Theorizing that one could time-travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett led an elite group of scientists into the desert to develop a top-secret project known as Quantum Leap.  Pressured to prove his theories or lose funding, Dr. Beckett prematurely stepped into the Project Accelerator…and vanished.

 

He awoke to find himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and facing a mirror image that was not his own.  Fortunately, contact with his own time was maintained through brainwave transmissions with Al, the Project Observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that only Dr. Beckett can see and hear.

 

As evil and neutral forces alike do their best to stop Dr. Beckett’s journey, his children, Dr. Samantha Josephine Fulton and Stephen Beckett, continuously strive to retrieve their time-lost father and bring him home permanently.  Despite returning home several times over the last decade, Dr. Beckett has remained lost in the time stream…his final fate no longer certain.

 

Trapped in the past and driven by an unknown force, Dr. Beckett struggles to accept his destiny as he continues to find himself leaping from life to life, putting things right that once went wrong with the hopes that his next leap…will be the final leap home.

 

PROLOGUE

Something that had changed as the leaps had gradually become tougher was that now each time when Sam returned to the captivity of the blue expanse, for a moment or so thoughts of what he had done in the leap just finished stayed with him. Most of the time it was a good feeling about the positive way he’d helped the person who had been the object of the leap. There were also other times, when a wistful sadness lingered with him—when he recalled how he had helped, but not in the way that had the highest probability of success.

And then there were the even smaller number of leap-out memories that followed Sam Beckett into the blue to nag and accuse and charge, *You failed!*

Now, another memory fragment had followed him into the endless blue expanse, nipping at his thoughts, the split-nanosecond whisper of, ***“You failed again!*** vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, vanquished by something Al had told him before:  ”Sam, you’ve got to remember that success has nothing to do with leaping.”

It was those momentary memory fragments that were the worst of all.  Without fail, whenever he answered the charge of failure with, *I did everything I possibly could,* the memory, like now, threw bitter darts of accusation.

***No you didn’t! If you had, then why are we here? It’s because you failed!***

Now another leap had ended and in a wink of bright blue light Sam was gone from the life he had impacted.  But as he once again acclimated to the blue expanse that had no beginning or end as far as he could surmise, Dr. Samuel Beckett experienced still another fiery dart of accusation from the fragment of this new memory.  As the stinging sensation of the accusation spread throughout whatever form he took in this place, it called back three or four other recent leaps in which he had taken out of those lives with him the knowledge that he had failed in them as well.

***You were supposed to prevent the child from dying, but you didn’t!***

*I did everything humanly possible,* Sam offered in his defense. *I can’t save everyone. Sometimes even when what I do succeeds it doesn’t prevent something bad from happening anyway.*

***Liar!  If you had really tried, you would have prevented that child from dying.***

*This time his parents were with Stevie when he died. They got to say goodbye.  This time…*

***Failure!*** the memory shrieked at him yet again, the stinging accusation seeping into, it seemed, Sam’s soul, adding to the heaviness that had begun accumulating there.  In the next instant, however, the memory’s accusing voice faded away, and Sam was wearily grateful for it.

Then in the next infinitesimally small instant, the draw of Sam’s next host was unmistakable and he gave himself over to it; to try and fight it was useless.  He also no longer allowed himself to linger on the question he used to ask almost as a mantra…”When can I go home?” and instead banished it. What was the use anyway?

Having ‘heard’ the Voice uttering the same frustrating and at times it seemed, amused, response of, “Soon,” the leaper had simply quit torturing himself by asking the question.  After all these years, and especially in the last few leaps, he had resigned himself that Whoever or Whatever was leaping him willy-nilly through time had gradually turned his repeated question about permanently returning home to his own time and the people whom he loved into a split-second source of amusement for Itself.  It had become little more than wishful thinking or, worse, a cruel fantasy to which Sam Beckett had finally said, “No more.”  Now when that thought flowed through his mind when lingering in the endless blue, he viewed that discarded hope as he was certain Whoever or Whatever saw it, namely as nothing more than an unreachable carrot on a stick held out before him to keep the ‘donkey’ moving forward.

**You will go home to stay, Sam,** the Voice said.

*When?* Sam asked yet again, weary of playing the controlling entity’s game but having little choice to do otherwise.  He waited for the answer he already knew. 

**Soon.**

He felt the bitter twinge in his being, whatever that was in this place.  *Yeah.*

**There is always hope, Sam,** the Voice surrounded him.  **You must never give up hope.**

*Why shouldn’t I?* he thought back.  *You have no intention of ever releasing me.*  The resignation in that thought seemed to permeate Sam’s being. *I’m nothing more to you than a lab rat trained to perform, succeeding or failing, in your neverending experiments in human nature.*

**You’re not a lab rat, Sam.**

*Call it what you will,* the leaper thought back passionately. *But however you term it, all you care about is using me for your purposes.  Forcing me to spend the rest of my life putting right what once went wrong in other peoples’ lives so they can live happily ever after.  They get to live their lives with a happier ending, but not me.  My life… my hopes and dreams… the people I love… are tossed aside. They don’t mean anything to you.  All you care about is using me to clean up other peoples’ messes.*

**Don’t you think people should be given a second chance to make the right decision the first time?**

*That’s not the issue!*

**Of course it is,** the Voice replied.  **You have a unique gift for helping people, Sam.   And when you do go home and have time to reflect on all you have accomplished, you will understand. You have done a lot of good, Sam, and you can do more.**  The words that were meant to be an assurance, or perhaps a comfort, to the leaper were anything but.

Feeling the increasing strength of the pull toward the next life into which he was being sent to fix something, Sam knew there was no sense in it, but he reached for the ‘carrot’ again anyway.

*And when will that be?*

**Soon.**

PART ONE

The blue haze of the Leap-in yielded to a swirling view of stars in an otherwise pitch-black environment.  Sam was disoriented by the sight, as well as the forward movement he felt.  After a moment, he realized he was sitting down, with a slight pressure on his lap.  Looking down, he saw a metal bar spanning his lap as well as those of the people sitting to either side of him.  In the split second before the lights went out, he realized he was seated in some sort of conveyance, which had just rattled to a stop.

His host had been gripping the lap bar and Sam’s hands tightened as he heard a voice that teased at his memory.  Filling the silence and darkness, the sharp male voice intoned, “You are about to discover what lies beyond the fifth dimension.  Beyond the deepest, darkest corner of the imagination… in the Tower of Terror.”

Before Sam could fully comprehend the implications of that ominous warning, the lights came on, and he saw a concrete wall in front of him.  Then the bottom dropped out from beneath him, and he felt himself falling.  He screamed, a short yell that ended as soon as it started.  When he reached the bottom, he breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short as the vehicle suddenly rocketed straight up at breathtaking speed.

When it reached the top of the tower, elevator doors opened, and Sam looked out over a panoramic view over a hundred feet down.  Before he could try to identify where he was to try to counter the panic of his fear of heights, a pit formed in his stomach as he considered the fact that what goes up… must come down. 

“Oh boy,” he muttered, clenching the lap bar with a death grip.  The car dropped a half floor, the intervening floor divider separating his view of the environment outside, and a bright light flashed before he felt himself plummeting at rapid speed.  Sam screamed (like a girl, he shamedly thought) all the way down.  When they stopped, he breathed, “Thank God that’s over,” but scarcely had the thought left his lips when the car shot back to the top floor again, to the accompaniment of Sam’s terrified shriek.  This time, the elevator doors flashed open as they had before, but not even a moment’s hesitation precipitated the drop.  Sam barely had time to draw breath for the fresh screams that echoed through the elevator shaft until the vehicle settled at the bottom.

The haunting music of the theme to The Twilight Zone suddenly began playing.  As the car rattled its way backwards out of the elevator shaft and rolled into what looked like a hotel basement complete with stored furniture and boxes, the male voice (which Sam now recognized as Rod Serling’s) gave its final narration, “A warm welcome back to those of you who made it, and a friendly word of warning; something you won’t find in any guidebook.  The next time you check into a deserted hotel on the dark side of Hollywood, make sure you know just what kind of vacancy you’re filling… or you may find yourself a permanent resident… of The Twilight Zone.”

The car came to a halt in front of another set of elevator doors.  Sam held his breath when they parted, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a young man in a maroon bellhop’s uniform trimmed in gold, with black pants bearing a maroon stripe on either side.  Somber faced, the bellhop intoned, “Welcome back.  Please gather your belongings and take small children by the hand.  Do drop in and see us again.”  The lap bars lifted and he gestured a sweeping wave of his arm to indicate they should exit.  As they rose amid nervous and exhilarated laughter--punctuated by “That was so COOL!!”--Sam became aware of two additional rows of seats behind him, as well as an almost identical seating arrangement across the small aisle that divided the car.

His pulse hadn’t settled down yet from the harrowing experience, and it certainly wasn’t calming any as he wondered who he was, and how he was supposed to identify who he was supposed to be with.  Fortunately, the guy who’d been sitting to his right clapped a hand on his shoulder as they exited the “elevator.”

“Howie.  Dude.  Do you know you scream like a girl?  And what happened to ‘no hands,’ huh?”

“Uhhh…” But he didn’t need to come up with an explanation.  Two college-age girls had dashed ahead of them and were studying a wall of screens bearing photographs of people in various states of reaction from the ride.  Pointing eagerly at a screen in the upper left hand corner, they beckoned to ‘Howie’ and the boy next to him.

“Here it is!” they shouted.  One of them was doubled over with laughter.  “We have got to buy this one!”

Even though Sam hadn't seen a mirror yet, and even though he could identify where he'd been sitting in the elevator car simply by matching up the young man standing next to him, Sam easily picked himself out.  His eyes were nearly popping out of his head and his mouth was open so wide he was surprised he hadn't dislocated his jaw.  Judging by the photograph and in spite of the near bug-eyed expression of his host, Sam decided that Howie fit the 'standard' description of a young college man; from what he could surmise because the young man was seated in the picture, Sam figured his host was of an average height, with dark blonde hair and trim of body as well as being good looking. The young man in the picture wasn't movie star handsome but good looking enough. As the sound of the girls' giggling moved closer to him, joining with that of the guy at his side, Sam thought, *Drop you on any campus in the country and you'd fit in.* The leaper was also grateful that his host had decided to wear comfortable jeans and sneakers with his... Sam glanced down at the shirt he was wearing and immediately rolled his eyes... T-shirt bearing the likeness of Jim Varney as Ernest with the phrase “KnowWhutIMean, Vern” printed on it.  "Ohh boy," he muttered under his breath. "A joker."  He winced vaguely at the light punch on the arm his ride companion gave him, when the guy crowed, "Hey, dude, you resemble that remark!"

"Gee, thanks," Sam muttered. The girls began dragging them past the wall of monitors to a room that resembled a front desk area.  The attention to detail took Sam aback.  The floor was tiled, and thick upholstered benches provided seating for those who were waiting...to receive copies of the photographs that had been snapped during the ride, Sam realized, when an attendant behind the counter waved a picture in the air and called out "Mr. Harris?"  A man in his thirties arose from his spot on one of the comfortable benches and walked past the potted plant to receive his souvenir.

The girls, meanwhile, had dashed to the nearest register and breathlessly exclaimed, "Our photo number was 18357!"  The attendant keyed in a series of strokes, calling their picture up on a computer screen embedded into the counter.  He looked down at their picture, then looked at Sam and smirked.

"You're famous, dude," his companion said.  Sam ha-ha'ed weakly and looked to his left, where the room opened out into a gift shop.  The rest of the group was discussing print options and packages with the cashier, and Sam wanted to try to get some more information about where, when, and --above all-- WHO he was.

"I'll just be in there," Sam said, gesturing toward the gift shop, which was the only apparent way to exit, as evidenced by the throngs of people flowing past them, most of them laughing at the adventure they'd survived.

"Sure, Howie... we'll catch up with you," his companion said, a gleeful grin on his face as he joined the others who were still discussing how many prints they should buy.

Taking a deep breath, Sam walked into the gift shop to begin as much reconnaissance as he could manage, and praying Al would show up soon.

PART TWO

Project Quantum Leap—Admiral Calavicci’s Office

Stallions Gate, New Mexico

Monday, October 2, 2006

1845 hours

Typing the last few words of the sentence, Project Quantum Leap's Chief Observer added a period then hit save before reading again the conclusion of his report on Samuel Beckett's most recent leap.

"It is the opinion of the Chief Observer that even though the boy, Stevie Allamore, age seven years, still died, as in the original history, Dr. Beckett's leap was nonetheless a success.  In the original history, the child died alone because his parents were in the midst of a argument about the divorce that ultimately ended their relationship after the death of their son.  Dr. Beckett's presence in the life of Charles Allamore changed history since he left the argument and went to the hospital where the boy was being treated for a severe case of pneumonia.  In the original history, the mother, Jessica Allamore, didn’t go back to the hospital until the hospital called, which by then was too late for her to get there in time to see Stevie before he died.  Due to Dr. Beckett’s presence in the timeline, this time Mrs. Allamore, with her attorney in tow, followed Dr. Beckett to the hospital.  It was only upon arriving and being advised by the doctors that the child would not survive, that the mother finally realized what her husband/Dr. Beckett had been trying to make her see.  It was Dr. Beckett's intervention at this point that changed the direction of the Allamores' lives, specifically by saving their marriage. As a final note, four years later, the Allamores, who could not have any more children of their own, adopted a child, a daughter, from Korea. Three years after the adoption was final, they adopted a second child from Korea, a son.

End of Report.”

Al nodded and clicked "save" one last time before clicking "print."  His laser printer hummed into life and the pages swiftly slid into the receiving tray.  When the final page printed out a minute later, Al lifted the warm sheets of paper and tapped them against his desk on all four edges before sliding them into place in a folder labeled "Allamore, Charles" and stamped with dates corresponding both to the chronological date in history into which Sam had Leaped as well as the date at the Project.  Al lifted the file into place on top of a stack of reports which had all been completed, but not yet finalized in terms of submission or archiving. 

Al looked at the stack of file folders and sighed.  The majority of the Leaps chronicled there had been hard, painful, and wrenching.  This last Leap into Charles Allamore had been particularly painful for Al, as the sight of Stevie in the hospital bed, connected to monitoring and supporting machinery, had drawn to mind his youngest daughter, Christa, as she'd clung to life following an infection that had taken over her small body subsequent to one of the many heart surgeries she'd undergone.  But even Al's pain was nothing compared to the look on Sam's face as Stevie's life ebbed away.  Tears filled the Leaper's eyes as he looked directly into Al's.  The question in Sam's heart, Al knew, was a simple one. 

Why?  Why couldn't he have saved Stevie?

In the few moments before Stevie Allamore passed into the next world, Sam Leaped out, giving the real Charles Allamore the opportunity to be with his son for the last time.  So it was that Al was unable to let him know of the Allamores’ adoption of the two children from Korea, or about the accomplishments to society both children had made as adults.  Had Stevie lived, Colleen Choon-yei Allamore would not have been adopted, not been given the opportunity to attend Harvard, nor would her brother, Peter Joo-chan Allamore, have gone on to an exemplary military career.

Still, the silver lining didn't take the edge off of Stevie's death, not fully.  Not for him, and certainly not for Sam.  Al closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as he saw his friend's pained face in his memory once again.

A minute passed as Al sat at his desk, his eyes closed, his fingers continuing to rub almost mechanically across his forehead.  But it wasn't helping to ease the mild headache now 'in residence' between his temples, nor was it helping him to mentally close the file on what he privately dubbed a "successful failed leap".  He had come to tag Leaps, like the Allamore Leap, in such a manner because even though the overall original history was improved by Sam's presence, some factor, sometimes big, sometimes modest, had not changed.  It was those Leaps that he knew almost always tore at his best friend's heart, that one question - Why? - always asked either in a look or being verbalized. And in the last year... God, has it been that long?!... the Observer had seen and heard that question too many times... the farmer somewhere in the Carolinas that had died unnecessarily of insecticide poisoning... the never discovered assisted suicide death of the girl in the hospital....

As if a small stone had been dislodged from a dam, allowing a trickle of water to escape so did other memories of other 'successful failed' Leaps began to slip into his thoughts.  They came slowly at first but within seconds more and more appeared until Al knew he had to get a grip on the situation or it would drag him down.  And he couldn't... wouldn't let anything within his power keep him from being ready, physically as well as mentally, when that chime rang out announcing that Sam had Leaped and would need him.

Al let out a quiet groan, so quiet even Ziggy's monitors would have had to strain to pick it up.  He'd sent Verbena on vacation; she'd reluctantly agreed, the stress from her encounters with Stiles as well as Charles Allamore had worn her nerves raw.  Part of him wished he could take a vacation himself, disappear with Beth into the nearby Sangre de Cristo Mountains for a weekend away, but it was only a small part.  He couldn't let Sam down.  His friend needed him--now more than ever before.

Standing up, Al's gaze went of its own accord to the new file now resting atop the stack of files on the left corner of his desk.  Glaring at the folder, he slapped his palm on the folder and said tersely, almost as if the inanimate object might attempt to argue with him, "I'm outta here."  With those words, he locked his desk, shut down his computer and switched off the small desk lamp and exited his office without looking back.  There was no need for him to stop and lock the door; Ziggy was programmed to set the lock every time he left his office. With singlemindedness, Al made his way to his quarters, not acknowledging anyone he passed.

Al trudged into their quarters and sighed as the door closed behind him.  He could hear Beth humming to herself from their bedroom, and the soft rustling sound of fabric and the quiet thud of opened and closed doors and drawers told him she was putting away laundry.  He shut his eyes and just stood listening to the ordinary comforting sounds, hoping they would alleviate the negative thoughts swirling through his mind.

After a moment, Al opened his eyes and walked purposefully to the bookshelf in the family room.  His hand, as if of its own volition, reached for the black leather-bound Bible, and Al pulled it from the shelf, taking it with him to his armchair.  He didn’t know what he hoped to find, comfort he supposed.  He flipped halfheartedly through the thin pages, pausing on the 23^rd Psalm.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,”¹ he read.  Sighing, he closed the Bible and set it on the end table next to him.  “There’s a lot I want right now,” he said, propping his elbow on the arm of the chair and pressing his fingers into his forehead.

Beth Calavicci approached her husband from behind. She sighed, recognizing the position he was in as one he’d been assuming for the past couple of days, ever since Sam leaped out.  When she reached him, she lightly rested her hands on his shoulders.  Al’s muscles were hard as rocks.  “Honey, you need to stop beating yourself up about this,” she said, starting to knead the knots out.

Al just grunted and let his head drop forward.  Beth moved her thumbs to his neck and pressed firm circles into the stiffness.  “You did all you could.  You and Sam both.”  After a few moments, she bent and planted a light kiss on the back of his neck.  She draped her arms alongside his and moved her face to his ear.

“Are you listening to me, babe?”

“I know.  The numbers just weren’t there,” he muttered, finally.  “But the look in his eyes.”  Al shifted in his wife’s embrace so he could see her, draw strength and comfort from her.  “Beth, I was there when Sam leaped out this time.  The look in his eyes…”  He trailed off and sadly shook his head.  “It about broke my heart,” he said, so low that if Beth hadn’t been holding him in her arms she wouldn’t have heard it.

Without breaking contact, Beth moved around to the front of the short-backed armchair and settled onto Al’s lap.  She kissed his cheek and flattened her hand against his chest directly over his heart, the steady thumping resounding against her palm.  Al reached up and covered her hand with his own, closing his eyes in gratitude.

“I have you.  Who’s going to help Sam deal with this?”

“Maybe he’ll forget by the next leap.”

“Maybe,” shrugged Al, doubtful.  He leaned his head into Beth’s shoulder and just absorbed the wave of love that washed over him.  “I thank God every day for you, Beth.  I don’t know how Sam does it all alone.”

“He’s not alone—he has you,” she reminded him.

Al shook his head.  “You know what I mean.”

Beth weighed possible responses and finally opted to tenderly kiss her husband’s temple.  She caressed his cheek and said, “Just because you can’t touch each other doesn’t mean you’re not there for each other.”

Al considered her words, but anything he might have said in response was cut off by Ziggy’s announcement that Dr. Beckett had leaped.

Giving her husband a last peck, Beth stood up.  “Are you going to be okay?”

Al smiled at her, but the smile quickly faded as Ziggy’s voice broke into their quarters again.  “Admiral, I think you should get to the Imaging Chamber as soon as possible.  Dr. Beckett’s pulse has just spiked and escalated.  His adrenaline levels are on the rise as well.”

“I’ll be right there!”

“I’ll check on the visitor’s vitals,” Beth said, following him out of their quarters as they both hurried for the elevator.  As they waited for the car to arrive, Al suddenly looked at his wife, his brow knitted as he looked at her.

“Beth… Aurora’s the main doctor now.  Why are you coming along?”

“Aurora’s not feeling well today and asked if I could pinch-hit for a few hours while she rests.”

“Is something wrong?”

Beth grinned at him.  “No, Al.  Nothing’s wrong with her.  She’s just pregnant… and I know it’s been a while, honey, but I’m sure you remember some of the ‘door prizes’ that go along with that.  Tiredness… nausea… at the most inopportune moments…”

Despite his worry for Sam and impatience for the elevator to arrive, Al held his hand up and grinned at his wife.  “Okay… enough said.  I’m glad we don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

The elevator car arrived and they walked inside, all humor now set aside.  As the car moved downward toward the Control Room, Al became silent and focused, his face grim, wondering just what danger his friend had leaped into this time.  Beth didn’t say a word, just rested her hand supportively on his shoulder. 

When the elevator let him out, Al barreled forward and demanded, “Where is he?”

Dominic Lofton answered, “September 11, 1997.  He’s in Florida.”

“Hurricane season.  Did he leap into the middle of a hurricane?”  Al grabbed the handlink and headed for the Imaging Chamber.  He barely heard Dom’s “No,” and keyed the door open.  “Center me on Sam… now!” he ordered as he hurried inside.

He materialized inside a gift shop of some type.  Al blinked and hurriedly searched for signs of criminal activity.  Finding none, he turned his attention to finding Sam.  Slightly pale, the leaper was idly examining a wall of T-shirts. 

“Sam?  Pal, are you okay?”

Sam nodded, his head cocked to the side and a look of confusion on his face.  Al followed his gaze and read aloud the slogan Sam was studying.  “I Survived the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror…”

“Would it be against the rules for me to buy it?” Sam murmured.

“Well, I…” Al broke off as the lightbulb went on, and he recalled a series of commercials advertising the free-fall attraction for its West Coast debut at Disney’s California Adventure theme park just a few short years back.  “Oh, Sam… you didn’t leap in…”

“Right before the first drop.  The first of three, I might add.”

“Aw, Sam.”

“Actually, looking back on it, the first one wasn’t as bad—it was dark.  The other two….”

“Were from thirteen stories up,” Al supplied.

Sam nodded and finished, “With a panoramic view.”  Sam gestured to a shirt emblazoned with a picture of Mickey Mouse from behind, standing in front of an open elevator door with a snapped cable, an expanse laced with electric blue lightning bolts as a backdrop.  “This isn’t what I expected Disney World to be like.”

“Ah, so you know where you are!”

Sam looked askance at him and nodded around the gift shop.  “It wasn’t hard to figure out once I got in here.”  He glanced back toward the corridor leading into the shop and hurriedly said, “It won’t be long til they get the prints of that picture.  When am I and what am I here to do?”

Al pulled out the handlink and began mashing keys.  “I don’t have much for you, buddy.  Ziggy rushed me in here when your vitals started going crazy.  I can tell you you’re at the Disney-MGM Studios theme park at Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida, and it’s September 11, 1997, a Thursday.  You’ve leaped into…”

Patting his back pocket to indicate he’d already checked the driver’s license.  “Howie Lockwood.  No clue what I’m here for?”

“Not yet.  I’ll go back and see what they’ve got for us, now that I know you’re all right.  In the meantime, relax!  You’re on vacation!”

Disney-MGM Studios Theme Park

Walt Disney World

Thursday, September 11, 1997

2:38 PM

It wasn’t long after Al left that the small troupe Sam was vacationing with entered the gift shop, a paper folder held triumphantly aloft.

“Howie, I hope you’re ready to be front and center on the Student Center bulletin board when we get back,” crowed the young man Sam had been sitting next to on the ride.

“Skip, that’s so cold!” chastened one of the girls, a green-eyed blonde, even as she couldn’t help giggling at the idea.

Smirking, Skip passed the folder to Sam, who obediently opened it.  Despite himself, Sam had to laugh—easy to do now that he was on solid ground!  “I’m surprised my hair isn’t standing on end,” Sam said, handing the photograph back.

“Yeah, well weren’t you the one who kept saying, ‘Oh, it isn’t that bad, really,’” piped up another girl, this one with dark hair and eyes.  “Come on… the next Indiana Jones stunt show is around 3 PM, and didn’t you say that if we get a seat near the front row we stand a better chance of getting picked as extras?”

“Juanita’s right,” said the blonde.  “C’mon, Howie, lead the way.”

‘Lead the way?’  Sam gulped.  “I, uh, I…”

Fortunately, Juanita cut in, “Oh, I think I saw a shortcut on the map.  Mind if we try it?”

“Sure,” Sam eagerly agreed.

With Juanita at the front, they all marched out together.  Once they were outside, the sound of screams from above periodically punctuated the air.  Sam took a look back at the Tower of Terror and was surprised to see that it looked like a real hotel, damaged by lightning.  He glanced to his right as they exited and admired the courtyard gardens that served as the outdoor queuing area.  He wished that if he’d had to endure the Tower, he’d at least have been able to enjoy the theming.  They continued past the Tower of Terror and veered to the left, heading down what looked like a Hollywood street, complete with palm trees.  As they passed a stand selling hats, the other young man in the group called out, “I need to get one of these… y’all go on ahead.  I’ll catch up.”

Sam was glad not to have to be in charge of navigation for the moment, though it seemed that his host was the tour guide.  He made a mental note to be sure and study the guidemaps, committing them to his photographic memory in order to be up to the task.  In the meantime, he just followed the able leadership of Juanita, and allowed himself to admire the attention to detail in the Disney park.

As they neared a large open area, Juanita pointed to the far end.  “Indiana Jones is that way… I think we can shave a bit of time off if we head this way.”  Without waiting for a consensus, she started walking.  As Sam made to follow, the young man caught up with them and jammed something that felt like a ball cap on Sam’s head.  Instinctively, Sam reached up to identify it, and was surprised to feel a round plastic knob on the bill of the cap.  He removed it and almost dropped it when he saw the face of Goofy staring back at him.  The black ball cap had Goofy’s eyes imprinted on the upright portion, while floppy cloth ears dangled off the sides.  But it was the bill that truly added to the garishness of the hat.  A plastic oval sphere obtruded from the end of the bill, which was decorated to look like Goofy’s long nose, complete with buck teeth hanging down in the front.

Sam looked curiously at his companion, who just grinned insouciantly.  Skip turned and laughed when he saw the hat.  “Good one, Russ!  Maybe Howie’ll make sure to go hands free like the rest of us next time!”

PART THREE

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion’s Gate, New Mexico

Monday, October 2, 2006

1938 hours

Beth was waiting for Al when he emerged from the Imaging Chamber.  “How’s our guest?” he asked her.

"This one's certainly different."

"How so?"

Beth gave him a significant look. "Well, for one thing, he asked for a Bible to read."

Al’s eyebrows lifted.  “That’s a first,” he commented, adding, “especially for one that’s not a man of the cloth.” 

She nodded.  “I hope you don’t mind, honey, but I gave him ours to use.  I couldn’t think of where else to find one.”

Hopefully the Visitor would get more comfort out of it than he himself had, Al thought as he told Beth that was fine.  “How’s he doing?”

“Fine.  He thought for a moment that he ‘really had gone into the Twilight Zone,’ to use his exact words.”  Beth’s expression showed that she hadn’t understood the comment and had filed the words away as further evidence of this Visitor’s peculiarity.

Al chuckled.  “Howie was riding the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror at Disney World when Sam Leaped in,” he explained. 

Amusement flitted across Beth’s face for a moment.  “He remembers that he was at Disney World,” she confirmed.  “And, Al… he’s unusually calm about the whole thing.  I’ve never seen a reaction like this before.”

“So I take it that I don’t have to wait for a sedative to wear off for a change.”

“I didn’t even have to reach for the syringe once,” said Beth.  She watched him for a moment as he considered what she had just said. 

His eyes darted toward the Waiting Room doors then back to her before he finally said, “Okay.  Sounds good to me.  I better get in there and meet our latest guest.”

Al hesitated after entering the Waiting Room.  The young man occupying Sam’s aura was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, the Calaviccis’ Bible open in his lap.  His lips moved as he repeated a verse to himself under his breath.  Al almost hated to disturb him, but he had to find out more about him.

As his footfalls approached, Howie looked up from his reading and greeted the admiral with a broad grin.  The young man's grin was so infectious, Al found himself returning it without thinking twice.

As Al drew closer, he cocked his head to the side and asked, "I'm not underground, am I?  And you're not a Cast Member, either, right?"

"Underground?" Al asked, confused.  He wanted to ask about the Cast Member thing, as well, but decided to get the most confusing aspect of the statement out of the way first.

"Yeah... isn't there like this great catacombs or something underneath the parks where all the behind the scenes stuff happens?  But somehow, I don't think that's where I am..."

Al looked closely at the young man, for a moment entertaining the notion that perhaps the visitor was pulling his chain. He shook his head slightly. "Catacombs? No, there aren't any catacombs here."

"Where's here?" the young man asked, looking up at the older man with interest not in the least tainted with fear or apprehension.

Al couldn't help smiling as he said, "Well, let's just say that I'm positive we're not in Rome or in Florida."  The answer drew a bit of a puzzled reaction from the young man.

"Rome?" he questioned. "Disney hasn't added a park in Italy... that I know of."

The Observer couldn't not have laughed even if he'd wanted to try. He gazed down at the younger man and started to answer, then changed his mind and squatted on his haunches to be at eye level with him.

"How about we back up to square one and start over again?" he suggested lightly then did something he rarely did with any visitor, extending his hand. "My name's Al."

Howie had started to wonder about the odd conversation, but the more it went on, he hadn't felt any inclination toward fear. Rather, he felt inside that this stranger was worthy of his trust.

"Howie Lockwood, sir," he responded, clasping Al's hand in a firm handshake.

"You can dispense with the sir," Al said, grinning.  "You'll make me feel like an old man.  You're among friends here.  Are you comfortable?"

"Oh, yes, s--.  Yes, the lady who was in here earlier was really quick about bringing me this Bible."

Al's grin spread.  "Yes, that would have been my wife."

Howie lifted the Bible from his lap and inserted his finger to hold his place, turning the leather cover to the imprinted gold letters that read "Calavicci."  "Is this your Bible then?"

Al nodded and Howie thanked him for the loan of it.  As Al noted how Howie held his place, he asked, "What were you reading?"

"Psalm 121," Howie answered promptly.  While he hadn't seemed stressed, he seemed to relax as he apparently drew his mind back to the words he'd been reading.

"Which one is that?" Al asked.

Without hesitation, Howie recited, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.  My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth."²

Glancing down at the obviously well-used Bible in his lap, he ran his thumb over the bottom corner of the cover then back to Al. "It's the first verse that comes to mind whenever things get..."

"A little odd?" Al suggested.

Howie grinned, chuckling lightly. "I was going to say 'wild and hairy' but 'odd' works, too."  Meeting Al's eyes again, he said, "I'll admit that I was a little wierded out when I realized I wasn't feeling like I was falling down a bottomless pit, but this...," he laid his free hand on the Bible, "this just reminded me and I'm okay now."

Noticing how Al had shifted his weight a bit caused Howie to get a good look at the other man, realizing instantly that he was older than his attitude suggested.  Laying the Bible carefully aside, he quickly shifted to get to his feet, offering his hand to Al.  "I'm sorry. We can stand if you like, si-- Al."

Al brushed away the proffered helping hand, but did get to his feet, stifling a groan as his knees lodged their protest.  Al hated any reminders of his age and he solidly refused to show any signs of discomfort.  He turned to Howie and asked, "What do you remember before you found yourself here?"

Howie shrugged.  "I'd just gotten on the Tower.  We practically had to drag..." he paused and his brow furrowed as he tried to remember a name.  "I can picture her face, but her name isn't coming to me," he complained, making the first frown Al had yet to see on him.

"It's okay," Al assured him.  "Minor holes in your memory are perfectly normal.  Don't focus on what you can't remember, but on what you can, okay?"

Howie nodded, but Al could tell he wasn't thrilled about the discovery of the Swiss Cheese Effect.  The young man closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and continued, "Okay, so we convinced her to get on the Tower with us, and we'd just gone up a few floors, and then... here I was."  He looked around the room again and then he suddenly said, "Juanita!"

"I'm sorry?" Al asked, confused.

"That's her name.  Juanita," grinned Howie.  "Thanks, Lord.  That would've driven me nuts trying to remember!"

As Howie Lockwood talked, Al's experienced eye kept scanning his face, his body language, looking for signs that perhaps the other man was trying to cover up a case of nerves. But there wasn't any such sign to see, and for the first time in a long time, the Observer took what he was seeing on face value and relaxed.

"Okay," he affirmed the last comment. "That's good. Now, I've got a few more questions to ask you. They might seem...."