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by Galen Peoples
   "We don't have to be at odds with anybody," said Isabel.
   The three who were from Vallosa, but of Earth, had just walked in from the desert, soaked in the vivid oranges and violets of a New Mexico sunset, and now, near its end, they paused at the border of the town they had set out from, which lay placidly awaiting their return. It had not changed, as far as they could see. But they had. Max did not at first recognize the statement his sister was contradicting: the words that he had uttered while they were inside the core of the ship that had brought them to Earth. "Sorry," he said, "what?"
   "You said we were destined to be at odds with everybody," said Isabel, "including ourselves. Because we're half and half–half human, half Vallosan. But why is that a given? Why can't we have the best of both worlds? When we became human we lost the power to change shape, and probably other powers too. But we gained something more precious–the power to choose."
   Michael stared toward their destination. "And we're choosing Roswell?"
   "Looking that way," said Max.
   "But it's such a crappy little town!"
   "But it's our home," said Isabel.
   "Our home," Max echoed ruefully. "God help us."
   That night Alex found himself wandering in what almost anyone would have sworn was the desert they had just come from. Its counterfeit was beyond the capacity of his dreaming mind to create unaided, and when he turned he knew whom he would see.
   "I'm back," she announced brightly.
   "Back, are you?" said Alex. "Well, well. What do you know? That–that's a good thing."
   The response was not all Isabel had hoped for. "I stopped by earlier, but you were busy. You didn't even look at me."
   "Yeah, I've had a lot to do." Alex paused. "You know, in my dreams." He searched the landscape for something to busy himself with at that moment. But deserts were short of busy work.
   Isabel strove to keep the conversation alight on her own. "Liz is fine. Did you know that?" Alex had not. "Not poisoned, after all. So it looks like it's okay. For us, I mean. To be together." Feeling more awkward than she was used to, she assumed the queenly form that had so awed him last time, trusting that it would work again. "Come and worship at my altar, puny human," she bade him. She meant it humorously (for the most part), but if Alex chose to take it seriously that would have been all right with her too.
   Alex was tempted despite himself. "Yeah, you know, that's all fine, and I'd like to stick around. But I just remembered something important I gotta check on." He made a grimace, in place of a smile. "Waking up now." He opened his eyes; sure enough, he was back in bed. "Damn," he said.
   In the quiet night outside, a black Cadillac convertible was cruising slowly up Main Street, pulling a Winnebago trailer behind. The front seat of the car was occupied by a man and a woman in black suits. The man's eye fell on a building emblazoned with the letters "UFO" shining in green and yellow. The building was closed now. He pulled to the curb and went to the glass doors to peer in. He could make out nothing inside, and the windows were no help, since they had been painted over. The woman got out after him, lifted a black satchel out of the back seat, and unlatched it to reveal a sealing tape dispenser and a stack of handbills. The man took one and taped it to the nearest lamppost. Then the two of them returned to the car and continued up the street, stopping once or twice in every block to repeat the procedure.
   On Saturday morning Liz, who was working the early shift at the Crashdown, happened to spy the notice from across the street and sneaked away from her post long enough to check it out. "Beware!" it warned. "Aliens Among Us! Learn the Truth!" The time it gave was 8:00, that evening and the evening after; the location was the fairground.
   Kyle happened along while she was reading. "What's this?" he asked.
   "Another alien scam."
   He looked it over. "Says it's free."
   "Trust me, Kyle, they're selling something."
   One line of the notice arrested Kyle's attention. "Oh, no," he said.
   "Kyle, what is it?"
   "Oh, no," he repeated, "no, no." He stepped up to the lamppost, pulled the notice down, and hurried off to find his father.
   Jim was not at the station, or on patrol duty; the desk sergeant told Kyle he had no idea where his dad was. But Kyle did. His grandfather was now confined to bed, and the nurse at the rest home said he had not much time left; Junior's visits were growing shorter all the time–today's had lasted only ten minutes–but he kept them up faithfully, with a few lapses.
   "Guess I'll be taking off now, Pop," he said as he got up from the chair. Senior did not reply, and had never acknowledged his presence there. "Okay, then, I'll see you tomorrow–or, I don't know, the day after, maybe."
   Kyle was waiting in the parking lot at the wheel of the Mustang, on which he would shortly be able to claim squatter's rights. "Yeah, I figured you'd be here," he said.
   "Don't suppose you'd care to go in and pay your respects to your granddad?"
   "Why, what difference would it make? He's off in the twilight zone, anyway. Not to sound callous about it."
   "No, perish the thought." Jim realized he was holding his hat, which he had removed inside. He now returned it to his head. "So what brings you here if it isn't family?"
   "Oh, it is," said Kyle. "I came to show you this. In case you haven't seen it." He thrust the notice at him, and spilled the news it contained before his father had had a chance to discover it for himself. "Mom's back."
   "Back here? Since when?" Jim read unhappily, and let drop a word he would have rebuked his son for using.
   "Ain't life just a kick in the ass?" Kyle observed.
   The fairground was vacant at that time of year, yet with all its acreage to choose from, the couple had parked their convertible and trailer by the north gates. The sheriff arrived to find them putting up a large tent of the type used for revival meetings. He sat in his vehicle watching them. He could not make much of the man, except to note with some satisfaction that he was a half foot shorter than himself, and balding.
   The woman, at first glimpse, he saw with fresh eyes, and started to think he must have been crazy to let her go; here was someone who was clearly her own woman, but also a man's woman. Then he realized this new impression was the same as his first impression, all those years before–which had lasted only as long as it had taken him to get to know her. He had to admit that had been a while: about Kyle's age at the time.
   She noticed him watching her, and her eye lingered on him for a few seconds, with a look he remembered all too well. Seeing it again, he was not sure he wanted to talk to her at all, but to leave then would have looked cowardly. He stepped out of the Rover, approached to within a few yards of her, and stopped. "Michele." He spoke, and looked, like a man discharging an unpleasant but necessary duty.
   "Jim." The man with her was pounding in a tent peg a few yards away. When he finished, she summoned him by a glance, and he walked over, still carrying the mallet. "This is my husband," said Michele, "Len Trivitt. Len, my ex­husband, Jim Valenti."
   "County sheriff. Yes, I've heard about you." Len made it sound as if what he had heard was not entirely creditable.
   "Have you? I hadn't heard about you. What are you doing in Roswell?"
   "As you see." Len pointed to the notice in Valenti's hand.
   Valenti crumpled it. "I saw. What are you doing in Roswell?"
   "Our permit is in order. I can show it to you if necessary."
   "Believe a copy crossed my desk. Didn't pay it much attention, to tell you the truth."
   "You should. Pay attention. It's the duty of every citizen, especially those in law enforcement, to safeguard their homeland against–" He seemed to be seeking the proper word. "–outsiders."
   "Ah. A patriot." Valenti was more patriotic than most, but he had a feeling this one was not, except in the service of some other, lesser cause.
   "Come tonight. It'll open your eyes."
   "My vision's working fine, thanks all the same." Len gave him a baleful glare. Then he returned to setting up.
   Jim continued watching Michele. "What?" she asked finally.
   "Nothing you'd care to ask me?"
   "I could ask how you've been. But what would be the point?"
   "Thought you might ask how Kyle's been. Most moms would. But there you go." This took her a little aback, and she did not attempt no answer. "One thing's settled anyhow," Jim went on. "Kyle thought you left us because you were sick of me harping on aliens all the time. He would think that, of course, because that's what you told him. He knows better now. We both do." He held up the crumpled notice. "It wasn't the aliens. So tell me, Mich, what the hell was it?"
   "You," she said flatly. "Since you insist on knowing. Just you." Jim felt the sting of it, as she had intended; she watched long enough to make sure, and then went to assist her husband. Jim returned slowly to the Rover, trying to shake the last part of the conversation from his mind. As he drove out the gates, she glanced after him; it would have given him a little of his own back to see that she looked almost as unhappy as he did.
   Alex too was up early, and getting ready to leave for town. He had stopped at the hall mirror to adjust his bow tie when his father staggered past in his nightshirt, heading for the kitchen. "Why you all dressed up on a Saturday?" he asked.
   Alex followed him, picking up his portfolio on the way, and watched from the door as Don took down the Cheerios box and began searching the cupboards for the right-sized bowl. "My meeting. I told you."
   "Ye-es. Now I remember."
   "You were going to stop by later. Like we discussed."
   "As we discussed."
   "Dad, this could be a big deal for me, if I can swing it. Maybe I don't have a band any more, but I can hire bands."
   "Yeah, that's great, Alex." Don was pouring out the little "o"s a few at a time, to insure they did not stack up higher than the rim of the bowl. "Congratulations."
   "I haven't done it yet!" He watched as his father rolled the cereal bag shut–five turns exactly–and returned the tab on the box into its slot. "Then I can expect you around 10:30?" he asked. Don was thinking he might also want a banana. "Dad?"
   "Huh? Sure, Alex, sure." No, no banana, he decided. He turned away to open the refrigerator.
   "To inspect the premises." Alex took two or three steps closer to him. "Dad, 10:30, okay?"
   Don turned with a look of exasperation on his face and a milk carton in his hand. "I'm not simple-minded, Alex! If I said I'd be there, I'll be there."
   "'If.' Fine." Alex was still far from confident of that guarantee. But he had to get going. "I'll see you then," he said. His father did not hear him. He was calculating the proper level for his milk.
   Leaving him the Volvo, Alex set out on his red bicycle for the building he had had his eye on for the past month. It was situated two blocks from the cafe and had two floors of offices, but the only part Alex cared about was in the basement.
   He entered by the glass door that fronted the sidewalk and took the stairs down, two at a time. On reaching bottom he nearly collided with the man he had come to see. "Mr. Fulweider? So sorry. Alex Whitman." He stuck out his hand–a little too brashly, he feared.
   Fulweider seized it even more brashly, and pumped it as if it were labeled "Shake well before use." "Call me Cy, kid," he said. "You're on time. That's good. I like a kid that's on time. Shows he's on the ball. Basement room's back here. That was what you wanted to see, wasn't it?" He beckoned him down the narrow hall to a barn-like storeroom, which looked pretty much the way Alex had remembered it.
   "So, kid," said Cy, "what's the concept? In words an old fart like me can understand."
   "A club. For teens mostly. Music, dancing, drinks." He quickly clarified the last word. "Non-alcoholic."
   "Good, good. One less license to worry about. And easier on the insurance. Believe me, the insurance can kill you."
   "I visualize it as a showcase for emerging bands. Music of the future. Which of course ties in with the theme."
   "Which is?" Alex looked blank. "The theme, kid, the theme! Lay it on me."
   "Oh, right. Here." Alex unzipped his portfolio and took out a drawing. The room it pictured resembled a snack bar in Walt Disney's Tomorrowland circa 1955. "I call it the Orbit Lounge. We'd have ambient space music between the acts. Dance floor here, stage there, bar over there. What do you think?"
   Cy looked out over the room, squinting, as if that helped him see better. "Nah, nah, nah," he declared. "Never work."
   "Huh? Oh." Alex was disappointed to have his idea rejected so fast. But he figured he knew a lot less than Cy about these things. "Okay," he said, "well, thanks for your time." He returned the drawing to the portfolio. "I'll just–"
   Cy was moving around the floor, paying him no attention. "Stage'll have to go here, by the heavy-duty outlets. Bar on this side next to the pipes. You got yourself a plan there, kid."
   Alex brightened. "You really think so?"
   This made Cy doubtful for a moment. "Why, don't you?"
   "Sure!" Alex was quick to affirm. "Absolutely! I just thought.... And you'd be willing to put up the capital?"
   "Show me the numbers and we'll talk."
   "Got 'em right here." Alex opened the portfolio again.
   Cy clapped him on the back. "I like doing business with you, kid. You come prepared."
   A voice called down from the entrance. "Alex?"
   Will wonders never cease? he thought. His father had actually shown up, and early. "Down here!" he called back. "It's my dad," he told Cy. "He's a building inspector with the city. I asked him to stop by and give the place the once-over, just informally, to see if there are any issues we should be aware of. Hope you don't mind me jumping the gun. I figured it'd save time if we did reach an agreement."
   "That's the way, kid. Think positive. And always stay two jumps ahead."
   Don appeared at the doors. "Ha, found you. It's like a maze down here."
   "Dad, this is Cy Fulweider. Cy, my dad."
   "Don Whitman."
   The two shook. "Don, you got yourself one sharp kid here."
   Alex felt embarrassed but pleased. "Do I?" said Don; this diluted Alex's pleasure a little. Without further preliminaries his father began nosing around, peering through doors and into corners. "What was the plan again?" he asked. "Some kind of rec center, was it?"
   "A club, Dad. With live music."
   "Ha, neighbors'll love that." Don shook his head. "Place shouldn't present any major problems. It was a dance club years back." He looked at Cy. "Maybe you remember it?"
   "Before my time, Don." He must mean his time in Roswell, thought Alex. He's sixty if he's a day.
   "So, Alex," said Don, "what's the gag? You planning to turn this into a mod hipsters' pad?"
   Whenever he tried to speak the lingo (which, happily, was not often), Alex could barely understand him. "Don't know about the hipsters," he said. "But here's the plan." He took out the drawing again.
   "Didn't know you could draw." Don lifted his glasses to examine it more closely.
   "I can't," Alex freely admitted. "I sketched out what I wanted, and Markos...." He saw that his father's face had grown flushed; that meant he was upset at something. "Dad, what is it?"
   Don handed the drawing back. "I don't think this is such a good idea, Alex."
   "Why not?"
   "Looks like you're treating the whole alien business as a joke. Some people might not appreciate that."
   "What people?"
   Cy barged in before he could answer. "Now, now, Don, we can modify the concept. Always room for a little improvement. The key thing–" He laid a hand on his back and started to guide him out; to Alex he mouthed the words "Wait here." "–is to piggyback on the town's existing image," he went on. "Roswell, flying saucers, spacemen, famous monsters, screen thrills. Snare ourselves some free publicity–which as an intelligent individual I'm sure you'll appreciate. Besides, Don, an orbit lounge isn't the same as an invasion of saucer men, hah? A lounge is a place to relax." The two of them exited into the hall.
   "'Way to go, Alex,'" muttered Alex. "'Gee, thanks, Dad.' That'll be the day." Then he brightened. "But I got the deal!" He felt like telling someone, anyone–that is, anyone other than his father.
   Two blocks down, Kyle was sitting by himself, nibbling his doughnut thoughtfully (for him). "Always wanted a sister," he said.
   Maria was behind the counter, refilling a napkin dispenser. "Why, so you could steal her toys?"
   "Don't worry, I won't steal Michael."
   "Funny. Not."
   "This could be worse, you know."
   "We could be in jail?"
   "We could be living with my mom." That reminded him. "And your mom better not do the same number on my dad that she did."
   "Hey, if anyone's gonna step on anyone in this relationship, it's Mr. Law and Order."
   "He's not like that." Then Kyle thought about it a moment. "Okay, he is. But it sounds like your mom could use some stepping on. I hear she's a real loose cannon."
   "Your dad said that?"
   "I've heard it around."
   "From who? Who's been insulting my mother?" Maria held up the coffeepot menacingly.
   "Whoa!" Kyle sprang from his seat. "Not wise to assault the son of Mr. Law and Order. Not to mention your new stepbrother. I'm outa here." He made for the doors.
   "You didn't pay for your doughnut!"
   He waved airily. "Put it on my dad's tab."
   "He doesn't have a tab." But Kyle was out of hearing, or pretending to be. "And tries to weasel out of paying," Maria concluded, speaking to herself, "just like his spawn."
   In heading out he nearly bumped into Alex heading in. "You're dressed up," Kyle remarked.
   "Yes, I am, Kyle. Astute of you to notice. And you want to know why?"
   Kyle thought. "Nah, I don't really care." He went on.
   Alex continued to the counter. "Hey, Maria."
   "You're dressed up," she said.
   "Again, yes. And you want to–?" A customer called her away before he could finish.
   Liz passed by on her way to the kitchen. "Liz! Sweetheart!" A little of Cy had rubbed off on Alex without his knowing it. Liz nodded at him coolly, remembering their last conversation. "Ask me why I'm dressed up. Go ahead, ask."
   "I can't now. I have orders waiting." This being his third strike, Whitman left the field.
   Outside, he found the Trivitts putting up more copies of their self-advertisement in the spots they had missed earlier. Alex came up behind Michele and perused it over her shoulder. "Nice layout you got there. With the spacecraft hovering and everything."
   "The woman who does them for us is very good." She vouchsafed Alex a knowing smile. "I'm Michele Trivitt." Just then Len came up and took more copies out of the satchel slung over her shoulder. "This is my husband Len."
   "Alex Whitman." He thrust out his hand. "Manager of the Orbit Lounge. You may not have heard of it yet. Interestingly, it too has an alien theme."
   Len pointed to the UFO above the cafe. "Like that?" Then to the "UFO" sign on the other side. "Or that?"
   "No, everyone's been there, done those. I like to see us as putting a twenty-first-century spin on the conventional alien motif while optimizing the potential of its subliminal retro associations." What the hell am I saying? he asked himself.
   "And you believe these efforts will save you?" Len asked.
   "Uh, sorry?"
   "Once they take over, you think they'll cherish a soft spot for the quislings who paved their way?"
   "Still not with you there. Could be your use of the term 'quisling'–"
   "Then you're one of the innocents. Lambs to the slaughter. Never suspecting that your Crashdown, your UFO Center, your Planet Club–"
   "Orbit Lounge, actually."
   "–are so much propaganda, designed to embed a false conception of extra-terrestrials as cute and harmless–'Phone home, phone home'–when all the while they're moving into position to strike." Alex could not help laughing at this. "You laugh," said Len. He pressed a notice into Alex's hand. "Come tonight and learn the truth. We'll see if you're still laughing then." And he moved to the next block to continue spreading the word.
   "Commitment," Alex said, watching him go. "He's got commitment. That's a good thing." He considered. "Focus is a little narrow, though."
   Michele had moved away too. Having seen that the notice they had posted outside the UFO Center was missing, she had gone across to replace it. Farther up the block, she spied Valenti's Rover; Amy was stepping out of it. As Jim swung around and headed the other way, she started into the building. Her way lay past Michele, who stepped out to speak to her. "Excuse me, you must be Jim's new friend. I'm right, aren't I?"
   Amy caught the patronizing air; she had heard it often enough before. "Fiancé, in point of fact. And you are?"
   "The ex-wife."
   "Oh!" This unsettled Amy a little. "Jim didn't mention you were in town."
   Michele let that pass. "We're speaking at the fairground tonight. You should come." She handed her one of the notices. "You work at the museum?"
   "No, just scouting out ideas. I'm self-employed." She put a slight emphasis on the "self." Then she pulled out a key ring linked to a figurine of the Roswell alien (the one Isabel liked to call "Max") and dangled it in front of Michele's nose. "This is what I do."
   The other woman cast a pitying look on her. "So he's sucked you in too, has he?"
   "Has he?"
   "Into his alien obsession. Don't kid yourself. Wife or no, you'll always play second fiddle to that." She indicated the figurine.
   "I see." Amy skimmed the notice. "And what chair are you occupying now?"
   Point for her side, Michele had to concede. "I know, it looks like I just bounced from one UFO nut to another. But this is different. It's an assignment."
   "Is it?" Beneath Amy's pursuit of fugitive ideas a native shrewdness had always thrived, and it asserted itself now. "Who does the assigning?"
   Michele's guard rose again. "Come listen tonight. You may be motivated to change lifestyles yourself."
   Amy did not show up that evening (fat chance, as her daughter might have said), but plenty of other people did: the Trivitts commanded a full house and then some. Don Whitman's UFO group took up the entire front row. Liz, who was there checking out the event on Max's behalf, ran into Pam Troy, who also was alone, to Liz's great surprise. "Kyle's not with you?" she asked.
   "He wouldn't come. The jerk! And he knew I wanted to see this."
   "Well, she is his mom. It's tough for him."
   "Like I don't have problems? The two of us are so over. We didn't have much in common anyway. Except the–" She stopped, putting her hand to her mouth, and turned on Liz a pair of eyes brim-full of sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry. You haven't yet, have you?" She squeezed Liz's hand. "You'll know too, dear. One day." Now I remember why I hate her, thought Liz.
   The lights that were strung along the tent frame blinked off and on. Excusing herself, Pam went to choose a seat, and Liz did the same. When all the spectators had done so, or resigned themselves to standing, Michele stepped up to the mike. "Good evening to you all," she said. "I'm Michele Trivitt." Outside, huge loudspeakers broadcast her voice throughout town. Her ex-husband heard it from his office window and paused in his work to listen. "Some of you knew me as Michele Valenti," she went on. "To you, as well as those of you I haven't met yet, welcome. And thanks for coming. I recognize there are other places you could have elected to spend your Saturday night–and none of them are in Roswell." The crowd laughed. "I guarantee you won't regret electing to spend it here."
   At that point the ship-borns entered at the rear of the tent, where there was standing room only. Liz had been watching hopefully for them, and when she saw Max her heart jumped. She would have gone to him immediately but would have had to force a path through the crowd, and called too much attention to herself and him. Near him she saw Ms. Topolsky, looking (for want of a better word) lost; her appearance worried Liz a little.
   "Though most of you will be unaware of it," the speaker continued, drawing Liz's focus to the front again, "a threat hangs over our nation–over our world. You won't see it reported in the newspapers, in magazines, or on tv, but it grows more imminent every day. It's impossible to predict when the blow will fall–maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year. But it will fall–unless the necessary measures are taken immediately. Len will spell out for you what those will entail. He's been a long time uncovering the facts, he's visited a lot of places, and spoken to a lot of people. You're here want to know the truth, and he's here to tell you. Ladies and gentlemen, my husband, Len Trivitt."
   Len took over the mike amid scattered applause. "Do you know who you are? Do you?" His listeners were puzzled. "I do. I hope you do. You know when you were born, where you were grew up, where you went to school, who you dated, and married"–he smiled at Michele–"where you work, what you work at–all this you know." He paused for effect. "But what about the man next to you? How much do you know about him? If you grew up with him, or you work with him, you know who he is, right? Am I right?" He paused again. "Wrong. He may be just who you think he is–or he may not be. He may look the same, act the same–but inside he's not the same. He's a fake–a replacement put here to fool you. And there are a lot of them, these fakes. You can't tell them from the real thing. The woman in front of you at the checkstand. The couple next door. The teenager next to you on the road. Me."
   His audience made uneasy shuffling noises. "Sounds crazy, right? Am I right?" No one answered. "Let me tell you something. The government has a list, with hundreds of names on it–and that's only those that are known. Why are they here? Who put them here? What's their game? Ultimately, to destroy us." He waved his hands. "I know, you don't want to believe it. I didn't either. But tonight you'll see the evidence, which was classified until very recently. Memos, photos, scientific reports that prove beyond a shadow of a doubt there are enemies among us. Not just the fakes–the people you think you know. But the ones you don't know. The strangers–the wrong ones."
   The ship-borns had begun to look worried. And they were not alone. "Look around," said Len. "Anyone here you don't recognize?" People began searching for unfamiliar faces. "That new neighbor. New man on the job. New teacher at your child's school. New kid in class. And all the visitors–the tourists–the bus passengers. Who knows where they came from? And the misfits–the loners–the oddballs. The ones who don't make friends. You know who I mean. You know who they are, right? Am I right?" Some in the crowd began to stare hard at some others. "Just imagine how many more of them are out there! In Albuquerque and Santa Fe, Nevada and Colorado. All over the country. All over the world. All those strangers. Who are they? What are they hiding? Where did they come from?"
   Michele, who had moved to the rear as he was talking, flipped a breaker, and the tent fell dark; some of the spectators gasped. She switched on a slide projector beside her, and an image flashed onto a screen behind Len: a photo of Earth as seen from space. "They came from there." Next appeared a photo of a UFO. "And they landed here." And next–which startled the ship-borns–a photo of the rocks where they had just been, where the core was buried. "There've been incidents–fifty years of incidents. You've read about them yourself–maybe you've experienced some of them. Sightings, animal mutilations–even murders." This catalog was accompanied by a series of crime-scene-like photos, including one of the silver handprint–and, last of all, a shot of a turquoise dress stained with blood. Liz gave a small cry, and immediately covered her mouth. That was her dress, from the day she had died.
   Glancing back, she saw the ship-borns slipping out, together with a few others trying to beat the rush to the parking lot. As Isabel was leaving, she spotted Alex eyeing her furtively from a side seat; when she returned his look, he looked away. Subduing her disappointment, she joined the others outside a few yards from the tent, where they paused to confer.
    "This is the worst," said Max.
   "Like a nightmare come true," Isabel agreed.
   "What do we do?" asked Michael.
   Just then, the tent lights came up. "Be sure to come back tomorrow night," they heard from inside and over the loudspeakers. "You won't be sorry." This was followed by loud applause. People began standing.
   "We get out of here, is what," said Max, in answer to Michael's question. "We'll talk tomorrow." He and Isabel took off.
   Michael did not, and was the only one left by the time Liz made her way outside. "Is Max gone?" she asked. "I was wanting to talk to him."
   "Yeah, well, we all want stuff." He did not have anything more useful to say.
   "Is he okay? I mean, are all of you?"
   "We got through it," Michael said. "And we returned to find–this. I guess maybe Klima was right." But this time he said it with unmixed regret. "Maybe it's going to be a war, after all."
   Liz nodded toward the tent. "It will be if people listen to those two. Sounds like that's what they want. And want us to want. But why?" Michael shook his head.
   Alex had intended at first to wait for his father but had then decided there was no point: the UFO group was gathered around the speakers, besieging them with questions to the point of crowding out all other comers; clearly, they would not leave until they were asked to. So Alex left. On the way out he passed Topolsky, still standing at the rear–the only one left there now–and he greeted her by name, but she gave no sign of hearing him. He was a little worried for her too.
   Michael noticed her as she left the tent. He had continued hanging around with the objective of doing the Trivitts some mischief (like erasing their slides) and had only just come to the realization that it would be pointless: the information they were communicating was now public knowledge; it ought not to have been, but it was, and Michael could do nothing about that. So he decided to keep a watch on Topolsky instead. She looked as if she might bear watching.
   She turned in at the first alley, stepped into the circle of a street lamp, raised a standard-issue S & W .40 (which Michael had not seen she had), and aimed it into her open mouth. It would not fire. She stared down the barrel: it was welded solid.
   A hand took it from her. "You don't want to do that, teacher," said a voice she knew. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Michael grabbed her just before she fell.
   She woke on a brown sofa in a small apartment. The first thing that met her eyes was a "Danger" sign on the kitchen wall. Appropriate, she thought. She had not yet recognized where she was.
   It came to her when she saw Michael at the sink. He brought in a cup of juice he had just finished squeezing with Isabel's housewarming gift, and he knelt to give it to her. "Tomato-guava," he said. "Maria turned me onto it."
   Topolsky took a sip, but hardly tasted it. "Never thought you'd be saving me."
   Michael shrugged. "Life is strange."
   "That's affirmative. You have no idea how strange mine has been."
   "I might," said Michael. Topolsky looked at him uncertainly. "For instance, I know about what happened to you the day of the big UFO bash. At the rocks."
   "No, that was–"
   "A dream? That's what everybody said, wasn't it? When you tried to tell them? Until you got so you weren't sure yourself any more. And you joined the FBI to find out. But that didn't help, because even when you found out the crash was the real deal, you still couldn't be sure about what happened to you that day. It was real. One hundred percent. You can trust me on this one."
   "How could you know?"
   "I saw a–kind of a movie of it."
   "Where?"
   Michael debated whether to tell her. "In the ship." Topolsky struggled to make sense of this. "We found it. We were inside it."
   Topolsky could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "Take me there! Please!"
   "I can't," Michael said quickly. "I mean, I'd like to"–that was only half true–"but it's gone now. It self-destructed."
   Topolsky felt disappointed again, as she had so often before. "What did it do to me? I know it did something. But I don't remember what."
   "They cut that part," Michael said truthfully. He could not tell her the whole truth; not yet.
   "It was the ship that brought you, wasn't it?" Michael nodded; she knew already, and so there was no point in pretending any more. "Maybe that's why I feel so close to you," she said. "To all of you."
   "Yeah, that's probably it." He was eager–childishly eager–to reveal the true nature of their bond, and also to realize it; after all, he had never known a mother. But he could not take it on himself to do so without the others' approval. Yet he could not leave Topolsky on her own either; not after what she had tried to do, and with what she now knew. "You better stick close to us from now on," he said.
   The suggestion seemed to agree with her. "But will your friends trust me?"
   "After the show tonight it won't be easy for us to trust anybody." He smiled. "But I'll work on 'em."
   The next day was Easter. But Alex did not spend the morning in church. He was laboring in his lounge-to-be, pushing a floor brush that Fulweider had lent him and using a sheet of pegboard–in the absence of a dustpan–to transfer the refuse to a bag.
   Gradually he became aware that something was happening around him: the walls were changing color. From off-white (which had probably begun life as white) they were changing to Loden green; it streamed down them in a smooth coat, like paint from a roller. It scared him, and he could not look away from it, because it was on all sides.
   Then he realized who was doing it. Not that many people knew Loden green was his favorite color. Also, he could sense her in back of him, he did not know how; sound, smell, something. He turned to confirm the impression. Yup. Only she was closer to him than he had expected. "Change it back," he said.
   Isabel reached out to touch his arm. "Alex?" He stepped out of her reach. "Alex, guess what? I'm human–at least, half of me is." Alex looked her over despite himself, as if checking out the claim. "All three of us are. We had to be, you see, to survive here. We're like you."
   Alex cast an eye to the wall. "Not exactly."
   "True. We're not exactly like anyone. But that doesn't mean you and I can't be close." She reached out for him again.
   "I said, change it back!"
   "Alex, please? With so much hostility out there, can't we share just a little affection?"
   He turned on her. "It's me, all right? Not you, me. I thought I could do it–break down the fences, hop a comet, and go sailing through the galaxy like Liz. But I'm strictly a small-town guy. An alien girlfriend is great in theory." He forestalled the correction Isabel was about to make. "Okay, half-alien. But that's half too much. I don't like you popping up in my dreams, or changing ketchup to mustard, or being on the FBI's most-wanted list. I only want to lead my simple little earthly life without any complications. Please, Isabel, change it back. Now."
   Sighing, Isabel did as requested; in a few seconds the room was restored to its former off-white. "Guess you wouldn't be up for breaking into their trailer, then. To find out what all they have on us?" Alex's face told the answer. "No, I didn't think so," she said; and her face told of regret. "All right, Alex. Have it your own way. But you could have chosen differently."
   When she had left, Alex retreated to the wall and sank down–shrank down–to the floor. He had never felt so measly in his life. "How?" he asked the not-quite-swept, not-quite-white room. "Tell me, how?"
   After a long day of sweeping and wiping, which had felt less satisfying after Isabel's visit and had been interrupted by many things–meal breaks, further musings on his plans for the place, and intermittent funks in which he did nothing but stare at the walls and reflect on how much better they would look in Loden green–Alex came home feeling despondent on the whole. And it did not cheer him up to find that his father's UFO conclave was still in session, past its usual time.
   As he passed the door of the den his father waved at him. "Alex! We were just talking about you. Step in here for a minute, will you?" Alex did so, a little warily. "You know most of the group. But there is one new face–Phil?"
   The man turned toward them. "Mr. Evans!" Alex said in surprise. "Never saw you at one of these before." In fact he was the only sensible man he had ever seen in that room.
   "Only my second time," Philip said.
   "But not the last, I hope," said Don, patting him on the back with greater familiarity than Philip appeared comfortable with. "Phil was just telling us he's filed an appeal for the release of Doc Grunewald."
   "Grunewald?" This surprised Alex even more. "Didn't think you were a big fan of his after what he did to Max."
   "Excuse me, we don't know what he may have done to Max, or vice versa. Max isn't saying. In any case, Grunewald's now a victim himself. There was no hearing to ascertain his sanity. The government secreted him away to silence him. But they can't suppress the truth forever." Alex listened in amazement; he began to wonder if he were dreaming it all. Isabel could have told him–but no; he did not want to think about Isabel.
   "Alex," said Don, with the air of bringing up an unpleasant subject, "the fellas and I were just discussing this Space Bar of yours."
   "Orbit Lounge," Alex noted.
   "Whatever. We feel it'd be more prudent if you were to take a different tack."
   "Oh? Why's that?"
   It was Philip who replied. "We're seeing a growing backlash against the continuing and systematic effort by the media to instill in the public mind a sympathetic attitude toward nehis–"
   "Excuse me," said Alex, "nehis?"
   "NHIs," Don translated. "Non-human incursors."
   "–to distract us," Philip finished, "from the very real menace they pose to our human way of life."
   Don's description was more succinct. "Bunch of pro-alien propaganda, is all it is."
   Alex looked from one to the other. "You sound like those two at the fairground." He did not remember seeing Philip there, but then he had not been looking for him.
   "They know what they're talking about," his father averred.
   "They're fanatics!" Alex insisted. Then he thought twice. "Or they're pretending to be."
   "What do you mean?" said Philip.
   "Kind of funny, don't you think, their showing up right at the same time the Army's moving in?"
   A man he did not recognize stood up. "What do you know about that?"
   "Everybody's seen the Jeeps on the highway," said Alex. "I bet it's got something to do with this new energy bureau, BEAM." He turned to Philip. "Ever hear of it?"
   "Heard the name. That's all."
   "Probably how they prefer to keep it."
   "You want to watch that kind of loose talk," the stranger said.
   Alex distrusted him already. "Excuse me, who are you?"
   "This is Trent," said Don. "He's from–where was it, now?" Trent did not answer.
   "So you're a booster of this covert agency?" Alex asked him.
   "Extraordinary crimes have to be stamped out by agencies extraordinary." Alex had heard something of the kind before but could not remember where. Trent stepped closer to him, close enough for Alex to detect whisky on his breath and a dull meanness in his eyes. "Believe me, son," he said, "you don't want to come down on the wrong side of this thing."
   Alex's dislike of what the man stood for exceeded his fear of the man himself and spurred him to stand his ground, almost against his own will. "Agreed," he said. "Before choosing a side I like to know exactly who I'm siding with." Trent's scowl deepened. "'night, Dad," said Alex. "Mr. Evans." As he left the room he heard a voice behind him: "Where'd you say he goes to school?" The voice was Trent's. This unsettled Alex. But it also made him angry. He had been headed for his room but now changed his mind; Isabel might have had an idea, at that. He slipped out the front door while his father's group was still engaged in noisy agreement with one another.
   The fairground was empty when he got there. The tent and the trailer were both dark; he listened for voices and heard none. He went to the trailer door and knocked. He had no idea what he would say if someone answered, but he guessed that no one would and he was right. He searched the tent for an object he could force the door with; all he could find was a clipboard–not ideal, but it might do. He tried to wedge it between the door and the frame. A minute's effort told him that would not work. As he was contemplating what to try next, he heard a voice in his ear, which made him jump: "You realize breaking and entering's a crime?"
   For a moment Alex was afraid the voice was Trent's. He was actually relieved to recognize it as belonging to a representative of duly constituted authority. "So it's important to know what you're doing," Valenti concluded, stepping up beside him; Alex now saw he was carrying a long crowbar. He ran his eye along the door frame until he found a gap and jammed the bar into it. "Give me a hand here, will you?" The two of them leaned their combined weight on it, and with a crunch the door popped open. "Like a can of peas," said Valenti.
   "I never liked peas much." Then Alex realized this was not quite to the point. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
   "Same as you. Investigating." They stepped up into the cavelike space. Valenti activated his flashlight. It showed up a stack of boxes in the corner, on each of which were stenciled the letters "B E A M." "I was right," said Alex. "That's who they're working for."
   "You mean, who planted them here. Or it mighta been some other group BEAM is partners with."
   "Who?"
   "Take your pick. FBI, CIA, WB, any set of initials that come to mind. There's nobody we can rule out absolutely."
   "Why would they send out agents to stir up prejudice against aliens?"
   "If I was guessing? As justification to do what they want with them. Like those two kids–snatch them, harness them, milk them for all they're worth. And if any bleeding hearts get wind of it, you can always say you're just putting down the bad guys."
   "'Who have no rights the white man is bound to respect,'" Alex quoted.
   Valenti nodded. "History repeats."
   "Then may I take it you're no longer a believer in the alien conspiracy?"
   "Wouldn't go that far. But it's obviously it's not the only conspiracy going."
   Alex shook his head. "I don't want to be mixed up in this. Not at all."
   Valenti smiled grimly. "Me either, son. What's that got to do with it?"
   Alex's eye fell on a map that was pinned to the wall. "Sheriff? Some light over here." It was what he had thought: a copy of the cave map. One area was circled in red. Alex did not have to read the label to recognize it. "That's Angels' Ground."
   Not far from the fairground lay the UFO Center, which was closed for the night. But someone was inside. The manager, having received a report of a prowler from a neighboring property owner, now returned to check it out. He lived nearby, and he felt a responsibility to his archives–the Sadusky collection–if not to the barn-like edifice that housed them. Through its front doors he saw a light, and a shadow flitting back and forth in front of it. He quietly let himself in and crept down to see whose shadow it was.
   He was relieved, but also puzzled, to find Max there, hard at work. He had somehow slid aside two of the exhibit cases to clear a wall, and was now walking along it–and as he walked, forms materialized in front of him, bulging out of the plaster one after another: he was sculpting a relief mural with no hands. Milton was too astonished to do anything but stare. On reaching the end of the wall, Max turned and saw him at the foot of the stairs. "Milt! I–" But no further words came.
   With his well-tried air of office as a recourse, Milton was sooner able to put a good face on the situation. "What's all this, Evans? Eh?" He trotted out to take a look.
   From a distance the piece had been too complicated to make out, a wild tangle of shapes and colors. Up close, all was so vividly clear that it almost set Milton back on his heels. Below a sign that identified this new section of the museum as the "Hall of Humans," with "Lest you forget" as its motto, the mural vividly chronicled the most terrible deeds in human history from antiquity through the present. Some of them were in the history books; some, Milton–who was up on his history–did not recognize, and he wondered where Max had dredged them up from.
   "The other side of the coin," said Max. "Humans and the suffering they've caused. They're the real monsters." He was not forgetting that he was human himself; indeed, that fact was uppermost in his mind.
   "Not a fan of the species," Milton mused. "So you think our planet ought to be handed over to the newcomers lock, stock, and barrel?"
   "I don't know about that." Max pondered. "No. I guess it's six of one, half dozen of the other." That describes me, he thought. It describes the three of us. Then he remembered his "place," as his employer would see it: he was just a kid who worked there part-time, not a curator or an exhibiting artist. "Sorry I put this up without asking. I was–inspired." By an attack of self-loathing, he might have added.
   Milton let his eyes wander among the other exhibits, which he had put up himself, and with considerably more trouble than it had taken Max. "Back in third grade," he said, "I was the most popular kid in class. The one who knew all about the aliens. Every day at recess the others would ask me scads of questions. And I had all the answers. Then they moved on. By the sixth grade they were making fun of me–Miltie the Martian, they called me. And in high school–well, forget it. But I couldn't stop. I was hooked. And my greatest hope was that some day–some day...." He looked squarely at Max. "Keep me on the beam, Evans. Tell me you're not one of those." He pointed across to a dummy of a bug-eyed monster.
   Max smiled. "No, I can honestly say I'm not one of those."
   Milton turned to the new installation. "And humans aren't all like this. But you know that, don't you?" And Max did, then; funny how a second perspective could keep a person "on the beam," as Milton had put it. He was an okay guy, Max decided, or was trying to be. As he took a second look at the mural its virtues stood out more clearly, the initial shock having passed. "On the other hand," he granted, "I guess a little self-analysis never hurt anybody."
   "You mean you're going to keep it?"
   "Too much trouble to take it down. And it might get us some favorable coverage. I'll send out the release tomorrow."
   Max had not expected this. On Vallosa everyone had created art, and he had done that; on Earth they kept it around for other people to see, and now he was doing that too; he had to now. Six of one: there were ways. "Come on, Evans," said Milton. "Time to go home." He paused as if making up his mind to something, and then spoke in his natural voice. "Glad you chose this as your–destination. I hope you are."
   Max found an understanding in Milton's eyes he had not expected to see there. "Working on it."
   His boss laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "Don't give up on us. I need you here."
   Max smiled at him. "You're right, Milt. Some humans aren't so bad." Milton returned the smile, and they walked out together.
   The following morning Alex stopped in at the Crashdown to warn Liz that her interest in Angels' Ground was shared by the new visitors, or by those who had sent them. He also wanted to find out what all she knew about the place. But his musician's timing betrayed him again. She, Michael, and Maria had been working every day through the spring break; since Maria was still barely speaking to either of the others, conditions were strained at best. And this morning Liz did not trust herself to speak to anyone except in her capacity as a server; it was the morning her mother was due to leave. So when Alex (whom she had already written off in any case) tried repeatedly to engage her attention, following her from sideboard to table to counter, Liz refused to acknowledge his presence by either word or sign, making him feel rather foolish. Yet he did not give up; the matter was too important to both of them, to all of them. "Liz," he began, "you remember what you were saying before about–"
   He had gotten only that far when her mother entered from the back room. Jeff was trailing her with armloads of suitcases, which he carried out to the Acura in front. Lacking for the moment any customers whose needs required filling, Liz picked out an empty table and pretended to be cleaning it.
   Nancy came over to her. "I'm going now, Liz." Her daughter gave no indication of having heard her, any more than she had seemed to hear Alex. "You can visit whenever you like," Nancy said. "No need to call ahead." She hesitated and then went on. "After you graduate, if you should decide–that is, I would like having you in the house. I'd like to continue being your mother." Still no sign Liz had heard; Nancy made a last attempt. "Don't I even get a farewell hug?"
   "Oh, Mom!" Liz ran into the back, fighting away tears–and her mother, now left standing alone, was fighting similarly. She had hoped for a happier send-off. But, all in all, this one better befitted the life she had known there. She left without a goodbye, unless it had been implied in her last words. Not the best time to talk to Liz, Alex decided, and he left too, headed for his lounge-in-the-making.
   When he saw it he got a shock. At some time during the night the room had been trashed, what there was of it to trash: the walls had been spray-painted with anti-alien slogans, some barely readable, and some obscene: "Martians Go Home," "Nehi Lover," "ET Fone DEAD," a crude rendering of the Roswell alien inside the "No..." icon, and more of the same. The perpetrators were not in sight. "Is this supposed to scare me?" he shouted with bravado. But he approached the door of the closet door, which was shut, with some trepidation.
   Soon after the building opened, Isabel stopped by again. She found the room empty to appearances, but when she poked her head into the closet she discovered Alex inside, squatting with his arms clasped around his knees. "Why did you come back?" he asked.
   Isabel knelt beside him. "I felt your need." This elicited the kind of look from him that she would have expected–which was very much like "that look" of hers: maybe they had more in common than either of them knew. "No, literally," she said.
   Alex almost smiled. "Can't keep any secrets from you, can I?"
   "Do you want to?"
   "I don't know." He dropped his head. "I don't know anything any more. That stuff on the walls...."
   "I can make it go away." Then Isabel remembered how her last offer of help had been received. "If you'd like me to, that is."
   "I don't want it to go away, I want it never to have happened."
   "So at the first sign of opposition, you give up?"
   "I didn't say that."
   Isabel smiled encouragingly. "Then you're going ahead with your plans."
   "I didn't say that either." He was silent for a while. "I just thought it'd be a cool business venture, you know? I didn't expect threats or hate crimes. I didn't expect a war!"
   "Alex, sometimes we get situations we don't ask for. The question is, do you face them or run away?"
   "I duck," said Alex. "Until it's all over."
   "Time you came out of hiding, wouldn't you say?"
   "I'm too chicken."
   "And you think I'm not? You have a whole world to reinforce your image of yourself. Until a week ago I had nothing–no validation, no explanation of who I was, or who I could be. Then I met someone who showed me. It was liberating. For once I could say, 'I am what I am, I'll do what I want.' Then it all went wrong and she was gone and I had no one to turn to. Except you–and you turned away."
   "Like you never did that to me? Every time I thought we were going to nail down this thing between us–"
   "I know, Alex, I was stupid and I'm sorry. Once this crisis is over–"
   "Will that ever happen? Isn't crisis what our life's all about?"
   "Ours?" Isabel looked hopeful now. "Is that what you want, Alex?"
   He gazed at her with a fervency she found really touching. "Oh, yes. Definitely." Then he wavered. "I mean, I think so."
   "Alex!" He could be so exasperating sometimes! Isabel got to her feet. "All right, then. Are you willing to stand up for it?"
   "Huh?"
   "Us. This place. Yourself."
   That whipped up Alex's courage. "You bet!" Then he wavered again. "Uh, the only thing–"
   "Alex! "
   "Okay, yes!"
   Isabel waited. "Well? Come on." Alex looked baffled. "Do it!"
   "Huh?" Then he realized. "Oh, you mean–" He stood up–for them, the place, himself. Isabel clasped his hands and planted a kiss on his lips, which extended itself pleasantly.
   A few minutes later they came out into the graffitied room. "Who was responsible for this?" asked Isabel.
   "Probably my dad's UFO buddies. They've been listening to those rabble-rousers at the fairground–who are working for BEAM, by the way."
   "You know that for a fact?"
   "I burglarized their trailer like you asked."
   "Oh, Alex! How sweet of you!"
   "It was the sheriff who did it, mainly. For an officer of the law, he's very cool about committing felonies. BEAM's name was on everything in the place. They're war-mongering, is what it is. Against–well, against you guys."
   "What do they stand to get out of it?"
   "Don't know. But they have their eye on a place Liz knows something about–Angels' Ground."
   "Then we have to get her here," Isabel declared. "And the others too. Maybe we can stop this war before it happens."
   When Max arrived, only a little later, he heard space music (courtesy of Isabel) as soon as he entered. He followed it to the former storeroom, which had now been renovated (also courtesy of Isabel) into what enormous cut-out letters above the raised stage proclaimed to be the Orbit Lounge. Alex stepped up to him on his right and Isabel on his left, the one attired as a Buck Rogers counterpart of the night club emcee in the movie Cabaret, the other in a slinky hostess outfit to match. "Welcome to the Orbit Lounge, sir," the emcee greeted him, "your home away from your home–planet."
   The hostess slipped a drink into her erstwhile brother's hand. "Here you are, sir. One Saturnian smoothie."
   Max was convinced they had both gone daft. "Why did you summon me here?" he demanded. "What the hell's going on?"
   "That's what I'd like to know." Max turned to see Michael at the entrance. "I'm only here because Liz insisted," said Michael.
   Maria was there too, standing on the opposite side from him with her arms folded. "That makes two of us. Where is the girl?"
   "Here!" said Liz, as she breezed in past them. "Sorry I'm late. I had to get rid of the customers."
   "Wait a minute," said Michael. "Who's covering while your dad's gone?"
   "Nobody. I just closed up. Since he's gone he'll never know."
   "Ay, caramba," Maria murmured.
   "Got that right," said Michael. They were as one on that score, at least. When someone over-disciplined like Liz threw the rules aside, who knew what might happen?
   "I put up a sign," she told them, by way of exculpation. "It says we're sorry for the inconvenience."
   "Yeah, that'll do it," said Michael, meaning the opposite.
   Isabel stepped forward. "Max, you asked what's going on."
   "What the hell's going on," he corrected.
   "Let's start with Liz. I think all of you are aware she's no longer high-risk."
   "My blood is stronger than ever," Liz said proudly.
   "Our mission here was to end the human race by mingling our blood with yours. But it turns out your blood works on ours too. Instead of a take-over, what you get is more of a merger."
   Maria was not to be placated so easily. "But people have died–my dad for one. Your people killed them."
   "One person," said Michael. "Klima."
   "And can you tell me the same urge isn't in you? In all of you?"
   "Of course it is," said Isabel. "And this is in you!" With a wave of her hand she restored the hate messages to the walls. Those who had not seen them were appalled, then angry. "But there's more to it than that," she continued. "The three of us are only half Vallosan. Human genes were poured into us–everything that's in you is in us. But the opposite is true too. Everything that's in us is in you."
   Maria set her chin stubbornly. "I don't accept that."
   "We'll show you," said Liz. "Come on."
   "Where to?"
   "Where it all started for us. Angels' Ground."
   So the six came to stand together on the plateau that was Angels' Ground, with the Jeep sitting where they had left it at the head of the drive. "The energy within our planet," explained Isabel, "drove its cities and its spaceships. It also entered into our genetic material. It makes us what we are."
   "The same energy," said Liz, "exists in isolated pockets on Earth. Like this one. And the others Michael was looking for."
   "BEAM is looking too," Alex noted. "At this one especially."
   "That's because the strongest concentration is here," Liz replied. "And it was here the three of us–Maria, Alex, and I–were conceived. At the moment of our conception, the energy of this place soaked into us." She turned to Max. "Your blood could never have harmed me. You're within us. And we're within you. It's no accident we found each other."
   "No man is an island, entire unto himself," Michael pronounced rather grandly.
   "That's another quote, isn't it?" said Maria. She repeated it silently to herself. "But a very cool one. Muy chido." She smiled at him. Suddenly everything was cool. But only with him, and them; outside that circle of safety lay Klima and who knew how many more. They had to stick together.
   Max, who had thought it through on the drive up, had arrived at a similar conclusion, and now proposed it to the others. "In this war we can't take sides because we're on both sides. So we'll make our own side. We'll fight for we believe in–what's best in all of us, Vallosan or human. Wisdom. Respect. Love." He was standing at the edge that overlooked the town. Liz came up beside him and locked her hand in his. The others joined them, one by one, until all were standing shoulder to shoulder on the lip of the plateau.
   "My side is with you," Liz told Max solemnly. "I knew it before we ever met."
   "I wouldn't be too sure of that." He was remembering the dream they had shared as children. As their eyes met, he imparted it to her.
   Liz's face lit up. "That was you!" she said. "I understand now."
   "I've been through the gate," said Max, "and I changed as I was meant to. But I was wrong about us. What we have hasn't changed. Since we were"–he lifted their linked hands–"this high. And it won't."
   "Forever and always," Liz said.
   "Forever," Max echoed her, "and always." The other couples repeated the vow, and all three sealed it with a kiss. As their lips touched, an aurora borealis filled the sky above them.
   Liz laughed to see it. "You're doing that!" she accused Max, as she had once before.
   "We're doing it," he said. They all watched the display in awe.
   Then there came to them the growl of engines: a row of Jeeps was circling up the drive below. And then the knock of a hammer: two soldiers were pounding a sign into place at the foot of the hill. From now on the Ground would be off limits, and the rocks, and the woods. Things had changed, and they could all feel it, Max most of all. "And now," he said, "the battle for Roswell begins."
   "There's a dark night ahead," said his sister. "I hope we see a dawn." They hurried back to the Jeep and drove down on the other side.
   The three ship-borns, after they had dropped off their human partners, paid a call on the sheriff. Hearing a knock, he looked up from his paperwork to find the three of them already in the room, standing in front of the door. He eyed his holster, which was slung over a chair against the wall. "How'd you get past the front desk?" he asked.
   "Side door," Max replied.
   "It's locked."
   "Not to us," said Isabel. "As you should know better than anyone."
   Valenti recognized the significance of the admission. He wondered why it was being made to him; he hoped, not as a last request. "Oh, yeah?" he said noncommittally, and he rolled his chair nearer to the holster.
   Isabel explained. "Alex trusts you. I trust Alex. Max trusts–well, you can work out the rest."
   "And, you know," Michael added, "it's not like we have a lot of people to choose from."
   "Jeez, you sure know how to make a guy feel wanted." Valenti considered. "Okay, not that I need it necessarily, but if you could provide a small demonstration–just to convince me my imagination's not running away with me."
   Isabel raised her hand to volunteer, just like in class. On the desk sat a brass paperweight in the shape of a cannon. She stared at it until it turned brown. "Looks to me like chocolate," said Valenti.
   "Try it."
   He broke off a corner and nibbled on it. "Not bad, but–"
   "It's never the same," said Max, ahead of his sister.
   "No offense, but I preferred it in brass." Isabel changed it back, but with one corner still missing. Valenti turned it over meditatively. "Funny, my whole life I've been scared of you–of people like you, that is. Now I find I've been scared of the wrong people." He looked at Maria. "Ask your mom how she'd feel about having dinner guests this evening."
   Her mom said she was okay with it, the evening came up in due course, and Liz and Max were the first of the guests to arrive–not counting Michael, who was helping in the kitchen. They all tried to blot out the voice that resounded through the streets, as it had the evening before. "And if you're asking yourself who's to blame," the voice thundered, "look no farther. It's them–the invaders–the monsters."
   Amy heard that part of it as she let her guests in. "He's at it again?"
   "Since the sun went down," said Max. "And he's sounding wilder all the time." Jim came to the door to listen.
   "I don't like it," said Amy.
   "I don't like them," Jim answered. "The Trivitts. Even though I know they're just plants. But it looks like this is their day."
   Then the rest of the party showed up, practically on top of one another, and Amy greeted each in turn. "Deputy Owen. Mr.–Sadusky." The women did not ring a bell. "I don't know either of you, do I?"
   "Jen."
   "Kathleen."
   "Wow!" Amy shook her head, as if she were fluffing her hair.
   Maria looked around, puzzled. "Uh, why 'wow'?"
   "As in, wow, what a wonderfully diverse community we'll be breaking focaccia with this evening!" She waved them inside. "I mean, think of the harmonics!"
   "Oh, yeah," said Valenti, shutting the door. "Them."
   Throughout dinner he hurried each course along so he would have plenty of time for a briefing afterwards. He began it before the others had finished the tiramisu. "Reason I asked you here," he said, "was, number one, so we could all get acquainted. Because we–most of us," he amended, glancing at Amy, "have something in common. Special knowledge, like."
   "What kind of special knowledge?" Amy asked innocently.
   Jim did his best to answer without answering. "Knowledge about–oh, what's going on in Roswell. Incidents other people aren't aware of. Stuff like that. So–"
   "Well, I certainly can't claim any such thing," Amy broke in. "No more than anybody else. And as for Milton here, or your deputy–no offense, I'm sure they're intelligent people, but–" She saw that the others were looking down or away. "I have a feeling I said something that was supposed to be left unsaid."
   Valenti scratched his temple. "You have to tell her," said Maria.
   Liz nodded. "She's bound to find out sooner or later."
   "Find out what?" Amy asked.
   Valenti looked down the table. "How about the rest of you?"
   "I think it's too late to do anything else," said Max. There was a general drone of agreement.
   Valenti sighed. "So be it. Amy–babe–jeez, where do I start?"
   "Let me," said Isabel. "It'll be easier to take coming from another woman." She turned to Amy. "There's no way I can prepare you for what you're about to hear. A person's internal belief system is so fragile, so delicate, a thing like this could demolish it completely." She clasped Amy's hand. "Be brave."
   By that point Amy was looking as befuddled as it was possible for a person to look. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
   "No, you don't. And the reason–you poor, unsuspecting dear–"
   Michael, having tired of this exchange, and particularly of Isabel's part in it, cut to the chase. "Ms. Deluca? Keep your eyes on that dessert spoon." He focused on it, and it changed to a silver heart. He picked it up and handed it to Amy. "For our hostess." He forgot that it had been hers to begin with.
   So did she. "Why, it's beautiful! Thank you!" Then the significance of it hit her. "Wait a minute! You did that. Just by looking at it."
   "Little more complicated than that. But essentially, yeah."
   "Then you're...." Michael shrugged apologetically. Amy's eyes moved to Isabel. "And you?" Isabel smiled. Then to Max. "And you?" Max nodded. She looked finally at Maria. "Not you, I hope?"
   "No, no!" her daughter assured her.
   Amy sat for a long time, absorbing it, while the others watched uncertainly. Finally she broke into laughter. "Well, this is just–so great!" Maria and her future stepfather exchanged looks of surprise. "All the time I've been selling these tacky alien doodads, the real thing's been right under my nose and I didn't see it."
   "Then it doesn't shatter your world view?" Isabel asked hopefully.
   "Honey, it is my world view."
   "You mean you've always believed in us?"
   "No! I always thought it was a cartload of crap. A nice way to earn bread, but still a cartload of crap. No, my world view is that everything is always much screwier than we have any idea of. So this is just–the perfect thing."
   Jim grabbed her hand. "I had a feeling we were made for each other. Now I'm sure of it."
   "My God," said Maria. "I may be part of a functioning family unit. Will I be able to cope?, I ask myself."
   "Shut up," Michael said amiably–and to the surprise of everyone, including herself, she did.
   Valenti resumed his briefing. "Okay, counting Amy, we're a dozen. The rest of the town is out there listening to that firebrand. If they get unruly–and I'm guessing they will–it'll be up to us to calm them down. I'm appointing you my deputies for tonight. Everybody okay with that?"
   None of the party looked overjoyed, but most nodded. "Why'd you choose us?" asked Jen. "We're not trained or anything."
   Valenti glanced at the ship-borns. "You came recommended."
   "Hold on now," said Alex, somewhat belatedly. "Just us? Against all of them?"
   "One of my regulars is out of town. The rest will have their hands full protecting the public buildings. I can radio for extra help but they'll be a spell getting here. In the meantime, we're it."
   "Do we get weapons?" asked Milton.
   "Just the ones that are authorized to carry them," Valenti replied. "Me, Deputy Owen, and Agent–excuse me, Ms.–Topolsky. And of course some of us"–he glanced at the ship-borns–"have them built in. I'm hoping that'll be enough. If not, we'll proceed as the situation dictates."
   "I don't know," said Alex. "It sounds–"
   Valenti looked him in the eye. "Son, it's your town. Question is, are you willing to stand up for it?"
   "The standing-up thing again. I see." He glanced at Isabel; she clutched his arm supportively. "Yeah, yeah," he said, "okay."
   The crisis came sooner than any of them had anticipated; they first heard it at a distance through the windows. The crowd that Trivitt had been haranguing had cleared the tent and were now parading raggedly down Main Street with him at their head. "Whose town is this?" he shouted. "Is it yours? Is it?"
   "Yes!" they shouted back at him.
   "Then why are they here?" He pointed to the Crashdown and the UFO Center. "You want to know why? Do you?"
   "Yes!" they shouted again.
   "Because they have allies here conspiring with them, sneaking them in–till before you know it there'll be more of them than there are of you. Then your days will be numbered. One clutch of that cold hand and you'll fall cold and lifeless, with a silver handprint on your chest. You and your families and your children–innocent babies. And any of you who survive they'll hunt down, and they'll turn their death machines on you–kill you slowly, without mercy–tear through your flesh and bone just to see how humans die. Is that what you want? Is it?"
   "No!"
   "Then get them! Get them! Get them before they get you! And the collaborators too–the quislings–the traitors! The ones who are hiding them! You know where they are! There! And there! Find them! Kill them! Kill the nehis! The e.t.s!" (He pronounced it "eaties.") "And the e.t. lovers–the bleeding hearts–the ones who are different–the ones who don't belong! You know who they are! And you know what to do with them!"
   A man in the crowd held up a lighter and flicked it to life. "Burn them!"
   "Yes!" Len hissed, his eyes gleaming wildly. "Yes! Burn them! Burn them all!" The mob responded with cries of bloodlust.
   Michele, who had been watching in growing alarm, saw that her husband and the rest of them had passed beyond reason. "Len, stop!" she cried.
   But it was too late. All those around her were possessed with the same fury, and now it exploded in their midst, propelling them this way and that–but all of them in the same few ways, so that without purposing it they grouped into smaller but more or less cohesive bands. Only one person stayed aloof: an old man with a Roswell Daily Record tucked under his arm. He retreated to the shadow of a storefront to watch.
   One of the bands broke into the UFO Center and dragged out the dummy alien, along with a length of bundling cord, which they wrapped around its neck and used to hang it from a lamppost. Someone set a lighter to the figure, and within seconds it was ablaze, to the cheers of the ravagers. Another of the bands assaulted the Crashdown. Some rammed at the doors; others hurled rocks at the saucer over the doors; three began to scale the wall. Jeff stuck his head out his bedroom window. "Hey, you!" he shouted. "Get off of there!" The attackers began to pelt him too. The old man in the shadows smiled.
   The disturbance brought out the armed half of the sheriff's posse: himself, Owen, Topolsky, and the three ship-borns. He had left the others at Amy's to watch that end of town, to which the hysteria had not penetrated yet. He led his contingent to the intersection of Maple Street (Amy's street) and Main, from which they could see the frenzy spreading throughout the business quarter. The three teens saw people they knew, people they liked, or did not like: their teachers, their principal, kids from school, store owners–and fathers. Isabel clutched Max's arm. "I saw Dad!" And then she did not see him. "Do you see Mom?" Her eyes searched the crowd.
   "You three," Valenti said, "it's time. Whatever you can do, do it. We'll be your back-up."
   "But our parents–" Isabel began.
   "Hey, we've all got friends and relatives out there. Best thing you can do for them is put a stop to this craziness."
   "Isabel, he's right," said Max. But she had realized it before he said it.
   The two of them and Michael looked at one another, and found themselves instantly welded into a single consciousness. "It's like back in the ship," said Michael. "I'm having thoughts that aren't mine. And mine are swimming around in this pool that's three times as big as it was."
   Isabel smiled. "I believe it's called being of one mind."
   Together they formed a plan faster than they could have spoken it. They turned toward one of the marauding bands, and then to the asphalt at its feet. The marauders found themselves sinking into a lake of black gelatin–but gelatin that clung to their legs and would not permit them to advance.
   And now the old man stepped out of the shadows. He pointed his rolled-up newspaper at the captives. Moving as one, they ceased struggling and dropped their eyes to the gelatin, which rolled back in a wave, as if it had been icing on a cake. The wave changed course toward the ship-borns, and then itself changed, into a rolling bank of hot lava. The ship-borns raised up a glacier, waist-high, which blocked it. The lava hissed and steamed against the ice and then burbled away to nothing. "How'd they do that?" asked Michael.
   Behind the crowd the old man had stopped to rest against a lamppost and was fumbling with a segmented pill holder. No sooner had Michael seen him than an unspoken exchange took place between him and the others.
   Klima–
   –powering them–
   –by channeling energy–
   –from one of the map sites–
   –the only one close enough–
   –the one we haven't identified–
   –and he's using the Lodestone–
   –but it was lost–
   –then the Stones from the cave–
   –but I hid them–
   –and of course Michael knew where he had hidden them, and so of course they all did.
   Now Max spoke aloud; speech seemed to give his commands greater force. "We may be able to use them against him. Michael, you and I will go get them. Isabel, bring the others." She knew which three he meant. "We may need them too." He and Michael departed for the school, and Isabel for the Delucas'.
   The Earthly members of Valenti's contingent had been standing a little apart, powerless to do more than watch as the magic show unfolded. Now they were not sure what to do. During Klima's weak spell his unknowing agents had lost their impetus and were standing sluggishly, swaying a little. "Let's keep our eye on 'em," said Valenti. "See what they do next." The others looked doubtful. "Anybody got a better plan?" Nobody had. So they remained where they were, taking no action but monitoring the now-dormant rioters.
   Turning onto Maple Street, Isabel failed to see the figure crouching in the bushes at the corner. As she passed, he sprang out at her. "The blood!" he cried. "The poison in the blood!" His speech was thick and slurred. His hands grabbed at her neck. Without thinking, Isabel dug her nails into one of them and used the contact to send his animus back at him. He collapsed onto the pavement, clutching his head; a moment later he was out. Only then did she recognize him as Grunewald, and she felt pity for him. "I wish I could help you," she said. "But you've gone beyond a place where that's possible." Besides, she had her duty to carry out. So she left him lying.
   At the Delucas', there were always alien-themed trinkets hanging from the deodars in the yard, both for decoration and for sale, if anyone asked to buy. One of the bands of raiders had spied them and were plucking them down to tear asunder or to crush underfoot. Isabel arrived to find Amy and the others trying to fight off the intruders. She changed the grass around their feet to cement, which set instantly, pinning them where they stood. They struggled vainly to free themselves. "Come with me," she ordered the three teens. "We need you." As the adults began to follow she held up a hand. "Sorry, kids' night." Watching them go, Amy felt a little like the grown-up Wendy watching her daughter fly off to the Neverland.
   She perked up again on realizing that she now had in her power the people who had destroyed her handiwork. She picked up a baseball bat one of them had dropped and then she circled them, smacking it against her cupped hand. "You know how long it took me to make those? You–" She drew the bat back as if to swing; the captives cowered away. Then she lowered it again. "–are so lucky I'm a pacifist," she finished. Her fellow deputies, Milton and Jen, were patrolling the street; the immediate neighborhood was quiet. So she went inside.
   The captives, perforce, remained as they were. Then after a minute they tensed, all at the same time, as if the same electric current were passing through them all. Together they turned their heads toward the cement at their feet. It melted into water, freeing them. They moved in a body out of the yard and toward the school. In other parts of town, other groups were doing the same.
   Max and Michael were at the school already. Michael withdrew the Stones from the base of the sign–and they were glowing; their blue light showed through the sack. "They weren't doing that before," he said. Both boys realized what it meant, but Max was faster at putting it into words. "This is the last site on the map! West Roswell High! I bet if we knew the history–"
   "We know the year it was started," said Michael.
   They moved to the bronze dedication plaque at the top of the steps. "'1947,'" Max read. "The year we landed." The coincidence had not struck him before. "Maybe it was put here just for us."
   "The plaque?"
   "The whole school."
   They had no time to weigh the theory then, for Isabel and those she had been sent to fetch came running up the steps, followed at a distance by the mob. It had now regrouped into a single organic unit, many-bodied, single-brained, and that brain guided and goaded by its creator, who was walking alongside driving his herd. "It's them!" he shouted. "The strangers! The wrong ones! Kill them!"
   Under his sway and fueled by whatever power he was wielding, his minions turned the school steps into a thick ooze, veined with blood and lightning. It distended and reared up over Max and the others like a giant jellyfish. Michael, who was carrying the Stones, changed it to a ball of green fungus, which then exploded, spraying their attackers with slimy mold. "Nice one," Max commented.
   "He's channeling the energy of this place," said Isabel. She could have flashed the message silently to the two of them but spoke it aloud for the benefit of the rest. "And using them as a conduit."
   "Which can go in either direction," Max pointed out. "We'll run the energy into ourselves."
   "Can we handle it?" asked Michael.
   "With the Stones, I think so."
   Michael opened the sack and began passing them out, like treats from Santa's bag. But there was one too few. "That's okay," Alex said, "really." He stepped away.
   But Isabel was not about to let him off that easily. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "We'll share," she said firmly.
   The six lined up and raised the Stones in unison. The Earth kids felt the Vallosans steering their thoughts into the right paths, which were (literally) alien to them. Yet they as well as the others could sense that something was off: the power was there, but it was unequal to the task, weak and distant.
   Michael was the first to see what the problem was. "V formation!" he directed. "The signature pattern! That's the way the energy has to flow!" So they realigned themselves like the icons on the map, with Max at their apex, and immediately the energy began to rush into them. "Can you feel it?" Max shouted to Liz.
   "Max, my God! It's like the best–" Even in those straits, her sense of decorum censored the thought. "–massage ever," she finished. Her body and those of the others had become receptacles for its power, and took on auras of the same otherworldly blue.
   And then something else intruded on her consciousness: a force pulling her where she did not want to go; pulling her toward Klima. It was too much for her, or for any or all of them, to resist long. He was holding his rolled-up newspaper pointed in their direction; from inside, through the layers of newsprint, a light shone brightly. And suddenly the paper blew off, as if in a high wind, to reveal what it had been concealing. "The Lodestone!" Michael cried. "He found it somehow." But its light was no longer blue. Now it was a fiery red.
   "It's drawing the other Stones!" said Isabel.
   "And us!" said Max. "He's using all that energy we absorbed to suck us in. We'll have to discharge."
   "In which direction?" Michael asked.
   "Guess."
   Max trained his eyes on Klima, and, following his lead, the others did the same. Uniting into a single force, the novice Earthlings riding on the backs of the more seasoned Vallosans, they fired with all the power in their joint arsenal. Klima did not see it coming. The impact of the hit knocked him back several yards, and onto his knees. When he looked up, he had a different face, and an older one. It cost him much effort to pick himself up, and with a hobbling gait he returned into the shadows, where he vanished. "Took care of him," said Maria.
   Michael shook his head. "Wish it was that easy."
   Then he and the others, again in silent communion, worked to undo the damage that had been done, everywhere it had been done. Those who had done it were now cut loose from their tether and remembered next to nothing of what had happened after they had entered the tent earlier in the evening. Deprived of purpose and of understanding, seeking comfort and peace of mind where it was soonest found, they began to leave for their homes, a few at a time.
   Valenti found Len Trivitt sitting on a curb, looking as confused as his former disciples. His wife ran up and sat at his side. "Len! Are you all right?"
   "What happened?" he asked her. "What the hell happened?"
   Valenti regarded the two of them coldly. "Musta been aliens."
   "Aliens?" said Len. "There are no aliens. That was all–" He stopped, realizing his slip.
   "A hoax?" said Valenti. "I thought you two were the great alien experts."
   Len lowered his head. "That was a performance," said Michele. "We don't know any more about them than that speech you heard. It was part of the packet we were handed. We were sent here to plant the seed of suspicion in people's minds."
   "Sent by BEAM?"
   Michele showed her surprise. "How did you find that out?" She saw he was not going to tell her. "Yes," she said. "But it's bigger than that."
   "How much bigger?" Valenti asked. This Michele could not or would not say. "How many others were sent?" he went on. "To how many other towns?"
   "You think they'd tell us?" She seemed sincerely distressed. "It was never supposed to come down this way." Her face took on a dark look. "I don't believe we were the only agents at work out there."
   Valenti stared at her impassively. "You want to be careful what you say, Mich. That kind of crazy talk can break up a family." Michele appeared suitably chastened.
   "Okay," said Valenti, "get up, the pair of you. You're both under arrest for inciting to riot." He raised his voice to reach what was left of the crowd. "The rest of you, go home. Hell night's over." And everybody went.
   ...yet the six–the ship-borns and their Earthly complement–were somehow still there. And somehow it was now daytime. Yet apart from themselves the campus was deserted. Their footsteps echoed in the stillness as they walked to the edge of the quad and stared across the empty concrete expanse.
   "Didn't we go home?" Alex asked. "I could have sworn we went home."
   "A long time ago," Isabel agreed.
   "Then what are we doing here?" said Max.
   Liz knew. "We have to be here." She pointed to a banner above their heads. "It's Homecoming Day."
   "Everything looks normal," said Maria. "That is, apart from the total absence of living organisms."
   "Not quite normal," said Michael. His eyes were on the banner. "Homecoming's in the fall."
   "We're dreaming!" said Isabel. She was amazed at herself for not having spotted it sooner. "It's a dream we've created for ourselves."
   "Not me," Liz declared. "I'd never dream of a place with nobody in it."
   "Oh, no," said Alex. He rushed off with a worried look on his face. His comrades, puzzled, followed him down the halls and into a classroom. "My home room," he said. He checked the roll book on the teacher's desk. "My name." He held it up for them to see: his was the only name written on the page, or on any of the pages. "My dream. My ideal. Alex all by himself, with no one left to be afraid of." He looked sheepishly at Isabel. "Sorry, Is. I'm still a frightened small-town boy. And my fear's imprisoning all of us."
   "Don't let it!" Isabel urged him. "Fight it!"
   "I don't think I can."
   "Try."
   He tried, but faltered. "It's no good."
   Isabel grabbed both his hands. "Alex! Really try." She stared into his eyes, and into his mind–his waking mind, but this was where his nightmares fed; terrible forms–and terrors without form–overhung on all sides. "My God, Alex! How long has it been in this state?"
   "As long as I can remember."
   "I think it's time we cleaned house." Concentrating, Isabel summoned up all the resolve she could and spread it to Alex, dividing it with him as if they were sharing a sundae together; she had enough for both of them. With her reinforcement, Alex was able to push his fears back, and kept pushing until they dissolved into the walls of his mind; they were not gone but were now mingled with his other thoughts and feelings, in the right proportion. He felt a relief deeper than any he had known since he was a small boy. "Gosh, Is," he said.
   But then–
   They were at the Orbit Lounge, dancing; the dance floor was dark and crowded; overlapping spotlights, in a range of colors never seen on Earth, skittered about on the walls. The crowd was mixed: an intergalactic petting zoo comprising extraterrestrials of every conceivable shape and feature. Then the lights went out, and the aliens turned on them, thrusting at them with their claws and maws–
   "Maria!" Liz said sharply. "This has to be your dream. Snap out of it!" She gave Maria a shake. The monsters vanished.
   But then–
   They were in the Crashdown. No monsters here, nothing to fear–except the man who was about to shoot his partner. Maria looked at Liz. "This one's yours, kid." The man pulled his gun. Liz was standing in the line of fire as she had been that day, but this time she was smiling calmly. "Um, shouldn't you move or something?" Maria suggested.
   "It's all right. My biggest fear used to be dying. But Max took that away." And sure enough, the bullet passed through her without effect.
   But then–
   They were in Hank's trailer, with Hank. "Aw, gimme a break," said Michael.
   Isabel realized what was happening. "It's Klima, using the dream power against us." Then she realized something else. "Only women possess the power. That means–"
   And then–
   It was nighttime again. They were in the school stadium. The scoreboard above traced out the spiral rune in yellow lights. The bleachers were filled. All of Roswell was there....
   But they were not only in Roswell. They were also on Vallosa, on one of its eternal battlefields among the dead, the wounded, and those eternally killing; and what were bleachers in the other world were here barbed-wire cages, and the spectators in the stands were prisoners....
   They saw both scenes at once, in dual focus. They were existing on two planes of reality, one more than they were used to. Below the stadium lay the nucleus of the energy that resided there, and it empowered them to bridge both space and time. For Vallosa was gone; its death plains were gone. The six of them were both then and now, both there and here.
   A figure was crossing the field toward them: Klima, in her true form, which encompassed all her forms: a hundred-headed goddess, with all the heads contained in one. And she was bearing the Lodestone. Its spiral radiated a blinding light, like a sun's light–not blue, but red.
   "Now you know," she said, "what the rune signifies. You see it–you feel it. Hatred, always and everlasting. This is the only truth, the only source of victory. Many Vallosans fought all their lives and never learned that." She lifted the Stone high above her head. "Behold my dream." Red beams shot out from it in all directions; the sudden surge of energy caused her to stagger a little.
   "You can't frighten us!" Alex shouted. Then he corrected himself. "Actually, you can. But it won't do you any good."
   Klima regarded them with disdain. "You would resist me. Yet your own hatred draws you." The Stones they were holding–which they now realized they had been holding them all along–were glowing blue, yet red was beginning to creep in at their edges. Again they felt the power of the greater Stone pulling them. The three Earthlings were horrified to feel within them a loathing that was not theirs, and still more horrified to see the faces of the ship-borns contorted with it: they all looked like Klima. Liz had said she "hated" Pam Troy, but now she knew she had never truly hated–and, she hoped, never could.
   Klima laughed with greedy delight. "You're mine. And you won't be alone. Who knows how many others there may be? An army at my command. We'll uncover all the wells of power and fuse them into a force such as this world has never seen–the force of hate."
   Liz grabbed Max by the arm. "Don't listen to her, Max! That's not who you really are–any of you!" After a moment, his face relaxed and was as it had been, and so were the others'.
   But Liz knew she had not done it. At the far end of the field–both fields, the stadium and the battleground–another figure was standing. He called out to Klima. "You speak by halves, sister. As always."
   Klima turned with a sneer. "If it isn't my brother! The monk–the hermit." Brother and sister, thought Liz. My God, no wonder they're always fighting.
   "Neither monk nor hermit, dream twister," Feddin retorted. "But one who sees both halves of the circle–the dark and the light."
   Shrieking with rage, Klima turned the Stone on Feddin. A red shaft shot out of toward him. Then another. And another. He dodged them as he continued his approach. But each of his steps fell more weakly than the last. The red bolts grew weaker too. The powers of the two Vallosans were waning, eroded by the very energy that enabled them.
   At last Feddin stopped in front of his sister. She drew back, but not far enough. He laid his hand on the Lodestone, and its light shifted from red to blue. Feddin turned to the six. "In the sandwriting of our dead world," he said, "this rune signifies hatred. That much is so. But it also signifies love. The two are halves of the same circle. Each is the only power that can defeat the other. Neither can be defined, only discovered. And the discovery can only happen within yourself. Some of you have discovered hatred. Others"–he looked at the Earthlings–"have yet to." His voice enlarged to resound over the whole field. "But how much greater is the power of your love!"
   As they listened any dark feelings they had harbored were swept away, to be replaced by pure light: the blue light of the Stones they were holding. It all poured into the great Stone, the one Stone, which flashed a brilliant white and then burst into a thousand gleaming slivers; the spectacle of it was like Roswell's yearly Fourth of July display, only bigger and better. Klima was thrown back several yards; Feddin stood his ground. But what had disintegrated, the others saw at once, was only an outer shell; the thing it had encased was intact, exposed–and it was hurtling toward them. Max made a leap for it; Liz did the same, but two seconds sooner. As the others gathered around she opened her hand to reveal a round yellow gem, like the others but larger. "Behold the Lodestone," said Feddin, "freed of its confines. It should be borne by the one in whom the power of love is strongest."
   Liz offered it to Max. He shook his head. "By rights it belongs to you." Feddin nodded his approval.
   "Then it belongs to us all," said Liz. She gave Alex her smaller Stone so that each of them had one. Without another word they moved into the V formation.
   But now they were one too many. "Where will you stand?" Max asked Liz.
   "Where the ship stood." she said.
   "The sixth symbol," Max murmured.
   Liz nodded. "It knew what you had to do all along."
   When she had taken her place they all lifted their Stones and extended them toward the center of the V. Their hands were glowing blue. The glow spread up their arms and to their whole bodies, and blue rays emanated from each of them to all the others, forming a web of blue light, as if they were suns in themselves. They felt flowing through them what they could only have described as goodness: the essential goodness of the universe. When it had filled them completely they opened their hands to reveal–nothing. The transfer was complete; the power of the Stones had passed into them.
   They looked around for Klima, but she was gone. So were the football crowd and the corpses of the field. Only Feddin remained. "Is it over?" Alex asked him. "I think it's over."
   Feddin looked kindly on them. "Not for you. For you are now the guardians of the citadel–you and such allies as you can muster. The war for this world begins here. With luck, it may end here. Our day–mine and Klima's–is past. The future is yours."
   "We don't mind," Liz said. "Honestly, we don't. Only–first, could we get some sleep? For some reason I can't keep my eyes open."
   "Return to your beds, my children." His voice echoed in their heads. "For in truth you never left them. All that has passed"–the voice began to fade–"was in the dreamtime."
   On the last words, Liz opened her eyes to find herself in her room. Now she remembered having gone home hours before. Her head sank into the pile of pillows and she returned to sleep. But this time it would be a sleep free of false dreams. The six of them had prevailed, tonight. But there would be more nights to come.
   The following Sunday a pair of visitors slid chairs up to the bed where Jim, Sr. lay with his eyes shut. "Clock's winding down," the orderly had told Junior. He was one of the pair; the other was a girl his father would not have recognized even if he had been aware of her. Very gently she took his hand, and very gently reached into him.
   He opened his eyes. They took her in, and then they took in his son. "Jimmy!" he said. "Why didn't you tell me? I was right the whole time." He was not angry, but happy: vindicated at last. "You oughta had told me," he said.
   Junior struggled to hold back his tears. "Only part right, Pop. You figured them for the bad guys. And the one you were tracking was one of the worst. But some of 'em"–he glanced at Isabel–"are the closest thing to angels we're likely to see."
   "Reckon I'm–'bout due to find–out." The last word was little more than a gasp; there was no more strength in him. He shut his eyes again.
   "He's going," said Isabel. "Shall I let him?"
   His son nodded. She released the old man's hand. His breathing became shorter, and soon it stopped. He was at peace finally, and it showed in his face. Jim let the tears roll now, and through them he looked across at Isabel. "Thank you," he said.
   She smiled. "He was a kind man. A good man."
   "I'm glad you saw that in him. Not many people did, later on. But he was doing his best, you know? Trying to deal with it."
   "You mean, with us," said Isabel. "I know. We all have to learn to do that."
   When they emerged the other five were waiting outside. Alex saw a grace in Isabel's countenance that had not been there before. She moved to him and clasped his hand.
   Then the sheriff spoke. "I got something to say to you three. And your friends here." He paused, searching for the right words. "A lot of people have been hurt on account of you being here. Not your fault, it's just how things played out. But you can help. You can fix it for some of 'em. And keep other people from getting hurt too. Nobody else can do that. It's your–calling, so to speak. So would you think about it? Please, just–think about it?"
   Each of the six glanced at the others.
   "I'm in," said Michael.
   "All opposed?" Maria asked. There was a silence.
   "So," said Max," tomorrow we start saving the world."
   "Not tomorrow," said Liz. "We've got school–really, this time." The others groaned; in the fuss it had slipped their minds.
   "Dear journal," Liz wrote that evening, "you may be wondering why you haven't heard from me in, like, forever. It seems that the more caught up in life you are, the less you have to say about it. I used to confide to you all my hopes and expectations. And now guess what? Not only have they all come true, more things have happened to me than I ever dreamed of. And it just doesn't stop. So I have a feeling you won't be hearing from me for a while. Hope you won't mind. Good night. Yours truly, Liz."
   She shut the book. Then she crossed to the window and leaned out. She stared into the sky, past the V pattern to a true star: Polaris, the fixed center of an ever-revolving wheel. And to its truth she addressed a prayer:
      "Star light, star bright
      First star I see tonight
      Wish I may, wish I might
      Have the wish I wish tonight."
   She turned to the boy who had been standing silently behind her the whole time, waiting for her to finish. She was all his now. And he was hers. Forever and always. Their two bodies united–arms, lips, all that could meet or be met–tinged, as if by magic, with the silver of the celestial lights.

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