CHAPTER FOURTEEN


    Sam's shoulders shrieked in protest as he dipped the roller into the
paint tray for the umpteenth time.  Gritting his teeth, he applied paint
to the ceiling yet again.  Apart from the wet, sticky swish of the
roller, the room was silent and he realised the soft singing that always
accompanied Helen while she worked had stopped.  Glancing down, he saw
her roller sitting idly in her tray and she was nowhere to be seen.
Unlike the previous night, her disappearance did not disturb him unduly.
The horror of the events of darkness had faded rapidly with the coming
of day, and seemed no more than the insubstantial shadows of a night-
mare.  Mamo was right, Helen remembered nothing and he was more
determined than ever not to spoil whatever time remained to them with
wondering and wishing.  So when Helen had pushed him up the stepladder
he'd given no more than a half-hearted grumble and settled down to the
simple domestic pleasure of painting.
    However, his enthusiasm for the task had decreased in direct
proportion to the increase of aches in his neck, shoulders and arms.  He
rotated his shoulders to ease stiff muscles and looked to see how much
ceiling was left to paint.  Still nearly half.  Grimacing with disgust,
he wondered what the time was, feeling peckish and thirsty.  A beer
would go down real easy.  He was halfway down the ladder, when a wave of
the Supremes assaulted his eardrums, Diana Ross plaintively asking
'Where did our love go?' while the backing singers 'Baby, baby-ed'
cheerfully and the band bounced the rhythm along.
    Helen danced through the doorway, carrying a plate of overstuffed
sandwiches in one hand and a couple of bottles in the other.  She knelt
before the stepladder and bowed a head protected from paint by an old
scarf, offering the plate and bottles high above her to Sam as he stood,
bemused, in his lofty position.
    "This humble maidservant brings sweet wines and fresh viands for
thee, O Lord and Master."  She had to yell above the sound of Miss Ross
and company, which rather spoiled the humble effect.
    "Thy Lord and Master thanks thee," Sam yelled back, taking a
sandwich and bottle with a small, regal bow, "and will reward thee
suitably when he has completed the arduous task that besets him."  He
indicated the ceiling with a flourish, showering Helen with alfalfa
sprout confetti, then leered wickedly.  She shrieked and recoiled in
mock horror, dramatically raising the hand holding the remaining bottle
to her brow, the other clutching the plate of sandwiches to her breast.
    "Oh, My Lord," she cried, "spare me thy lecherous advances.  Surely
this humble and innocent maiden does not deserve to perish from the same
Dreaded Lurgi which afflicts thee, marring thy royal visage in such a
ghastly and macabre manner."  She gave a gurgle of laughter.  "You
should see yourself, Sam.  You look as though you've caught a horrible
tropical disease!"
    "What?"  He looked at his arms.  They were covered in tiny speckles
of paint.  "Oh."  He shrugged, then leered suggestively again.  "My
humble maidservant will have fun in the shower helping her Lord and
Master get clean, won't she?"  He studied the upturned face more
closely.  "It's too late, anyway.  You've got the - the Dreaded Lurgi
already, but it must be a different strain because you have yellow spots
instead of white."  He bit into the sandwich, asking with his mouth
full, "What exactly is the Dreaded Lurgi when it's at home?"
    Helen rose to her feet with another gurgle of laughter.  "It's from
the Goons.  You know, that comedy show you thought was a 'British band'
amongst my tapes.  Remember?  Peter Sellars, Spike Milligan and Harry
Secombe?  They're a real hoot.  I'll put them on when the Motown's
finished, and you can see if you think they're as daft as I do."
    Sam frowned at her odd word.  She gave an exaggerated sigh and
translated for him.  "Daft.  Batty, screwy, bonkers, crackers, nuts -
oh, you'll know what I mean when you hear them."
    They carried on painting, eating and drinking as they worked.  Sam
found the Motown beat helped him forget his aches and he fairly flew
over the remaining half of the ceiling, finishing before Helen had even
started the last wall.  He grabbed a clean roller and started at the
opposite end from her, laughter exploding from him as he listened to the
Goons and the Dreaded Lurgi.  Yes, they were 'daft'!
    After they had finished the first coat, they retreated to the
kitchen to eat.  Sam discovered, by cracking his shin on one, that Helen
had pulled her stereo speakers as far down the passageway as the
electric lead would allow, which explained why the music was so loud.
    When the paint had dried, they started on the second coat, playing
all sorts of music as they worked.  As they painted they sang along,
sometimes stopping altogether to dance when the beat that boomed from
the speakers became too insistent to ignore.  They glided along to 'West
Side Story', rocked around with Bruce Springsteen and grooved on down
with the Doors.  The little house seemed to dance with them, its timbers
vibrating with sound as their exuberance infected it, almost lifting the
tiles off the roof.  The music bounced out the open windows and invaded
the quiet street.  Neighboring doors and windows were slammed shut and
profanities uttered from behind nylon drapes.
    Al arrived in time to have his eardrums pounded by Styx and catch
Sam on his knees in best rock star mode, frantically plucking the
strings of an air guitar, while Helen gyrated wildly around.  He watched
for a moment, then the beat became too much and he rocked around as
well.  The 'Grand Finale' ended and Sam gave his guitar one last
dramatic strum.  Al clapped and whistled the performance, while Helen
collapsed onto the floor.
    "Hi, Al," she gasped, chest heaving.  "Wow, that was fun."
    "Welcome to the Paint Party, Al," said Sam, pushing his hair out of
his eyes.
    "Dances well, doesn't she?" said Al, nodding in Helen's direction.
"You should see her do the Hustle and Shake her Bootie."
    "Shake her Bootie?" queried Sam, staring at Helen.
    "Shake my Bootie?" echoed Helen.  "You mean...?  He's telling you
he's gonna take me to a DISCO?  Oh, for Pete's sake!  A DISCO!"  She sat
up and folded her arms decidedly across her chest.  "I won't go.
There's no way he's going to get me inside a disco."
    Al shrugged.  "It wasn't a disco, it was a nightclub, and it was her
idea, not mine.  I wanted to take her for a nice, romantic, candlelit
dinner with champagne but she insisted on the nightclub.  She had a
whale of a time, Sam.  She got them to play Village People."
    "'In the Navy'?" guessed Sam.
    "Yeah - and it didn't go down too well with all the Air Force guys
who were there."
    "I'll bet it didn't.  Al says it was your idea, Helen."
    "MY IDEA!" sputtered Helen.  "I don't believe it!"
    Al grinned at her horrified expression.  "Believe it, kid.  I know.
I was there."
    Helen stopped gaping in disbelief.  Her eyes narrowed.  "I bet he'll
perv at all the girls."
    "I will not!  I mean, I didn't," Al retorted indignantly.  Sam
raised one eyebrow.  "Well, not much, anyway.  Speaking of dancing
reminds me," he went on hurriedly, "ask her if she can waltz, Sam, 'cos
if she can't she better start learning."
    "The Christmas Ball at the Base?" queried Sam.  Al nodded.  "He
wants to know if you can waltz, Helen."
    "No, I can't. And they don't have Christmas Balls at the Base,
though David's going to revive them at Logres this year.  They always
had them, until his father lost the money.  I wouldn't mind learning to
waltz - but I refuse to 'Shake my Bootie'!"
    "Yes, you will," reiterated Al, with a knowing grin.
    Seeing the rebellious light in Helen's eye, Sam decided not to
repeat this.  He heaved himself off his knees and plopped the roller
he'd been using as the guitar into its tray.  He waved a hand at the
room.  "What do you think, Al?  We've just finished the second coat."
    "Not bad," replied Al, surveying the newly painted walls.  The last
time he had seen this room the color had been almost invisible, hidden
by a profusion of artwork, extremely proficient artwork for a four-year-
old, and a plethora of Superman and Luke Skywalker posters.  The
Millennium Falcon and the Death Star had hung from the ceiling,
carefully glued together and painted by small, deft fingers, jostling
for air space with Tyrannosaurus Rex, Triceratops and complex arrange-
ments of straws and balls, which the room's occupant had impatiently
explained were models of molecules.  "Yeah, not bad - for an assistant
librarian and a quantum physicist.  It'll look better when the wood-
work's been painted, too."  He indicated the bare window frames and door
with his cigar.
    "Oh.  Of course.  The woodwork."
    Helen saw the scowl on Sam's face.  "Doesn't Al like it?" she asked
from her position on the floor. 
    "He says it's okay for a librarian and a physicist."
    Helen stuck out her tongue at the room.  Al merely grinned at her.
    "And he kindly reminded me," continued Sam, "that we still have to
do the window frames and the door."    
    "That's tomorrow's job."  Helen held out her hand and waggled her
fingers imperiously.  He hauled her to her feet, and she kissed the tip
of his nose to make the scowl go away.  "Right.  Let's go wash up the
rollers and get showered-" her eyes were all green "-and changed for our
date."
    "Date?  You guys going on a date?" asked Al.  "A bit late for that,
isn't it?"
    "Yup," replied Sam, only answering Al's first question.  "'Star
Wars' is on in Charlottesville.  I think it'll be right up Helen's
alley, don't you?"  He picked up his paint tray and followed the girl
from the room.
    "She sure got a kick out of 'The Empire Strikes Back' when I took
her to see that," Al replied to Sam's retreating back.  "Though she
didn't mention who she'd seen 'Star Wars' with." 
    "Hey, Al," called Sam from the hall.
    Al appeared ahead of Sam in the passage.
    "Has Ziggy got any more on last night?" asked Sam in a low voice.
    "Well, he keeps coming out with terms like 'para-normal' and 'tele-
kinetic force-field' and 'pre-cognitive abilities', which, basically, in
my humble, illogical, human opinion, boil down to one word-"
    "Witch."
    "Go to the head of the class, Sam.  Yeah, Ziggy says there isn't
sufficient data - not reliable, scientific data anyway - on the possible
psychic potential of the human mind for him to be able to state for
certain what happened-"
    "Definitely witch."
    "Yeah.  However, the one thing he IS certain of is that the loss of
time had nothing to do with human phenomena, psychic or otherwise.  The
only explanation he can come up with for that is," Al's cigar stabbed
upwards, "Him."
    Sam's grin broadened.  "It's nice to know we're the good guys, isn't
it, Al?"
    "Yeah."
    The two men nodded sagely at each other for a moment.  Then Sam
asked, "Al, have you ever heard of the Goons?" 
    "Of course, I have.  British radio series in the Fifties and
Sixties.  Comedy.  Very funny.  Daft."
    Sam gave a chuckle.  "Helen teach you that word, too?"
    "Er, yes."  Al's eyes slid quickly to the paint tray tilted at a
dangerous angle in Sam's hand.  "She's going to be after your ass if you
spill that on her floor." 
    "Whoa!  Caught it just in time."  Sam hurried over to where Helen
was cleaning the paint equipment in the kitchen sink.
    It hadn't been Helen who had taught him 'daft'.  It had been her
son, rolling around the floor in fits of giggles, reciting great chunks
of the shows, mimicking all the voices, trying to teach Admiral Al to do
them, too.  Like he was now teaching Ziggy to speak like Bluebottle,
having increased the computer's speech synthesiser a further octave, the
high, nasal voice such a contrast from Ziggy's usual flowing tones.  All
the Project staff had caught the Dreaded Lurgi and went about their
business discussing Napoleon's Piano and the Jet-Propelled Naafi, gusts
of laughter echoing down once sterile scientific corridors.  The
cafeteria fairly resounded with English accents as everyone tried out
 their versions of Neddy Seagoon, Eccles or Moriarty during their coffee
breaks.  Even Tina was trying to copy the quavering tones of Minnie
Bannister.  Now that had to be heard to be believed!
    It felt as though someone had opened a door and a spring breeze had
blown into the Project, leaving a fresh, young scent in its wake,
whisking away all the cobwebs and staleness, slyly tickling everyone,
waking them from their dull, boring routines.  Helen and Sam's son
charmed all he met with his enthusiasm and effervescent energy, even
boring old Gushie and calm Dr Beeks.  Al gave a sudden shiver at the
thought of bright and cheerful Sammy being perverted to the ways of
Lothos. 
    The Control Room of the Project, where Ziggy reigned supreme, had
become a place of hushed tones and dry as dust data after Sam Beckett
had first Leaped, except when the Mechanical Maniac was having an
emotional crisis.  Then everyone jumped like frightened rabbits to
satisfy the all-important central computer's every whim.  Other than
that, the staff had avoided it like the plague, missing Sam's strong,
guiding charisma.  Now, when Sam's son resided at Ziggy's console, it
was the hub of the Project that was originally intended.  Senior staff
with the requisite security clearance popped their heads around the door
to greet Dr Carter as they were 'just passing', or strode in purpose-
fully, waving reams of hard copy or shiny CDs at him, wanting his
opinion on their latest theories.  Some came in simply to chat, drawn to
his ready smile like bees to a honey pot, before going back to their
research with renewed vigor and optimism.
    After a while, the youngster with the infectious grin had ceased to
be 'Dr Carter', but was 'Sam' to everyone, from the humblest lab
assistant to old Bad Breath himself.  Only Ziggy and himself had any
idea who Sam Carter's father was.  Al puffed on his cigar, feeling smug
that he knew something none of the experts or computer whizzes did,
pompous nozzles the lot of them - apart from Tina, of course.  Verbena
Beeks was close to making the connection, he thought.  The striking
psychologist's ebony eyes had appraised Sam carefully as he walked
jauntily into the cafeteria, swinging his lunchbox.  She watched as he
paused at this table and that to crack jokes with the diners and say
'Hi' to one and all, regardless of rank or position.  Al wondered, too,
if Beth knew.  Project security didn't allow him to discuss much of what
went on in the Control Room or Imaging Chamber, not even with a wife who
had access to the Waiting Room and Med Center.  He and Beth were used to
not talking about work except in a general way, though Al was sure Beth
frequently knew a heck of a lot more than she let on.  Very good at
keeping her own counsel was Beth.  
    Sammy wasn't all jokes and laughter, though.  Already he was
'fixing' things.  Sometimes he would slip quietly into the canteen and
seat himself at someone's table, or perch on the edge of their desk as
they worked.  He used his lunch-box to great effect, offering Helen's
home-made goodies, encouraging the person he felt was troubled to talk
while they ate.
    He had averted what could have blown up into a major crisis between
two senior researchers.  No-one knew exactly why the two men had taken 
such a sudden dislike to one another - probably something as childish as
a fight over a parking space.  Sam had invited both men and their
families over to Helen's for a barbecue one weekend, conveniently
forgetting to mention to either that the other was coming.  In the
presence of their wives and children, the two men had to hide their
animosity.  By the time Al and Maxine had arrived (Beth had been on
duty), everyone was in the pool enjoying a fast and furious game of
water-polo and the two researchers had discovered a mutual passion for
fly fishing.  Since then, they were as close as sardines in a can and
bored everyone in the cafeteria to tears with their tales of the 'ones
that got away'.
    At the other end of the Project personnel spectrum, Sam had drawn a
mousy cleaner gently out of her shell and discovered her teenage son was
in hospital with possible spinal injuries.  The whole sorry tale had
poured out over some of Helen's brownies.  What had started as a prank
had gone horribly wrong as the boy, the apple of his mother's eye, had
fallen from the roof of his school's admin building while trying to fix
a banner saying 'Principal Perez Sucks' from the guttering over the
entrance.  The poor little woman was distracted with worry and shame,
terrified she wouldn't be able to pay the hospital bills, not daring to
ask for time off to be with her son in case she lost her job, too much
in awe of Dr Beeks to seek her help.
    Sam's son had carefully explained that the staff benefit fund set up
by Dr Beckett would cover the medical expenses and that everyone at the
Project was entitled to compassionate leave if they needed it.  She had
scurried off joyfully, leaving a trail of breathless 'thank-yous' and
desert dust behind her as her ancient and battered car hurtled down the
road to her home town.  Verbena Beeks had regarded Sam Carter thought-
fully when she found out, though she merely said her services would no
longer be required if he solved everyone's problems for her.  Sammy had
given her a guileless smile, just the hint of a sparkle in his grey-
green eyes.  Al noticed the psychologist watched the young technician
even more closely after that, usually with a small smile hovering around
her finely molded mouth.
    Whispering recalled Al to his surroundings.  Helen's mouth was close
to Sam's ear as they both stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing out the
last of the rollers.  Sam gave Al a searching look, then shook his head.
Helen pouted in response.
    "What's up?" asked Al.
    "Helen wants to know if you're wearing your pink button, the one
that glows."
    Al looked down at his pale grey-blue suit, at the white shirt with
faint grey stripes and contrasting rust-red tie.  The neon button would
have ruined the effect.  "With this?  You've got to be kidding!"  He
looked up sharply.  "How does SHE know about my button?  I thought she
couldn't see me?"
    "Helen," replied Sam, laying his arm around her shoulders, "can't
see you."  He and Helen exchanged knowing looks, then grinned at each
other. 
    Al eyed the pair narrowly.  "You know.  You know how she does it.
She's told you."  Sam looked like a Cheshire cat.  He wished he could
grab hold of the front of Sam's overalls and wipe the silly smile off
his face.  "How does she do it?  You've got to tell me, Sam.  It's
driving me nuts!"
    "I can't.  I promised," came the laughing reply.
    "Aw, c'mon, Sam.  I swear I won't change anything if you tell me -
only please, just tell me!  I'm going crazy here trying to figure out
how she does it.  Ple-ease."
    Sam shook his head, eyes dancing.  Helen watched him, trying to
follow a one-sided conversation.
    "No way," said Sam.  "A promise is a promise."
    "Aw, Jeez Louise!"  Al nearly stamped in frustration.  He stabbed
his finger at Sam.  "You're mean, you know that?  Real mean.  When I
think of all the times I've helped you out, telling you things you
weren't supposed to know, and you won't tell me this one itsy, bitsy
little thing..."  He chewed his cigar in disgust while Sam gazed at him
with innocent eyes.  "If she knows about the button then she MUST be
able to see me."
    Sam shook his head again.  "Helen can't see you NOW.  She's
remembering."
    "Huh?"
    "She saw you once.  A long time ago."
    Helen's brow cleared and she nodded.  "When I was very small I saw
you, Al."  She smiled.  "You liked my cat and you were wearing a pink
button and pants and a silver jacket."
    "Oh."  Al blinked as he absorbed all the implications of her
statement.
    Helen nudged Sam.  "So what's he wearing NOW?" 
    He gave Al another once over.  "Wishy-washy, light-blue suit, white
and grey striped shirt and orange tie."
    Helen grimaced.
    "It's not orange.  It's rust." corrected Al, glaring at Sam until he
saw the devilment in his friend's eyes.  Sam Carter didn't get all his
mischief from his mother, he thought sourly.  "Why the sudden
fascination with my clothes?"
    "I think it's because only girls wear pink," Sam replied, gently
pulling off the old headscarf and fluffing up Helen's hair.
    "Humph.  Thank God I now live in more liberated times.  Tell her
she's one girl who can't wear pink, not with that hair.  She needs to
stick to blues and greens and greys."  Like the smoky blue of the simple
dress she'd worn when he'd finally given in to her pushing about Beth.
With the gold half-hoop earrings and a heavy gold necklet around her
throat, none of which shone as brightly as her hair or glowed as warmly
as her eyes, she'd looked stunning.  Even though she was being
introduced merely as the mother of the new technician with whom Al had
gotten so friendly, he'd been more petrified than ever of Beth's
reaction.  Helen had appeared on their doorstep on her own, bringing the
cowardly excuse from Sammy-boy that the latest developments in Sam
Beckett's current Leap had ruffled Ziggy's circuits and he was needed at
the Project to soothe the computer's savage breast.
    Beth's reaction had been nothing like he'd imagined.  Ignoring
Helen's outstretched hand, she had taken a long, hard look at the
younger woman.  Then, to Al's absolute astonishment, his wife had drawn
Helen inside and enveloped her in a huge hug, saying, "Thank you for
sending my husband back to me."
    She'd known since the day he'd gone back home, and said nothing.
"We were such a mess before you went away to Truro, weren't we, Al?"
she'd said after they'd waved good-bye to Helen.  She'd moved to the
Calla Lilies that grew in front of the house - which she grew in front
of every house they lived in - and touched the waxy petals of one before
flashing him a look.  "It was almost a relief when that posting came
through.  I thought we were finished then.  I didn't expect you to come
back and I tried to convince myself it was what I wanted.  But it
wasn't, you know.  I missed you more and more but when you phoned you
sounded so...so DISTANT and I couldn't seem to tell you.  And then when
you said about being on duty at Christmas...  I just knew you were with
some other woman."
    He'd stood rooted to the lawn as surely as if he grew there because
it was true.  He had lied to his wife so he could be with Helen.
    "Christmas Day was...empty.  I'd never felt so alone.  At least when
you were MIA I'd known that, if you were alive, you'd want to come back
to me."
    "Oh, Beth."
    "Even the girls were quiet.  They kept asking where you were and
when you were coming home."  Beth had given a small laugh.  "Ruth wanted
to know if Santa would be able to find you to deliver your presents.
And I kept imagining you with some young thing with painted nails and
high heels having a wonderful time."
    He had had a wonderful time, surrounded by love and laughter.  So
much so, it had muffled the tiny voice inside that told him he should
have been somewhere else, surrounded by different love, hearing
different laughter.
    "The day you came back you were whiter than when we'd knelt before
the priest on our wedding day," continued Beth.  "You burst through the
door, told me how much you loved me - and didn't stop telling me until
you fell asleep - and I was even more sure there'd been someone else." 
    "Oh God, Beth.  I must have hurt you so much.  Why didn't you say
anything?"
    She'd lifted a shoulder.  "What was the point?  Telling you I knew
wouldn't have undone anything, and I didn't really want to know the
details.  And part of me didn't care.  Not a very big part, admittedly,"
she'd added with a rueful smile that had twisted his heart.  Her gaze
had wandered around her sunny garden before coming back to rest on him.
"And then I found out she didn't have high heels or painted nails, even
if she was young, and she was a Mom, just like me."
    His brows had drawn together in confusion.
    "I found the photo, Al."
    That damned photo.  He'd burned it, grinding the ashes into dust,
thanking God he'd found it before Beth, cursing the imp who must have
slipped it into his wallet to remind him of something he so desperately
wanted to forget.  He remembered what was it showed, though, as clearly
as if he still held it in his hand; a laughing Helen seated under a
brightly lit tree with her son wriggling in her lap (the kid had
discovered the timer on his new camera), and himself with his arms
around her, gazing at them both with such a look on his face.
    "I - I hadn't meant to pry, Al," explained Beth, as though she felt
SHE had done something wrong, "but it fell out your wallet when I went
to hang up your uniform that first day, you were still sleeping.  And
then I turned it over and read the message on the back."
    He remembered that, too, but Beth had repeated what had been written
in a round, childish hand.  "'I wish you could stay but I know you
can't.  We'll miss you.  Love Sam.'  I didn't know what to think then,
but you stirred and I tucked it back in your wallet.  She looked so
lovely, Al, and - and NICE, and she had a boy, a son that you could have
maybe made your own."
    The wistful look in her eyes had finally uprooted him.  Before she
could say another word, his arms had been around her and he'd said in a
rather croaky voice, "Do you think that's why...?  Beth, it's the man
who determines sex, and I'd rather have my Calavicci girls than a whole
football team of boys - even Maxine."
    "I know, my love," his wife had replied, resting her hands on his
chest.  "You came back to US."
    "No, Beth.  I came back to YOU.  You're the only woman for me.  The
only one - ever.  I wish to God I'd never done what I did with Helen,
but there's no changing that now.  I wouldn't have hurt you like that
for anything."
    Her look had been very steady as she had said, "Al, for a long time
it hurt far more that you didn't tell me."
    He'd groaned at that and buried his face in her neck, holding her
very tight.
    Beth had stroked his head.  "It was a long time ago, Al.  I've
thought about it a lot and I don't know now what would have been best or
easiest."  She'd tipped up his chin, then concentrated very hard on
straightening his tie.  "I think, maybe, it was something you needed to
do.  You were very different when you came back.  You weren't drinking
so much and you talked about AA before I even mentioned it, and you
started treating the girls like children instead of little aliens.  You
did things for them and listened to them.  I realised she - whoever she
was - must have taught you that.  I nearly died of shock the first time
you got out of bed to Sharon instead of leaving it to me."
    Though she'd smiled, he'd seen pain in her eyes and knew how much it
cost her to admit she'd been unable to see what had been so obvious to
another woman; that he hadn't known how to be a father.  You didn't get
much in the way of father role models when you were raised in an
orphanage.
    With Helen he'd had to learn fast.  She'd pushed him and Sammy-boy
together at every opportunity, trying, he'd thought, to give the kid
some idea of what it was like to have a dad.  He'd cursed the bum who
was Sammy's real father, who hadn't hung around long enough to be one,
and done his best to give back some of the attention and affection Sammy
gave him.  And he'd done his best to ignore the little voice inside
which muttered that he was also a bum to be contemplating leaving his
own family.
    Helen had literally pushed him one night, out of a nice, warm bed
and into Sammy's cold room when the kid had been crying, held in the
grip of some nightmare.  That's when he'd discovered how it felt to
comfort a frightened child, how it felt to have them fall asleep in your
arms because they trusted you implicitly.  With the wonderful smell of
warm, sleeping child filling his nostrils, he'd mentally raged at Beth
because she'd excluded him from so much of his own children's lives.
    "I hadn't realised how much I shut you out, Al, until you insisted I
let you deal with the girls, even if you did it differently from me.  I
began to understand why we'd drifted apart."  Beth had picked an
imaginary speck of fluff off his sleeve.  "It was my fault as much as
yours, Al."  
    "Never!"
    "Yes, it was," she'd insisted, raising her eyes to his.  "I can't
forget what you did, but I forgave you a long time ago."  She'd given
him a sudden smile.  "You've never given a me another moment's worry -
for all you love to look!"
    He'd stroked the brunette head that time was silvering.  "God, what
did I ever do...?" he'd asked, his voice hoarse.  "Beth, I swear I'll
never even LOOK at anyone else again."
    "No, Al, of course you won't," agreed his wife, before kissing him
so thoroughly he couldn't imagine so much as even THINKING about looking
at anyone else.
    The honking of a horn and a yell of, "Go for it, man!" had recalled
him to his surroundings.  He'd opened his eyes in time to see hands
waving encouragingly from a brashly painted, old convertible that was
rapidly disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust.  Laughing, Beth
had pulled him inside the house.  His last coherent thought before she'd
chased away all peripherals, was of Sammy's long destroyed photo.  In
it, he and the kid had been wearing the matching green-and-gold vests
Helen had made as their Christmas gifts.  He wondered if Beth would have
been quite so forgiving if Helen had been wearing the gift that he'd
given her.
    Sam was repeating his color comments to this younger Helen, whom he
hadn't even met yet, let alone given a present which, when she'd peeped
inside the box, had turned her face a shade of pink which suited her
very well.
    "I know I can't wear pink.  I'd look ridiculous!" Helen retorted
loudly to the room.
    Sam pulled her into his arms, grinning at the yellow freckles on her
face.  "It's time this humble maidservant helped cure her Lord and
Master of the Dreaded Lurgi."
    "Oh, goodie," replied the humble maidservant, apparently no longer
concerned at the thought of catching the disease herself.  "Bye, Al."
Helen waved a dismissive hand as she and Sam headed for the bathroom,
arms twined around each other.
    "Bye, Helen.  See you at the movies, Sam."  Al opened The Door.
    Sam swung around hurriedly.  "No you won't.  This is our date.  We
don't need a chaperone, thanks very much!"
    "Chaperone?  Who said anything about a chaperone?  I want to watch
the movie, not you two making out in the back row.  I like 'Star Wars'."
There had been a chaperone at 'The Empire Strikes Back'.  A little,
blond bundle of energy who had bounced around in his seat, yelling at
Luke to slice ol' Vader's head off with his lightsaber and who had later
cried inconsolably at Luke's pain.
    "Making out?  Who said anything about making out?  This'll be our
first date.  I'll be lucky if I get to put my hand on her knee."
    Al stared at Sam in consternation.  "Are you for real?  Is that as
far as you got on a first date, Sam?  Boy, did you miss out on all the
fun!"  He looked at the girl gazing up at Sam, her arms clasped around
his waist.  "You're not going to have the energy left after your shower
to do more than put your hand on her knee, anyway."
    "You have a filthy mind, Admiral Albert Calavicci!"
    "And so do you, Doctor Samuel 'I'm So Pure' Beckett!"  Al waved his
cigar at him.  "So go wash it clean in the shower!"  He stepped through
The Door.  "I wonder if Beth's finished her shift.  She should be
feeling hot and dirty after sweating it out in the Med Center for eight
hours.  I bet she could do with a shower."

   * * * * *

    Sam didn't get to see much of the movie.  He spent most of his time
watching Helen's mobile features reflect the actions and emotions played
out on the flickering screen before them.  In the dim light of the
theater, he could just make out her profile and watched, fascinated.
She was leaning forward, lips slightly parted, eyes shining.  The bucket
of popcorn she'd insisted he buy lay forgotten, spilling its contents
onto her denim-clad knee.  The only time she became even vaguely aware
of her surroundings was when Al arrived and she whispered, "Hi, Al,"
before Sam realised Al had opened The Door.  Even then, her eyes
remained glued to the screen.
    Al tapped a sequence on the handlink and appeared to sit down in the
empty seat behind Sam and Helen.
    "You're late," whispered Sam.  "You've missed the beginning."  He
picked up the bucket of popcorn and offered it to the hologram.
    "Ha, ha. Very funny.  I brought my own, thanks."  Al waved a bag
that rattled faintly.  "It's your favorite.  Microwaved."  He munched a
piece with exaggerated satisfaction.
    "I don't care.  This tastes great."  Sam took a handful of corn from
the bucket and threw some into his mouth.
    "I thought this was supposed to be a date.  You should be in the
back row, smooching.  Leastways, you should be trying to smooch.  You
haven't even got your hand on her knee."
    Sam raised a finger.  "Ah.  I have already pursued some research in
that area, following the tried and tested One-step-at-a-time Beckett
Method rather than the Let's-make-like-an-octopus-and-see-if-we-get-our-
face-slapped Calavicci Method, and had a very interesting result.  I
shall repeat the experiment for the enlightenment of my oh-so-
experienced colleague.  If he would kindly observe."  He placed his hand
on the knee of his research subject.  A hot tingle ran up Dr Beckett's
arm, even through the denim, and he knew the subject experienced the
same heat.  His hand was removed and placed firmly back on his own knee.
    "Later.  I want to watch the movie," whispered the subject, the
faintest of smiles curving her lips, her eyes intent on Luke Skywalker
and Obi Wan Kenobi.
    Dr Beckett turned to his distinguished colleague.  "Conclusion.  If
I want a later, I better keep my hands to myself!"
    The Admiral was unimpressed.  "So why don't you try the Calavicci
Method?  It's produced the desired results with many different subjects.
A great many."
    Dr Beckett eyed him shrewdly.  "I bet it didn't with this particular
subject."
    Before the Admiral could reply, the subject effectively ended any
further research by digging an elbow into Dr Beckett's ribs and hissing,
"Shhh!"
    Al leaned back in his chair.  The Calavicci Method.  Fat chance.
The chaperone had insisted he sit on Admiral Al's lap, and had bounced
up and down worse than a squadron of Harriers in his excitement, while
Helen divided her attention between the movie and her son.  
    Al didn't get to see much more of the movie than Sam.  His gaze
wandered from the screen to Sam, as HE gazed at Helen, very gently
fingering a lock of her hair.  Of all the many women he'd seen Sam with,
he'd never seen his friend look at anyone in quite the same way he
looked at Helen.  Joy, pride, wonder - and so MUCH love.
    But then, he'd never seen Sam in love before, not like this.  Not
even Sam's feelings for Dr Donna Elesee-Lukjanenko, when Sam and she had
worked together at Starbright, compared with this.  Even with eyes
bleary from sleepless nights spent soothing a teething and extremely
cranky Maxine, he'd seen the beautiful, dark-haired physicist knocked
his newfound friend sideways.  Sam had never said anything to anyone
about his love, especially not to the woman herself.  There was no way
Mr Morals would have made a play for her.  Her manner with Sam was one
of warm friendliness and respect for a gifted colleague.  So wrapped up
in her husband, Dr Mikhail Lukjanenko, she'd never even noticed the way
Sam looked at her.  Which was just how it should have been, considering
Sam and he had gone to such trouble a couple of Leaps ago to make sure
those two got married.  
    Why did he have this feeling he had forgotten something about that
Leap?  For some reason, there was a vague uneasiness associated with it
- and something else, too.  Worry.  Worry for...what?  He struggled to
remember.  Something buzzed and itched in his mind like a mosquito.
Worry for Sam.  Yes, that was it, a feeling that Sam would be hurt.  He
hadn't wanted to tell Sam why he was there.  It must have been because
he'd thought it would be hard for Sam to ensure Donna married Mik.  If
Donna had been free when he'd known her at Starbright, Sam would
probably have asked her to marry him.  But he'd worried needlessly.  In
that Leap, Sam's Swiss-cheese brain had been a blessing and he couldn't
remember the Donna and Mik of Starbright at all.
    But if in the original history Donna and Mik had got married anyway,
why did Sam need to Leap into their lives to make sure it happened?  Was
the original history really like that?  Or did he simply think it was
because Sam had changed it and he could only remember the altered
version?  Is this how the people involved in the Leaps felt when Sam
changed history?  This disorienting, faint, hazy sensation that they
were not remembering correctly.  Maybe he ought to check out the data on
that particular Leap.      
    As he sat, apparently in the darkness of the theater, more jagged
fragments of memory, shards of a fractured mirror, spun around in his
mind.  A much younger Donna...  Sam arguing...  "I have to give myself a
chance, even if she does marry the other guy..."  Watergate.  The Donna
 from Starbright... himself and a nervous Sam in black tie and tails...
champagne.  An older Donna... beautiful, anguished eyes...  "Do it, Al.
It must be meant to happen.  I won't know.  God, I hope I won't know..."  
    Al shrugged away his confusion.  Impossible.  There was no way he
had seen Donna look distressed.  She'd been so happy with Mik, she
glowed.  And the only wedding both he and Sam had attended was Tina and
Gushie's.  They had all worn tails to that - sky blue ones.  He rubbed
the back of his head where it still itched.  When he got back, he would
definitely have Ziggy retrieve the files on that Leap, though there was
no guaranteeing the Mechanical Maniac would comply.  Usually there was
no problem accessing the data on Sam's old Leaps but occasionally Ziggy
prevaricated over providing the information required, claiming the most
peculiar malfunctions in a manner that, in a human, would almost have
been called lying.  And it was always when the data concerned people who
had touched Sam's or his own life in some way.  Sammy-boy had no problem
getting all the data he wanted out of Ziggy, though.  Maybe if he asked
Sammy to do it, he'd get what he wanted.  Mind you, there was no
guaranteeing Sammy-boy would comply, either.  The kid was even better at
prevarication and economical with the truth than Ziggy.  Al ground his
teeth on his cigar.  He'd have to say please.  Nicely.               

   * * * * *

    Sam and Helen sat on Mrs Murray's hood, stargazing.  The night sky
was dark and clear.  A myriad of tiny, bright sparks winked boldly down
at them, a sprinkling of diamonds on black velvet.  The air was chill
and Helen gave a shiver.  Sam pulled the blanket she had unearthed from
the back of the old station wagon more tightly around their shoulders
and wrapped his arms more firmly around her, tucking her head under his
chin.
    "I liked Han Solo.  Nice eyes - and ass," Helen murmured, her gaze
wandering the heavens.  "I wonder where he got that little scar on his
chin.  What's his name again?"
    "Harrison Ford.  He's in the next 'Star Wars' movie too.  He gets
frozen-"
    "Shh.  I don't want to know.  You'll spoil it."
    "Sorry.  He makes it really big, becomes a big star.  Let me think.
He's in all the Indiana Jones movies - you'll love those - and 'Witness'
and 'The Fugitive'."  He wouldn't be able to take her to see any of
them.  It was becoming harder to stick by Mamo and Al's advice.  *Don't
spoil it with wishing.  Enjoy it, savor it while you can.*  He tightened
his hold on her again and she leaned back even more, nestling into his
arms.
    Al had mentioned taking her to see 'The Empire Strikes Back'.  Lucky
Al.  I bet he didn't get far with the Calavicci Method, he thought.  Al
had left very quickly at the end of the movie, giving him an odd, almost
puzzled, look as he'd closed The Door.  He'd told them to enjoy the rest
of their date cheerfully enough, though, leering suggestively.  Sam had
driven Mrs Murray back to Truro, but Helen had told him to continue past
the turning for the house.  They'd driven right through town and part
way up the mountain road to the cabin, where they'd turned off the main
highway onto a track through pinewoods.  This had opened out onto a
small cliff overlooking more dark forest below.
    "Lovers' Leap," Helen had informed him with a sly look as they'd
scrambled onto the hot hood of the solid, old car.  They'd slid the
blanket under their butts initially, then pulled it up around their
shoulders as Mrs Murray's engine cooled, leaning back on the windscreen.
There were several other cars dotted along the cliff edge, their steamy
windows drawing a veil across the evidence of steamy, young bodies
within.  One or two creaked rhythmically, further evidence of youthful
passion.  Sam smiled in the darkness, wondering how many were using the
Calavicci Method and what the success rate was.  He gazed at the expanse
of the heavens above him.  I'll have to ask Al to get Ziggy to calculate
the odds, he thought idly.
    Helen dragged her eyes from the jewels on the dark fabric of the
night and her thoughts away from Han Solo's ass.  Sam's arms held her in
a cocoon of gentle strength.  Safe.  Warm.  His body shielded her from
the damp chill, his breath a faint cloud, obscuring the stars, smelling
faintly of popcorn.  She could smell his own scent, too.  Male.  Musky.
Mingled with citrus soap, the earthy tang of Fall and the old, rough
mustiness of the blanket.  His heart beat steadily against her back.
Beating in time with her own heart.  
    She stirred and turned to face him.  A myriad of tiny stars were
reflected in his eyes, each one a fragment of a life.  Lifting her hand,
she held it close by her face, fingers outstretched to the galaxies
above.
    "Feel the Force, Sam," she whispered.
    He raised his hand to hers, not quite touching.  The air crackled
between.
    "'And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.'"
    Leaping from 'Star Wars' to Shakespeare in a single bound.  Now that
WAS a quantum leap.  But she didn't care.  Their hands met, their
fingers enmeshed fiercely.  The stars reflected in their eyes exploded
in a blaze of fireworks.
    *My true love hath my heart and I have his.*