CONTENTS      LAST VINEGAR STROKE     DOORKNOBS     ROCK MAGIC     FROM THE CHANCERY ARCHIVES OF KING HENRY V     A POCKETKNIFE AND A CIVIL UNION     EVEN YOU CAN BE A WINNER!     AUTHORS

       She'd never meant any harm, she thought as she squirmed at her desk at the entrance to AthWare's offices, trying to sort the day's mail, while nervously waiting for Mr. Glenellen to get in.
       That is, she never imagined there'd be any harm. In fact, she never dreamed it would come to anything at all.
       Of course, the TV ads did warn, "You'll never win if you don't enter!" But look at the people who inevitably won: sweet middle-aged couples who lived in trailers and had nothing to do but reply to junk mail, or desperately dumb-looking guys whose idea of the good life came from beer commercials. Sweepstakes winners were always totally ordinary people, like herself, who could really use the excitement.
       They were never blond, tanned, hunky and already well-to-do corporate vice-presidents.
       With a guilt subverted a bit by envy, Cathy Mitchell thought back to the morning the sweepstakes entry arrived in the mail. It was just unexpected enough to intrude on her otherwise mindless sorting. But as her curiosity prompted her to open it, she began to suspect it must have come from some mailing-list error. Things like this weren't supposed to be sent to business addresses.
       But there it was:

"Even you, MR. BARTEN GLENELLEN
OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN,
can be a winner!"

       She remembered holding the fistful of prize certificates and sticky magazine stamps, and idly thinking, "Well, why not?" She always played these games whenever they happened to show up in her mail at home. To be sure, the only thing she'd ever won was a packet of seeds that refused to sprout. But it only cost the postage. And wouldn't it be a giggle if her incredibly handsome boss managed to win a clock radio, at least — or one of the other 84,998 "fabulous prizes that we must give away!"
       Cathy hadn't counted on the ten million dollars.
       As a matter of fact, she'd completely forgotten there'd ever been a sweepstakes mailing until this morning, when, as luck would have it, a registered letter arrived for Mr. Glenellen while she happened to be away from her desk. As a result, the letter had to be signed for by Ms. Devlin, Mr. Glenellen's executive secretary.
       Would it have made any difference, Cathy wondered, if she'd decided not to eat that extra taco last night?
       Ms. Devlin was beyond a doubt the most stunning woman she'd ever seen — about 5'11", with long and lustrous jet-black hair, eyes a blend of copper and gold, a flawless complexion that seemed to be permanently tanned to chamois-brown, and a figure that redefined the term "statuesque." The men on the sales staff joked that she was their nominee for "Miss Business Universe of this or any year." And she was so poised that she seemed likely to keep her impeccably tailored composure in the midst of a stock market crash. So Cathy couldn't help but know that something was horribly wrong, when she returned to her desk this morning and found Ms. Devlin standing there, clutching a sheet of paper in a trembling hand as if it were something vile, and whispering in a voice just short of fury, "What do you know about this?" It took a moment for Cathy to get a good look at the letterhead printed across the top of the crumpled page. And even once she did, she couldn't immediately grasp what it meant. And then, when she began to recall having entered her boss in the sweepstakes, it still refused to occur to her that this response might be anything important. "Oh," she replied with a sheepish grin, "you mean he won a blender, or something?"
       "Just how did this happen?" Ms. Devlin snarled through clenched but absolutely perfect teeth, as the skirt of her tailored, tussah silk suit began to wrinkle untidily. "Well?"
       "Well," Cathy said with a nervous laugh, "it came in the mail one day, and I figured ... you know ... I mean, I didn't expect ..." But then she thought she understood. "Oh, no ... I didn't order any magazines, or anything like that. It's one of those no-purchase-necessary things." She expected that explanation would calm Ms. Devlin down, but it didn't.
       "You mean you took it upon yourself to reply in Mister Glenellen's name?" Her rich brown cheeks were turning bronze, and her eyes were nearly molten.
       Cathy found this reaction inexplicable. "Yes, but what's the problem? I didn't forge his signature, you know. It came with his name already on it. I mean, I guess I probably shouldn't have done it, but what the hell, he won something."
       Ms. Devlin thrust the letter at her like a sword.
       She took it and read it through twice. "This has to be some sort of joke ... like maybe a pitch from some hot-shot ad agency." Ms. Devlin, however, was clearly not amused. "What could have possessed you?" she hissed as she brushed the back of a beautifully manicured hand across her eyes, doing considerable damage to makeup so artfully applied that Cathy had been unaware she used much makeup. And for a moment she looked at least ten years older.
       "Oh, dear!" she groaned at last. "But now I've got to go contact Glenellen." And snatching the letter, she fled toward her office in amazingly awkward disarray. But at the door she abruptly paused and turned back with a look of what, to Cathy, seemed to be betrayal. "Mister Glenellen will want to see you as soon as he gets in."
       Cathy blankly stared at a pile of outgoing correspondence she was expected to proof for Mr. Glenellen, feeling completely demoralized because, for some unknown reason, it seemed as if she were going to lose her job. But why, when what she'd done had gotten her boss ten million dollars? By rights, she peevishly started to think, she deserved a little bonus, at least, if not a better title.

* * * * *

       Waiting for Glenellen to revert from the Levels, Lanie Devlin sat in her office, gazing morosely at the empty screen of her information unit, while her mind reflected on what seemed about to become her very short career.
       She liked her office. She fondly remembered having spent hours going through copies of magazines like Office Interiors, trying to put together a look that was businesslike, but chic. And she was proud of what she'd become — a model executive secretary: knowledgeable, efficient, adroit, and with a professional sense of style. As a middle-aged Aten woman, it hadn't been easy to do what she'd done — take over the day-to-day operations of an AthAmerica subsidiary. This job was meant to be her chance to finally achieve what almost every modern Aten woman wanted — an independent career. In fact, when she was young, she'd had quite a bit of business training, and had even been offered a promising position in Production's Category Management Division. But knowing that marriage and raising a child were inevitable obligations, she decided, as many women did, to put her plans on hold. Now that her daughter was grown and already a second assistant in Services, however, working for AthWare, Inc. was supposed to become what she'd always hoped would be the second good half of her own life.
       How could Cathy have done such a horrible thing?
       Lanie had been Glenellen's executive secretary for about three years. And there'd been some difficult problems to solve, not least of which was learning to deal with both a real business life, and the everyday details of leading a real local life. And naturally, she'd made some mistakes, though nothing that wasn't to be expected. But none of those had even remotely posed this kind of threat.
       Of course, she considered in an effort to feel less guilty, this was hardly something that anyone could have expected. But that didn't help when she also considered that she was the one who'd hired Cathy. Still, until now, Cathy had seemed to be the perfect choice — an attractive and personable local young woman, one of whose greatest assets as far as the Aten were concerned was her good intentions, which, Lanie glumly concluded, was exactly why she'd done what she'd done. And that, she thought as she gazed out the window at a skyline she'd grown rather fond of, was the most depressing part of it all: no one could really hold Cathy to blame — and worse, Lanie had signed the receipt for the "Grand Prize Notification" herself. Then she recalled there'd also been a piece of paper headed "Affidavit of Eligibility," which required more information on Glenellen than he was prepared to provide. And she wondered how Cathy would feel if she knew that, by entering her boss in this contest, she risked exposing him for what he was — or wasn't, which was "human."
       For a moment, she tried to think what Glenellen might do with ten million dollars. But being what locals would call a "company man," he was the very last person on this or any planet to want his lifestyle changed forever, as the ads for these contests always promised. Like all Aten men, he suffered the genetic defect known as "regeneration," and literally couldn't change. He was over eight hundred years old, though he looked twenty-eight, and was very successful. He could already have whatever he wanted. She, however, would most likely lose the chance for the kind of self-satisfaction that would have made the remaining forty years or so of her life worthwhile.

* * * * *

       Dressed in Midwestern-styled casual wear, Barten Glenellen stood in the lounge of his quarters on Level 121 — stalling — hoping that even these few extra moments would help him get used to the notion that he was about to revert to Earth for the very last time, at least for a while. Still, he found it hard to believe this was actually happening to him. His first reaction on hearing the news was, "Why do I have to accept?"
       But as his advisor had said, "It only takes one tabloid stringer to plaster supermarkets from coast to coast with 'Veep Spurns Ten Million Prize!' And since, in this particular case, the story would be undeniable, it's perfectly possible you could end up on Inside Edition except, by then, the story could easily be 'Space Alien Spurns Ten Million Prize.'"
       "Come on!" Glenellen protested, "How likely is that?"
       Larkin Costis shrugged. "You know how probability works. It's not the odds. That's just statistics. What matters is it's possible. Just consider the cause of all this. According to Research, Iron Age's subscription department mistakenly listed your office address as your home address. And that insignificant error got onto a mailing list they sold, which ended up with the people promoting this contest. In view of that, is Inside Edition really so unlikely?"
       "Okay," Glenellen allowed, "but won't my winning make me just as famous?"
       Costis shook his head. "You'll only have to put up with about an hour's worth of notariety, as they film you shaking some spokesperson's hand for use in future promotions. If you have to say anything of substance, they'll provide you with a script. And we'll make sure your wardrobe looks as middle-class as possible."
       "And then what?"
       "Then you simply settle into a perfectly ordinary local life and start to spend your money."
       "I don't think ten million dollars is something the locals consider ordinary."
       Costis dismissively smiled. "You won't be getting it all at once. And these days, after taxes, the annual payout really isn't that much in terms of local expectations. You won't, for example, be mistaken for someone like Bill Gates. But in any event, there's one thing about the locals you'll quickly discover, I'm sure. They certainly do admire a winner, but not for very long."
       Glancing around at his smart Ikea décor, Glenellen supposed he did understand why Cathy had done it. When the entry form arrived on her desk, she'd simply succumbed, as so many Americans would, to another sporadic fit of mindless generosity. She probably thought, "Now wouldn't it be a nice gesture to do this for him?" She couldn't have known the consequences: that he'd be effectively forced to defect despite that he wasn't the type to have any complaints with the way his people lived.
       Of course, it was more than just inconvenient to have to hide themselves on the Levels, just beyond a dimensional threshhold from a perfectly decent planet.
       Of course, it was more than a little frustrating to find yourself economically dependant on a lifestyle that's not only ignorant of, but unable to allow for your existence.
       Of course, it was more than merely dismaying at times that, due to Aten procedures, there were attractive local opportunities you weren't allowed to pursue.
       Nevertheless, there was still so much an enterprising Aten could do, though, now that he was about to abandon his extraterrestrial safety net, he started to grasp why the distance procedures required had always seemed so acceptable.
       Taking a final look at his kitchen, he wondered how real defectors did it. Everything else aside, it had to consume almost all your time and energy just to make sure you were being acceptably local every moment of every day for the rest of your life — a very long time for an Aten man. At least he only had to do it until he got his final installment — thirty years, which wasn't that long, though at the moment it seemed like forever.
       In addition, he had advantages defectors did without. For one thing, there were his winnings, which would let him lead a comfortable life unencumbered by most of the treacherous local procedures imposed on those who worked. And far more importantly, he could rely on full emergency backup. How could defectors get along, when they left the Levels for life on Earth with only a promise to give them a new set of teeth every hundred standard years? At last he left for Level One, feeling oddly defeated by the system he'd always endorsed. He thought of his forty-seven-year career with AthAmerica, recalling with pride how he'd readily grasped the evolving American business principles, and seen how they could help his people in their unobtrusive interactions with Earth. He'd developed an expertise in establishing Aten enterprises among the locals without attracting suspicion. But his reminiscence began to fade, as he started to wonder how that expertise might serve him now.
       All this had happened "by chance," a phenomenon locals still didn't comprehend. And chance was often the very best way to encounter a new opportunity. So, as he walked down the concourse toward the lifts with less and less reluctance, past the shops and places he wouldn't be seeing again for thirty years, he began to consider the ways he could make the best of those years in his own terms. His money, wisely used, would offer him chances that life on the Levels couldn't. And judging by certain local examples, he shouldn't have any problem succeeding in business without being noticed.

* * * * *

       Tossing Research's backup specs for Glenellen's next thirty years on his desk, Larkin Costis got ready to leave his study for the evening. It wasn't an easy thing to be a Project Director for AthAmerica. Something was always going wrong, though, of course, this problem was stranger than most.
       Costis paused at his study door, once again bemused at how perverse a chaotic cascade could get. Who'd have supposed a local clerical error would victimize an Aten as stalwart as Glenellen was? But then, this particular victim would probably profit from the experience and return a more valuable man. Glenellen was that sort: the kind of capitalist that even Americans were still unable to envision.
       Everyone else had been paid off. Lanie Devlin was the new VP in Detroit, mainly because it would have been hard to explain to Cathy Mitchell how a male replacement for her boss could look so much like him. And Cathy had been promoted to office manager, a position in which her organizational skills could be used to advantage, while making sure her sense of idle niceness wouldn't get out of hand. And Glenellen was already off on what he referred to as his "extended vacation" — starting with a tour of the western Pacific, on what he called "a voyage of economic self-discovery."
       Costis turned off the lights in his study and left — another crisis managed. Planet Earth was still safe from the knowledge that it had already successfully colonized outer space.

Copyright 2006 by Ralph Sperry