Lucky

LUCKY

T
he house hadn't been there the week before. Now it squatted in the
tropical twilight on one of the nameless inlets of the Cape York
peninsula, ablaze with light from within and without. A couple in
evening dress wandered laughing onto the verandah that girdled the
entire second floor. They leaned together on the balustrade, gazing out
at the surf that crashed and boomed onto the beach below. The sounds of
a party came through the French doors behind them.

The man was in his middle thirties, well-muscled and seemingly
self-assured. The woman was around the same age with the carriage and
grooming that only comes with a great deal of money. A casual observer
would not have guessed that they had met only minutes before.

"I've heard of you," said the man in the accent of Texas. "You're the
woman who won all that money. How much was it - eight or nine million
dollars?"

The woman turned and leaned back against the railing, tilting her head
and subconsciously allowing the floodlights to accentuate the planes
and angles of her face. "Maybe," she said, gazing at him without
expression.

He laughed at her. "I'm not after your money, you know. I was just
curious. You are Dolly Cartland, aren't you?"

She smiled back at him, "Yes, I'm Dolly Cartland and I did win the
Sydney Lottery a few times as I'm sure you're aware."

The man sipped from the glass of champagne he held casually in his
hand, " A few times! You won it eleven times consecutively. Didn't they
pay you not to enter in the end?"

She shrugged, "That was speculation. I just stopped. I had enough money
after all, and I didn't want to push my luck."

The man laughed again, "Push your luck! So how did you do it, did you
have a man on the inside or something?"

She turned away, tired of the old accusation, " Yeh, sure. I was
screwing one of the Lottery Board and he used to fill out my entry
after the numbers were drawn, okay!" Then more in resignation than in
anger, "Look I just won and I don't know how I did it. I always win
things - raffles, car competitions, lucky dips. I don't know why, I
just do, okay?"

"I'm sorry, " he said. "I'm just a cynic, I guess. I've never had much
luck with money. I'm not broke, but I sure ain't rich." Dolly moved
towards him and clinked her champagne glass against his.

"You're lucky though," she smiled. "You're Brett Ohlsen, aren't you?
They call you the luckiest man alive!"

He grinned at her ruefully, rubbing his chin. "They sure do. Mr.
One-in-a-Million, the man who can fly. Doesn't make me rich,
though."

"So don't keep me in suspense, tell me the story," she said.

He perched himself on the stone balustrade. "I was piloting an F15,
just a routine flight. I had a flame-out, a stalled engine. I was at
around forty five thousand feet, so I wasn't too worried - I had plenty
of height for an emergency re-start. But the darn thing wouldn't kick
over. At five thousand feet I ejected. Then my parachute didn't open
completely, it roman candled. I was heading for the ground with no
parachute and it was rushing up at me real fast. I was gone. There was
a canyon and I remember thinking that if I go in there they may never
find me. As if it mattered." He paused, remembering, and laughed.

"Anyway, I cleared the rim of the canyon by inches and an overhanging
tree snagged my trailing chute and that and the updraft made it open
properly. I floated down and landed among a group of guys camped at the
bottom of the canyon. You should have seen their faces, they nearly
jumped out of their skins!"

Dolly laughed, "I'll bet. What happened then?"

"Well, I had hysterics, I guess. I was laughing and crying at the same
time and I wet my pants. It was shock. I'd resigned myself to being
dead and here I was alive with not even a scratch. I just wanted to
yell and scream. Fortunately, one of the guys fishing was a doctor. He
recognized the symptoms of shock and gave me a shot and the use of his
cell phone. I called my base and they sent a chopper and I was back
home in an hour. I remember the helicopter pilot staring at me.
Everyone thought I was dead - my wingman had seen me eject and then
fall like a stone with my parachute all snarled up."

"I remember all the fuss, " said Dolly. "It was on the television news
and in the newspapers for a week." She paused for a moment, "Why do you
suppose we've been invited here?"

Brett pursed his lips, "Beats me, but any time I receive a first class
air ticket to the other side of the world and a genuine gold nugget, I
go."

"I just got an intriguing note. Far North Queensland is no big deal
when you live in Sydney, you know. I wouldn't have minded the gold
nugget either."

Their conversation was interrupted by the chiming of a bell, soft yet
insistent. They walked through the French doors and entered the room
they had recently left. It was richly carpeted and the walls were hung
with artworks. On sofas and couches scattered around the room an
amazing assortment of people lounged, chattering and laughing, giving
the room an air of gaiety. By their clothes and complexions they
appeared to come from all over the planet. There were several Arabs,
two Scandinavian types, a Sikh wearing a splendid turban of gold cloth.
There were several Hispanics, a beautiful woman of Slavic appearance
who was over six feet tall. There were also half a dozen Orientals with
the balance made up of men and women of apparent Anglo Saxon ancestry.
Brett and Dolly wove a path between them and discovered a vacant sofa.
They were just settling themselves when the chimes ceased and the
double doors at the far end of the room swung open. A man and a woman
stepped through into the room and stood smiling at the assembled
people. The man was in his early fifties, distinguished in a bookish
way, but the woman was something else. She was astonishingly beautiful.
Half a head taller than her companion, her strawberry blonde hair was
thick and lustrous, swept back from her face and coiled in a golden
rope over her left shoulder. Her eyes were jade green, set above a
slightly upturned nose and alive with intelligence. There was something
vaguely oriental about her features, although nothing you could point
to with certainty. When she turned to fetch two chairs from the wall
next to her, she revealed a bronzed and muscled thigh through her slit
skirt. The men in the room sighed.

Dolly glanced at Brett, one eyebrow raised in a
'you-men-are-all-the-same' expression. Brett returned her gaze and
mouthed 'wow!'. Dolly smiled to herself - at least he's not behaving
like a dog on heat like the rest of them, she thought.

The bookish man began the proceedings, "Good evening, ladies and
gentlemen. Thank you for coming this evening to attend this very
special occasion." While the man spoke the woman scanned the room,
examining each face intently as if trying to read their thoughts. Her
eyes crinkled as she met each person's gaze. A smile of greeting,
thought Brett, who grinned broadly when her attention turned to
him.

"All of you, I am sure, are intrigued by your invitation here. Let me
begin by introducing myself and my colleague." The man gestured towards
the beautiful woman beside him.

Brett Ohlsen leaned over to Dolly and spoke in her ear, "Shucks, and I
thought she was his secretary." Dolly dug her elbow into his ribs to
shush him but secretly she was pleased. The other men practically had
their tongues hanging out.

"My name is General Oliver Featherstone and this is Representative
Gilda Snark." The man had produced an odd clicking sound at the end of
the woman's name - it sounded forced and quite painful to reproduce. He
turned to her, "I hope I pronounced that correctly, Representative?"
The woman smiled and nodded.

Ohlsen had torn his gaze from the woman when he heard the man mention
his military title. That he was an American was obvious from his
accent, but a General? Brett tried to imagine which branch of the
services the General belonged to - something in intelligence for ...the
Air Force? He probably commanded brigades of computers, he thought.
What was an intelligence General doing in mufti at a mystery party in
Australia's far north?
As if reading his thoughts, the General looked directly at Brett, then
widened his gaze to take in the entire room, "Please do not allow my
title to mislead you - there is no
military provenance for this mission."

"Mission?" thought Ohlsen. "What the hell's going on!"

The General cleared his throat and continued. "You have all been
invited her today because you have one thing in common, though that may
not seem the case at first glance. The room gave a small, nervous
laugh. "Let me give you some clues as to what that common trait is." He
gestured towards the back of the room, "Ravil Singh was swept out to
sea in the Bay of Bengal flood of '86. He survived for thirty days on a
log by catching flying fish and sucking their juices. He was near death
when he was rescued by a dolphin that inexplicably nudged he and the
log he was clinging to towards a tiny, deserted island. The island had
no water and hardly any vegetation and it was well away from shipping
routes, yet it was visited the next day by a marine research team who
rescued Mr. Singh and saved his life." The imposing Sikh with the
golden turban inclined his head at those that turned to peer curiously
at him.

The General turned his attention to an oriental woman in her early
twenties who was sitting with another, slightly older woman with a
caste mark on her forehead, "Liu Roux Teng inherited her third cousin's
shareholding in a newly established and obscure American technology
company because it was thought to be virtually valueless by other
contenders for the estate. She would almost certainly have lost any
right to the shareholding should another relative had chosen to
contest. That company is now the sixth largest company in America. The
lady sitting next to her is Shilpi Patel who discovered, when she was
digging a vegetable patch in her Calcutta garden to support herself,
that against all the geological rules, a reef of gold surfaced right
under her house."

The General now directed his attention to Brett and Dolly, "And Miss
Cartland and Captain Ohlsen need no introduction, I'm sure." The room
broke into spontaneous applause while Brett and Dolly stood and nodded
in acknowledgment.

The General waited for the applause to die down and for Brett and Dolly
to seat themselves before continuing. "You all have it in large
measure," he shouted above the hubbub. "Serendipity, buona fortuna,
call it what you will. You are among the luckiest people alive, and
that's why you have been invited here today.

A wag at the back of the room called out, "What's the plan, General,
take Las Vegas?"

The General joined in the laughter, "Not a bad idea," he said. "But
that's not on our agenda - we have something far more exciting to offer
you, an opportunity to gain knowledge and experience beyond anything
mankind has known before." He paused and a hush of anticipation settled
over the room. Dolly found that her hand had crept into Brett's and was
being squeezed painfully. She squeezed back hard and the pressure was
instantly relieved.
"Sorry," he whispered to her.
"S'okay," she whispered back.

General Featherstone thrust his hands in his pocket and hunched his
shoulders as if wrestling with a difficult problem. "What I am about to
tell you is as implausible as anything you've ever heard. I think
you'll start to believe it after you've listened to my colleague for a
few moments." Attention turned again to the woman who nodded and
smiled. The General began walking up and down, like a lecturer at a
university, Brett found himself thinking.

"All of you must have suspected at some time in your lives that we are
not alone in the universe. In this you are correct. How do I know with
such certainty? Because I have spoken with people from across the
galaxy. Ladies and gentlemen, we have been contacted." The room was
deathly quiet.

Brett stole a look at Dolly out of the corner of his eye, but she
seemed unperturbed. "It's not April First, is it?" he muttered out of
the corner of his mouth. Dolly ignored him.

The General continued, realizing the effect his words were having. "I
realize the skepticism that some of you must feel, but I can assure
that that at least one other planet exists that is inhabited by
intelligent beings and its inhabitants are remarkably similar to us."
He turned to look meaningfully at Gilda Snark, then back again to
survey the room. There was a collective gasp as the implication of the
look dawned on the audience.

The woman took her cue and rose to her feet. She moves like a cat,
Brett thought. Alien or not, he couldn't help wondering what she would
be like. He looked around the room - every other male was thinking the
same thing if their expressions were anything to go by.

At last she spoke and it was her voice that destroyed their illusions.
It was rich and fruity and full of the throat-wrenching clicks that had
made the General sound so tortured when he first pronounced her name.
She sounded like George Sanders with laryngitis. Dolly thought of the
deflating libidos around the room and smiled to herself. Ohlsen glanced
at her, disappointment on his face.

"I am not what I may appear, ladies and gentlemen," Gilda Snark began
in her dark brown voice.

"That's for sure, sweetheart," murmured the wag who had spoken before.
This time nobody laughed.

"I am going to tell you things that you will find hard to believe." She
produced a small cube seemingly made of plastic from one of the pockets
of her jacket. She handed it to the General who passed it across to the
nearest person - a regal black woman in a West African turban. She
examined it curiously then more closely before exclaiming in a broad
New York accent, "Well, don't that beat everything!"
Gilda Snark continued. "These are holographic pictures of my home which
is situated in what you call the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. To you, I am
probably an alien although we are all members of the same family and we
have many things in common."

The holographic cube was being passed around the room. Brett and Dolly
craned their necks to follow its progress.

"I am from a different branch of the human family." Gilda smiled at the
incredulous expressions on the faces of some of the members of the
audience. "Yes, we are related. We share many characteristics, but also
some things are different. Biologically we are almost identical,
although we lack a spleen and we have an extra organ of balance here,"
she touched the side of her neck. "Psychologically there are
divergences. We treasure concepts of loyalty and fidelity, but we do
not know passion. A broken heart is, to us, a medical condition. We are
industrious and diligent, yet we never improvise. Success for my people
comes only after years, sometimes centuries of painstaking work."

The cube had finally arrived at Brett and Dolly. Dolly held it on her
lap and gazed into it. Brett leaned over to share the view. It was a
three dimensional picture of the southern sky, a sea of stars. As they
watched the view in the cube zoomed towards a reddish star in the
center of the picture. "Antares," Brett murmured. Dolly nodded. The
center of the picture continued to enlarge until a single star system
filled the cube. The view continued to zoom in, revealing a blue-white
planet, remarkably similar to Earth. As they watched, two moons
appeared over the northern pole. The view then froze and dissolved to
the planet's surface. The scene dissolved again to a close up of a
woman with flaxen hair and Gilda Snark's eyes playing some sort of ball
game with a male. They could have been brother and sister and once
again the eyes shone with intelligence and the features were strikingly
handsome. "Yum," whispered Dolly.

Brett sneered, "He probably shatters glass every time he speaks."

Gilda Snark's rich baritone interrupted further comment between them.
They reluctantly handed the cube on to the next couch. "The development
of our culture has reached a point where we have everything and yet..."
The alien woman gazed wistfully around the room. "Our goals are far in
the future - they will be achieved when the present population is all
dead, although we live approximately half as long again as you. We are
becoming resigned to drudgery and our culture is stagnating."

The room was so quiet now even the rustling of Gilda Snark's dress was
noticeable. Brett's grip on Dolly's hand had tightened again and she
nudged him to make him release her.

"Our scientists discovered that space was folded about one of your
millennia ago and began to construct a drive that would penetrate these
folds. It was completed approximately a century ago. The result was
that all of space became accessible to us and we have been observing
yours and other inhabited planets ever since. We discovered that all
races and cultures were essentially similar to ours, although at
different stages of development - but there was one exception. While
all these cultures progressed in a predictable manner, similar to our
own, yours was different, You went in leaps and bounds! Steam power to
internal combustion in just a few years. From winged flight to space
travel in scarcely more than half a century. Atomic fusion, microchip
technology, genetic engineering, all of these developments in the span
of a single human lifetime. At first we believed you to be superbeings
and we were reluctant to contact you. But as we delved deeper we found
that in every case, every case, your advances were aided by a random
factor. On no other inhabited planet is this random factor known to
exist. We had to invent a word to describe the concept. You call it
luck."

The room erupted in pandemonium.All of the men were standing and
shouting, red faced. Gilda Snark stared at them in horror. General
Featherstone stood and led the alien woman back to her seat, then faced
the room, his arms raised, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please..." The
General squared his shoulders and in a parade ground bellow,
"Gentlemen, you will be seated now!" Silence fell abruptly and the men
looked at each other sheepishly, like schoolboys, before sitting
down.

The General lowered his arms and his voice before continuing, "I know
how you must feel. I was resentful at first, too. You have to admit
though that the history of technology is full of some amazing
coincidences."

Before the General could continue a voice interceded - Liu Roux Teng,
"How does the lady explain the slow progress of the human race during
the several hundred thousand years prior to the Industrial
Revolution?"

General Featherstone turned to Gilda Snark, one eyebrow raised
quizzically. She remained seated. "We believe that the random factor
was introduced into human society during the 17th century. We are
almost certain that it arose spontaneously in a small village in
southern Ireland. Emigration introduced the factor into England, then
America subsequently spreading throughout the world as those that had
the Luck traveled further, married, reproduced. Even today, truly lucky
people are quite rare. We scoured your planet for eligible people and
yet there are still only forty of you in this room."

The room grew silent as those present pondered the startling hypothesis
postulated by the beautiful alien woman. Brett stood up, "There are
many different kinds of luck, Representative, which kind are you
looking for?"

Gilda Snark pursed her lips, "We know so little about it. We do not
know if survivor's luck is different to inventor's luck, whether they
are different facets of the same factor. We do know that luck is
heritable and can be passed on to subsequent generations where it may
manifest itself in many different ways."

Dolly stood up and asked casually, "What do you want, our blood or
something?"

"No, Miss Cartland," Gilda Snark replied. We wish to breed with
you."

Later that night Brett Ohlsen sprawled lengthways on a couch in Dolly
Cartland's room, listening to the sounds of her taking a bath. She'd
left the door ajar so they could talk.

"Can you believe," he said, "that they worked on the same project for
nine hundred years!"

Dolly's voice floated out of the bathroom, "What project was
that?"

"The space drive," Brett said musingly. "She said that they discovered
that space was folded and nine hundred years later they came up with
the engine. Hell, that's dedication. We'd have given up. On the same
time scale the Manhattan Project won't come up with the atomic bomb for
another eight hundred and fifty years!"

Small splashing sounds came from the bathroom. "That wouldn't be so
bad, would it?" Dolly replied. There was a short pause. "Do you suppose
she's female? Really female, I mean?" The sound of a washcloth slapping
on bare skin wafted into the room. "That voice - she sounds like George
Sanders with a new set of false teeth."

"I sure hope she's female," he replied, grinning to himself on the
couch.

There was a moment's silence from the bathroom and ten, "You're going
to do it, aren't you?" It was almost an accusation.

Brett gazed at the ceiling, "Sure I'm going to do it, but not for the
reason you're thinking, Miss Dolly Cartland. Can you imagine what we'll
learn! More quantum mechanics than Stephen Hawking, more atomic theory
than Einstein. You could learn to paint like Da Vinci, sculpt like
Michelangelo." He turned onto his side. "Those teaching techniques
they've got! She learned English in half-an-hour. Think what we can
learn in a year. Then there's the million dollars, of course."

There was the sound of a plug being pulled and splashes as Dolly got
out of the bathtub. "We'd have to leave the children behind when we
returned," she said, toweling herself dry. "And I'm not sure I could do
it with a stranger, an alien stranger at that." She emerged from the
bathroom in a terry bathrobe winding a towel around her damp hair.
Brett swung his legs onto the floor and sat up, "Then let them take an
ovum from you and fertilize it in the laboratory. Less fun but more
remote. Could you feel maternal towards an egg?"

Dolly sat on the bed vigorously toweling her hair. "I dunno," she said,
"I've got a funny feeling about it, the whole thing, I mean. Why do we
have to go there, can't they do it here?"

Brett laughed. "Sure, I can see the morning papers - 'Aliens have
landed and are breeding with us!'" He stood up and went over to the bed
and sat beside her and took over the job of toweling her hair. "Look,
human beings are just not ready for this. How could they accept that a
tiny fraction of the population has been selected for a special
breeding program with aliens?"

"We accepted it," she replied stubbornly.

He leaned to kiss her on the cheek, "Don't worry," he said
comfortingly, "It will work out somehow." Dolly turned her head so that
Brett's kiss, intended for her cheek, met her lips. The towel fell,
forgotten, to the floor.

He had only been asleep for minutes, or so it seemed to Ohlsen, when
there was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door. Rubbing the sleep from his
eyes, he sat up as the door opened admitting General Featherstone in
full uniform complete with powder blue beret. "Ah, " he thought, "so
that's who you're with."

"Good morning, Captain" said the General with a smile, " please excuse
the intrusion at this hour but we are anxious to hear your
decision."

"It's 'yes', General. Of course."

The General nodded as if he'd known all along that the answer would be
affirmative. "Good," he said, briskly. "This is a great opportunity for
us all." He glanced at his watch. "Please be downstairs by 8am for a
breakfast briefing."

The General turned to leave and Brett caught him with a question as he
turned, "Tell me, General, what would you have done if I'd said
no?"

The General smiled, "Why, nothing, Captain. I might have recommended
that you had your head read, but that's all."

Brett raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Come now, Captain," General Featherstone responded, "what else would
we need to do. Who would believe you , after all?" Brett silently
agreed that it was impeccable logic.

"Oh, General," he called out as the uniformed figure was disappearing
into the corridor, "one more thing - the Representative, is she
female?"

The General's blue bereted head reappeared around the door, "Yes,
Captain, she's female all right, despite the voice. I can vouch for
that?"

As the door clicked shut Brett couldn't help laughing to himself. That
old devil!

At the breakfast briefing there was a definite atmosphere of clubbiness
Brett noted as he entered the room. Several people greeted him and he
waved happily to them as he scanned the room for Dolly. He spotted her
squeezed between a muscular Latin type with magnificent moustache and
the tall, Slavic beauty who, on closer examination, looked like a cold
fish. He caught Dolly's eye and she beckoned him over, gesturing to an
empty space opposite her on the long trestle table. Apologizing to the
people already seated, he elbowed his way along the bench and slid into
the space. He would have liked to have felt for her foot under the
table, but didn't want top risk giving the South American the wrong
idea. He waited for a gap in the conversation.

"So you've decided to go." he said during a gap in the
conversation.

"I have," she replied slowly as if her mind wasn't quite made up. The
same chimes they had heard the previous evening interrupted them. The
General entered alone this time, looking smart and professional in his
uniform. He mounted a small dais at the end of the room and waited
patiently for silence to fall upon the gathering.

"You have decided to go, all forty of you," he said at last. "We are
delighted. You will all now begin training and undergo medical tests.
The spacecraft on which you will be travelling is spacious and far
beyond anything our current technology can match. We are hoping that
will change when you return. Nevertheless space travel is hazardous and
you will be exposed to gravitational stresses during your journey which
will take approximately one month. I will not be accompanying you, by
the way. As Representative Gilda Snark informed you last evening, you
will be gone about a year. There are no relativity effects associated
with this type of drive."

The party mood that had prevailed during breakfast changed to one of
reflection. The General smiled down at them from the dais, sensing
their feelings. "You will want to phone family members and close
friends. Your affairs will be taken care of while you are away. May I
suggest that you tell people that you intend travelling for a while
which is, after all, quite true." The group managed a nervous laugh.
The General continued, "So far as we know, none of you has a permanent
relationship or any close family that will miss you. Is that so for
everyone?" Brett glanced at Dolly who didn't look up from her plate. No
one responded to the General's question. "One last thing," he said
firmly. "Your training and testing will be segregated, the aliens have
insisted on this. I expect we can all guess the reason."

Dolly looked up and gave Brett a startled look. he leaned over and
patted her on the hand, "See you in space, Dolly." She smiled back at
him sadly.

The house proved to have subterranean depths housing advanced training
facilities. Now housed in separate quarters and with their schedules
adjusted, the men and the women never met although there was a faint
lingering perfume occasionally in the gymnasium when the men came in
for their twice-daily workout. Brett discovered a discarded tissue with
a smear of lipstick on it once, Dolly's color he'd imagined, but that
was all. The men seemed content with the arrangement however, and the
rigorous daily schedule and consequent nightly exhaustion didn't
encourage fantasizing about the opposite sex.

It was the same for the women. Being deprived of male companionship
held no terrors for them. They threw themselves into their daily
training and submitted themselves to the battery of medical tests with
something approaching enthusiasm.

The training and medical tests were run by aliens and after several
weeks of being in close contact with them neither the men nor the women
noticed anything unusual in the juxtaposing of their speaking voices
(the male aliens really did have soprano voices). The aliens were
thoughtful and professional. They were also accomplished gymnasts and
ball players and both the male and female groups played daily
volleyball contests in which five humans would compete against two
aliens. The humans seldom won so much as a point.

It was the aliens who introduced them to trampolining which was used to
hone athletic skills useful in space. A harness attached to an
elasticized line supported the gymnast and in was possible to stay
aloft for several seconds. Brett became quite an adept bouncing as high
as five meters in the air and then twisting and somersaulting to the
admiration of the others.

One afternoon, almost a month after they had first been informed of the
extraordinary reason for their presence in the house in Australia's far
north, they were informed that a special meal was to be put on for them
that evening. When the men trooped into the dining hall there were the
women, already seated and waiting for them. The men rushed to take
their seats. Brett caught sight of Dolly with a smile of greeting on
her lips. He strode over and sat next to her, snuggling up so their
thighs touched. Brett examined her closely - she seemed to glow with
well-being. "You look great," he told her, "Good enough to eat."

She laughed, "Keep your mouth off me."

The meal was delicious and after the nutritious but bland food they had
grown used to eating over the previous weeks, it seemed sumptuous. As
they were finishing the dessert of field strawberries and ice cream,
the familiar sound of chimes alerted them that they were about to be
addressed. The General entered accompanied by Gilda Snark. The dining
room fell instantly quiet. The General and the alien woman were smiling
broadly and when General Featherstone spoke the first words the room
erupted into cheering.

"Tomorrow!" the General shouted, "You're going tomorrow!"

Brett was on his feet cheering along with the rest of them, but when he
looked for Dolly to share the good cheer, he found her still sitting,
subdued. "It's great to be going at last, isn't it?" Brett shouted
above the hubbub. Dolly nodded. Brett leaned down and spoke in her ear,
"Look, Dolly," he said, "I'm not going to make love to those aliens.
I'm going to do just like you - I'll donate, not impregnate,
okay?"

Dolly ran her hand down his cheek in a tender gesture. "Look, Brett,
whatever happens I want you to know...," but her words were drowned in
a sea of celebration and Brett didn't hear her. Afterwards they were
both carried along in different groups and he only had time for a
whispered goodnight before they went off to their separate
quarters.

In the men's dormitory Brett couldn't sleep. His thoughts were full of
the journey and of Dolly. It had not occurred to him until he had seen
Dolly in the mess hall that he did not want to sleep with any of the
alien women. He was surprised at himself - their beauty, athleticism
and intelligence would turn most red blooded males into panting beasts,
vocal anomalies notwithstanding. "I must be in love, " he
thought.

Sliding his legs out of bed he dressed quickly in a tracksuit and
padded out of the dormitory past the sleeping figure of the other men.
he reached the gymnasium at the end of the corridor and snapped on the
lights. He felt wide awake, whether in anticipation of the journey he
would begin tomorrow or his revelation about Dolly, he could not tell.
He ran to the trampoline in the center of the gym floor and vaulted
onto it, flexing his knees so the highly sprung skin wouldn't bounce
him right off again. The harness hung several feet above his head. He
flexed his knees again and sprang into the air. He grasped the harness
and took it with him as he zoomed upwards. As he fell back he performed
a double somersault, landing precisely balanced on his feet. He began a
series of aerial movements - somersaults, backflips and twists, making
full use of the trampoline's surface
often coming within inches of the edge. Adrenaline coursed through his
body as he flew through the air. The gymnasium door swung back and
forth on its spring and Brett caught a glimpse of strawberry blonde
hair as the room spun.

Suddenly there was someone else on the trampoline with him, a golden
brown figure with a coiled snake of red-blonde hair. It was Gilda
Snark. She bounced with him, matching his twists and somersaults,
springing up to meet him as he reached the top of his leap, sometimes
somersaulting over his head, other times spinning beneath him. He
didn't try to accommodate her routine, allowing her to control both
their performances with her superior skill. Brett found it
exhilarating, like flying. After several minutes the alien woman
contrived to meet him face to face at the top of a high leap. As they
fell together towards the trampoline she gasped, "Mate with me."

Afterwards he wasn't sure whether it was the prospect of infidelity
after he had so recently declared his loyalty to Dolly, or that deep
brown voice. But whatever it was it caused him to recoil slightly,
throwing him off balance, so that he landed awkwardly and was
catapulted backwards. He was flung over the side of the trampoline and
collided heavily with the gymnasium wall before crashing to the floor.
Gilda was beside his prone form in a second, all heaving breast and
concern. She took a quick inventory of his injuries as he sprawled
against the wall. His right leg was bent at an excruciating angle and a
dark stain was spreading through his tracksuit pants. Gilda ran, cat
like, to fetch help.

"Compound fracture of the femur, two cracked ribs and slight
concussion," the General intoned as Brett lay in the small dispensary.
"That's a bad break, Captain, a bad break in more ways than one." Brett
gazed back at the General who laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Captain," the General continued. "There's only one decision
I can make in the circumstances. You're out, I'm afraid."

Brett was stretchered out that night and flown to Cairns Base hospital
where an orthopedic surgeon set his thigh and strapped his ribs,
reinforcing the former with a stainless steel plate. He had been in
traction for more than a month when a letter arrived in a buff
envelope. His name and the address of the hospital were precisely
centered on the envelope. He extracted the single sheet that it
contained. Dear Captain Ohlsen, it began, after your recent accident we
do not believe that you will wish to remain in the US Air Force and we
have therefore, with regret, accepted your resignation. Your accrued
back pay and accident compensation has been calculated and a check is
enclosed. Your medical expenses will be paid by the Air Force and an
air ticket to Houston, Texas will be awaiting your collection at Cairns
International Airport following your discharge from hospital. The
letter was signed by some Air Force General. Under his signature
someone had written in fountain pen, you may not have been as unlucky
as you thought!.Brett recognized the scholarly handwriting of General
Featherstone. He turned the envelope upside down and shook it. A
rectangle of paper fluttered onto his pillow. It was a check for
$300,000. "Lousy compensation," Brett thought to himself.

On his discharge from hospital, limping heavily and supported himself
with a cane, Brett had rented a helicopter and a pilot at $500 an hour
to fly him up to the Cape York peninsula, but the house was gone. Brett
thought he recognized the inlet where it had stood and had the pilot
set him down on the beach. After he had stumped through the tropical
undergrowth for more than an hour he and the pilot had sat on a rotting
tree stump and shared some sandwiches.

"Long way to come for a picnic, mate," the pilot had remarked. "Bloody
expensive, too."

On arriving in Houston he checked into the airport hotel and rang a few
of his Air Force buddies. None of them had ever heard of a General
Featherstone, but promised to make inquiries. He flew to New York, but
the clerk at United Nations headquarters was unable to throw any light
on the mystery. Then he flew to Brussels and met with the same dead
end. While he was languishing in his hotel room he received a phone
call from a friend in military records who informed Brett that there
were quite a few privates, sergeants, lieutenants and captains named
Featherstone, but not one of them was a General. There was an Admiral
Featherstone, but he was seventy-six years old. Brett had thanked his
friend and taken the next flight back to the States. He brooded for a
few days in a Houston hotel before catching a plane to Langley,
Virginia. He had been shown into a tiny cubicle and then interrogated
by an attractive brunette for half-an-hour. She had finally admitted
that she had not the faintest idea whether a General Featherstone
existed or not. They did have a Mr. Featherstone who was a very senior
director of the intelligence agency. She finally agreed to show Brett
his photograph after an hour of pleading. An intelligent black face
topped with a mop of white hair gazed sternly back at him.

He returned to Houston once more, bought a small and undistinguished
house on the edge of town and decided that he'd better get a job. He
applied to the Jet Propulsion Laboratories and to his surprise his
application was accepted immediately. As a former Air Force pilot and
one of history's greatest survivors he made a perfect public relations
man. One day, he persuaded one of the technical draftsmen who had a
talent for sketching to draw him a composite of General Featherstone
from his verbal description. He had it framed and hung it in his
office, behind his desk.

As the months slipped by Brett started to feel comfortable with his new
job, to like it quite a lot, in fact. It was easy and it kept his mind
off of things, ferrying the daily busloads of visiting Congressmen and
dignitaries around the complex, introducing them to senior technicians
and explaining the purpose of some of the gadgets they were working on.
At the end of each day he returned to his office to review the next
day's schedule. At first he used to examine the portrait that hung
behind his desk, but after a while he scarcely noticed it.

He was sitting in his office one Friday afternoon going over the
following week's schedule when there was a tap on the door and the
laboratory director entered accompanied by a young man in his early
twenties. "Hope I'm not interrupting, Brett," said the director, "I
have someone here who's been pestering me to introduce him since he
heard you were working with us." He ushered the young man forward.
"Brett, I'd like you to meet my son, Mike."

The young man bounded forward holding out his hand, "Oh, wow, Captain
Ohlsen. It's great to meet you, sir."

The young man's enthusiasm was infectious and Brett couldn't help
grinning. "How are you, Mike. And by the way, that's Mr. Ohlsen now.
But why don't you call me Brett, okay?"

The young man was shaking his hand like a pump handle and Brett had to
gently extricate himself. The director smiled over his son's shoulder
and raised his eyebrows in query. Brett nodded to him that it was okay
for the young man to stay awhile and the director backed out of the
room, closing the door quietly behind him.

After he finally managed to get Mike to stop hopping from one foot to
another and sit down they chatted about the young man's ambitions to
work for NASA and Brett was persuaded to tell his story for the
millionth time, "Well, I was up at about 45,000 feet when I had a flame
out..." This time he omitted the part about his reaction when he landed
among the fishing party at the bottom of the canyon - he didn't want to
tarnish his reputation as a hero.

After nearly an hour the conversation was showing signs of drying up
and finally the young man said, "Well, I'd better go looking for my
Dad, I guess. It was great to meet you, Brett and thanks a lot for
spending time with me."

Brett stood up and walked him to the door, "Any time, Mike," he replied
amiably. "Next time you're over visiting your Dad, make sure you drop
in on me, too." Brett opened the door of his office to let Mike
out.

Mike glanced over Brett's shoulder and said, "Great guy."

Brett's mind was on next week's schedule and didn't notice the
direction of the boy's gaze. "Who, your Dad? He sure is."

Mike interrupted. "No, I mean him." He gestured over Brett's shoulder
at the sketch on the wall. "That is Professor Lagrange, isn't
it?"

Brett spun around to look at the framed sketch. He'd almost forgotten
it was there.

Mike was still talking, "...teaches astrophysics at Caltech, great
teacher, who drew the sketch?"

Brett recovered his composure sufficiently to grunt a reply, "I don't
know, it was there when I took over the office."

The boy looked disappointed. "I thought you must know him. Well, take
it from me, Professor Lagrange is a great guy." Mike was still talking
as Brett showed him into the corridor outside his office, though Brett
didn't hear a word.

"How are you doing, General?" said Brett to the gray haired man poring
over a book in the sumptuous campus office. The man looked up quickly,
alarm in his eyes, then he smiled and removed the reading glasses that
were perched on the end of his nose.

"Hello, Captain, how's the leg?"

Brett sat down in the vacant chair opposite the man. "It's not Captain
any more, as you know. Just as you're not a General any more,
professor."

The professor grinned sheepishly and shrugged, "Sorry about that Mr.
Ohlsen. I've got an uncle on my mother's side who did very well in the
services. I just couldn't resist it. As a cover story, you have to
admit, it was certainly plausible. I didn't want to be traced by anyone
upon your return. Not that it matters now."

Brett was suddenly furious, all the frustrations of the previous year
of searching welling up inside him. "How dare you manipulate my life
like that! I flew all over the world looking for you. I thought you
were attached to the UN, you were wearing the uniform. Jesus, I even
went to the CIA!"

The professor looked at the Brett sympathetically, sadly almost,
nodding at each of Brett's
accusations, accepting the truth of them, not seeking to justify or
deny.

With a final explosion of breath Brett stopped, his anger vented. "What
did you do with the house? I searched for it, but it just wasn't there
any more," Brett asked finally.

"The aliens collapsed it," the professor replied, "then they transmuted
the rubble into rainforest detritus. If only we had their technology!
Guess we'll have to do it on our own now." The professor raised his
eyes to the ceiling in silent frustration at an opportunity
missed.

Brett gazed at him curiously, "But they must be back by now surely.
It's well over a year since they left, nearly eighteen months."

The professor shook his head, "No, the ship had a drive failure. It's
lost somewhere in the folds of space."

Brett gaped at the man sitting in front of him, "Lost in the folds of
space? What does that mean, lost in the folds of space?"

The professor looked at him gravely, "The drive that enabled them to
penetrate the fabric of space, take short cuts if you like, failed.
When I said they were lost, that's not strictly true. The last message
that came through indicated that they intended to continue on
conventional drives, but this restricts them to the natural limits of
the universe, of course."

Brett puffed out his cheeks in relief. "Thank goodness, I thought you
meant they were all dead. How long before they arrive, or have they
turned back?"

"No," the professor replied. "The drive failure occurred at almost
precisely the mid point. There was no advantage in turning back."

"So when will the ship arrive?" Brett asked

"In one hundred thousand years," the professor said quietly.

The enormity of it struck Brett like a blow. "So what are the aliens
doing about it.? What about a rescue mission - they can't be in space
for one hundred thousand years,!" Brett had half-risen from his
chair.

The professor leaned forward and patted Brett on the knee, "There's
nothing we or the aliens can do."

"But that's inhuman. Those poor, poor people, is there no chance of a
rescue?" Brett said. He thought of Dolly marooned in space and his
heart sank.

The professor shook his head, "Any rescue mission that had the luck,"
he smiled wryly at the word, " to locate them would have to shut down
its drive in order to match speed in conventional space. Then they'd be
lost, too."

"I don't understand," Brett said softly.

"Brett, neither do I, the physics is way beyond anything I've ever
encountered and I'm a professor of astrophysics!" The professor leaned
back in his chair, "The aliens have dropped the whole thing, there's
been no communication with them for a year. It seems they don't trust
our luck any more - it terrifies them, in fact. It's too random, too
capricious. They've never lost a ship before." The professor looked
sympathetically at Brett. "We've done what we can for the relatives of
the people."

"How are you going to explain their disappearance?" Brett asked.

"Already done," said the professor. "Remember the airline crash in the
Antarctic a year ago, aircraft and bodies irretrievably lost?" Brett
nodded. The professor continued. "The closest relative of each of the
victims was paid the original fee of one million dollars.. Travel
insurance was the explanation given to the relatives Actually, the
aliens paid it, cost them thirty-eight million dollars."

Brett rose from his chair, stunned by what he had just heard. The
professor rose too and escorted Brett to the door. "I'm truly sorry,
Brett, not just for the people involved but for all of us. The loss is
incalculable."

The professor took Brett's hand and shook it in farewell. Brett turned
to leave and then paused in the doorway, "How much did you say the
aliens paid out to the relatives, professor?" he asked.

"Thirty-eight million dollars," the professor replied, "Why?"

Brett did the calculation again, "There were originally forty of us,
right? Subtract me and that makes thirty-nine - the aliens should have
paid out thirty-nine million dollars."

The gray haired academic nodded, "You're right, but we had to pull
another one the morning of the departure. Failed the rabbit test, don't
know how we missed it the first time around, but there was no doubt
about it - she was pregnant. Of course, there was no question of the
aliens allowing her to go in spite of the fuss she kicked up. Funny
thing, all the women were screened and you were segregated during
training. The way it turned out, though, you could say that you and
Dolly Cartland are now officially the luckiest people alive."

He could feel himself trembling as he walked up the broad driveway
towards the imposing house in the Sydney suburb of Wahroonga. The door
opened as he approached the front door and a familiar figure stood in
the doorway smiling at him. "Hi," he said and then gathered her in his
arms. An infant, barely able to crawl gurgled on the carpet of the
hallway behind her. Extricating herself from Brett's embrace, she bent
down and picked the child up, then held it up to Brett, "Say hello to
Daddy," she said.

Later, settled by the swimming pool, she brought the subject up, "Well,
tell me about the trip, was it great?"

Brett swirled the heavy crystal scotch glass she had handed him, "The
trip? It was okay, I guess. Twenty hours in a plane is never pleasant,
you know."

Dolly threw her head back and laughed, "Not that trip, stupid, the
trip!"

Brett stared at her, "Of course, you don't know, do you!"

"Don't know what?"

"Dolly, I didn't go. I broke my leg the night before the departure,
trampolining after dinner." Dolly gaped at him.

"And I only found out that you didn't go either a week ago. I traced
General Featherstone - he's a professor of astrophysics, by the way. He
was only playing at being a soldier."

Dolly's eyes were wide with astonishment, "You mean, all this time
you've been sitting at a desk just a few thousand miles away when I
thought you were the other side of the galaxy!"

Brett nodded.

"So what about the others, are they back yet , did the General, whoever
he is, say?"

Brett sobered. "They're lost, Dolly. Their drive failed, something like
that, anyway - their descendants won't arrive at Gilda Snark's planet
for another hundred thousand years."

Dolly stared at him for a moment and then threw her head back and
shrieked, "I'm sorry, Brett," she gasped between peels of laughter. "I
mean, are we the luckiest people on Earth or what!"

Brett grinned, "Guess you could say that, couldn't you?"

Dolly walked over and sat on his lap. Brett shifted uneasily.

"What's the matter, Brett?"

"Look, Dolly, as I told you before I'm a great survivor, but that's
about as far as my luck goes. I spent most of my money searching for
the bogus General Featherstone. I've got a shack in Houston and that
aside, what you see is what you get." He waved at the house and pool,
"I can't match this, Dolly, and I've got no intention of becoming a
kept man."

Dolly sat up straight on Brett's lap and removed her arms from around
his neck. "Well, can you raise five dollars?"

"Sure," he grinned, "but that's about all."

She held out her hand, palm up, "Give it to me." And as he fumbled in
his wallet she said, "There's a five million dollar lottery draw on the
weekend. I'll get you a ticket. That will solve your financial
problems, won't it?" she smiled.