approached the mirror, who are you, young woman?

When his eyes caught his reflection, it took several moments for the image to make sense. Looking back at him was a slender, young, blond...man. He stared hard at the sight, and then he glanced at the reflection of the sleeping man in the bed behind him. He knew he wasn't ready for this. The words spilled out: "...Oh, boy."

The sleeper shifted, then rolled over to face him. "What's the matter?" he said, his voice thick with sleep.

Sam reached for something, anything, to cover himself. All he found was a little throw pillow. "Ah, nothing — nothing. I'm fine." He tried a smile, but in the mirror it looked more like a wince. Realizing the angle of the man's view, he turned quickly to face him, the pillow strategically placed. "...I just couldn't sleep. ...Bad dream."

The man nodded. "Want some tea? I've got lots of herbal stuff in the kitchen." The man threw back to covers to get out of bed, and Sam glanced away to avoid staring at his nakedness.

"— No, no, really, I'm fine." He glanced at the floor to see if there was some handy article of clothing to put on, but how would he be able to tell his own clothes from those of his companion?

"If you're cold, there's a robe in the closet."

Sam turned gratefully and opened the closet door as the man approached him. The man put a hand on his shoulder as he reached into the closet and produced a terry cloth robe. "There you go." Sam took it and tried not to be too obvious in his embarrassment as he threw the oversized robe around him. He glanced around, but the man had left the room. He saw the naked form disappear down the hall into what was presumably the kitchen. He prayed fervently: God, if You have any love for me at all, do not let Al show up now. He looked at the young reflection one last time, all too aware of the bewilderment on that face. There was no way out of this. He turned with great reluctance and marched slowly down to the kitchen.

He braced himself mentally before he entered the room, but he found his companion had already put the tea kettle on the gas stove and was facing away from him as he searched through the cupboard. To avoid looking at him, Sam gave the kitchen a quick once-over. It was orderly, well-stocked, tasteful. From the array of appliances Sam guessed it was probably the late 1960s or '70s.

"How about some Constant Comment? That's my favorite."

"Sure."

"I've also got some great raspberry mint stuff. Whatever you want."

"Whatever you're having is fine."

"Constant Comment, then." The man put the box on the table with a hesitant smile. Sam glanced away as the man sat at the table. From here Sam's view of the man was blocked from the waist down to the knees, and he sent up a silent thank you. For the first time Sam took a good look at his companion. He was not overly tall, but he was stocky and gave the impression of overwhelming size. He was dark-complexioned and hairy — if he had not shaved his neck under his well-cropped black beard, the man would have been furry nearly from head to toes. He almost seemed like a giant teddy bear. He reminded Sam of a wrestler from Elk Ridge High — Bach? Reichenbach? Something German, anyway. He couldn't remember his first name. It didn't matter. That was a long time ago and someone else's life. The man was pulling out tea bags and putting them in the mugs that were already on the table. He indicated the chair to the right. "Come on." He patted the back of the chair. Sam realized he was lurking in the doorway.

Sam shivered and wrapped his arms around himself a little tighter. "Aren't you...cold?"

The man chuckled. "Nah. This is almost like summer weather to me." For the first time the man saw the reluctance in Sam's face, and his face fell. "Jesus, what am I thinking?" He was up in a flash and out the door. Sam hesitated, not knowing what this meant, but then the man reappeared, tying on a flannel robe. He sat at the table, chastened. "I'm sorry. That was really rude of me. I know exactly what you're going through. You woke up and you looked at me and you said, 'God, who is this man and what have I done?'" The tea kettle was beginning to whistle, and he got up to get it. "I remember what I went through the first time. It's kind of scary." Sam relaxed a bit and headed for the chair. At least whoever he'd leaped into was still new at this.

The man poured the steaming water into the two mugs, then put the kettle back on the stove and sat again. There was a moment of silence as they steeped their tea bags. "So," the man began slowly, "how do you feel?"

Sam managed a feeble smile. "Different."

The man seemed uncertain how to continue. "Look, I'm sorry if I did anything you didn't like, or whatever."

"No, it's okay."

"I mean, my first time was pretty awful. I tried to remember that. Not doing a lot at first seemed like a good idea."

"No, really, it was okay. Really." The man seemed appeased by this. "...It just takes a little getting used to."

"Yeah. All your life you're raised to be one way and think one way, and when you break loose it can be kind of...disorienting." The words were heartfelt, and Sam thought the man was speaking from experience.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Another silence ensued, an awkward one this time. Sam sipped his tea.

"Do you need sugar?" the man asked.

"No, this is fine."

"Good."

More silence. Sam looked at his companion as the man took a swallow from his mug. Despite his size and woolly exterior, this man exuded a calm gentleness that Sam found reassuring. In addition, Sam may not have known much about "alternative lifestyles," but he did know a thing or two about relationships, and it was obvious this hairy fellow had something of a crush on him. He smiled in spite of himself.

"What?" the man asked.

"Huh?"

"You were smiling."

"Oh. Well, I was just thinking about something."

"Oh."

Sam kicked himself for being so awkward. He tried repeating to himself silently, "Just pretend you're a woman," but it only made him more self-conscious. He needed some time to adapt — and to come to grips with this.

"How's the tea?" the man asked.

"It's great, thanks."

"Good. Want some more?"

"No, this is fine."

The man nodded. He asked with polite hesitation, "...So, what was your dream about?"

"My dream?"

"Sometimes it helps to talk things out."

"Oh, well,...I don't really remember it now. The tea must have done the trick."

"Good." The man took another sip. "A girlfriend in college used to say tea would fix just about anything."

Sam smiled at him. "Girlfriend?"

The man flashed with mild embarrassment. "I know. Seems like somebody else now. I did everything I was supposed to. All the regular 'guy things,' football, almost joined a frat." He finished talking, but the thoughts lingered in his eyes.

Sam proceeded cautiously: "And then?"

He put his lingering thoughts away. "And then I was no longer welcome." He looked up at the kitchen clock to change the subject. "I have to be up early tomorrow, so I'm going to turn in." He picked up his mug and Sam's empty mug and put them in the sink. "Coming?"

A ripple of fear spread through Sam in spite of his best intentions. "No, if it's all right I think I'll stay up a little longer."

The man nodded and took a few steps towards the door. He paused, then turned and smiled hesitantly at Sam. "I'm really glad you're here." Sam didn't know what to say as the man left. When he was out of sight Sam loosed a pent-up sigh.

He waited a few minutes until he saw the bedroom light go out, and then he got up and looked around the room to give him some clues as to where and when he was. He found a stack of newspapers tied in the corner of the room. He went through several loose papers on top and found they were all issues of the San Francisco Chronicle, and the most recent sections were from the Sunday paper, dated February 12, 1978. He wasn't clear with his Swiss-cheesed memory, but it seemed to him San Francisco in the '70s was a ground zero in the flowering of the American gay culture. He wondered what he was supposed to do, and he hoped Al would show up soon. He looked around for bills or letters, something to put a name to this man, but he could find no clues. There was nothing else to do but wait for his companion to fall asleep and for his hologram to arrive, so he washed the mugs in the sink and sat at the table.

Sam contemplated his situation. He gave himself a failing grade for his behavior so far. He had been raised to deal with people fairly and openly. He didn't have to approve of everything, but he was never allowed to judge. He was embarrassed and mad at himself for his negative reaction here. But despite the fact he was beginning to like this man, the thought of him wanting to cuddle sent a shiver down Sam's spine. On the other hand, he had to live the life of the person in the mirror. If this person he'd leaped into was gay, well,...he'd have to...deal with it.

He waited a while longer, but there was no telling how long it would take Ziggy to find him, so he turned off the light and headed down the hall. He lingered by the bedroom door to listen, and the man's deep, steady breathing indicated it was safe to go inside. He sorted through the pile of clothes and found "his" underwear — given their difference in size, it wasn't hard to figure out which pair of briefs belonged to him and which to his bulky companion — and slipped them on before taking off the robe and getting gingerly into bed. The man didn't wake up. Sam turned on his side away from him and, gradually, drifted into a light sleep.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Sam!"

He awoke abruptly to see Al in his scarlet suit gawking at him.

"My God. Sam! Holy Mother of God —!"

Al continued babbling as Sam rolled out of bed quietly, checked to make sure his bedmate was still asleep, grabbed the terry robe and headed for the kitchen. When he realized Al wasn't following, he stuck his head back in the bedroom. Al was transfixed, staring at the sleeping man. "Al!" he whispered. Al shook his head, blinked, and followed.

They rendezvoused in the kitchen, Sam via the hallway and Al through the wall. "Jesus, Sam. I don't believe it."

Sam was trying to be calm, but he had picked up Al's agitation. "Believe it. Who am I? Why am I here?"

Al squinted at him. "You didn't have to...?" He gestured vaguely towards the bedroom.

"No. He was already asleep. Just stick to the point. Who am I?"

"Wow. This is something." Al needed a last few moments to adjust, then he looked at his handlink. "Okay. Let's see. You're in San —"

"San Francisco on February 12, 1978."

"Right." He read through the data. "Your name is David Williams, you're 22 years old, you're from Greenville, South Carolina — you've got a cute little Southern accent — you work in a trendy art gallery just off Castro Street, and you're...," he looked at Sam deliberately, "...apparently gay."

"Yeah, I figured that out. Why am I here?"

Al tried to bring up something on the handlink, but nothing materialized. "I have no idea."

Al's presence was reassuring, and Sam began to calm down. He indicated the bedroom. "Okay, well, who's he?"

Al punched up the information. "His name is Edward Berliner, but everyone calls him Ted, he's 28, and he's a commercial..." Al scowled at the handlink. "A commercial." He gave the handlink a pop, then nodded. "A commercial photographer. He's originally from Hibbing, Minnesota." Al shivered. "Ooh, that's cold country up there." He frowned at Sam. "What?"

Sam didn't realize he was smiling. "Oh, his name. It's perfect. He kind of reminds me of a big teddy bear."

Al eyed him askance. "Yeah, well, I'm sure he's very nice."

"Have you talked with David yet?"

He shook his head. "He thinks he's died and gone to Hell. I won't tell you who he thinks I am."

Sam glanced at the red suit. "I can guess."

Al squinted at him with disapproval. "Verbena may have to sedate him. He's really flipped out."

"I can imagine. This," he indicated the bedroom, "seems to have been his first time."

"Oh. No wonder. Well, we probably won't be getting much from him for a while, and Ziggy doesn't have a clue yet, so you're going to have to wing it."

Sam sighed. He didn't want to have to wing it. He wanted to do what needed to be done and get out of here as soon as possible. "Yeah, well, hurry up," was all he said.

Al understood. "We'll put Ziggy on mega-turbo mode."

Sam nodded. The thought of going back to bed again was beginning to bother him. "Where does David live?"

It took a bit of searching, but Ziggy managed to produce an address. Al shook his head. "Sorry. The building's being fumigated. You can't go back for another three days."

Sam didn't realize he was looking at the bedroom with dismay. "Three days."

Al nodded. "Don't worry. It'll be okay. Just develop a headache once in a while."

Sam looked at him, not cheered by the advice.

Al provided the details on where David worked and ended with, "Take clothes to sweat in. You've got a show opening and reception to get ready for tomorrow evening."

"But won't I need to dress well?"

Al opened the Imaging Chamber door and looked at Sam with an impish smile. "Clothes are being provided." He stepped into the light. "Hang in there, Sam. This won't be so bad. You'll do whatever and voom." He gestured a quick departure. With an encouraging smile, he closed the door.

Sam stood alone in the kitchen and looked at where his friend had disappeared. "Easy for you to say."

Sam didn't sleep well, but he was unconscious enough not to react when he heard pre-dawn stirrings in the bedroom. In a hazy, dream way he was aware someone was getting dressed, but the bed held him in its comfortable grip and his consciousness couldn't float to the surface. From his drifting distance he felt a movement nearby, then there was a vague sensation, hard to say what, and then the rustling retreated. He heard the front door close, and he rolled over luxuriously in the warm privacy of the bed. In a flash he was catapulted awake — he knew what that sensation had been — it was a kiss. He looked at the empty pillow next to him, then sighed and rolled out of bed. He needed to get out of here.

He turned on the light and saw the bedroom clearly for the first time. Like the kitchen, it was tidy and pleasant. The pile of clothes on the floor was gone. On a chair he saw a suitcase and his — David's — clothes folded neatly on top. He opened the suitcase and found jeans and a sweatshirt to wear to work.

He made toast and coffee for breakfast. He looked at the note Ted had left him on the refrigerator — "Help yourself to whatever you want — see you tonight" — but made no effort to take it down. He looked at the kitchen clock: quarter to six. It was too early to go to work, but he didn't want to sit and wait — and think. He looked around for something to do. In the bathroom he found a clothes washer and dryer combo, so, without thinking about the time, he washed the sheets and remade the bed.

By the time he was done, it was just past 7:30. A gray dawn had broken over the waking city. Through the living room window he could see a glimpse of the skyline and the hills beyond. He had forgotten how beautiful San Francisco was. He let go of his pre-dawn anxiety in the light of the new day. He took in a deep breath. Yes, he could do what needed to be done and voom. He found David's raincoat and umbrella and left.

It wasn't far to the gallery where David worked, so Sam took the scenic route of side streets. The neighborhood was rousing itself for another day, and people were beginning the march to work as shopkeepers were washing windows, sweeping sidewalks, lowering awnings, and making ready for a new day. There were shops one might find anywhere — markets, book stores, liquor stores — but there were also a few places he had never imagined. One small shop had a window display full of sex and drug paraphernalia, and another had photos taped to the windows of men in various sexual embraces. He continued walking until he came to a storefront that looked like a nightclub, but the darkened neon sign said, "Larry's Baths." Sam read the modest advertising notice posted near the door: "A public bathhouse for a discriminating clientele — upright members in good standing only." Admission prices were steep, and he wondered why. Mentioned on the notice were types of exercise equipment inside. Perhaps it was a health club. He tried to remember if health clubs had their start in the late '70s. He couldn't remember, and he moved on.

The neighborhood was upbeat and clean, and more than once he saw two men holding hands as they walked. It seemed peaceful and accepting, and yet there was something lacking here. There were no children playing on the sidewalks or heading off to school, but that wasn't it. There was an emptiness, a missing core. He passed a kosher deli — with a small sign in the window declaring it "gay owned" — and it triggered his realization. He remembered a trip to Prague when a physicist at the Czech Academy of Sciences had taken him on a tour of the old city. They had passed through what had been the Jewish ghetto before World War II. His colleague had said comfortably, "Here they could be themselves." That had rung hollow in Sam's ears. They could be who and what they were, but only within the confines of predetermined borders. They were free to do whatever they wanted — except live their lives where they wanted. That's what this place was. It was a gay ghetto. What was missing was the open doors at the end of the streets, the doors of freedom into the wider world. People lived here because they weren't allowed to be themselves "out there." He remembered Ted's words: "And then I was no longer welcome." It was a somber realization, and Sam moved on slowly.

"Ah, the '70s," Al said as he fell in step next to Sam. "Disco was in, celibacy was out, hemlines were up, bustlines were down...."

A light mist began to fall, and Sam was grateful for the excuse to put up the umbrella as a blind for their conversation. "Do you have anything? Have you talked with David?"

Al was lost in his reminiscences and took a moment to snap out of it. "Oh. No. David's still sedated and Ziggy's in a fight to the death with the computers over at the NIH."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "The NIH?"

Al nodded. "They're very secretive over there. All those health records."

"What does she want over there?"

Al shrugged. "I don't know. But because she couldn't get in, she wants to get in."

"Well, tell her to try another route. In through the CDC maybe."

"No, it's personal now. She's going to crack their system if it blows every diode she's got."

Sam smiled to himself. "Ziggy doesn't have any diodes."

"Oh. Well, you know what I mean." He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar. "How did this morning go?"

Sam sighed. "This is really hard, Al. When I was that cadet in the naval academy, I didn't have to deal with any of this. I mean, we never even knew if he was gay or not. But we know David is. And I've got to...deal with it." Al nodded. "And the worst part is I feel bad about feeling this way. I should just be able to...well, be okay. But I'm not okay." He walked in silence for a few moments as he drew up the courage to say the words. "I don't want to do this. I don't like this. I'm afraid Ted's going to want to have sex with me and I'm not going to be able to get out of it. ...I'm afraid." He looked at his friend with sad eyes. "Does this mean I'm a bigot?"

Al smiled with quiet assurance. "No. It just means you're not gay."

"But what if...there's a little of David left in here, and...."

Al shook his head. "You're still you, Sam. If there are...influences, it's still you that's being influenced, not the other way around. You're the stronger part, way by far." Al's sweeping gesture punctuated his certainty.

Sam wasn't caught up in his resolve. "I hope so. So what do you have, anything?"

He looked at the handlink. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. You have to be careful about the food at the reception tonight. Ziggy found the review in the newspaper and half the people there got food poisoning. It was a major disaster."

"Does she know what it was?"

Al shook his head. "No idea. That, Doctor, is for you to figure out."

"Is that why I'm here?"

Al looked at the handlink and made a face. "Forty-three percent."

They stopped at the corner within sight of the gallery. Sam looked at his friend. "Anything else?"

Al hid his smile. "Nope. But I want you to know, no matter what you have to do on this leap, I'll still respect you in the morning." Sam tried hard not to, but he had to smile. Al nodded with satisfaction at getting what he wanted. "See ya."

Sam crossed the street as he heard the Imaging Chamber door open and close behind him. Banners on the outside of the gallery proclaimed proudly, "Roger Galloway: Splendour," and "Roger Galloway in person, Feb. 13, 7-9 p.m. Invitation Only." Sam had never heard of him, and he wondered if Galloway was a famous artist who had been Swiss-cheesed from his memory.

He went into the gallery as some of the other employees were showing up, and they were all put to work cleaning windows, mopping floors and taking care of a hundred other details. Burt, the foppish, fortyish gallery owner, mustered his forces with the aplomb of a seasoned general. At 10:00 he gathered them around for a pep talk to review what needed to be done. Burt was a Dutch uncle to his "boys," as he called the gallery employees, and to their delight he told them that today he was having lunch brought in from a sandwich shop down the street — plus they would be expected to divvy up the leftovers from the reception. Sam looked over the group as Burt talked. He frowned when he realized he had decided most of them looked gay, especially Burt. He gave himself another ten demerits for buying into stereotypes and being judgmental.

When Burt finished his talk, Sam followed him back into his office. The owner was about to make a phone call and he looked at Sam with patient annoyance. "Yes?"

"About the caterers."

"Yes?"

"Are you sure they're okay?"

Burt arched an eyebrow. "I'm sure." He tried to dial, but Sam wouldn't let go.

"Are you really sure?"

He set down the receiver pointedly. "We've all had lunch from there a dozen times. Now go away and let me get something done."

Burt picked up the receiver again, but Sam cut in. "What are we having?"

Burt put down the receiver. "We're having food. Now get out of here." The fact that there was no anger in his voice did not mean he didn't mean business. He shooed Sam out and picked up the receiver again. When Sam tried to interrupt one more time, Burt turned his back and began to dial.

Sam went out into the gallery, where he was quickly corralled by the fussy assistant manager into helping hang the art. He tried to find out from him who the caterers were, but all he knew was "someplace French." Sam put it on the back burner and went to work.

The employee who had been saddled with hanging the art had already put up two pieces on one of the large rectangular pillars set up in the middle of the gallery, but when Burt came out to check on their progress the arrangements didn't pass inspection. He measured each painting to make sure its height matched a spec list he had given the employee. "No, this is one-sixteenth of an inch off. We've got to get it higher." He frowned at the handsome young man who still held the hammer in his hand. "Alan, I told you these specifications have to be followed to the letter." Alan rolled his eyes and brushed back his sandy hair with annoyance, but he dutifully took down the painting and removed the nail.

Sam watched Alan struggle to make a usable nail hole so close to the other. "A sixteenth of an inch isn't going to make that much of a difference, is it?"

"Roger Galloway is notorious about this kind of thing," Burt said with a frown. "He says it's essential his art be shown exactly the way he wants it to be shown. And he's ruthless when he doesn't get what he wants. Besides, this is his first show since his latest 'world tour' and I worked like hell to get it. Everything has to be perfect." He sighed at his watch. "David, you help Alan here. I need to see what happened to the window washers." Burt disappeared as the two smiled to each other.

Alan said with a twinkle in his eye, "Remind me not to grow up like Burt, okay?"

"Okay." Alan winked as Sam chuckled, and they set to work.

With geometric precision, the two realigned and double-checked all of the art on display. They chatted as they went through the painstaking work. Sam got from Alan that Roger Galloway was one of the leading gay artists in America, and his work was beginning to sell well in the "regular" markets around the world. Sam could understand the appeal of his work once he saw it. Coursing through every line, every stroke of color was a vibrant energy that was overpowering and highly sensual. Many pieces were erotic and some bordered on pornographic, but even the non-sexual pieces surged with the power of Galloway's vision of life. Curves and shadows drew you in, while the colors and textures held you captive. Even the still lifes were anything but still. The effect was almost hypnotic, and more than once Sam had to be tapped on the shoulder by an amused Alan to move on to the next measurement. Sam could see why Burt was so eager to make everything perfect. Roger Galloway must be a fascinating person; Sam was looking forward to meeting him.

After all the paintings were exactly right and measured three times to be sure, Alan stood back to admire their handiwork. "Talk about well hung." Sam burst out with a laugh of surprise.

Burt stuck his head out of his office door. "Yes, Alan? Anything you'd care to share?"

Alan indicated the paintings. "Just admiring Galloway's jewels."

Sam snorted as he tried to keep his laugh inside. Burt frowned. "I hope you two are going to behave yourselves this evening. I'd hate to have to fire you." He disappeared back into his office. Sam and Alan exchanged guilty smiles, but they didn't continue the conversation.

It was past two, so Sam and Alan took a quick break for sandwiches. It was obvious from the way Alan talked that he and David hadn't known each other for long, so Sam could take advantage of that and ask a lot of questions. At one point Alan casually mentioned a male lover, and Sam experienced a flicker of disappointment. To Sam's eyes he didn't look like a homosexual; perhaps he had hoped Alan wasn't. Ten more demerits. Under the cover of David's newness to this life, Sam asked, "Does your family know?"

"About Jim?"

"No, that you're gay."

"Sure. I told my parents a couple years ago."

"What did they do?"

"They didn't really do anything. They've always said they just wanted us kids to be happy, no matter what we did." Alan added with a wink, "The fact that I have three brothers to carry on the family name didn't hurt, I'm sure."

Sam smiled. "That's great." He took a bite from his sandwich. "When did you know?"

Alan thought for a moment. "By the end of high school, pretty much. By then I'd figured out I wasn't like everybody else."

"Did that bother you?" Sam began to wonder where these questions were coming from.

"Sort of, but not really. I mean, I'm the youngest, and I grew up with lots of nieces and nephews around, so I didn't feel like children would be missing from my life. The only sad part for me was I'd have to move away from my family. New Haven's a big small town, and a lot of people wouldn't take it very well if I started picking up their sons on street corners." He flashed another smile, and Sam laughed. "What about you?"

"Me?"

Alan laughed. "Yeah, you, Mr. 'Who Me'? Whatever happened with that Ted guy you kept talking about?"

Sam wasn't sure how to answer. "Well, it's all kind of a blur...."

Alan smiled. "One of those, huh?" His smile vanished suddenly. "You're staying clean, aren't you? You're not getting into drugs?"

"No." He was surprised by the question.

"Good. There are a lot of guys around here who'd take advantage of you and really mess you up. Don't start, okay, even if he promises you it's going to be okay. 'Cause it won't be."

"I won't." Reassured, Alan went back to his lunch. Sam smiled. His brush with disappointment had passed. He liked Alan more with every interesting revelation. He was nice, savvy, funny — and he was one step shy of drop-dead gorgeous — "real easy to look at," as Katie would say. Just being around him put Sam at ease. He was grateful; he needed all the ease he could get on this leap.

Burt came out of his office and shooed them back to work putting up the title cards and price tags. Sam was stunned to see the prices — the small pieces began at $10,000 and the larger paintings went up to $55,000 — but Alan wasn't reacting so he wondered if this might be normal. Art was never his strong suit, even when he had all of his memory. They went around the room, posting the title cards and price tags according to another of Roger Galloway's spec sheets, and, finally, and after a great effort, they were done. By this time it was nearly 4:30 and Burt was sending "the boys" home to shave, shower and get a quick bite to eat.

Sam hurried to the apartment and back, not wanting to miss the arrival of the food. By the time he got back the buffet tables were set up with chafing dishes and vats for ice, but it was nearly six by the time the caterer's van arrived out front. Sam eyed each dish as it came in, trying not to be too obvious as he sniffed each container. When he leaned in to smell an entree of fish in a white sauce, he discovered the food wasn't hot. He caught the delivery boy as he was going back to the van for another load. "How long has this been out?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. I just deliver."

The boy disappeared back outside. Alan came up to Sam. "What's the matter?"

Sam did a double take. Alan was elegantly decked out in black tie and tails. "Wow."

"Yeah, they've arrived. Yours is in the back." Alan looked at the fish entree. "What's the matter?"

"This is room temperature. It should be hot. It might have gone bad."

"How can you tell?"

"Eat it and then anywhere from 2 to 12 hours later you throw up and get diarrhea."

Alan frowned. "Yikes. What can we do?"

When no one was looking, Sam and Alan quietly took the container out back and emptied it into the dumpster. They hid the dish in the gallery's employee kitchen, then rearranged the food already on the table to disguise the shortage. As they stood by innocently, the delivery boy came in with the last load, frowned at the table, scratched his chin, shrugged and left. They laughed and shared a high five of triumph.

In a back room Sam found a temporary dressing room. The other employees were nearly dressed as Sam located David's suit in a garment bag. He quickly donned the clothes, admiring the cut and luxurious fabric.

As he faced the mirror and tried to remember how to do the tie under that unfamiliar chin, a memory stirred. He'd been in a suit something like this before...it was a gray cutaway...but when? ...Stockholm. The Nobel Prize. He sighed, once again alone with the truth. His mother had helped him with the tie that day in Sweden. An Indiana farm wife at ease among all those dignitaries, she had outshone them all. Most of all he remembered the pride in her eyes. "I wish your father could see you now," was all she had said.

He finished tying the knot and looked at David's face in the mirror. Would he ever see his own face again? Just a glimpse. There were times when he couldn't remember what he looked like. Once when he was in a funk Al had smuggled in for him a Polaroid photo of the person in the Waiting Room, just to give his memory a refresher. It had been a mixed blessing, however, seeing his face with someone else behind it. God, he wanted to go home. Please, God, let this be the last leap. Let me go home.

A hand on his shoulder broke his reverie. "I know you are gorgeous," Alan said with a wink, "but you can't stay here all night."

Sam shrugged. "Well, I can try."

Alan laughed and went outside. With a last look at the lie in the mirror, Sam left.

When he emerged into the gallery, Sam saw "the boys" all lounging in their black tie and tails, waiting for 7:00 p.m. He noticed a classical string trio setting up in the corner — Burt was telling them, "And remember, no Brahms."

Sam ambled casually up to a group chatting in chairs lined up against the wall. "Y'all look like a bunch of crows on a telephone line." He blinked at what had come out of his mouth as the others chuckled.

Bobby, one of the boys, laughed. "Well, honey," he said with an exaggerated drawl, "y'all jus' set your sweet Southern ass down right ovah heah." He patted the chair next to him.

"No, I can keep an eye on you just fine from here," Sam countered. The others smiled and went back to their conversation.

Before Sam had a chance to wonder what had just happened, he felt a hand on his arm and soft words in his ear: "You look great." He flinched as Ted's face suddenly appeared beside him.

"Oh, you startled me," was all he could say to cover his fright. He gathered himself and looked at Ted. He was carrying a camera and had a large bag over his shoulder.

Alan approached them, extending his hand to Ted. "So, you must be Ted."

Ted smiled as they shook hands. "Yeah." He glanced at Sam to introduce him.

Sam stammered, "Yeah, ah, this is, ah, Alan." He had no idea what Alan's full name was.

The other two looked at him, Ted with concern and Alan with amusement. Alan turned to Ted. "Someday, if you stick around long enough and prove yourself worthy, you'll learn my last name is Swanson."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, "Swanson."

Alan obviously thought it was funny and thought no more of it, going off to answer the phone. However, Ted seemed to be reading something into Sam's awkwardness. Doubt flickered in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Burt came up to Ted. "Good, you're early. I want you to take pictures of all the art before the people start arriving. And there are some people I definitely want photos of. I've got a list...." They wandered off as Burt continued his instructions. Sam's heart fell. Ted was going to be there all night. At least he would be working. Sam kicked himself. He was going to have to get over this fear before he did something stupid.

After Ted had received his orders, he took the photos of the art. Sam kept busy to avoid him, wondering how he was going to survive the evening. Alan appeared and tapped Sam's shoulder, pointing at the buffet table. The caterer was puzzling over his list, then looking at the table, then going over the list again. Alan then indicated the cleaned container that had contained the fish as it sat on a chair by the door. The caterer looked at the container, looked at his list, looked at the table, then shook his head. The two giggled like guilty children at the sight. Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Ted looking at them, but Ted turned back to his work.

They stood and watched the caterer for another moment, then Alan straightened Sam's tie and dusted some lint off his shoulder. "Burt deserves an award. The suits were a perfect touch."

"Yeah. I feel like I just stepped out of a Madonna video."

Alan frowned. "A what?"

Sam stammered for a moment. "...A Marilyn Monroe movie."

Alan nodded, then added with a wink, "Thank goodness for us 'gentlemen prefer blondes.'" Sam smiled. Alan glanced over at Ted, who was taking a candid shot of the chatting crows on the telephone line. "Ted seems like a nice guy."

Sam nodded, not knowing how to answer. "Is Jim going to be here?"

"Nah, I'm baching it tonight. He's in Portland until Thursday." He sighed pointedly. "I'll just have to eat all those delicious leftovers myself." He eyed Sam. "The rest of them are okay, aren't they?"

Sam nodded. "The hot things were hot, the cold things were cold. I'm sure it's perfect."

Alan approved. "I'm glad. I hate puking, especially in a tux." Sam smiled as Alan wandered off. "And don't talk to me about diarrhea...."

The first guests arrived at 6:45, and they were ushered in. The boys went to work like a well-oiled machine, taking coats and umbrellas, answering questions, pointing out the art, helping patrons with plates and silverware. Sam specialized in the coat and umbrella brigade, leaving the selling to the others. He watched as Ted moved quietly in the background, following Burt's hand signals and politely taking photos of the persons Burt had indicated. He was good at his work, and Sam was impressed at how he put his subjects at ease. He sighed. He wished he could be so comfortable with him.

By 8:00 most of the city's art glitterati were present, but the guest of honor was nowhere to be seen. Sam mentioned this to Alan, who shrugged it off. "He's never on time to anything, let alone his own shows. That would be so...déclassé. Some people refer to him as 'the late Roger Galloway.'"

Another segment of the population was also there, in sharp contrast to the well-heeled art clientele. A few male hustlers were working the crowd, eating, laughing, being chummy, and generally drawing attention to themselves. One in particular was receiving a lot of attention, and for good reason: Sinewy, bleached-blond, with pouting lips and a loud, sassy laugh, he was dressed in an open leather shirt, jeans so tight everyone could easily see the outline of his genitals, and slung around his hips and down under his crotch was a chainlink g-string. Sam had never seen anyone like him before, and he knew he was staring but he couldn't help himself.

Alan frowned. "I don't know how Rodney gets invitations to these things, but he always does. I wish Burt would toss him out. It's queers like him that give the rest of us a bad name."

Alan's words stung Sam's ears. It was strange to hear a homosexual insult another by calling him "queer." "Aren't you being a little harsh?"

Alan shook his head. "People look at him and think that's the way all of us are. And he knows it, and he loves it. I have to spend a lot of my life showing people I'm normal just because people like him want to trash everything. They don't care. This isn't an all-for-one, one-for-all kind of deal. You're going to have to get used to that once you come out all the way."

Sam nodded, watching in amazement as Rodney let out a gap-toothed horse laugh and slipped his hand down another man's back pocket. Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Ted, who was watching Sam and Alan talk. Before Sam could turn fully to look at him, however, Ted turned away and took another photo.

A beautiful young woman with long, dark hair and startling green eyes approached Sam. She smiled at him with familiarity. "Thanks for the invitations. I've never been to one of these before. This is great!"

Alan flashed Sam an exaggerated "who's she?" look and went to go help a patron who was trying to take down a painting.

Sam's lack of recognition must have shown on his face, because she smiled. "You don't remember me. Sorry. I'm Jenny. Tess and I are Ted's next door neighbors. We met in the hall the other day."

He nodded. "That's right. Sorry." Sam was having trouble concentrating. She was dressed in a clingy emerald gown that showed she had all the right curves in all the right places.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw a man approach them, but when he turned to look he was taken aback to see it was a woman in a tux. She was as masculine-looking as Jenny was feminine. She put her arm around Jenny and kissed her on the cheek. "Hey, babe." She smiled at Sam. "Galloway's stuff is great. It's really hot." She nuzzled Jenny. "I got plans for when we get home." Jenny giggled as Sam tried not to be embarrassed. "Too bad everything's so gawd-awful expensive. I'd like to hang a few in the bedroom."

Jenny turned to Sam. "David, you didn't meet Tess." She looked at her companion. "This is David. He's staying with Ted for a few days."

Tess nodded with a discerning eye. "So you're the one responsible for all that noise."

Sam blushed in spite of himself. Jenny laughed. "In case you hadn't figured it out, Tess is real up front about these kinds of things."

He nodded. "I guess somebody has to be to keep the rest of us honest."

Tess smiled broadly. "I like that. But that's not what I'm talking about. I meant the washing machine this morning." Sam's face fell. "Our bedrooms and bathrooms are right next to each other, so when you run those the sound comes right into our room."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"That's okay. Just don't do it again. I'm not a morning person."

Sam nodded obediently. Tess smiled at Jenny, then gave her another kiss. "I'm going to go see about prints." She walked off.

Jenny smiled at Sam. "Don't worry about her. She said to me this morning she's never seen Ted so happy." She glanced back to where Tess had disappeared into the crowd. "She's really something, isn't she?"

"Ooh, sweetheart," Al chimed in, "you're the one who's really something."

Sam tried to hide his reaction as Al made eyes at her. He said simply, "Yeah."

"Why don't you and Ted come over for dinner while you're staying with him? How long will you be there?"

Sam did a quick calculation. "I go back on Thursday."

"I'll talk it over with her. I'm sure it'll be fine." She turned to go, but then turned to Sam. "And if you need anything, just knock on the wall." She flashed a sweet smile and went into the crowd.

"Oh, my," Al cooed, "you mean she lives right next door to you?"

"Al," Sam began his warning, but he stopped when he saw Al was in a dapper white tuxedo. "I would recommend against peeping on her."

Al gestured vaguely. "Well, I might accidentally come in via her bedroom."

Sam shook his head. "You'll be in for a surprise if you do."

Al smiled. "Ooh, I like surprises."

Sam said firmly, "Don't do it." Al wagged his head noncommittally. The crowd was gravitating towards the door, and Sam stepped back into an empty corner behind a pillar. "We took care of some suspicious food."

Al looked at his handlink. "Mission accomplished. There's nothing in the review. The show is a smash."

"And I'm still here."

"Yeah." Al's face lost its playfulness as he put away his handlink. He said solemnly, "I know why you're here."

"Great."

"Ziggy finally got into the NIH computers."

"And?"

He glanced seriously towards the door. "He's the reason you're here."

Sam followed Al's gaze and saw the stately, serene entrance of the man who could only be the guest of honor. "Roger Galloway," Sam said, not aware of the awe in his voice. The crowd gathered around, applauding and acclaiming, as he soaked up the attention with a patrician air.

Al nodded. "Ziggy says there's an 80.1 percent chance you're here to kill him."

Sam stared at his friend, then looked open-mouthed at the artist. "What?" Sam was watching Galloway move through the crowd, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, charming absolutely everyone. "Tell her to run it again."

"We already ran it three times. He's it, Sam."

"That's ridiculous. Why on earth am I supposed to —"

Before Sam could finish, Alan found him behind the pillar and led him out to meet the artist. "Mr. Galloway, I'd like to introduce to you David Williams. He really likes your work."

Sam became tongue-tied as the man of the hour shook his hand. "How nice to meet a fan," he said graciously. He was in his late 40s, with well-sculpted features and wavy salt-and-pepper hair. He was handsome and dramatic and he knew it. In his camel hair coat draped across his shoulders, his loose-fitting cream silk suit and pale blue silk tie, he cut quite the dashing figure. A current of electricity seemed to flow into Sam through the handshake.

Sam managed to say, "It's really an honor to meet you."

Galloway smiled. "A Southerner. Where are you from?"

"...Ah, South Carolina."

Galloway nodded. "My mother's family is from Virginia. It's always good to hear the familiar sounds of home." Sam was lost in the man's magnetism, hanging on his every word. "How long have you been in the city?"

"Um, a couple months."

The artist was obviously enjoying this display of his power to overwhelm, so he lingered with Sam despite Burt's efforts to get his attention. "You studied art?"

"Yes, sir, at the University of South Carolina."

"Ah, you're a gamecock," he said, smiling at his double entendre.

"Fighting Gamecock, sir," Sam corrected, wondering how he knew that.

"The feistier, the better, I always say," he said, and the group around him laughed. "It's nice to meet you, David." He finally let Burt direct his attention to the art critic from the newspaper.

Sam watched him as he turned, and then for the first time he saw a mark under Galloway's right ear. It looked like a bruise, but Sam knew it wasn't. What was it? He knew this. He searched through his medical memory. It wasn't something he'd encountered; he knew about it from reading.... He took in a quick breath of surprise. He watched as Galloway chatted with the critic. He said quietly, "AIDS."

Galloway turned to look at him. "I'm sorry?"

Sam said without thinking, "You've got AIDS." Something in the back of his mind said he shouldn't be saying that, but he couldn't remember why.

Galloway said, "No, I work alone."

Sam shook his head. "No, I don't mean you have aides who work for you. You've got AIDS. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. That lesion under your ear."

Galloway touched the purplish spot. "It's just a bruise."

"No. It's Kaposi's sarcoma." The words came spilling out. "It's a rare form of skin cancer common in AIDS patients. The pathologies are closely linked."

Even though Sam was speaking quietly, everyone around him was listening with silent confusion and his words carried throughout the room. Burt's eyes were large with angry disbelief. "David, if he says it's a bruise, it's a bruise." The undercurrent to his words was an unmistakable order to shut up. Burt quickly led Galloway away, and the group followed.

Alan leaned in to Sam and whispered, "What the heck was that?" They watched as Galloway cheerfully signed an autograph. "Since when do you know so much about medicine?"

Sam chose his words carefully. "I had friends in medical school."

Al stepped in to join them, patrons occasionally strolling through his image. "They don't know what you're talking about, Sam. AIDS isn't going to be identified for another year and a half."

Sam said to Alan with urgency, "Whatever you do, don't have sex with him."

Alan blinked in astonishment. "Well, I wasn't really planning on it." Sam searched his memory. Why couldn't he remember? He knew there was something big associated with the disease, but he couldn't bring it in from the void in the center of his memory. Alan watched him fret over the missing pieces. "You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." There was something about AIDS, something big.... If only he could remember!

Alan patted him on the shoulder and left. After Alan had disappeared, Ted showed up. "What was that about?"

"Nothing. ...No, it's not nothing. He's just got a disease that...I recognized."

Ted looked up to see Galloway accepting a kiss on the cheek from a woman in a silver fox stole. "Is it contagious?"

"Very. But not through casual contact." They both watched as he shook hands with the woman's husband. Their awe was palpable, even from across the room. Galloway was basking in the glow, every inch a king. This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. Sam wondered how he was supposed to stop him.... He looked at Al, whose serious gaze gave him the answer he didn't want. He looked away.

Ted followed Galloway to take some photos, and Sam shook his head. "Al, I can't kill him."

"You've got to, Sam."

"I'm not an assassin. I can't just kill someone because a computer says the odds are I'm supposed to."

"If you want to leap, you have to." Al punctuated his remark by opening the Imaging Chamber door. He said with deadly earnest, "You've done it before, Sam. Think about it." He stepped through the portal, and the door closed with an echoing thud. Sam stood alone, stunned. Had he killed before? He couldn't remember.... Yes. His heart sank. He had, hadn't he? He'd been an undercover cop, and two men were about to kill his partner...and that ambush in Vietnam, and the woman who was going to kill Tom.... He looked at his hands. He had killed people with these hands. He didn't know these appendages now, these hands that had taken lives away. He looked up at Galloway. No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill someone in cold blood. No.

Jenny appeared beside him. "David, could you please walk me home later?"

It took him a moment to understand what she was saying. "Sure."

"Tess has got something cooked up. I don't know. She wants to go now and 'surprise' me when I get home." She smiled.

He nodded, grateful for the distraction. "It will be my honor," he said slyly, the words rolling easily off his tongue in David's lilting drawl. "It's always a pleasure to be seen in the company of a beautiful woman."

She laughed. "You flirt!" She said quietly, "It won't work, but I do appreciate it!" She went to tell Tess as he stood there abjectly, his words echoing in his ears. He couldn't deny it to himself anymore — there was a lot of David left behind, and it was beginning to emerge more and more. He looked at Ted, who was taking a photo of Galloway and another admirer. He sighed.

Sam kept himself busy with coats, umbrellas and questions as the evening progressed. He didn't want to think about Galloway, he didn't want to think about David, he didn't want to think about Ted. A rude reminder of the situation came later when he stepped into the restroom and stopped in his tracks. Next to the urinal Rodney the hustler was going down on the husband of the woman in the silver fox stole. Sam stumbled back out through the door and tried to piece himself back together. Alan caught sight of his dazed condition and went into the restroom to investigate. Several moments later the husband came out, trying to look as innocent as possible as he adjusted his clothing. Alan followed, pulling Rodney by the collar to the front door. Rodney was protesting loudly, "What's your problem, man?" but he was soon out the door and gone.

Alan came back in to Sam. "You okay?"

Sam nodded. "It was just kind of a surprise."

They looked at the husband, who was laughing loudly with his arm around his wife and his back to them. Alan shook his head. "I tell you, rough trade and the freak show were made for each other. I just wish they'd do business someplace else."

Sam asked quietly, "Rough trade?"

"Men who insist they're not gay but come down to the district for kicks." He looked askance at Sam. "Am I going to have to write a dictionary for you?" Sam smiled slightly, and Alan went back to work. After a moment of hesitation, Sam went back into the restroom.

By 9:45 the crowd had thinned to a few stragglers, but Galloway was still there. He was obviously enjoying himself, and he was chatting with the boys in a circle of chairs in a corner. Burt was delighted he had stayed so long; it was the crowning touch to a stellar evening. Half of the pieces were already sold, and Galloway had mentioned the possibility of having his next show here as well.

Sam and Alan were divvying up the leftovers for the employees as the caterer and his assistant packed up the dishes. Ted and Jenny were chatting in the corner as he marked his rolls of film, and the last customers were lingering on the edge of Galloway's conversation. Sam was still preoccupied with his assignment, unsure what to do next.

Galloway clapped his hands with satisfaction and stood up. "Anyone care to join me at Larry's?" Several of the boys got up eagerly.

Alan scoffed as he bagged the leftover French bread. "Baths." He glanced at Sam to share his derision, but when he saw the blank look on Sam's face he frowned. "You know about bathhouses, don't you?"

"No."

"Don't ever go to one. You'll get more exotic diseases there than you'll know what to do with."

"What do you mean? Like infections passed around in hot tubs?"

Alan shook his head. "I keep forgetting. You are an innocent. Bathhouses are where guys go to have sex with every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes in."

Sam's eyes grew large as he looked at Galloway. "That's where he's going?"

Alan nodded as he packed another loaf in a bag. "Hey, didn't you say people weren't supposed to have sex with him?" He looked up, but Sam was gone.

Bobby was putting the camel hair coat over Galloway's shoulders as Sam approached the group. "You can't go to a bathhouse," he said.

Galloway looked at him, his patrician patience waning at this renewed intrusion. "Why not?"

"You've got AIDS. It's a fatal disease. Having unprotected sex with you is like playing Russian roulette."

The boys were watching this, their eagerness to go with Galloway muddled by Sam's words. The last few customers were moving off slightly, not wanting to be involved.

Galloway took his gloves from his pocket and put them on with short, brusque thrusts. "But I'm not dead," he said, his even voice in sharp counterpoint to his obvious anger. "Perhaps I'm getting over it."

Sam shook his head. "HIV — Human Immuno-deficiency Virus, that's what leads to AIDS — is a retrovirus, which means once you've got it, you've got it forever, like malaria or herpes. And you've got full-blown AIDS. ...You're dying." He looked at the others, who were staring at him. "One of the primary means of communication of HIV is sexual contact. Anyone who has sex with him is basically throwing his life away."

The room was silent. Galloway smiled, his civility only underlining his anger. "All this from a little bruise on my neck. My dear David, you've missed your calling. You should have been a carnival fortune teller." He turned to go.

Sam had to stop him. "Night sweats. Swollen lymph nodes. Days where you feel like you can't even get out of bed. A cold that lingers for weeks. Unexplained fevers. White pustules on your tonsils. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" He glanced at the big coat draped over Galloway's shoulders. "And you've been losing weight lately, and you don't know why."

Galloway turned with a frown. "You don't know when to stop, do you?"

Burt appeared next to Galloway and pleaded in whispers for several moments. Galloway listened, thought, then with a frowning glance at Sam he nodded. He turned and left with a flourish. Sam made a step to go after him, but Burt grabbed him hard by the arm and pulled him into his office.

"I can't believe what I just saw," Burt snapped. "You've been pushing this all night. I like you, David, but I need Roger Galloway and his show. You don't work here anymore. Come by in the morning and I'll give you whatever I owe you." Burt walked out, and Sam stood numbly in the middle of the room. He turned and slowly left the office.

Out in the gallery the boys were heading out the door with their parcels of leftovers. What should have been a festive departure was now muted. There were a few glances Sam's way, and he knew they had heard. Ted and Jenny stood quietly in the corner, waiting. Burt was nowhere to be seen. Alan looked at Sam sadly, then walked over to him with his parcel of leftovers. "Don't forget this."

"Thanks." He took the bag.

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Hey, maybe Burt'll cool off in a few weeks and take you back."

Sam smiled lightly. "Yeah, right, when they elect a Polish pope."

Alan chuckled. "I'll put in a good word for you when I can. Stay in touch."

Sam nodded. "Thanks, Alan. Thanks for everything."

"Hey, don't sound so final. It's not like he hired a firing squad." He patted Sam on the arm. "Cheer up. Look at it this way, it can't get much worse than this." He smiled.

Sam tried a smile. "We'll see."

He went into the back room and changed into David's regular clothes. When he came out, Ted and Jenny had put on good faces. They each took an arm and escorted him outside.

"Well, that was certainly entertaining," Jenny said cheerfully as they hit the sidewalk arm in arm in arm. "You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

Sam had to smile. "Well, I suppose now I have unlimited horizons," he said.

"Damn straight," she said. "Why, who knows? This could be the beginning of a magnificent career in something you never even dreamed of."

"Like what?" he said playfully.

Jenny looked at Ted. "Like what?"

He stammered. "I don't know. Like being a jockey."

They all laughed.

They walked down the quiet street, enjoying the beautiful night. Eventually Jenny dropped Sam's arm, and Ted tentatively took Sam's hand. Sam tried a smile and they walked on together, hand in hand. As they walked home, Jenny wondered aloud what Tess might be up to, but Sam told her it was supposed to be a surprise so she should just let it be one. She growled and called him a spoilsport. Ted and Sam laughed. There were more jokes, more words of encouragement, more laughter. Sam needed this, a little support and friendship. He had a bad feeling about what was going to happen before — if — he leaped.

They were two blocks from home when an older Buick squealed around the corner of the quiet street. It roared towards them, and Ted tensed and dropped Sam's hand. A bolt of fear shot down Sam's spine, but he didn't know why. The car slammed to a halt next to them, and the three could see the car was full of teenage boys. Sam went on guard and put Jenny out of harm's way behind him, but Ted pulled both of them back behind him and faced the car as the windows rolled down, releasing peals of mocking laughter and the smell of beer. "Hey, faggots!" "Hey, want some pussy?" "Wanna suck me off?" "Hey, we got something for ya!" Ted did not flinch, a formidable figure squared off against them.

The back door opened and a punk was half-pushed out by his companions. He pulled out a nasty-looking piece of metal pipe. "Hey, fag, come here, I got something for ya." Sam recoiled with surprise, but Ted didn't move as the punk waved the pipe threateningly. "How 'bout if I shove it up your ass? But you'd probably like that, wouldn't ya?" The others in the car laughed. Ted didn't move, the picture of resolve.

Jenny shouted, "You kids get out of here before we call the cops!"

Mock "oohs" of fear emanated from the car. Voices from inside said, "Letting the woman do your fighting for you, huh?" "She probably has a bigger dick that you do!" More laughter. Sam sized them up. They were young, drunk, and buoyed by each other's bravado; they could be discouraged quickly. But that pipe could do a lot of damage before they were chased away.

The punk snarled at Ted, "Wanna play? Huh? Huh?" He swung the pipe at Ted.

In a gesture so smooth Sam barely saw it, Ted caught the punk's wrist on the downstroke and twisted his arm behind his back. The punk shrieked in pain as the pipe clattered on the sidewalk. Sam quickly picked it up. Ted said firmly to the boys in the car, "Violence never solved anything. If you believe you have the right to come down here and beat people up just because they're different from you, that means someone who's different from you has an equal right to come into your neighborhood and beat you up. You wouldn't like that, would you?" The punk was dancing in pain, trying to minimize the agony in his captive arm. The boys in the car were silent as Ted held out his hand to Sam. Slowly Sam extended the pipe to him. Ted took it and held it in front of the punk's face. "Would you?"

With a whelp of pain, the punk said, "No."

Ted looked at the boys in the car. "Would you?" There was no reply. Ted jettisoned the punk back through the open door into the back seat of the car. "Don't come back here." The car roared away, the back door closing halfway down the block. The car disappeared around the corner.

Ted looked at the others. "You all right?"

Jenny nodded as she shook off her fear, and after a shudder that came up from nowhere Sam gazed at Ted with wonder. "That was amazing."

"It happens all the time," he said tersely. "But you never get used to it." He looked at the pipe, then dropped it in a trash receptacle.

They walked the rest of the way home in silence, and they bid their farewells at Jenny's door. They shared a small smile at the surprise waiting for her, and she went through the door. They listened for her to throw the deadbolt lock, then went back up the hall to Ted's place.

Once inside, Sam could not longer avoid thinking about what might happen tonight. He shuddered as Ted put down his camera bag and turned to him. "I have no idea what all that was about tonight, but I'm really proud of you for sticking to your guns." Sam tried not to react to his choice of words. Ted gave him a heartfelt hug, then said, "Go on to bed. I'm going to make a phone call after the rates go down and be in later."

Sam looked at the clock. It was nearly 10:30. "Isn't it a little late?"

"My brother's in Alaska. It's earlier there." Sam nodded. Ted hung up his coat and went into the kitchen. Sam turned away and went down the hall to the bedroom.

Sam undressed slowly, filled with dread. He tried to find pajamas in David's suitcase, but the best he could come up with was an undershirt. He changed and went into the bathroom.

He washed his face and looked in the mirror. There was despair in those Carolina blue eyes. He didn't know which he dreaded more — going to bed tonight or trying to figure out how to kill Roger Galloway. Somehow he wasn't startled when through the bathroom wall came a sigh and then a long moan. Tess's surprise seemed to have met with Jenny's approval.

The sounds of approval continued as Sam brushed his teeth, and eventually things began to escalate. He tried not to listen, but even running the water couldn't cover the noises. He sighed. It was definitely in the air tonight.

He was rinsing out his mouth when Al emerged through the wall. Al didn't look at all happy. He puffed pensively on his cigar as Sam said, "I warned you."

"You know, I've had fantasies about what's going on in that room, and they didn't look anything like that." He took another thoughtful puff and let the fantasy go. Through the wall came a shuddering groan, an "Oh, God, yes!", another groan, and then silence. They looked at each other, but neither spoke.

"You have something to tell me?" Sam said.

"Just checking in. What happened tonight?"

Sam put the toothbrush away. "I tried to keep Roger Galloway from going to the baths and not only did it not work I got David fired."

Al looked at his cigar seriously. "I told you what you have to do. That's the only thing that's going to work."

Sam turned and left the bathroom angrily. "I can't just kill him. That's murder. That's not what Project Quantum Leap is about."

Al followed Sam into the bedroom. He said calmly, "It's the only way to stop him. He has no idea what he has. None of them do. You can't tell him to never have sex again and expect him to understand."

"Well, there's got to be another way." Sam was pacing around the room, avoiding getting into bed.

Al said quietly, "You already tried one and it didn't work."

"Then I'll try another one."

Al watched his friend pace. "You don't remember the AIDS epidemic, do you?"

Sam stopped. "Epidemic?" That sounded familiar. He tried hard, but the memory would not come up. He shook his head. "I remember the pathology of the disease, but I don't remember anything else. What happened?"

Al took a long puff. "If you don't remember, I can't tell you."

"Oh, come on," he said angrily. "That's ridiculous."

"That's what Verbena says. You're not to be told if you don't know."

"Why not?"

"There's a lot of stuff involved here, big stuff, and you can't charge through it like a bull in a china shop. If I tell you what you don't already remember, it could completely change the way you function here, and you could get too involved."

"Well, I think I'm already pretty involved if I'm supposed to kill someone."

Al shook his head. "Ziggy says if you get too deep into what's going to happen, you could lose your sense of direction, and lose who you are, and you may not leap. You have to stick to the point, change history, and go." Al took a serious puff on his cigar. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

Sam's anger waned as the thought of getting lost and not leaping sank in. He knew that was always a possibility, and he could feel the danger of that here. Besides, he wasn't really mad at Al. He was upset and nervous, not angry. "But I can't kill a man in cold blood. I can't."

Al flicked some ashes off his cigar and regarded him. "Sam, I'm a soldier. If I can save 20 lives by taking one, I'll do it." Sam listened with a sigh. "When I was flying missions over Vietnam, one of my regular objectives was taking out munitions dumps. Now, I knew there were people on the ground near those dumps, and they would be killed if I took it out. But I also knew if I didn't do my job, those weapons would be used against our guys and a lot of them would be going home in body bags instead of walking down the ramp."

Sam sighed again. "But that was war."

"This is war." Sam looked at Al; the soldier was deadly serious and not giving an inch.

Sam tried another approach. "Okay. Can you tell me that if I kill Roger Galloway there will be no AIDS epidemic?"

Al shook his head slowly. "No. It will still happen. The virus is already out there."

"Then why am I supposed to kill him?"

Al looked around, sorting through his thoughts. "Look, I can tell you this much. There were a number of strains of HIV traveling around. Some of them were genetically very stable, and the people never got sick. The more genetically unstable the strain of virus, the faster the person got AIDS. When they finally found the cure, they had to go through each one of the strains one by one. That's how different they were — each one was almost like a separate disease. You remember what a Patient Zero is?"

"It's the only person in common with the people in the first generation of diagnoses in a contagion and is therefore considered the source." He almost surprised himself with the precision of his reply.

Al nodded. "Roger Galloway was Patient Zero for the most virulent, genetically unstable strain there was. People who got it were dead within three years. All of them. The average was 22 months."

Sam looked away. He knew how horrible the disease was, but he didn't remember this. He looked at Al urgently. "You said the virus is already out there. Does Ted have it?"

Al shook his head. "No, he's clean. He doesn't have anything."

"What about Alan?"

Al suddenly turned to his left with annoyance. "All right, all right, all right!" He looked at Sam with a frown. "I can't tell you stuff like that."

Sam instinctly looked to where Al had been speaking, but he could see nothing. "Someone's with you."

Al nodded. "Making sure I don't spill too many beans." He cast a frown in response to something from the unseen companion. "He knows you're there. I'm not telling him something he doesn't already know."

Sam said, "Just answer yes or no. Does Alan get AIDS?"

Al looked at him intently. "At the moment, I can't tell you that, no."

Sam understood and frowned. "You mean he's going to get it?"

Al took a deep breath and with the slightest of glances at his "shadow" said deliberately, "If you take care of Galloway, you don't have to worry about what's going to happen to him in the future."

Sam nodded solemnly. "What about the others? Do any of them have it?"

Al looked at his handlink, and after a slight pause he said pointedly, "Right now it looks like I can come back by 2."

"Two of them? Who? Who are they?" Al looked at his handlink, muzzled by the presence of the invisible watcher. "Burt? Is Burt one of them?" Al frowned as he looked at the handlink. Sam didn't need to hear the words. He turned away sadly. "God, I feel so helpless."

"Sam, you can't help them —" He turned abruptly and shouted, "— Did I tell him anything? Did I say anything to him? Jeez! Back off!" He looked at Sam, trying to regain his composure. "You can't help the people who already have the virus. The only people you can help are the ones who are going to get the strain Roger Galloway is carrying. Information from the NIH and CDC indicates that something happens right in these couple of days that causes Galloway's virus to start mutating out of control. People who had sex with him up until now didn't get the 'super-strain.' The date that shows up on the CDC records for when the people of that first generation start meeting him is the 14th." He concluded solemnly, "The only way you can help anyone is to kill him, and you've got to do it within 22 hours."

Sam felt sick to his stomach. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. He was in a freefall, completely out of control. He felt completely helpless, powerless in the face of this terrible dilemma. He just wanted to go home. He wanted this to be some long nightmare and he wanted to wake up. He didn't know who he was anymore. — Wait, was that it? "Al, is David functional yet?"

He nodded. "Verbena's talking to him right now. Why?"

"There's something screwing me up, holding me back, I don't know what it is. I think it's David. She's got to find out what's going on inside him."

Al looked at Sam seriously. "You mean there are...influences?"

"It's beyond influences. It's whole chunks."

Al's face grew long. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. So have her talk to him. I've got to do this," he covered his eyes for a moment, "and get out of here."

Al looked at him, making a few realizations. "I'll see what I can do to help." He opened the Imaging Chamber door, then looked at Sam somberly. "It's going to be okay, Sam. Just...remember that." He stepped through the door and was gone.

Sam looked at the clock. It was nearly 11. Ted hadn't started his phone call yet. Maybe it would be okay if he was asleep when Ted came to bed.... He turned off the light and got under the covers. He faced away from Ted's side of the bed and watched the clock click by the minutes. It had only been 24 hours, and yet it was longer than three lifetimes. Perhaps the next 24 hours would see the end of a lifetime. At his hands. He began to think of ways to kill someone that would leave no blood, and he drifted to sleep.

The bed shook, and Sam bolted upright. "Earthquake!" he said breathlessly.

Ted looked at him with an astonished smile as he pulled up the covers. "No, it's just me. You're okay. Sorry I woke you." Sam needed a moment to catch his breath as he watched Ted settle in. What a blunder. So much for being asleep when Ted came to bed. Damn. Ted rolled over to face him. "This is a solid building. You'd be okay here in an earthquake."

"I bet that's what they said in the Marina District."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Sam sat for a moment, afraid to lie down next to this man. But he couldn't sit up all night. He turned as if to look at the clock, then curled up facing away from Ted at the edge of the bed. It worked for two seconds. Then Ted nestled in behind him in a comfortable embrace. "I told Ron what you did," he said in a low voice. "He said to say he was proud of you, and he hopes you find another job in your field before the end of the century." Sam didn't react. Ted kissed him on the back of the neck. "I'm proud of you, too." Sam didn't move, and nothing happened. Ted seemed content simply to hold him.

It was a strange sensation, lying there at the edge of the bed, the cold void before him, two gentle, hairy arms around him and a fur-coated body resting against him from shoulders to feet. Even through his underwear, Sam could tell Ted was wearing nothing. Well, some people sleep in the nude. That didn't mean anything. People like to spoon. That didn't mean anything, either. The strong hands began gently to rub his chest. This did mean something. Oh, boy.

Microscopic currents of fear danced on Sam's skin. The hands moved vaguely, caressing, soothing. Sam knew he was trembling, but he imagined Ted interpreted that as something other than fear. The hands moved slowly, down, then up under the undershirt. They were warm and strong on his skin. He could hear Ted's lips part in a smile. "You've got goose bumps. Are you cold?" He held Sam tighter as Sam shook. Ted eased his hold for a moment and moved back. He pulled Sam gently back into the middle of the bed. "It's warmer in the middle." It was; Sam was on the spot where Ted had been lying, and it felt like a heating pad. But it didn't help his trembling. The big man nestled back behind and around him. The hands began their meanderings again under the undershirt, drifting, caressing, trailing over a nipple. Sam's body was a knot. He felt helpless, powerless again, but this dilemma was worse. This was beginning to feel good.

A hand wandered lower, skimmed the elastic on the waistband of his briefs, then dipped under. The warm hand found its target, and Sam caught his breath as his body betrayed him and responded. The hand moved surely, with gentle force, knowing what to do. Sam shivered, but it wasn't fear this time. Ted nuzzled the back of his neck. What was happening to him? How could this be happening? How could he feel this way? God, it felt so good. He wanted to move with the hand, he wanted to guide it, show it the best spot.... No. No. This wasn't right. Not like this. With the last of his fading resolve he put his hand on Ted's hand: "...Please...stop."

The hand let go, then withdrew. Ted's warmth sank away as he retreated and rolled over silently. Sam hated himself and rolled over to see the large form huddled away from him. He shifted over and put his arms around the massive chest and held him. "I'm sorry. I just can't do this now."

The reply was muffled by the pillow: "It's Alan, isn't it?"

Sam was startled. "What?"

"I saw the two of you together this evening. He's handsome, and thin, and...you two look really good together."

Sam buried his face in Ted's hairy back to suppress an inappropriate chuckle. "No, it's not him. He's just a friend. He's...," he couldn't think of a better way to say it, "already spoken for. It has nothing to do with him."

Ted turned his head to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "Really?"

"Really. It's just been a really bad day for me." Ted seemed appeased by this, and his body relaxed and settled.

Sam continued to hold him, liking this pose. It was certainly a lot safer than the other way around. Nothing could happen with them like this. He sighed. He was going to survive the night.

He rested his head against Ted's warm back, and Ted put a hand over Sam's hand on his chest. He held it for a moment, then began to stroke it. The gentle kneading felt good, and Sam sighed again. Ted ran his fingers between Sam's, massaging the soft skin at the base of his fingers. Sam was beginning to unwind after his ordeal and he started to drift. He came back, however, when Ted began to move Sam's hand down his chest. He didn't dare breathe as they skimmed his navel and Ted wrapped Sam's hand around his erection. He held his hand and began to use it to massage the taut flesh. Not knowing how to get out of this, Sam let his hand be used, not helping but not pulling away. Ted began to move his body as Sam had wanted to, and Sam had to pull his hips back as the last vestiges of his own response reawakened. Ted's grip was becoming firmer and more urgent, and finally Sam gave in to Ted's need and began to work with him. He understood when Ted moved his hand up and then moved his own hand down. They worked as a team until Ted gasped and the shuddering release followed. His body shook, then relaxed. Sam withdrew his hand and tucked it out of sight, drenched with the thick, precious fluid. Ted turned his head towards Sam, but the angle was too far and his energy was spent. It was up to Sam. Blocking from his mind what he was doing, he leaned up and kissed him. Ted sighed contentedly and sank into his pillow. Sam settled in against his back, stunned at what he had done.

He waited what seemed an eternity for Ted to fall asleep, and then he got up to wash his hands. He stood trembling at the sink and lathered his hands twice as the sounds of Round Two of Tess's surprise drifted in through the bathroom wall. Yes, it was definitely in the air tonight. He went back and got into bed, curling up away from Ted and drifting to sleep as he wondered what would have happened if he hadn't stopped Ted's hand.

Sam found himself standing above a cliff. It was a sheer precipice, dropping away beneath his feet to a surging sea below. A stiff breeze was blowing, the brisk aroma of salt and wind filled his senses, and there was the sound of seabirds somewhere. There was no fear as he balanced on the edge. The wind was blowing up from the waters, keeping him aloft as he stood there too close to the edge. He looked at the waves below. The seething currents were dark, muddied, ominous. He leaned out over the edge to see the mesmerizing waters. They pulled him, urged him on, beckoned him to join them....

Suddenly the ground beneath his feet gave way and he tumbled headlong towards the churning darkness. There was no time to scream as he plunged into the moving pitch. The waters were thick and held him down, but he managed to crawl up through the waves and gulped in air as he broke the surface. He tried to swim, but the water was heavy, syrupy — no, it wasn't water. It was a coarse, grinding stew of liquid and sand, churning, chafing, scratching his eyes as he tried to blink away the pain. The foul liquor claimed him, pulled him in. He fought with all his strength, but the grit was shredding him, stripping the flesh off his bones. He tried to cry out for help, but a wave of slimy darkness washed over him and poured down his throat. He struggled to stay afloat, but there was no way to fight as the darkness coated him, pulled at him, hung onto him and dragged him down.

Just as the waves were splashing over his face in a final triumph, there, suddenly, above him, a hand appeared. It was reaching down from above. A dark, strong arm offered rescue. With his last breath Sam lunged out a flailing hand and caught the arm. The hand from above took a hold of him and pulled, wrenching his body from the mire. With all his strength Sam crawled up the arm as it got bigger with every handhold. Shivering from the slime, he crawled up the warm, dry arm, feeling its strength and reassured that, yes, here was safety. He crawled up the hairy forearm, up the bicep, up, up to safety. There, yes, the breast, he could hear the giant heart beating, he would be safe here. The giant arm curled around him, soothing, reassuring. Yes, he would be safe here. He nestled into the warmth, tucking himself into the safety. Yes, here he could rest. Now he was safe.

Sam blinked awake, but it took a few moments for the dream to relinquish its hold on him. He sat up and looked around at the dark room. Where was this place? Oh, yes. He looked at the sleeping man beside him. Rain tapped on the window, and he shivered. He got out of bed, found his robe, and moved on unsteady feet to the kitchen.

He sat numbly at the kitchen table. It had been David's dream; there was enough of Sam left to realize that. But as he blinked in the linoleum glare, it didn't matter anymore. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know who David was, who Sam was. All he knew was the choking pain of the dream. He gulped in a deep breath as the memory of drowning washed over him. It didn't help, and he gulped another. Three, four, five deep breaths began to help. But he still felt the waves rolling over his head. Helpless, so helpless. Trapped. There was nowhere to go. He sucked in another long breath and let it out slowly. So helpless. So alone.

He looked as he heard Ted come into the room, tying his flannel robe. "Another bad dream?" he said, keeping a polite distance.

Sam gazed at that face, feeling as if he was seeing it for the first time. He smiled slightly. "No. An educational one." Ted smiled as he stepped up behind Sam, resting his hands on his shoulders and massaging gently. Sam leaned his head back against that warm chest, letting his head rock easily with each of Ted's breaths. "It was about loneliness, and despair. And rescue." Something occurred to Sam in that moment: Perhaps the fear he had around Ted was not fear of him, but fear of how he might feel about him. With that, the walls between the Sam thoughts and David thoughts melted, and the two beings flowed and mingled. Yes, here was rescue. Here was safety. He stood and turned, pushing the chair away. Their arms surrounded each other as they met in a kiss. He smiled as the beard tickled his nose. It was a strange sensation, kissing someone with a beard, but he liked it. Ted smiled at his smile, and they wrapped around each other, embracing the moment as much as the other. Had he held himself back from this man before? He did not now. He wanted him. He wanted everything about him. He wanted to surrender everything there was of himself to this man. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be completely used up. Another kiss, and another, and another....

Sam stopped. What was...? He felt as if he was being watched, but the feeling was inside his head. He looked around. They were alone. He came back to himself as Ted looked at him with concern. "What's the matter?" he whispered.

Sam didn't know how he knew, but he knew Al would be showing up soon. He gave Ted a little smile. "Nothing. Go on to bed. I'll be there in a bit. I want a glass of water." Ted smiled, then kissed him again. It was a languorous kiss, and it was hard to resist. But Sam withdrew from those strong arms. Ted left, and Sam sat at the table, resting his head in his hands.

A minute later Al's face appeared through the wall above the stove and looked around. "Is it okay to come in?" Sam nodded, and Al stepped into the room.

"How did you do that? How did I know you were going to come in here?"

Al looked at his friend uncertainly, noticing the soft confusion on his face. "Ah, we've got one of the top computer guys from the NSA doing some programming on Ziggy. He set up a system to send an electronic pulse into your brain to tell you I was coming. Ziggy said...it would be a good idea to knock first."

Sam was still trying to sort through which parts of him were which. "NSA guy? What's he doing here?"

"I had him brought in at the beginning of this leap. Gooshie's too big a blabbermouth to be at the controls on something like this. I sent him to Vegas with a cute little ensign from the Pentagon liaison office."

"Who's the NSA guy?"

"Parks. Remember him? He's the one you wanted for head programmer, but he didn't want to live in the desert. He's their expert on cryptographic codes. He's putting a 'lock' on Ziggy so the only ones who'll know this leap ever happened will be you, me, Verbena, and the NSA guy." He frowned with a glance to his left. "And my little shadow." He could see his words were bringing Sam more into focus, so he kept talking. "He tried to explain to me how it works, how this leap simply won't exist for other people and they won't be able to bring any information up on it, but I don't really get it. It sure lends a lot of weight to the parallel universe theory. It doesn't do much for yours, though."

Sam could feel himself coming back. "The string theory and theory of parallel dimensions are not mutually exclusive. After all, when you crumple up a string, it exists in many dimensions at once. Both theories are equally valid. They just don't run by the same rules." He took a deep breath. He felt as if he was waking from a lingering dream.

Al asked tentatively, "Are you okay?"

Sam nodded. "How's David?"

"Fine. Verbena's still talking with him."

Sam glanced at the kitchen clock. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. "A little late, isn't it?"

"It's 4:30 in the afternoon here."

Sam felt disconnected. He was drifting again. "Al, you've got to talk with David. There's a big, gaping hole here, and I don't know what it is. But it's scary, and I don't know if I can do what I need to do with this...here." Yes, a big, gaping hole. A pit. A pit of fear. He shivered.

Al glowered at Sam's reaction and looked at his handlink. "Yeah, you're right. Verbena's been working on him for a while and she says he's in classic defense mode about something. But she's not getting through."

"Then you work on him, Al," he said with impatience. "Work on him, get through to him, something."

"Okay, okay, don't worry. But Beeks is the best there is. If he won't tell her, I don't know —"

"— Then try the police records in South Carolina, newspapers, something, anything. I've got to find out what this is. ...I'm losing it, Al. I don't know how long I can...." He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Al watched helplessly as his friend was slipping away. "Hang in there, Sam. We'll get right on it." He added somberly, "But remember, you've got less than 18 hours to get rid of Roger Galloway."

Sam was losing ground. Galloway, oh, yes, him. The reason he was there. Or so Ziggy said. Right now he didn't care. He was thinking about Ted. He wanted to get out of here and go back into that warm, welcoming bed. Hadn't Al said Ted was healthy? He had nothing to worry about. He didn't care about the others. Let them take care of themselves. He had someone waiting for him, someone he didn't want to keep waiting. He looked at Al. "Okay."

Alarm filled Al's eyes. "Sam? Sam, are you with me?"

He looked at the hologram and said pointedly, "Yes." He regretted his tone. This wasn't Al's fault. It was his. It was all his fault. If he hadn't built Ziggy, if he hadn't had a bright idea about time travel, if he hadn't been who he was.... He shook his head. What a strange thought. He stood up and looked at his friend, whose concern was etched on his face. "Sorry. I'll do whatever you tell me to do. Have Ziggy project a minimum impact scenario. No blood, and David doesn't get arrested."

"We've already run a few. The best option so far is a fire in Galloway's studio."

Sam turned to go. He stopped and looked at Al. "Thanks, Al. ...And knock from now on, okay?" He left. Al stared after him, then rubbed his face hard. A punch of a handlink button and he was gone.

As Sam strode down the hall, the last of his own thoughts fluttered through: How could he be doing this? How could he want this? But any hesitation was lost in the tide sweeping him along. His robe was on the floor and undershirt tossed away somewhere by the time he got to the bed. Ted's warm arms opened in welcome, and he disappeared inside. This was what he wanted, this and nothing else. He wanted all of it. He wanted it more than he'd wanted anything in his life. A tangle of arms and legs, smiles and laughs, kisses without number. His urgency, however, was frustrated by Ted's relaxed pace — there was time enough, there was no need to hurry. Ted curled Sam's leg over his thigh as they kissed. He toyed with the elastic of the briefs' leg opening, enjoying Sam's thwarted impatience. The warm hand smoothed inside along the muscle, caressing the cheek and squeezing the firm skin. Sam moved into his hand with a sigh, and Ted's hand moved down inside, parting the flesh. His fingers brushed the tender ring of muscles.

Sam froze, then, after a confused moment, he pulled back. He sat up and looked around, wondering why his stomach had just rolled over. Ted sat up with him, effusing an apology. "I'm sorry, that was too fast." Sam didn't pay attention to him. There was something happening, something evolving, unfolding, bubbling up in the back of his mind. He searched for the source, trying to figure out what this was and why it was coming out. Ted watched him work on it and frowned. "What's the matter?"

It was as if a path opened up in Sam's mind, a trail leading down into the darkness. "I don't know." Sam followed the trail down, down to where the ripples of uncertainty emanated. In his mind he floated in, down, ever down, feeling the energy grow stronger as he moved closer. What was this? The tunnel was dark, silent. He followed the mysterious beacon, wondering what it was that was drawing him in.

The tunnel expanded into an open darkness, hot, forbidding. A blur, a pit opened. There was something waiting for him in this abyss, and his presence here set off a chain reaction. He could feel the sequence begin around him, and now he could not stop it. There was terror here, and too late Sam realized he should have been afraid. There was danger here, terrible danger. But it was too late. He had chosen the path, and now he had to follow where it led. He slipped into the darkness and skittered to the bottom of the pit.

He shuddered and his body locked up. There had to be an escape somewhere. He glanced at Ted, not really looking at him. He could see a car, a big sedan like the Buick full of teenagers, but older, dirtier, and he tried to look away. But when he did, it turned with him. He tried to backpedal out of the scene, but it pursued him.

Ted's voice echoed with alarm. "David, what is it?"

Sam turned again, but again there was no exit, only darkness. Out of the black came a fist, and he gasped in surprise. He turned to run to the car, but as he reached for the door it opened and laughing, jeering men emerged. These were no drunk teenagers. These were grown men, bent on harm.

Sam backed away from them, not realizing he was pushing off the bed. He stumbled to the floor, trying to distance himself from this terrible genie he had uncorked. Another fist swung at him. This one seemed to hit him, and he lurched away. He had to escape. There had to be a way out of here. God, what was happening?

In a flash of the covers Ted came after him. "David, what's the matter? Tell me."

Sam was lost in it now. He knew where he was, but that was no help. The terror had wrapped itself around him, suffocating him. He had to get out of there. He backed away, glancing off the corner of the wall and disappearing out the door. But the terror came with him, circling, surrounding, strengthening. There was no way out now but through it.

Sam retreated into the living room, finally lodging himself in a corner by the window. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to see, he didn't want any of this. But it was well past too late. There was blood here in this place of danger, blood and terror. Rage. Deathly fear. He could feel the sharp, slicing jolt of a boot in his face. He gasped again, but it turned into a dry sob. Ted approached gently and sat beside him, but Sam pulled away. "Please, David," his voice rang with anguish, "David, it's okay, I'm here. Tell me what it is, tell me." Sam heard the words, but they did nothing to stop the memories unfolding. He winced at the biting slap of a belt across his bare back. Ted tried to take him in his arms, but he pushed the comfort away. He couldn't breathe. Another dry sob escaped.

His eyes flashed and he looked at Ted. "I remember. I remember." He didn't want to, but he had to. The memories were forcing themselves down his throat. Tears began to drop from Sam's eyes. "I remember." The blurred images from the pit revealed themselves. "We — went down to visit Fred — and we were outside — the Fast Mart and — there were these guys — and they asked us directions — and they — and they — took —" The words failed as he trembled.

Ted took him firmly by the shoulders. "What happened, David? Tell me what happened."

The terror of a hot summer night spilled out in Sam's mind. "— I — didn't remember — but — now — oh, God." The fists, the pain, the sharp punch of a boot, the lash of a belt.

"What didn't you remember?" Sam tried to stand up to get away, but Ted held on. "What?"

Sam choked on another man's terror. "Oh, God, they almost killed him. They beat him, and they kicked him, and, oh, God, why? Why did they do it?"

Ted said softly, "David, it's okay. They're not here. It's just you and me. It's safe. It's safe here."

Sam looked at him through tear-swollen eyes as the pain wrenched out the last of his defenses. "Oh, God, it hurt so much, it hurt so much!" Ted surrounded him with shielding arms and rocked him as the memories and pain and horror spilled out.

Sometime later, when the worst was past, Ted put Sam to bed and held him until he fell asleep. Then he cried.

Sam's head pounded as the pulse of the electronic doorbell in his brain woke him up. He groaned and sat up, his face swollen and his sinuses aching. In the first light of the gray dawn he could see Ted sleeping, so he crawled out of the bed and tried to gather himself. He couldn't find his terry cloth robe, so he pulled on Ted's flannel one and headed out to the living room. He sat on the sofa and waited, and within a minute Al appeared. He was already serious when he stepped in, and one look at Sam confirmed his worst fears. "Sam," he said quietly, "how you doing?"

"I don't feel very good."

Al glanced down, then said, "Yeah, last night while he was talking to Verbena, David kinda had a...crisis. We figured you had one, too."

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know what David's blank spot was."

Al nodded. "We found it in the police records."

Sam said without emotion, "He and his best friend were beaten up and raped by a bunch of soldiers out for some gay-bashing."

Al looked at the handlink. "Six months ago. His friend was in a coma for three days. He still needs a cane to walk. David wasn't so badly hurt, but he suppressed it. He had no memory of what happened, who they were. He couldn't identify them, so no one was charged." Al shrugged. "What I don't understand is how guys who hate homosexuals enough to attack like that would have sex with one. And the ironic thing is Andy — David's friend — isn't even gay and he got gay-bashed."

Sam glowered at him. "First of all, rape is not sex. And second, just because David's gay doesn't mean he deserved what happened to him."

Al nodded, chastened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out."

Sam nodded. He understood what he had meant. He watched the rain hit the window. "Why do people hate gays so much?"

Al looked away from his friend. "I don't know."

They shared a silence for a few moments, then Sam said flatly, "I don't like having other people's flashbacks."

Al nodded in sympathy. "How did Ted take it?"

"He got me through it. I don't know how, but he did."

Al appreciated what he was saying. "He must be a really good man."

"He is." Sam's words were heartfelt but without subtext, and Al nodded. "What happens to them? Ted and David."

"I can't tell you." Sam glanced at him with concern, and Al said, "I can't tell you because if I tell you what happens with them you'll be able to piece together too much of the future."

Sam tried another approach. "Do they stay together?"

Al winced. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"That's all I can say."

Sam sighed and gave up the line of questioning. "So, why are you here?"

"To check on you, for one thing. And to tell you we've got a scenario for getting rid of Roger Galloway with only an 18 percent chance that David will be implicated." Al explained that there was a highly flammable solvent used by artists in the 1970s that was in Roger's studio. He tried unsuccessfully to pronounce the name, so he showed Sam the readout of the handlink. All Sam had to do was drop a match or a lighted cigarette on a spill of the solvent and the place would be an inferno. "Just make sure you're next to the door and Roger isn't," Al concluded. Al provided the address of Galloway's studio and his usual working hours.

Sam nodded, still drained from the night's trauma. "Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Just hang in there, and before you know it you'll be out of here."

They both turned to look as Ted, wearing the crumbled terry robe, came in. He stood before Sam with a faint smile. "You keep wandering off."

Sam smiled at him with appreciation. "And you keep coming after me."

As Ted helped Sam to his feet, Al said, "Fourteen hours, Sam."

Sam said as much to Al as to Ted, "I'm going to be okay."

Ted put a guiding arm around him. "You're going to be great." Sam let himself be led back to more sleep as Al departed.

Sam awoke at mid-morning to the smell of coffee. He sat up in bed as Ted came through the door carrying a bed tray. To Sam's delight the tray contained a hearty breakfast and a white rose in a vase. He smelled the rose with a smile as Ted apologized, "Sorry it isn't red. The florist was out."

"That's okay. I like white roses. What's it for?"

"It's Valentine's Day."

Sam had forgotten. "I'm sorry, I didn't get you anything."

"That's okay. I figure we can celebrate it later."

"A lot later," Sam added, and Ted smiled.

"How do you feel? Do you want anything?"

Sam looked at the feast before him. "Yes, I want to eat."

Sam ate his fill of the omelet as Ted helped himself to one of the croissants. "Don't you have to be at work or something?" Sam asked as he buttered the other croissant.

"No, I don't have to be in Fairfield until two. Do you want to go with me?" Sam thought about it. "It's a beautiful drive."

The idea appealed, but he shook his head. He had work to do. "No, I better stick around here."

"You sure? I'd love to have you come along. You won't be in the way."

Sam smiled, understanding his concern. "I'll be okay alone. I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

"Fresh air will probably do you some good."

"I'll go out, don't worry." He added with a touch of pride, "I don't feel like hiding."

Ted smiled. "Good. Then you read the paper while I get dressed." He set the morning edition on the bed next to Sam and got up.

Sam read about the world of 1978 as Ted dressed. Sam noticed that the sight of Ted mostly undressed didn't bother him, and neither did it attract him. Whew. Peace at last.

As he finished, Ted said, "I dropped off my film at the lab when I was out. The contact sheets will be done by 4:30. I figured I'd take them down to Burt first thing tomorrow morning. Are you going to go to the gallery today, or do you want to wait and go with me tomorrow?"

"Today, I suppose. I'll pick up my check. When are you going to be back tonight?"

"After seven, probably. Depends on how the shoot goes." Sam didn't like the turn of phrase, but he didn't react. "I guess it's probably too late to get a dinner reservation someplace."

"Probably two weeks too late."

"Yeah. Well, how about a nice, quiet dinner here?"

"Sounds good. I'll get something at the market."

"No way," Ted said as he put on his coat. "You're my guest. I'll cook." He looked at Sam earnestly. "How are you feeling?"

Sam nodded. "Good. I'm okay."

Ted nodded. "Good."

He came over and gave Sam a heartfelt hug. Again, Sam didn't react either way. He really was at peace now. He said to Ted, "Thanks. I wish I could repay you."

"Well, you could wash my windows...." Sam laughed. "See you tonight." Ted left.

Sam set aside the paper. It was time to plan a murder.

Sam went to several art supply stores to do his research. He found the solvent Al had identified and memorized the label and shape of the can. The lid sealed tightly, but if he distracted Galloway he could get it open before Galloway realized something was wrong. Dumping it on him would probably be the best answer. An accidental spill, a tragic spark from a cigarette, a eulogy in the next morning's paper. He couldn't believe he was thinking this way, but it was time to get down to business. He wondered how David would remember this once he had leaped. Well, there was no time to dwell on that, and there was nothing he could do about it now. It needed to be done. He stopped off at a corner market and picked up matches and a pack of cigarettes. The clerk at the store said, "What's a nice, healthy young fella like you want with these things? Don't you know they'll kill you?"

Sam said simply, "They're for someone else," and left.

He arrived at the gallery about 1:00 p.m. After his ordeal, the unpleasantness here the night before was nothing. The fact that he came in and cheerfully greeted everyone made for a few surprised faces. He went into Burt's office and found the owner recording the opening's checks into his books. The older man gave him a discerning once-over. "You look chipper this morning. You must have had quite a hot date last night."

"Not really." Sam remembered Al's message about Burt, and his high spirits waned. "How are you feeling?"

He pulled out his office checkbook. He shrugged. "I've been better."

Sam watched as he turned on the adding machine and calculated David's final paycheck. He wondered how long the virus would incubate undetected in his system, hiding, growing, waiting to bloom and take his life. "...Do you go to the baths much?"

"Nah, not much anymore. I'm too old. I'm past the age of being popular." There was a touch of self-pity, but mostly it was a statement of fact. "I'm ready to settle down and grow old and complacent with someone." Sam didn't know what to say, so he simply watched him write out the check. Burt handed it over, and looked at him as he pocketed it. "Look...no hard feelings?"

"None." He extended his hand to Burt, and they shook hands.

Burt asked thoughtfully, "What you were saying about Roger last night...is that true? Does he really have some horrible disease?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

Burt shook his head. "Such a waste. Alan said you get it through sex."

"That's one way, yeah."

Burt frowned thoughtfully. "Well, I feel sorry for anyone who gets something like that."

"Yeah." This was getting too painful, but part of Sam had to ask. "...What would you do if you found out you had it?"

He pondered that a moment. "You mean after I stopped kicking and screaming?" Sam had to smile. Burt thought. "Go back to church. Pray a lot. God might have forgotten who I am. I'd make Him remember."

Sam nodded, then said slowly, "...Would you go to the baths?"

Burt's eyes flashed with annoyance. "What do you think I am? A murderer?" Sam recoiled at his words. The older man frowned. "You sure are getting gloomy in your old age."

"Just thinking too much." He was, and it was beginning to break his heart. He had to leave. "Take care. Call if you forgive me someday."

Burt smiled slightly. "Maybe after Roger leaves on his next world tour."

"Okay." He wanted to say more, but there was nothing he could do. He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. "You know, you're under a lot of stress here. Maybe you should start taking lots of vitamins."

"Maybe. See you, David."

Sam left the office.

Out in the gallery Alan stopped Sam with a pat on the back. "Howdy, stranger."

"Yeah, long time, no see."

Alan said confidentially, "You got a phone call this morning." He produced a note with Roger Galloway's name and phone number. "Maybe you got to him after all."

Sam stared at the piece of paper. "Did he say anything?"

"Just call him." He indicated the gallery phone.

Taking the phone into a private corner, Sam dialed the number. After two rings, he heard the distinctive, lilting baritone. "Galloway."

"Mister Galloway, it's S—, David Williams."

"Oh, yes, David. I'm glad you called. Sorry about what happened last night. I hope you can work things out with the people in the gallery."

"Yes, sir. Thank you. Why did you want to talk to me?"

"Well, I've been thinking about what you said. Some things do make more sense in daylight, don't they? I'd like you to come over here and tell me more about this illness."

"Yes, sir," Sam said gratefully, seeing an escape route from murder. "I'd like that. What time?"

"Five? Is that okay with you?"

"Five, yes, that would be great." He wrote as Galloway told him the address Al had given him. "Great. I really appreciate this. I'm sorry about how I acted last night. I just wanted to make you understand it's serious."

"Yes, and you did, too. I'll see you about five, then."

"Right." Sam hung up the phone as Alan wandered by. "He wants me to tell him more about AIDS." In his relief, he didn't see Alan's lack of enthusiasm.

"Really? Huh."

"What do you mean?"

Alan shrugged. "He doesn't seem like the type who'd care."

"People can change." He showed Alan the address. "How far is this? How long will it take me to get there?"

"About an hour on foot, twenty minutes by bus. You sure you want to go there?"

He would not be discouraged by Alan's skepticism. "Absolutely. This might just change history." He left, his energy renewed.

Sam went to the medical library at the University of San Francisco. Dressed as he was in a flannel shirt, bleached jeans, running shoes and a wool jacket, he blended in with all the students and passed inside unnoticed. He looked for articles on retroviruses and the human immune system, and he made photocopies of the modest amount he found not filled with scientific jargon.

He wanted to go through things in his mind, and he wanted to burn off some of his excess energy, so he decided to walk to Galloway's studio. It was a beautiful, crisp day. The clear skies brought cold winds, but it was no worse than a fall day in Indiana and Sam relished the bite of the air. He knew this was going to work, he knew it. Thank God he wouldn't have to kill Galloway. In fact, with such a prominent person as Roger Galloway informed and interested, the spread of AIDS might be curbed before it became the epidemic Al had hinted would happen. An occasional image would slip into Sam's mind — it wasn't enough to call a memory — and he seemed to think there was — had been — would be — a great deal of selfishness and self-destruction associated with the spread of this disease. Perhaps a selfless public stance by Galloway would change that, too. As he strode through the busy streets, he was glad he didn't really remember the epidemic. He didn't want to think of this bustling city living under such a threat of doom. This was a city of life, not death. He wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

"Hey, slow down," Al said as he tried to catch up with Sam.

Sam beamed and eased his pace. "Hey, Al."

"Whoa, I know someone who's been nipping at the happy juice today."

"It's a great day, Al. Galloway called. He wants me to tell him all about AIDS."

Al pondered that, then shrugged. "Are we talking about the same guy who last night got you fired?"

"Things change. People change. This is it. I'm going to tell him, he's going to abstain, the 'super virus' won't go anywhere, and I'll leap." He sighed with triumph as he headed down a narrow street.

Al drew up some data on the handlink. "Yeah, well, nothing's changed. If he intended to do what you want, it would show up and you'd be out of here."

"Not necessarily. Intent is difficult to track with statistics. After I explain everything and he makes u