A gaggle of police cruisers abandoned in a seemingly random pattern waited by the curb for their officers, several with their lights still working. I steered my unmarked hunk of junk into the farthest forward available space, one that narrowed as I nosed in until there was barely enough room to slip between the cars. The key moved the ignition to the off position, which should have killed the engine, but the damn thing rattled on for ten long seconds. Possibly I should shoot the thing and put it out of its misery. Instead, I unbuckled the seat belt and slid my weapon into my shoulder holster, climbed out carefully so as not to snag my pants leg on the damaged trim, pocketed the keys, and quietly closed the door for what good the quiet would do after the ten seconds of dieseling. While moving toward the front of the spontaneous parking lot, I noted two of the cruisers had keys in the ignition, and one of those had the engine running just waiting for someone to drive it away. Tracing who was assigned to the vehicle and passing along a warning was better than having a fellow officer fined for not following procedure, especially with cutbacks looming.

After noting the time and IDs, I looked around the area. I'd been here many Sundays before, here in this park near my apartment, walking among the small stand of trees with white flaky bark--birch I think, or maybe some kind of oak--or watching children play on the grass. Usually, when I was around, people strolled along the few shaded paths, or passed by on the street bent on errands important to them, not appreciating the majesty of the oaks that lined the street, but at this moment traffic was light. My business brought me here just after sunup for duties I'd rather not perform, but were necessary for the welfare of our society.

A small crowd watched the lack of activity about seventy feet inside the park. One of the prospective detectives approached me from the taped off square. I met him halfway to the scene.

"What we have, Officer?"

"Male, twenties, some witnesses know him from the local gay bar. Other than that, nothing." He held a notebook flipped open in his hand, but he hadn't referred to it, spouting the facts from memory. He was getting better.

"Nothing?" I looked over the area. Yellow crime scene tape, wrapped around convenient trees, marked off a forty-foot area with a body in the center. Something should have been found inside that area, yet this beat was learning to be observant and had seen nothing. Possibly there was a reason.

I asked, "Were you first?"

"No sir."

The reason. I'd have to take a careful look to find the evidence trampled into the grass. Paramedics, onlookers, even cops for God's sake, had all thoroughly pulverized the ground near the body, which would make for a rough search, if a search was needed. My luck, I'd have to search.

I asked the beat, "Anyone determine the weapon used?"

"Bare hands, but no prints on anything."

"Gloves, obviously. Probably latex or rubber. Hair? Skin?"

"Nothing."

"Struggle?"

"Possibly. Probably. I think so, but I'm not sure."

"Getting better, Manfredi, getting better." The kid was learning you never jump to conclusions. "Keep it up and you'll get your Gold Badge yet. OK, do the usual follow through and check back with me when you're done. I may still be here, or at the precinct."

Manfredi was a good cop, a good foot soldier who deserved, and would get, more. Not today though. I had a crime scene to study, a puzzle to order, the third strangling of a pervert in the past three months, almost as if the perp rationed himself. That was a laugh. A perp with discipline. This guy was good though, and yeah, I'd work just as hard for a pervert if he were a victim, but hell, the last two had no clues at all. None. It was like Angels of the Lord came down and offed these perverts, all homos like this one and deserving of death and Hell, and I'm not religious at all. Maybe the perp thought he was doing the work of God, which was just what I needed. No city needed some religious nut doing good things in bad ways.

Dew still lay in several shaded areas. I had hopes of finding a trail, or possibly a good print even after so much time had passed, but looking around outside the tape I saw nothing I could use. The three remaining pockets of dew were undisturbed, and whatever blades of grass had been bent by the perpetrator's flight had already recovered.

I stepped over the perimeter tape and glanced at the ground, but the paramedics and beats had crushed anything useful. This guy was good. He considered all possibilities of the crime and the escape, what could happen and when, and how to counteract the problem. In each of these killings he had covered his tracks well, not leaving any evidence, and including the lack of care first responders would give to the ground in his calculations. Possibly that's why all the killings were outside, so nothing would stay on a floor but would be ground into the dirt to hide forever. Slowly I moved toward the center of the lack of activity.

People moved aside as I approached the victim: Caucasian, blond, dressed well but the shirt was torn, medium long hair, clean-shaven, with bruises around the neck. He'd struggled, so maybe I'd find something. I carefully lifted each hand and inspected the fingernails but found nothing, not even dirt. One short, almost black hair was mostly hidden under the collar of his silk shirt so, holding the bag in my left hand, I bagged and labeled it, and then checked his shoes for scuff marks. Nothing. Another killing with no clues except for that one hair, which was probably from his latest boyfriend.

"Well?" the coroner asked. He'd snuck up on me once again while I was concentrating on the crime scene, a habit I couldn't get him to break. He was standing over me next to his rolling stretcher, a tall man, made thinner by the dark trench coat he wore, balding with a bit of a hook to his nose that added an evil touch. His quick scan of the area emphasized the lack of evidence.

I told him, "If you don't find something, we're shit out of luck."

"'Nother one, eh? Got a serial, maybe, or you just don't care that much?"

I protested, "Look, Murphy, you know I do my best no matter what. Sure, I don't like perverts, but victims are victims you know. They deserve my best no matter what. I leave busting the perverts to Vice. They enjoy that life." Damn, he could get on my nerves with his snide tone and his I-know-more-than-you look along that nose. However, now that he had won his little game, he became human.

"Yeah, I know. I'll get back to you with the results. Hey, they found another NEA."

NEA? What the hell did that have to do with anything, and what was an NEA for that matter?

"Near Earth Asteroid," he answered my question as if I'd spoken it. "Found a new one, but it's too soon to tell how close it really is. Hey, I'll let you do your thing, and give you a holler soon as I find anything."

"I'll be waiting." But I won't hold my breath.

+ + +

I pushed open the left double door and slipped into the Detective's Office, a.k.a. the Gold Badge Room. Smoke filled the paneled room even with both windows open to the noise of city traffic. The overhead fans rotated slower than in a barbershop, not moving an ounce of stifling air. The Wop and Killarney were heads together over their partners-desk, talking about their latest project. The 'Rican, his alias although he's Cuban, talked to a victim in the guest chair, a beat standing next to the chair giving information. Fisherman, Carpenter, and the Professor were nowhere to be seen.

I no sooner walked in the door than the Captain accosted me. "Damn it, Rodrigus, that's the third. Now don't tell me you didn't find nothing, I don't want to hear it. And neither does the Mayor! Christ, has he been bending my ear. We gotta have something."

I said, "Nothing again. Nada. Coroner's looking too, though, so we'll get something, don't worry about it."

"I hope so, Rodrigus, for your sake I hope so."

I made my way back to my desk. That hair had been nothing.

+ + +

Darryl Whitherspoon

Thursday mornin', while fortifyin' my eyelids with coffee, I booted my computer, opened the news, and read the banner headline: Near Earth Asteroid Will Strike. That grabbed my attention. I stopped makin' breakfast to read the article, even though the media usually sensationalize almost everythin' beyond recognition. I wanted to see just how accurately this story portrayed the science.

The article talked about one of the "periodic asteroids close to Earth's orbit," also called Near Earth Asteroids, gave the probable dimensions of the rock, then said it "could destroy the world." I doubted that would happen, a hit that cracked the planet halfway to the core, or formed a new asteroid belt, but if it was big enough, it might shake things to the mantle and life would have to start again.

Accordin' to the article, astronomers ran the NEA's orbit through a super computer, and by continuin' to follow the orbit into the future discovered that in two more crossin's, ten or eleven years from now, it could hit earth. Maybe. Some Big Science media personalities pooh-poohed the findin's sayin' that every time the rock passed near a planet or the sun heated the asteroid and caused vapors to jet the orbit changed slightly, so since no one could predict the orbits accurately, we were safe. Others pointed out that it never came close enough to a planet for gravity to affect it, and the small changes caused by random jets of heated gas would not change the orbit significantly, so we must prepare. One scientist named Randolph said that this was an asteroid, not a comet, and asteroids did not spout hot gasses. His calculations pointed to a near miss, or possibly a new moon sometime in the future since it would fly past Venus and slow enough for Earth to capture it. I don't know enough about gravity, physics, or whether asteroids have hot flashes to have an opinion. I just drive a truck.

At the bottom of the article was a link to several other science articles, blurbs of interest about possible causes of asteroids, a mention that some asteroids, which experts thought included this one, contained metallic nickel-iron mixed with iron and magnesium-silicates available for minin'. One scientist said this one asteroid had more resources than America used in five years. I checked them out, being a fan of Science Fiction and Science Not So Fiction, the facts storin' themselves in what little I had of a brain, there to churn around each other until they finally found a place to hide and never return.

Another main article, just below the asteroid piece, explained how astronomers usin' a newly designed space telescope with light amplifiers more powerful than the Hubble and electronics to block out light even as dim as stars, found a non-solar system of planets. This system circlin' a not so far away star consisted of several large planets located in slightly elliptical orbits, similar to our system, and hints of other smaller planets in the proper places, with one faint hint havin' a spectrograph that included a strong oxygen line, whatever the hell that was. Then I looked at the time and ran, late for work again. Learnin' about spectrographs and planets of other stars could wait.

+ + +

The Driver's Entrance at the Back Street Express Company opened onto a dark corridor with one bare bulb to light the entire length. It ended at a second door, the entrance to a room with dirt-covered walls painted dirty lookin' beige surroundin' dilapidated chairs and tables, one table in the far corner strewn with papers. More stacks of papers sat in racks mounted at eye level near a large window that looked onto a comparatively clean office. A bulletin board next to the racks held months old notices of safety rules and slogans, driver's meetin's, and a reminder of last year's company picnic that no one had attended.

As I walked into the Driver's room I was greeted with, "Where the hell you been? You're a half hour late again, damn it! At least Ron comes in on time, or a bit early. He had to take your run again, you lazy shit. You'll do his, and you'll like it." Leanin' against the open door of the dispatch office was a fat--I guess you would call him person. Our dispatcher. He was an older man, if dispatchers are human, more horizontal than vertical from sittin' at a desk, and the little bit of gray hair he had left formed a border around a polished head. I tried to imagine what fantasy creature he could be, but he didn't fit any of the categories. His personality was that of an ogre or troll, but he looked more like a chef or barkeep, or maybe a friar. He didn’t have a clue what went on in the real world either, but he made up our runs--the deliveries we must make and the order we must follow--and pulled money out of our pay when we didn’t make stops on time.

"Jesus, Charlie, what you tryin' to do to me?" I asked as I looked over the paperwork in Ron’s slot and checked addresses and appointments. "I got four appointments here for one o'clock, and there's only one of me!"

The rotund thing yelled, "Ron does it, in fact that's his run you stupid fuck. He got yours since you're so lazy you can't get here on time, and if you notice they're all in the same area, at one intersection."

I held up two of the papers, "Yeah, but to get from here to here I have to go a mile down and spin around in heavy mall traffic, come back, unload, and what if no doors are open? Come on! You tryin' not to pay me?" I could guess the answer to that.

"Hey, you were the one who was late again. I don't want to hear no shit, got it?" He turned back into his office and slammed the door.

"Yeah, I got it," I growled at the closed door and stalked out to the truck. That man's attitude was disgustin'. Every day he bitched at me for somethin' no matter if I was late or not, and somehow or another I always got screwed with the lousy loads, or he messed with the pickups. It was almost as if the bastard enjoyed makin' me miserable. Sundays were the only break from the stress 'cause I had that one day off, a day to relax and watch the cute ten-year-old down the street play with her girl friends. I could dream of different worlds like in the books I read, of some type of society that wasn't so restrictive, where people respected each other for what they were and what they did. That just wasn't enough anymore to keep me sane. Don't get me wrong. I love driving more than anythin', but there were times I wished I did somethin’ else, or at least drove in some other town, and those times were gettin’ closer together.

My assigned cab was the oldest truck in the yard. It had patches of primer coverin' the flakin' paint on the fenders, rust on the grill, and the mandatory information decal on the door was peelin' off, but I knew that at least the brakes worked. You can't trust the mechanics, at least not ours, so after I threw my things on the passenger seat I lifted the front of the truck, checked the oil and belts, climbed the engine to check the coolant, and then lowered the hood. I climbed in behind the wheel, sat on the nearly nonexistent seat, and cranked the starter until the mechanical pump supplied fuel to the cylinders. While the oldest piece of junk in the yard rattled its way toward a normal soundin' engine, I organized my office and wrote down my start time and mileage.

A quick drive down the line of staged trailers located my load. I hooked, checked that the warehouse loaded the trailer properly and that someone didn't screw up the paperwork, which has happened repeatedly, and then waited forever for the engine temperature to come up close to operatin' conditions. Finally, I took off across town toward the first of my stops.

The quickest way across our small city was usually the turnpike, but today the four wheelers managed to add a major slow down that reached past the entry booths. I eased up to the end of the shortest line of cars waitin' at the ticket booth, inched my way forward in granny gear, grabbed my ticket, and waited in endless traffic at the end of the ramp. We crept along, cars dodgin' around tryin' to get a bit ahead and just causin' more mess, coverin' the five miles to my exit in forty-five minutes instead of the usual five. Some idiot had cut someone off thinkin' it would get him ahead, and as usual, it just slowed things down, this time majorly when the person passed panicked and took out the car next to him. Why couldn't the amateurs learn from the professionals and stay in one lane? For the life of me, I couldn't understand why normally intelligent people would think that those who did a job day in and day out didn't know how to do it, but that's what many people said. I'd heard it myself. Truck drivers don't know how to drive. We who regularly drove thousands of miles every week didn't know how to do it. If it wasn't so stupid, it'd be funny.

A triple lane line at the exit squeezed into the one tollbooth acceptin' money, an idiocy our turnpike commission considered efficient. Everybody who had a two-way radio was complainin' about the lack of staff, although the complainin' wouldn't do anythin' to help except possibly lower some blood pressure. Everybody was pushin' their way forward, tryin' to get to work on time, the fight to change lanes and generally get in each other's way worse than usual today for some reason, the lines longer than usual, the tempers shorter, and the pushin' and shovin' at an idiotic level. My left leg started crampin' from disengagin' the clutch.

The line eased forward. The car in front moved, but I felt the truck hit somethin' when I followed. I shoved the clutch in, slipped out of gear, and stopped the bounce back with the brakes. Nothin' showed except a space where the line had moved forward, so I set the parkin' brake, turned on the four-ways, dumped air out of the seat suspension to lower it, and climbed out of the cab. In front of me, pushin' the right bumper into the steer tire, was a black ragtop BMW sports car with a caved in fender.

The driver of the BMW worked his way over the shift lever to the passenger side and climbed out the door. He was a little older than me, with dark hair, a build that said he exercised, and to my inexperienced eye, he looked like a South Philadelphia Italian lawyer. I figured he was a hot head, a tight ass who got mad at the least little problem, which he quickly proved.

"You are going to pay for this!" he screamed. "Do not tell me you can not see a turn signal!"

It amazed me that someone had actually used a turn signal.

I raised my hands in surrender and called back, "I couldn't even see your car, but let's let the cops decide who's at fault and who needs to apologize, OK?" To someone who tried to drive properly I could be civil, even when my blood pressure was nearly toppin' the chart. A doctor would put me out of service in a second.

"What! You did not see me? Are you blind? Moreover, you are driving a truck! You are supposed to have the experience and knowledge of driving, not of running people over. May the good Lord save us from idiots, I am right here in plain sight!"

I'd had it with stupid unimaginative people who couldn't recognize even one problem that truck drivers faced every day: the huge blind spots. He had claimed he used a turn signal, though, so I forced myself to calm a bit and put my nice face on.

"Look. I'm not supposed to do this, but let me show you somethin'. Climb on up to the driver's seat and show me your car."

The Italian looked at the seat just above eye level, hauled his dark three-piece suit clad body up into the cab, looked at all the gauges, and grabbed the steerin' wheel. He peered out the windshield, and then looked right.

"There! Look right down--where is it?"

"In a blind spot, one of many we have. Like I said, I didn't see you, let alone your turn signal. Now let's exchange info and make the cop's job easier. I'll still have to take a drug and alcohol test, and fill out five page reports at the office."

"You act as if you have done this before."

"No. Safety Trainin'. Pain in the ass Safety Trainin' for six hours, twice a year. They drill this stuff into your head. Just go get your license, registration, and insurance card, and I'll meet you down here." I hope I didn't sound as disgusted as I felt. I'd been drivin' for this company for five years, this was my first DOT reportable accident, and it wasn't even my fault! It was caused by some aggressive moron tryin' to push his way forward. He’s the one who killed my day. I knew the cops would figure out a way to blame it on me though. They always blame the truck driver.

We'd only begun to write each other's information down when the cop forced his way against traffic to our private obstruction. He looked over the situation writin' phrases in a small notebook and noted the lines of traffic inchin' toward the tollbooth.

Steppin' in front of the truck he motioned the suit back to his car, and then asked, "Driver, what do you say happened?"

I paused from notin' the insurance company this guy used, a very prestigious outfit my company hated to deal with, and said, "I was in line and movin' forward behind the car in front of me when I felt somethin'."

The officer made a note and moved three feet to his left. "You in the BMW, what do you say?"

The suit looked at his feet, then at the officer, and said clearly, so I could hear, "I realize now that he could not see me. I will accept full responsibility, Sir."

That declaration stunned me so much that I stopped in the middle of the policy number and studied the Italian with an Irish name. Here was some company exec., obviously big money, maybe even a lawyer, probably used to havin' his own way in everythin', and he's not tryin' to shift blame? Amazin'. A first. The guy rose a few rungs up my respect ladder, but maybe that willingness to accept responsibility was why he made the big bucks.

While the cop filled out his report, we paid our tolls, cleared the middle of the travel lanes, and talked. It turned out he was on his way to the first day of a new gig, a Federal Government operation. I told him about bein' late because of readin' the news.

"You are interested in Science?" he asked.

"Well, space and explorin' planets."

"Do you have any background, schooling, that sort of thing?"

"Nope. I've read a lot of Science Fiction and kept up on science news on the net, learned a bit that way, but nothin' formal. Never did have the brains or grades for college. For some reason I cannot remember numbers, names or languages, which meant I did lousy in history, math, and science, but I'd love to get into space sometime, look around a bit. Like this asteroid in the news this mornin', the Near Earth they've just found. Why can't we change the delta-vee a bit and bring it into an earth orbit? It wouldn't be that expensive and we could hollow it out, send the iron and minerals to earth to pay for it. Then we could use what's left as a space ship to explore the planets, or that system they just found with the new telescope. Did you hear they think one of the planets has oxygen?"

He asked, "You would like to see that, a mission to explore the stars? Maybe you would like to go along?"

I smiled. "Sure, I'd love it, but it'll never happen, and hell, I don't have the schoolin' or intelligence for anythin' like that anyway."

He said quietly, almost thoughtfully, "In some cases interest can make up for a lot."

The cop returned, handed me my papers and said, "Mr. Whitherspoon, since there were no deaths or injuries, and since the other driver is accepting full responsibility, you are not required by the state to take the alcohol or drug test. You may want to check with your dispatcher to make sure that's the same as your company's policy. Can you drive that?"

"I will soon enough. Loosen a couple bolts and realign the bumper and I'm on my way. Thank you, Officer. I'm goin' to call in."

"After you move a bit further from the road, please." The cop turned to the suit. "Now for you, Mr. Flannigan, I have a bit more." I didn't wait around to hear the rest.

+ + +

Arthur Flannigan

As an inspiring government building, the Senate Junior Offices did not fit the bill. The main lobby looked like any other office building. Large floor to ceiling windows, trimmed with blotchy metal, that looked out on landscaping and the street. Dull green paint covered the walls, and a gray carpet covered the floor. A circular security desk manned by three guards stood between the main doors and the elevator. I started to walk by the desk when one of the people inside the circle called to me. From the far corner, a suited linebacker stepped toward me. I called my name and flashed my ID, which should have finished the matter, but he had the audacity to tell me I should enter through the basement and not the public lobby.

I discovered the elevators were just as inspiring as the lobby when I headed toward the basement level. Plain paneling surrounded me, with a dirty brass rail protecting the walls and a dirty brass button panel to the right of the sliding door. I selected the basement level and felt the vibrations as we lowered to the parking garage. Another security checkpoint admonished me to enter through the garage even if I was on foot, after I fought through a crowd of secretaries and assistants all hurrying upstairs.

A long hallway led toward my office suite, a dark and dirty passage more suited to a low-rent building. The same dull green covered the walls, and the same gray carpet lined the floor, with a darker path along the center branching under doors. A dropped ceiling, the pattern of scarred panels broken by fluorescent light fixtures missing tubes, hid water pipes and conduits for electrical and communication wires, visible where panels were missing. Engraved plastic tags, the letters dark with accumulated grime, labeled doors. I found the investigator's workroom and the accountant's offices before reading my name next to a brace and panel door.

Linda, recently thrown away by an exiting congressional representative, sat behind the mahogany stained receptionist's desk, her long dark hair framing a thin face with owl glasses. She glanced up from a sheaf of papers.

"They finally assigned you a parking place, Mr. Flannigan. Your first meeting is at ten, and I just got word the President will call at zero nine fifty."

"The President will call me? I am not that important." Yet.

She read my mind. "You will be. I can tell." I might keep her when I moved out of this hellhole.

I asked, "Do we have access to the Internet news feeds?"

"I left a list of authorization numbers on your desk. With those, you have access to the unedited files. Gives you more information. I'll buzz you when people start showing up."

"You think they will?"

"I've worked the Hill for ten years. I know how things work. Everybody wants favors. They'll climb out of the woodwork shortly."

A nondescript door revealed a small office I am sure was more lavish than any of the other basement workrooms were. A new drop ceiling, the supports hidden by the tiles, glowed in places, the latest design in ceiling lighting. Dark paneling hid holes in the drywall left by my predecessor. Empty shelves, built by a tenant years ago, recently sanded and finished, stood where there should be a window. I sighed while thinking about having to move my library from the house, plopped my briefcase on an empty shelf, sat, and pulled the keyboard toward me.

The third news program I scanned sounded like the one the truck driver, Whitherspoon as I remembered, described to me. Only one talking head, a Professor Artimus Randolph, sounded as if he really knew the subject. I had Linda get him on the phone.

"Professor?" I asked when he answered. "I am Arthur Flannigan in Washington, D. C., and I was wondering if you could give me more information about that NEA that has been found?"

"You're not a reporter?" I recognized the voice from the viewer.

"No, I am not a reporter," I told him. I pulled a notepad toward me thinking I would have to learn how to record conversations on a new system. Linda could show me.

"Thank God!" he answered sounding relieved. "Those idiots would get a wet dream wrong." I could picture him running his hand through the white hair I had seen on the viewer. "What do you want to know?"

"That NEA you were talking about this morning. What are the chances of it hitting the earth?"

"Preliminary tracking, and I must stress preliminary, has it missing us by a wide margin in four and a half years, but the next pass is close. I believe that it'll become a polar object, but as I said that is a very rough projection."

"What is a polar object? What do you mean?"

"I take it you want words of one syllable," he laughed. He was a good talking head, if appearing before cameras did not stress him. I might want to bring him on board as a consultant, or maybe more, if the plans I had made this morning worked out.

I told him, "You can use two and three syllables if you want, but layman terms, if you please. I am not up on your jargon."

I could hear the smile. "OK. I've run a simulation using the data we have so far, and it appears that on the second pass it will pass Venus and slow, then come--."

"I thought that is how spaceships and stuff gained speed."

"In the proper trajectory, that's true , but this trajectory is different. In this case, the object, the NEA, will slow down to nearly Earth's orbital velocity. It'll pass closely, say within a couple hundred million miles, and enter our gravity well. Then it should be on a polar orbit, or very near a polar orbit, probably outside the orbit of the moon, for an unknown period of time, after which it may leave, or it may land. Its final disposition is an unknown and unpredictable."

"But we could capture this thing easily and make sure that it orbits the earth?"

"There's likely no need to capture it. It'll capture itself."

"And it may hit the Earth so it is dangerous. Thank you, Professor. Thank you. You have been more than helpful."

I punched off the phone and leaned back in my chair, ideas going through my head. It sounded as if capturing this rock would be easy, and if we could mine the thing like that truck driver said, the resources should bring in a tidy amount. Now who would have the best information about the space program? Senator Jeffries, Head of the Space Committee may, or possibly I could go straight to NASA.

The intercom buzzed. Linda said, "Senator Zebulon Jeffries is here. I'll send him in."

How fortuitous.

The Senior Senator from one of the Midwest states stood at my office door, his ultra white, ultra styled hair tinged a sick looking green by the cheap florescent lights. The nine hundred dollar suit he wore was just a year out of style, part of the backwoods image that belied a sharp, urbanized, and politically shrewd mind.

"Senator Jeffries, it is so good to see you." I moved around the new mahogany and teak desk with my politician's smile beaming goodwill and my arm extended.

Senator Zebulon Jeffries, thirty or so years older than me and hugely influential from seniority, was head of the Senate Space Committee, in control of NASA and even some Air Force functions. If anyone could answer my questions, he could, and maybe he would be willing to push my agenda. To have him just pop in my door on my first day here was amazing, almost as amazing as the promise I would have my Beemer tomorrow.

"Arthur." The Senator stepped inside my newly refinished office and proffered a manicured hand. "I'm glad you're in. I just wanted to greet you and extend my congratulations on your new job." He glanced around at the polished real wood paneling, the bookshelves waiting for my law and regulation library, the credenza complete with fax and copy machine, and the new computer and flat screen sitting on the desk. With a bit more money, I could have had the monitor imbedded in the desk, but I did not want to draw attention to how much funding I had.

"How's your niece?" he asked as he dropped my hand.

He had a personality card on me already? At the least he had a detective in his pocket it seemed, or he would not know that almost secret. No wonder he had done well. This was one person I was going to have to watch as well as use.

I said, "She is doing well in her sophomore year, though I have not received a report back yet on her latest fling. What can I do for you, my friend?"

He closed the door and swept the room with an electronic finder. "It's this NEA they just found. I need help convincin' congress and higher that it's dangerous, and it is dangerous, believe me. To tell ya the truth, I'm lookin' for backin' since I'm just a farmer, people with friends I can pass on good information to so it gets to the proper ears. Since you went to school with His Excellency, I thought--."

He had turned on the backwoods persona. His agenda was close to mine, although he did not see the money angle yet, and with luck he would not see it until I had my bases covered. Having the Senator tap me for this project, one that I wanted also, was a very good omen. My smile became real as he let the sentence hang, asking without really asking.

"That is interesting, Senator. I have been thinking along those lines also since I first read about it, that there ought to be something we could do to capture that thing, get rid of the danger, or something. I was going to ask you how we could, to pass on suggestions to that very person you mentioned."

"How? It's easy. Expensive, and yeah, I know that word is not politic around here right now, but easy, and if it has to use money, then we must work around that. Don't worry 'bout anyone else. Just follow Randolph. Use his figures. It'll slow down and head well in front of us. All we have to do is catch it and bring it close. The good thing is we don't even need new technology for this, just some fancy navigation. We send up a team with ion rockets that we have already tested and used already for a couple of projects so we know they work, bring the damn thang back, and put it in orbit, or send it at the sun and bring our people back in the capsule. That's what we need to do."

He added thoughtfully, "You know, they've finished the tests of what they found from before the Caterpillar War, that rocket engine, and are working on perfecting it. That seems like just what we need for a long, slow change of velocity and direction, even better than what we have now, lighter and more efficient."

A lighter and more efficient engine? That just made things easier. "OK. That is good. I can whisper in a certain ear, but I am not the only one whispering."

"I know, boy, I know. We got them anti-space groups that keep bringing up the Caterpillars and the need for defenses and no more space, and there's--well, all them are not the problem. Problem is those damn religious conservatives, almost fanatics, tryin' to take freedoms away and control our lives. I know, I hear about them all the time from my constituents, and that's why I'm still in office. Those unimaginative idiots wouldn't go for it 'cause it's against God or the Bible or somethin'. Hell, they wouldn't do a thing 'cept pray if'n they could get away with it. Stupid. I could talk my boys into it for the science and jobs and good for humanity, and His Excellency the Pres. will go for the safety aspect. Those damn religious nuts on the floor, they'll be looking at God and dollar signs and be scared of space aliens since God ordered us not to stray from the planet or something. Assholes."

I shared some views, actually dislikes, with the powers he referred to, and I knew just how to reach them. This would help with another project I had been quietly planning. "Conservatives? Republicans? Religious nuts? They all dislike perverts, right? Homosexuals, pedophiles, the sort that destroys family life as they put it?" I did too, but I was not about to let anybody else know.

He looked sideways at me, slowly nodded, and drawled, "You have an idea." His smile became as real as mine did as he slapped my shoulder. "Damn it boy, I knew I could count on you. What you thinkin'?"

"Here is my idea. What if we mine this asteroid to build a spaceship, an interstellar ship, and staff it with all the homosexuals and lesbians and pedophiles and stuff like that we can. You know what strange ideas about society most big brains have, and the conservative element of our great nation had that amendment voted down again. We just take the most open perverts, the most outspoken protesters, those who are a real problem, and send them out as colonists. Then we offer the same to other governments so we are not in this unilaterally and can demand funding from other nations, let them get their own kooks away from their kids. Clean the country out, get the riffraff out of our hair, make the world a better place, and even the undesirables will be happy in their own little world well away from us, and going farther away every second. Moreover, those in the Religious Right should have enough influence to get that amendment passed once the rebellious elements have gone, which they will figure out soon enough. We must keep everyone honest, of course. We want this to work so we can do it again."

Senator Jeffries beamed, so happy he almost out-shown the fluorescent lights. "I like that. I really like that, boy, but how do you get around the discrimination laws? God damn civil rights folk been tearing up the home state, 'cept for my district of course."

He did not know many geniuses, or he did not know how to ferret out private lives. "Have you ever seen how many brainiacs lack morals, or feel they are so far above the common people they do not have to adhere to society's ways? We will not have any problems whatsoever, especially if we send up some of those religious nuts just so we do not look like we are stacking the deck so to speak. Perverts keep that to themselves, so discrimination will not be obvious to anyone but them, because there are perverts of every color and religious bent, and they will not say anything if we tell them they can start a whole new society."

"You know, Arthur my boy, I like that. Let me buy you a drink or two and discuss it. They have veal on at the Senate Cafeteria, succulent like you wouldn't believe, like you get nowhere else, and much better than you can afford at the moment."

+ + +

Manuel Rodrigus

The smell of rotting garbage and sewage assaulted my nostrils as I approached the small group standing under the fire escape. The perp had chosen an alley for this deed: a dark place, especially at night, surrounded by private office buildings, dank and rank, a place the homeless avoided. Crud covered the ground: runoff from garbage cans and covered dumpsters, sewage from a broken pipe, a stinking layer of thick gunk waiting for footprints. I had hope.

The Professor was squatting by the obviously deceased victim, toe prints in the molasses like ground gunk showing his few steps. Why would I get called out if he was already on scene? He looked up at me.

"Manny, this one's yours. Gay blade. Identified by friends over there, the two guys holding hands and handkerchiefs. Fuckin' fairies. I have their statements.

"Foot arrived first and protected the scene. Obviously DOA. Paramedics went home without getting close, coroner's on his way.

"I'd say knife, slit the throat, right handed since it was slashed left to right. But damn, Manny. You can see where the vic walked out the door, there, to here, but there are no other prints. Look. None! Everything on the ground, except for the vic, is at least a day old. What the hell are we dealing with? A ghost?"

For something to rattle the Prof, the steadiest, most methodical gold badge not only in the precinct but on the force, was significant.

The body had splattered gunk when it fell. Small depressions surrounding it still showed, settling slowly, and spread round the body with a slightly heavier concentration toward the head, almost as if it had crumpled, especially the way the legs were curled. There was no indication the body had been dropped from above, unless the attacker had come from behind or hung from the fire escape, held the victim steady, done the deed, then let him drop. Then the perp would be right handed, or maybe upside down, or something. Hanging from the fire escape would explain the lack of footprints, but like the Prof, I considered that highly unlikely since the acrobatic skill necessary to hang upside down and kill a person was beyond most people. Still, considering some of the other kills, this perp did have training.

I circled the body lying on its back in the gunk, throat slit so deeply the vertebrae showed, the slit ragged to the right, shoes that matched the only fresh prints other than the Prof's, and no further evidence. The Prof had read things correctly.

"Get pics?" I asked.

"Yep."

I could use them since the Prof was, if anything, more thorough than me. Stepping up to the body I studied the dark blue turtleneck shirt, and the light colored double knit pants, immaculate on this side except for the blood that had spewed from his neck. No hairs showed on the clothes even under the turtleneck, and the nails were cut well back. Nothing would show there, but who knew what the coroner would find on the backside? If he even looked. I was not going to touch the body, not with all this crud around. The Prof was right. This one was the fourth in the series, and I would find nothing once again. Not one clue.