Pt. IV
     He walked slowly and carefully, looking like a man -er, ~woman~- trying 
to retrace his steps. He didn't know what good it would do, but it couldn't 
hurt. All around him, people seemed to drift aimlessly, shrieking and 
laughing out loud. Sam watched them a little enviously, feeling muted by 
this strange, impending destiny that was pressing him with its heavy hand. 
He slipped Rachel's earphones over his head, trying to think of nothing in 
particular. The singer's voice was sad and sweeping with nostalgia.
    >>Hey, Jude...don't make it baaad...
      Take a sad song, and make it bet-terrr...<<
    *Words to live by, my friend.*
    University Hall sparkled before him like a castle of white sand under 
the sun and he trudged towards it. Rachel had a Spanish III test, but he 
couldn't for the life of him concentrate in the dorm. His mind whirled each 
time he attempted to crack open a book. Bassemah's late night phone marathon 
did not help.
    He parked himself a seat in an empty lecture hall, savoring the silence. 
His eyelids were beginning to droop and he rested his head, allowing the 
words to wash over him.
   >>...And anytime you feel the pain...
     Hey, Jude, refrain...<<
   "That's a great song."
    Sam peeled one eye open and peered over at Al. A delicate sliver of a 
tie in a metallic silver tone hung from the Observer's neck and a matching 
fedora perched smartly atop his head. His shirt and pants were two similar 
hues of navy blue interrupted by a pair of suspenders that reminded Sam 
immediately of Reynold's Wrap.
   "You look...conservative."
    Al shrugged casually, an odd grin twitching at his mouth. "Yeah, well, I 
try. I just thought I'd come and check on you before the fireworks."
   Sam glared at him sharply. "Al, that's no way to talk about my 
situation."
   "No, no, no," Al waved his hands defensively, as if clearing the air. "I 
mean ~fireworks~: cherry bombs, bottle rockets, Tijuana toilet 
crackers...today is the 4th of July. Well, at least, for ~me~ it is."
   "Fourth of July..." Sam's mind traveled far towards the bottom of a near 
empty well and found water. "Oh. Everything...okay?"
   "Yes, everything is fine, Sam. Thanks for asking."
   "Anything on Rachel?"
   Al tapped on a sleek new hand link and it emitted a few low mutters. "No. 
Still the same as last night."
   Sam's stomach rocked a bit and settled down. "~Que Sera, Sera...~"
   "What?"  Al perked
   "I don't know...I heard it from somewhere..." Sam murmured sleepily, 
sliding down into the chair.
   "You just take it easy, kid. Get some rest and for heaven's sake--"
   "Stay away from boys," they said in unison.
   "You're a real cut-up, you know that, Sam?"
   Sam smiled drowsily. "No, I thought I was a choir boy. ~You're~ the 
cut-up."
   He never saw the cool blue of The Door wink out and take his friend with 
it. He had fallen asleep before Al could even reply.

*		*		*		*		*


     	He was smiling. It made the interns nervous. And whistling. That 
warranted light frowns from the techs. Only two people were relieved. 
Gushie, because he had not heard a bark from the Admiral all day, and Cary, 
who delighted in his change of mood and the promising festivities ahead. His 
brisk stride, which was usually all business, was now a light stroll. He 
seemed to be bouncing with each step. Like he was having ~fun.~ The idea 
confounded most of the senior staff. Sure, the guy knew how to swing and 
every room in Las Vegas had been given a whirl by the charming Italian, but 
this place was no party and it sure ~wasn't~ Vegas.
    Stallion's Gate was lean with people, most having been given authorized 
clearance to picnic outside on compound grounds. Others bolted at the chance 
of breathing fresh air and talking about anything that had nothing to do 
with the Project. The few left were the dedicated stiffs who wrapped Quantum 
Leap around themselves like a thick warm blanket. Well, Al was feeling nice 
and loose and not about to let a little work cramp his style.
    He was in the mirror, giving his eyebrows careful consideration when the 
doorbell sounded. Pleasantly. He glanced up at the ceiling, knowing the 
computer could register his surprise. "Zig, whoever it is, let 'em come on 
through."
    He heard the primary door swoosh open as he studied his face and was 
turning away from his reflection to just as the second door leading to the 
back room rolled on its tracks. He peered out from the bathroom to see the 
silhouette of a woman lingering just outside of his lair. "I didn't mean 
~all~ the way through," He growled heavenward, positive that he could hear 
the machine snickering.
    He touched a sensory pad just outside the bathroom door. Dim lighting 
and smooth music filled the darkened room. Verbena smiled and raised a brow 
just slightly. His fingers moved quickly to kill the radio, giving her a 
small, embarrassed laugh.
   *Note to self: program the CD and the lights ~separately.~*
    For some strange reason, he felt completely naked -and not in a good 
way- having her in his den. Candles of every size and fragrance were 
arranged strategically on glass tables and a bearskin rug of delicious 
texture lay waiting in front of his custom built fireplace. Couches 
upholstered in exotic silks invited all sorts of trouble with the right kind 
of company. Overstuffed pillows lay everywhere. He didn't figure her to be 
the type of dame to take to a nice little romp on the floor. But now, thanks 
to his good friend Ziggy, it looked as if he'd had that in mind.
    "Bena..." he began, and didn't know how to end.
    "Nice place," she said breezily and Al could feel his dignity slowly 
creeping back.
    "So, uh, is it about that time? I guess we should get going."
    "Actually, I wondered if you wouldn't mind sitting for a moment."
    "Yeah, sure." He gestured towards a sofa decorated in deep purple and 
hunter green with gold embroidery. At the wet bar, he made himself a Long 
Island Ice Tea --virgin-- and drew the doctor a glass of water from the tap.
    They sat quietly, Al's body was nearly ~humming~ in proximity to hers. 
He glanced at her slyly and wondered what it was that was on her mind. He 
knew a "talk and walk" when he heard one, even if the walking part was out 
of the picture. But her expression was remarkably cool and unrevealing. She 
had a good poker face.
    "Sleeping well?"
    The question threw Al. "Uh, yeah. Fine, I guess."
    "Zenfir been helping?"
    Al paused in mid-swallow. "Maybe."
    "I hope the holiday isn't causing you to lose sleep."
    Something inside of Al dropped. It was a sinking-pit feeling. He needed 
a really hard drink --Now. "Me and Uncle Sam've kissed and made up. Why'd 
you say something like that?"
    "The pharmacy contacted me about unauthorized refills."
    Al shrugged nonchalantly, setting down his tea. "So I decided to give 
the Zenfir another curtain-call."
    "Al." It was her tone. Soft. Firm. And those eyes...he was going to melt 
right on the spot, keeping things from her. She layed her hand on his thigh 
to stay him and it seemed to burn right into his flesh.
    *Oh, no...*
    Her touch. His loneliness. This couch. It was too much.
    He bolted up before he did anything, feeling warm all over. Verbena 
stood also, her face riddled with concern. "Is there anything I can do?"
    "Yeah," he sighed, the bitterness of regret already in his mouth. "Go on 
without me."
    Verbena placed her glass on a nearby table, smoothing her skirt. Her 
fingertips grazed his arm lightly. Then she was gone.
    He pressed the sensory pad, shutting down the den. As he passed himself 
in the bathroom, he did not look this time, knowing what he would see. He 
pushed open a door to the left of the sink, leading him to sparcely 
decorated room with a modest size bed and a mammoth closet. In the drawer of 
a simple nightstand, he found four tiny blue pills. Just in case.
    He rolled them around in the palm of his hand, listening to their 
delicate ~clink!~ in the darkness.

*		*		*		*		*

    Sam felt like he was waiting for the Boogie Man to come. He was so wound 
up, that he nearly exhausted himself in anticipation. And the damned clock. 
He watched it warily as it ticked off the hours. 10:23 pm. So far, so good. 
It had been quiet. He had spoken to no one, allowing the answering machine 
to screen his calls. One call had been from Rachel's mother, wishing her 
luck on an Organic Chemistry exam (which Sam had been too keyed up to review 
for) and the rest of the messages were for Bassemah. All fourty-seven.
    He was nodding off, bundled safely at the head of the bed with a pillow 
tucked under his chin, when the phone jangled. It gave one more obnoxious 
burst before a recording clicked on:
    *We're too busy doing better things than answering this phone. Leave 
your complaint after the beep. BEEP!*
     "Ha! I crack myself up-"
     "Baseemah," Sam mumbled thickly, snuggling further into his blankets.
     Just calling to see what's up, making sure you're not throwing any 
parties--"
     "No parties here."
     "Without inviting me!"
     "Figures," Sam muttered.
     "Ha-ha! See, there I go again. Anyways, just to let you know, I'm at 
McBastard, doing this shitty lab and I probably won't be back until 
~forever~--"
      Something shiny caught Sam's eye by the answering machine. He craned 
his neck for a closer look. Bassemah's keys. He dove out of bed for the 
phone, fumbling with the receiver.
      "Don't wait up! Later!"
      "Bah--" The message ended just as he blurted out her name.
      *Damn!* He hung up the phone, sighing. He couldn't just leave the 
place open until she decided to come home. That could very well be Rachel's 
undoing. Aggravated, he snatched on his jacket and a pair of running shoes. 
He glanced at the clock.
      He was down to the wire.

*		*		*		*		*

   Al was on the prowl, softly stalking himself. In the bald hours of the 
morning, he had carefully retraced all his steps, his pauses, looking very 
much like a man on a mission. To the few bleary-eyed staffers, this went 
almost ignored, as they were accustomed to his third shift routine. The 
Admiral was in Thinking Mode, everyone knowing better than to accost him 
with a problem or meaningless conversation.
   But the kid...maybe he didn't. Ziggy interrupted Al's pensive sojourn to 
the cafeteria.
   "Admiral..."
   "What, Ziggy?"
   "You seem agitated."
   "Can't you see I'm busy?"
   "Not too busy for Dr. Beeks," the computer pouted sulkily.
   Al shot a glare upwards. "~Ziggy...~"
   "Perhaps I would be bothering you with an important projection I have 
found regarding Dr. Beckett's Leap. Of course, if you're too busy..."
   "Spill it."
   There deliberate hesistation, followed by a reluctant admission. As if 
she were being prodded. "Pulse Communications Technician Cary Masterson has 
asked me to inform you that a Christopher Isaiah Horton has just appeared in 
our databanks."
   "So?"
   "~So~..." Ziggy drawled. "Rachel Horton will be host of the deoxyribo 
nucleic acid of a male embryo in exactly...fifteen minutes and two seconds."