From: dak@gandalf.rutgers.edu (Dorothy Klein) Newsgroups: alt.ql.creative Subject: Roundtable Part 4 Message-Id: Date: 24 Mar 93 04:18:07 GMT Organization: Rutgers Univ., New Brunswick, N.J. Lines: 596 Quantum Leap Roundtable, part 4 "A Family Affair" by Dotty Klein Copyright 1993 (leapin by Douglas J. Renze) -- *!CRACK* the blow landed on the side of Sam's head, knocking him unconscious. As he came to, the stickiness ran down his arms from his bloody wrists tied above his head. "Thank you for rejoining us, Lieutenant," whined a heavily-accented voice. Vietnamese? "Now, once again, your name is Alphonse Calavici, rank --" Sam groggily raised his eyes to squint at his captors in the gloom. There were a half-dozen of them, arguing among themselves behind the ringleader who was waiting for Sam to say something. Impatiently waiting, if the twitch in his hand were any indication. Sam could focus only on the dark-stained stick in his hand. The room was hot, dry, and dusty. "What do you want me to say?" Sam stammered. "You must have damaged his hearing, Mansour. You should not hit him so hard," advised one of the bystanders. "How else will he tell us when the Italians are coming?" snarled the man standing in front of Sam. As punctuation, he whacked Sam across the ribs. "You must be subtle about these things. See, I will show you." The man stepped forward from the shadows, and Mansour gave ground. When the new one was sure he had Sam's attention, he drew a gleaming knife out of his robes. A murmur of approval rose from the others, visibly angering Mansour. "Nasir will get it out of him," and "He's never failed yet," were some of the comments Sam heard. The knife waved menacingly in front of Sam's nose. "Oh, boy." Sam's glance took in the design of the knife, the robes and head-wraps the men wore, and their bearded faces. Arabs, by the looks. But why were they asking him about Italians? "We know Mussolini needs our oil. And we know you're here spying for him." "I'm not a spy," Sam mumbled. The knife moved closer, and Sam tried desperately to process the clues he was being given while holding his terror down. Nasir continued on. "With a name like Calavicci, how can you _not_ be Italian? And lieutenants do not build oil rigs. But you will not take our new wealth from us without a fight, spy. The Americans and the British offer us much for our oil, and they have fulfilled their promises to us. All we have from Italy are an old treaty and big promises for the future." Italians? Mussolini? "It's World War Two," Sam reasoned aloud. "We don't CARE what the world is doing," snarled the displaced Mansour. "Ah, but we do," Nasir said, turning to Mansour, but really addressing Sam. He sounded quite reasonable as he stated, "Both sides need our oil. As long as there is payment for it, and it flows swiftly, our people prosper. The Americans are keeping their promises to us, and we should keep ours to them. If the Italians invade, there will be battle for the oil, our people will be killed, and the new wells destroyed." Nasir paused expectantly. "That's not good," Sam ventured. "Ah, so now you see." Nasir resumed his threatening stance in Sam's face, and spoke slowly, but impatiently. "Spy, you will tell Mussolini that he is no longer welcome in Saudi Arabia. We are tired of his empty promises." "But I don't know HOW to tell him!" Sam protested. Nasir punched Sam in the stomach. "You WILL tell them, and you will also tell them that if they try to seize our oil, we will cut their throats." The knife pressed into Sam's neck as he tried to draw away. Sam was never so glad to hear the Imaging Chamber door open as he was at that moment. Al stepped through quickly, saying, "Whatever they want, agree!" "Okay! Okay!" Nasir stepped back with a smug look. Al "stood" at Nasir's elbow. "I got here as quick as I could. We had trouble getting a lock on you. The doc says the guy in the Waiting Room is a mess, and Ziggy is flipping out." Al peered into Sam's bloodied face. "You don't look so good, yourself." Mansour was arguing with Nasir. "He agreed too quickly. Four days I have asked him to do this, and always he says he is not a spy." "Perhaps I am just better than you." The several spectators nodded in agreement. "I say he is lying!" Mansour drove a punch into Sam's gut to punctuate his belief. Nasir rolled his eyes. "He will tell us the Italians agree, then call in their army, and we will have nothing!" Nasir was bored after getting his confession, and was not impressed by Mansour's tantrum. "Beat him more if you like." He caressed his knife before sheathing it. "His fear will make him keep his bargain, even after his bruises heal." Having taken any credit away from Mansour, he swept out of the room. He was followed by most of the spectators, who seemed to think the show was over. Only one remained, standing in the farthest corner. Humiliated, Mansour raged at Sam, pummeling him and shouting. Al did quite a bit of shouting, too, but only Sam could hear him. "Tell him what he wants to hear, Sam. Make him think HE'S won, that you're more afraid of him than that other guy." Sam gasped as Mansour hit the same spot Nasir had moments before. Al got in Sam's face, trying to draw his attention. "This isn't about spies, it's about pride and politics, and you're stuck in the middle. He'll kill you, Sam! Just say what he wants!" "Stop," Sam gasped. Mansour gripped Sam's jaw. "What did you say?" "Grovel, Sam. He wants power over you." "Please, stop. I can't take anymore of this." Sam meant it, but Mansour's eyes still blazed. His gaze slipped to Al, pleading. "Whatever he wants, Sam." "I'll do whatever you say." Mansour looked wary, and threw another punch. "I will, I swear! Please, don't hit me again!" The Arab moved back a step. "Whatever you say. Please." "Keep saying it, it's his ego, Sam." Sam saw the Arab's still-menacing stance and babbled desperately. Mansour turned to the lone remaining spectator. "You hear him, Naif? He begs ME. He is afraid of ME, not Nasir!" "You are right. I will tell what I have seen, and all will credit you," the spectator said, in a voice that had barely begun to change. Mansour raised his chin in pride. "Yes, they will. Take care of him." "Yes, father." Mansour stalked out. "Oy, vey," said Al. "That was close, kid." Sam's eyes widened as the youth drew a knife and approached. "Do not worry, Lieutenant Calavicci." Al gaped at the name the boy spoke, and stood with his mouth hanging open as Naif cut reached up and cut Sam's hands free. "Father will not hurt you again, now that you have confessed." Sam dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Naif removed the ropes which had cut into Sam's wrists, and Sam tried to back away. "I am sorry. Here is water to wash your wounds. I have hurt you too much already." The boy placed a basin next to the time-traveller and slunk out the door, bolting it behind him. Sam sat and trembled as reaction set in. "Sam? Did he call you what I think he called you?" Al knelt next to Sam. "Seems my name is Lieutenant Alphonse Calavicci. It's World War Two, and a really bad time to be an Italian." Sam was halfway to hysterical and giggled at his joke. Al decided to deal with first things first. "Sam, you're getting shocky. Lay down. Bend your knees up." Sam did so. "Calm down, catch your breath. Now, is anything broken?" "I don't think so. I hurt all over, though. What's going on, Al?' The handlink squealed at Al. "Ziggy's got time and place: May 6, 1943, Saudi Arabia. That's it." He looked at Sam, worried. "Al, this name..." "Was my father's," Al said as he hit the handlink. He wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. "You've leaped beyond your own lifetime, Sam. Ziggy wasn't programmed this far back, and there aren't many records from outside the US anyway..." Al's father? What his friend must be feeling... "Al, I need to know what's going on." Sam interrupted gently, "Why don't you go ask the guy in the Waiting Room?" "Uh, you're hurt pretty bad, Sam. I don't want to leave you alone." "I'll live. Go check on your dad." Al gulped and glanced at Sam, who made shooing motions. The Door opened, and as Al stepped through, Sam was overcome with fear again. "Just hurry back." Al nodded quickly and shut the door. Sam rubbed his forehead and winced as he encountered the large bruise. He sat up gingerly and found the water. He tried to get a look at his image, and the wound, in the water bowl, but the light was too dim. He splashed water on the places that felt like they were bleeding, then lay back down. Al's dad, a spy for Mussolini's Fascists? It must all be a terrible mistake, probably what he was here to fix. Sam shuddered as he remembered the interrogation, then shied away mentally. /Think of something else. Something peaceful, something ME./ He called up a mental image of a complex equation, losing his pain and fear in its beauty. It didn't seem like long before Al returned. He seemed subdued, moving to sit next to Sam. "So what have you got for me, Al?" "Not a lot. The guy in the waiting room thinks he's dead or in Limbo or something, awaiting Final Judgement. He's worried about who's gonna take care of his kids, if he's dead." Sam noticed the indirect way Al was referring to his father. "So, what did you tell him?" "Nothin'." At Sam's look of disbelief, he protested, "How could I? Fer cryin' out loud Sam, right now _I'm_ older than he is. How am I supposed to tell him how I know his eight year old son's gonna turn out just fine? And what if he asks about Trudy? What am I supposed to tell him then?" "Al, he thinks he's in Saint Peter's Waiting Room. You don't have to explain Project Quantum Leap to him. He'll believe just about anything right now." That rubbed Al the wrong way, and he exploded. "What, you think my dad's stupid or somethin'? He might not be a college graduate, but he's not stupid!" "I didn't say he was. I'm saying, I think he believes in Divine Intervention. And who are you to say that this isn't it?" "I still don't think it's right to lie to him." "So you'll leave him worrying?" Al glared at Sam. "At least think about it?" Al nodded, but was still offended. He poked the handlink a few times, seeming to be interested in the gibberish it flashed. Sam allowed the silence to stretch. Finally, Al changed the subject to something impersonal. "Ziggy just got some stuff from the State Department on this period in Saudi history. Wanna hear it?" "Is it useful?" "Twenty-twenty hindsight is always useful. The political stuff came out well after the war, and surprised the hell out of State." Sam shrugged. He hated politics. Al consulted the handlink for notes. "Okay, in chronological order, the first oil well here went into production in 1939. Before that, this was just another poor tribal country, pretty medieval. It's even named after the current ruling family, the Saud. "But all that changed with the oil. Suddenly, everyone wanted to pal up with the Saudis. By July of 1939, they had arms treaties with both Italy and Germany, though they never got much from them, as well as cushy oil contracts with American and British companies. "When World War II began later that year, the oil revenues dropped, because everyone was so busy trying to defend themselves that they couldn't spare men or material to build new wells and ship foreign oil. Saudi Arabia was officially neutral, but they watched the war like you would a Super Bowl, cheering when battleships got sunk. Different factions in Saudi Arabia rooted for each side -- the king was for the Allies, which meant everyone had to cheer for the good guys, at least when he was watching." "So it was a sort of biased neutrality?" Sam asked incredulously. "You got it. Now, the US didn't get into the war until Pearl Harbor, but when we got in, we went all the way. By the summer of 1942, we were supplying most of the fuel for the Allied fleet, and the planes. There was concern that there wouldn't be enough American oil to keep up the war if it dragged on, not to mention our greed over natural resources. So in December of 1942, the US government decided that the Saudi oil was 'in the broad national interest' -- which, by no coincidence, is when my father got drafted, sort of." This was more to the problem at hand, Sam thought. "You never said your dad was in the military." Al was keeping his distance from Sam. "I never knew. He didn't want me to worry. Seems the army made him an offer he couldn't refuse: he could accept a commission and work in Saudi Arabia on a strategic oil field, or get deported as a draft-dodger. He should've been exempted 'cos he was the only family me an' Trudy had, but there weren't many unemployed oil construction guys in '42, they were all already working in Texas, pumpin' for the war effort. He quit a good rig job when my mother left, so he could take care of us. I can't get much out of Ziggy, it seems there were some strings pulled by the oil company." "So what happened to him here that I have to change?" "No data. His service record is sealed." "Sealed?" "Yeah. Sometimes it's done to prevent embarassing a good soldier who screwed up, and sometimes it's to keep the government from being embarrassed. Either way, the details are absolutely inaccessible. All I can get are dates: drafted December 1942, returned stateside September 1943... this can't be right, Sam. My dad didn't get home until June of '44." "Are you sure, Al?" "Positive. It was a week before my tenth birthday. Best present I ever got..." Al cleared his throat and smacked the handlink. "Uh, here's the discrepancy. He spent the rest of the time in a military hospital once he was home." "I don't think I'm hurt that badly." "And neither is he. But you're both," Al searched for the right word, "... shaken up by this." He waved his hand to encompass the dingy room and events in general. "Even without the leap, the guy in the waiting room couldn't handle everyday civilian life tomorrow." Al became more upset as he went on, "Sam, they were at him for _days_, playing their paranoid political intrigue games, with _him_ in the middle. And from the looks of it, he was even out-stubborning them, 'til you leaped in." Sam gulped and looked away. "I wonder how long it took _him_ to break, the first time around?" "Sam. Sam, look at me." When Sam reluctantly met his eyes, Al continued. "Don't feel guilty about it. In situations like this, machismo doesn't help, it only makes the hurt last longer. You did what you had to do to get out alive and sane, and that's nothing to be ashamed of." "I can't help feeling I've let him down." "Sam, I get my stubbornness from him. You saved him a lot of pain by telling those goons what they wanted to hear." That seemed to shake Sam, as he realized what Al wasn't saying. This was the voice of experience talking. Al went on, "I'm sorry it had to be you, but I can't argue with the result. It's for the best. Do you hear what I'm telling you, Sam?" Sam drew a deep breath. "Ok. I guess I _know_ you're right, I just can't _feel_ it." "Yeah, that's the tough part. I know, it's not easy, kid." As Sam looked into Al's haunted, sympathetic eyes, an idea dawned on him. "Maybe that's what I'm here to change." "Huh? You lost me there, Sam." "Maybe you have to talk to _him_, Al. Get him to understand that it's not his fault. The medical profession doesn't know about this stuff for another, what? Twenty, thirty years?" Al looked uncomfortable. This was getting too close to his own nightmares. "Uh, yeah, I guess. I'll have Dr. Beeks talk to him..." Sam interrupted gently, "Maybe _you_ have to talk to him, Al. You can make him see the truth." Al turned away. "What are you afraid of?" "Sam, this is real tough for me. I don't even think about 'Nam if I can help it, and here's my _father_ ... it hurts, Sam." "You just talked me through that ... taste of Hell. Why won't you help you own _father_?" "Sam, no matter what I do, he's gonna die in two years. I can't bear to see him knowing he's doomed, that he'll leave me again..." Sam heard the various levels of hurt and guilt in Al's voice, but he felt sure about this, and pushed Al harder. "When I leaped home and tried to save _my_ dad, you said you'd give anything just to see your father again. I think Someone heard you. Were you lying?" "No!" Sam couldn't tell if Al was answering his question or resisting his suggestion. "All you've got to give him is what you've already given me. It's all stirred up anyway. Go on." "He'll just swiss-cheese it when he comes back..." "I don't think so. The details, maybe, but not the lesson. Al, if you get through to him, maybe he'll get home earlier." Al finally met Sam's eyes, saw the hope and encouragement there, and was convinced. With a deep sigh, Al said, "Ok. OK, I'll do it." He opened the Door, then turned back to say, "Sam... thanks." Sam's mouth twitched in as much of a smile as he could comfortably manage. "Don't forget to tell him how much you love him," he called as the Door slid closed. He wasn't sure if Al had heard him or not. Sam waited in the cell for Al to return. Or for God to leap him out. Or for something to happen. He was hot, he was hurt, and he was bored. It had been about five hours since Al had left, and Sam had investigated every boring corner of his cell, which seemed to be a disused storage shed. He was incredibly thirsty, from the stress and the heat, he reasoned, and had finished the water left by Naif. Finally deciding to do something, Sam picked up the empty bowl tried the door. He couldn't budge it. He knocked on it, and a large Arab with an even larger sword cracked the door open. Sam held out the bowl with a hopeful look. The sword-bearer did not look sympathetic. He was about to slam the door when Naif appeared and took the bowl from Sam. Then the guard slammed the door anyway. Naif reappeared with both water and food, which he brought into the cell. Ever polite, Sam thanked the boy, who turned to leave without saying a word. "Wait. Talk to me, please." Naif stopped, but did not turn. Sam decided to fish for information, since the boy had seemed sympathetic earlier. "I don't seem to remember much before I got hit on the head. Will you help me remember?" Naif looked at Sam with pity. "It would be the least I can do, after I have hurt you so." "I don't remember you hitting me. How do you think you hurt me?" "Six days ago, I came to your camp to hear your stories of America. I heard the head driller give you mail, and joke about it being to 'Lieutenant Calavicci'. I told my father this, because I thought it meant the Americans were very interested in us, to send a soldier to do a laborer's job in time of war. Father told Nasir, and they both remembered that there was a treaty with Italy several years ago. They said the anti- American advisors had invited you to spy on the Americans in preparation for an Italian invasion. I told them you were a good American, and that a spy would not talk so much about the wonders of America. They said I was but a boy and I could not tell the truth about you from your stories. And so, because I was angry that father said you would spy on us, and I wanted to prove him wrong, I asked you to come here, where Nasir and father and others were waiting for you." Naif hung his head in shame. "But they were right, you are a spy, and I am a fool for believing in you." "I told you stories?" "Yes, most of the other oil men brought their wives, but you came alone. You were the only one who took time to talk to me." This was getting interesting, Sam thought. Alphonse had taken to this boy. Was it because he missed his own children? Sam rubbed his head as though struggling for a memory. "I don't remember what kind of stories I told you." "You told of great rivers flowing through forests of green, leading to deep harbors where ships from all over come to trade. And of parks greener than any oasis, to give green to great cities. And of the game called baseball, for which special fields of grass are grown." The boy was a farmer at heart, Sam thought. Or maybe Alphonse was just tired of the desert when he told his stories. Baseball... Aha. "Did I ever tell you about taking my son to those baseball games?" "Once or twice. It made you sad, so I did not ask about him." "My son is a few years younger than you. I had to leave him and his sister behind in America when I came here." "You would spy for America's enemy when your children are there?" Naif asked in disbelief. Sam was getting his point across. "I'm not a spy for anyone. I'm a lieutenant because the United States Army made me one, then -ordered- me to come here. That was the only way they could make me leave my children." "But you told Nasir and my father you were a spy!" Sam explained gently, "If I hadn't, they would have killed me. I want to see my children again." Sam heard the Imaging Chamber door open, and was glad Al hadn't heard him impersonating his father. The boy was upset, almost to the point of tears. "But they are deciding whether to kill you _now_, because you said you were a spy!" "What!?" exclaimed Sam and Al simultaneously. "They cannot tell the Americans you are a spy, because then they would ask about why we are so suspicious of the Italians, and the old treaty would be revealed. But now they do not want you to give a message to Mussolini, because they have no way to control what message you might give, and perhaps you would tell him to invade as revenge. So they say the safest thing is to kill you and make it look an accident." "Sam...." "I have to get out of this alive." "But how?" Sam thought furiously. "Would you argue for me?" "Me? But how can you trust me, after I betrayed you?" "That was an honest mistake, but you have to prevent it from killing me." Naif agreed eagerly. "I will do as you ask. What shall I say?" "Say that the best thing would be to return me to America. Tell them that wartime security there is good enough to prevent my getting a message out to Italy." "But how can they send you back? The American army and oil company can order you, but not them." "I don't know. Maybe they can say I made some kind of huge cultural insult, and threaten to close the wells if they don't send me away. Would that work?" "Yes! They could say you tried to touch their wives! It would normally be enough to kill a man, but they can say that a beating and banishment is enough." "Great going, Sam. My dad is going to get a reputation as a suicidal masher, thanks to you," Al protested. Answering both Al and Naif, Sam said, "If it's the best way to get me home, I suppose I can let the Army think that of me. And if they play it that way, it looks as though they're doing America a favor by not executing me." "Yes! It will work. Trust me, Lieutenant Calavicci!" Naif said as he left. "Al?" Sam inquired. "Ziggy's looking, Sam. Seems like a 70% chance they go for it." "But they didn't kill him in the original history. What did I do wrong?" "Uh, not sure, but Ziggy extrapolates from oil company documents that he held out for another week. Ouch. On May 12, the war in Africa ends and the Allies actually look like they can win this thing, so Nasir and his pals don't think he's a threat anymore. So he never confessed anything, and these guys never come up with any story to explain his injuries, or where he'd been for twelve days, and," Al slapped the handlink, "it's assumed by the oil company that he made a pass at one of their women anyhow, and he's shipped home in disgrace. So it looks like his reputation is mud either way." "Um. As long as they send him home, it'll work out okay. Why don't you pop into wherever they're meeting and let me know how Naif's doing?" "Yeah, good idea, Sam." Al popped out and returned a few minutes later. "He's having a tough go of it, Sam. He's hanging in there, though." "So what are they coming up with against the plan?" "I don't know, Sam. I can't understand a word they're saying!" Sam laughed a little. "I forgot you don't have my talent for languages." "Ha, ha. You don't speak Arabic, either." "Oh. I guess I forgot that, too." Sam was beyond feeling upset at his swiss-cheesed memory, or so he thought. Al changed the subject anyway. "Hey, Sam, Ziggy has a theory on why you were able to leap beyond your lifetime," he stated. Sam looked expectantly at Al. "Well?" "Oh, you want to hear it? Okay, you remember when you and I simo- leaped?" "Uh, vaguely. You got bumped to 1945 by a lightning bolt, right?" "Right. Well, we got some neurons and mesons mixed up in the exchange, which allowed you to bump me out, even though 1945 is before you were born. And Ziggy says we've kept them, although they've been retrained to our personalities, so I don't have your Boy Scout thoughts anymore." "Well, how fortunate for you." "Yeah, Tina thinks so," Al replied with a lecherous smirk. "Anyway, those few little dormant particles are enough to get you anywhere in my lifetime, but Ziggy says _only_ if the leapee is closely genetically related to me. So it's pretty unlikely." "But by that theory, I should be able to leap within my parents' lifetimes, because they're closely genetically related to me," Sam pointed out. "But you don't have any of their particles bumping around in you." "Ah, but I do," Sam stated in his best lecture tone. "The material in the single cell I started from belonged to my parents. Even if that single cell has since died, at least a tiny bit of its components, whether it's nucleotides, amino acids, or even just some ions or protons or electrons, must still be in me." "Yeah, but that's so little..." "If a dozen or so neurons' worth of Calavicci is enough to get an otherwise unrelated me into a 1943 Calavicci, a few of my parents' particles, when combined with my really close overall genetic similarity to them, should extend my leaping range to _their_ lifetime. Right?" Al considered this, and tapped the handlink. He looked at the result, and said dubiously, "Well, it's just a theory. Let's not borrow trouble." Just then, there was a commotion at the door. "Talk about trouble..." An American strode into the room, followed closely by Naif, Nasir, Mansour, and a crowd. "What's this about you assaulting a woman, Calavicci?" "Uh, sir.." "Don't try to deny it! Do you realize that by their laws, they could kill you for that?" "Uh ..." "What are you, nuts? You could have blown the whole oil deal over here!" Two large Saudis grabbed Sam and dragged him to the door. "Where are you taking me?" Sam asked in a panic. "They're kicking you out of their country. You'll pack your belongings and be confined under guard until the next tanker leaves, and you'll be on it." "Consider yourself lucky, Calavicci," warned Nasir. "We do this only as a favor to Mister Webster, who has always dealt honorably with us." Sam and Al breathed a sigh of relief. Naif raised his hand in salute, and Sam returned the gesture. Sam packed Alphonse's belongings, while the American boss ranted at him, the room, and the world in general. Al provided a running commentary. "Webster, Frederick J. Born into the business, but not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works for the oil company for another fifteen years, before he misjudges company politics and gets kicked out himself. "Dad never folded his shirts that way. And wipe the dirt off his boots before you pack them. "This Webster is one inconsiderate nozzle. He thinks because he's willing to leave his wife and kids for months on end, all his employees should be glad to do the same. My father worked for him just before my mother left. Maybe this bozo would wise up if _his_ wife left him." Sam was finished packing Alphonse's meager belongings, except for a change of clothes. He stripped off the filthy clothes he wore. They felt like Alphonse had been wearing them for four weeks instead of four days. He donned clean pants and turned to the mirror to adjust his shirt. He caught his first glance of Alphonse in the mirror and approached in horrified fascination. Sam only felt bruised, but Alphonse had welts all over his chest and back, his face was swollen and bruising in Technicolor, and his hair was caked with blood from several head wounds. Al noticed what Sam was up to and quickly reassured him. "You don't look that bad, Sam, just some bruising on your chest and face, and a little cut on your head. The worst is this bruise on your ribs," Al pointed, "which is going to turn some really disgusting rainbow colors before it goes away. You always heal between leaps, anyway." "Al, I'm sorry. How did your father stand all this?" "Sorry? What are you sorry for?" "Making you see him like this." A thought struck Sam. "Or do you see me back in the Waiting Room?" "I see who I choose to see." Seeing Sam wasn't satisfied, Al elaborated. "At first, I'd see your body in the Waiting Room, and the Leapee when I appeared to you. Then as I got used to the neural imaging, and our brain waves tuned closer and closer, I found I could see you as you, and then Ziggy figured out how to extend it to seeing the leapee in the Waiting Room. I can go back to the original way by pressing a few buttons and doing a mental shift." "So all this time you were seeing your father like this?" "Ah, no. I, uh, bent the rules a little and had Ziggy make the staff doctor see _him_, too. Naturally, the doc patched him up some. He looks better after some ice-packs and stitches." "Are you listening to me at all?!" Webster ranted on. "How can you do this to me, Calavicci? After all I did for you!" Sam had had it with the loud, self-centered oil boss, and decided it was time for some ranting of his own. "First, I didn't do it TO you, it was done TO me. Look at me. I'm a wreck!" "You deserve it. You were warned about their women, and you _still_ couldn't keep away from them." Sam continued right over Webster's interruption. "And second, what did you ever do for me?" "I got you this job! You're a good oilman, and I knew you were out of work. Your wife wouldn't let you take a job away from home, so I had the Army help you." Al stuttered in fury. "Why, you..." "News flash, _Mister_ Webster. This isn't about their women." "Sam, keep it down or you'll blow the whole deal!" Sam grabbed Webster by his shirt and got in his face. It must have terrified Webster to see his injuries up close, because he shut up. "It's because they thought I was an Italian spy. Your precious Saudis have a treaty with Italy as well as with you, only they want out of the Italian one, and thought I was here to prevent that, because I'm the only _lieutenant_ here." A flash of knowledge came to Sam from somewhere. "You said this job was _safe_, that there was no risk. Well, you were wrong, Mister Webster. Look at me! Do I look safe?" "Maybe I was wrong about that," Webster admitted. "But you've been paid well..." "Not well enough for being away from my family for this long, in this kind of danger. And about my wife..." Sam started menacingly. "I'm sure she's a nice lady, just possessive," Webster placated. "She LEFT me the last time I worked for you, because you kept extending the job, and she was tired of waiting with my _children_." "Sam, who's talking there?" "You have kids? You never said you had kids..." "YOU NEVER ASKED! You wanna know where my kids are now? They're in an _orphanage_, because YOU had me drafted to work in your nice 'safe' Saudi oil field." "Let him have it, Sam!" Sam backed Webster across Alphonse's room, gesticulating and yelling at him all the way, with some Italian curses and insults thrown in. When they got to the door, Sam opened it and shoved Webster through. "Nothing is worth this. I don't care what you tell the Army, I want to go home, and I never want to hear about oil again. Don't bother me again, and above all, DON'T do me any more favors!" Sam slammed the door on Webster and the startled guard. "All right, Sam! That's telling him!" Sam blinked in confusion. "I felt possessed. How did I know all that stuff?" "Maybe it was one of those neural cross-connections that happens every now and then. It sure sounded like my dad telling him off, only he would have popped the nozzle." "I didn't mess anything up, did I? Why haven't I leaped?" Al consulted the handlink. "No, you fixed things up fine. Dad gets home about two months from now, and is discharged immediately, with profuse apologies. No time in the hospital, and he even gets bonus pay from the oil company. Even an inconsiderate jerk like Webster can feel guilty if Dad yells at him enough." "So why am I still here?" "Ziggy says any minute now. Webster has to make arrangements to ship you, I mean him, home. Are you sure you packed everything?" Sam looked around. "I don't see anything... Wait, what's this?" He pulled a small metal box out from under the bed. "Open it, Sam. It's full of family photos. Dad took it when he went, but he didn't have it when he came back. I haven't seen those in fifty years." "He probably had to pack in too much of a hurry." Opening it, the first photo he found was of Al, perhaps seven years old, in short pants, holding the hand of a younger girl. "Hey, that's me and Trudy." Al sounded as though he would be delighted to go through the whole box of photos with Sam, but Sam felt the leap tugging him away. "Al, quickly. Does he bring this box home? What do you remember now?" Al looked startled, then distant. "I remember it both ways. I have those photos at home, now. Why quick, Sam?" "You looked cute in knee-britches, Al, but I've got to go now." "I'll show you the rest when you get home, buddy." Sam leaped... ... into a mob. Or so it seemed to him at first. There were people pressed all around him, some perched on others' shoulders, all screaming at the tops of their lungs. The crowd surged forward, and something flew towards Sam's face. He reached to block it, and caught a handful of plastic beads, in color combinations only Al would appreciate. Dangling from the beads was a pressed plastic medallion. As the crowd jostled him, he read the medallion's lettering: 'Krewe of Bacchus'. And someone spilled a beer down his back.