In his laboratory in Glenolden, PA, Mike Wallace stared at the monitor. He increased the screen's brightness, and read:

He leaned closer. After several moments of trying to convince himself what he was seeing was not an illusion induced by yesterday's overindulgence in alcohol combined with a lack of sufficient sleep during the past forty-eight hours, he decided to call Dr. Peters.

He lifted the receiver and dialed the number. On the third ring he heard the scientist's voice.

"Peters?"

"Yes?"

"Where are you now?" Wallace asked.

"I am downstairs. Just finished writing my report. Why -- why are you calling me so early?"

Being careful not to take his eyes off the screen, Wallace typed a code in the computer, transferring all information in his computer to all others within the network.

"According to my screen, we've received a message from Out There."

"What message?"

"Look at your screen."

"Geez, Wallace! What's that?"

"Our experiment worked!" Wallace exclaimed.

"You saw it like that when you walked in?"

"Yes, Peters."

"Where were you before that?"

"I was downstairs," Wallace said, trying not to give away his apprehension over the telephone.

Silence.

"You moron!"

Wallace was silent.

"Why weren't you at your screen? You idiot!"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Peters, but I was downstairs."

Dr. Peters scowled. "Why?"

Wallace could feel the anger in his voice.

"I'd gone downstairs to check the cooling system. Couldn't handle the cold in here. When I returned, I noticed all this babble in the computer."

That evening, as Dr. Birnbaum tried to fall asleep, he found he could not, even after having swallowed several sleeping pills. Ordinarily, sleep came easily to him, but today, on a day filled with myriad disappointments and frustrations, sleep eluded him.

At half-past midnight, frustrated and angry with himself and at half the world, he decided on placing a long distance call to longtime friend and confidante Dr. Leonard Gourrand in St. Petersburg, Russia. After a few rings, the person on the other end picked up.

"Allô, qui est à l'appareil?" (Hello, who's speaking?) the Parisian asked his partner, thousands of miles away, the static harsh to his ears.

"Tu m'écoutes, Léonard?" (Do you hear me, Leonard?) Dr. Gourrand replied.

"Oui, mais très mal. Pourrais-tu me rappeler subitement?" (Yes, but very poorly. Can you call me again right away?).

Birnbaum hung up the telephone. For a few moments he waited, then picked up the receiver and redialed the number to his friend in Russia. There was still static, though now it was barely audible.

This time his friend answered in English, with an accent so heavy that for a moment the scientist thought he was talking in French again.

"So what's up, chief?" His voice on the other end was coarse.

Birnbaum cleared his throat. "Monsieur Gourrand, looks like we've got a problem on this side of the ocean."

"Really?" replied Gourrand. "But what?"

"It got away from us," Birnbaum said, his voice rising. "Today's got to be the worst day of my life." His hand shook as he spoke, his throat felt dry, and his hands were clammy.

The scientist tried to remain as calm as possible. To him a calm demeanor was the hallmark of a true scientist; revealing even the slightest hint of apprehension, he believed, was tantamount to weakness, and that was the last thing in the world he'd want his boss to know about him.

For the first time he looked at the luminous dial of his watch: 10:45 p.m. -- 6:45 a.m. St. Petersburg time. Although it was unusual for him to place a long distance call to any of his connections in Europe and Asia -- he usually preferred to e-mail or fax -- it was even more out of the ordinary for him to call anyone so early in the morning.

How long has it been since I called him long distance?

"What?" replied Dr. Gourrand. By this time the static had died out entirely, making way for a clear, crisp sound.

"The bastard escaped -- le pétin s'est échappé."

"Oh no, can't be."

Dr. Birnbaum got up from his bed, then walked to the kitchen sink, where he turned on the tap and splashed himself some cold water on his face. Ordinarily, cold water refreshed him after a long, stressful day of work, but not now. As he tried to assuage the overbearing and fastidious professor into believing that neither he nor anyone else was responsible for the scientific blunder, the cold water proved to be of little help in diminishing his anxieties.

"Don't know." Birnbaum dried his hands with a paper towel. "All I know is that yesterday morning when we arrived to do our monthly examinations, we got hit with the bad news."

"What about the device?" Gourrand asked, his voice cracking.

"What device?"

"The monitoring device -- you stupid American!" the Frenchman exclaimed. "The one that was supposed to let you know if something was coming from the Out There."

"I never heard of such a device. We didn't find out about his escape until about eight a.m. our time, Eastern Standard Time. At that time the security guard had already stepped outside the room to go downstairs in order to check the cooling system. Looks like the employees had been too cold in that room. And when he returned, the computer already had the information written on the screen."

Fists clenched, face red with ire, Birnbaum said, "Looks like we lost a big chance. We really lost it."

####

In his 11th-floor suite at the headquarters of the Richland Research Corporation, Mike Wallace sat on his beige leather recliner, sipping on Johnny Walker-Black Label. The drink aided in diminishing his anxiety somewhat, although not enough. His stomach felt warm, but he knew that the world out there was a cold one. And now, as he took the bottle and poured himself yet another inch, he trembled within his soul, for he knew that the drink would provide little, if any, comfort against what was to come.

He rose from his chair and paced the room. In about ten minutes he would meet Dr. Tannenbaum. His legs felt weak and his body shook a little. He began to think of how he'd handle the meeting with the scientist.

He walked to the window on the other side of the plush, carpeted room and raised the Venetian blinds, revealing an awesome vista of magnificent pulchritude of the city itself. Looking out at the distance, however, at the countless cars and highways that made up the heart of downtown, at the people below that resembled ants more than actual people of flesh and bone, and at the sun that, at this time of the day, stood at its highest point in the deep-blue October sky, he wondered whether what he was now seeing was real, or just some figment of his own imagination.

Mike Wallace took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, then wiped his forehead. Looking straight at Dr. Manner, he said, "I don't know how I feel about all of this. I guess the word is ambivalent. For three years now, ever since leaving college, I've dreamed of the day when our greatest ambitions would be realized. Now it looks like it'll be never."

Dr. Manner said, "You know how beholden you are to them. You owe them your life, for heaven's sake. They gave you the world, and now you are turning your back on them. Why?"

"Before I answer, may I ask you to have a seat?"

Hesitantly, Dr. Manner complied. "Several weeks ago," he began, "something truly miraculous occurred. For the first time in our three-year history, we received some very strong signals. They were the strongest signals received yet. And this was very good news from them all indeed. But there was one simple problem, namely, no one was on duty on the night the signals were received."

"Geez!" Dr. Manner exclaimed. "You don't suppose it was from Out There?"

"I suppose it was from Out There, although we don't know -- yet, that is."

"No one?"

"No one," Wallace said solemnly. "No one was working that night. It was on the night I was supposed to be on duty, but unfortunately, I had to be called for an important meeting on that day, in Philadelphia, and so I was unable to work. And the person who was supposed to relieve me -- a recently recruited member, Johann Salk, from the University of Berlin -- said he could not come. So that left me with only one other possible replacement -- Jeffrey Blau, from Villanova University. Of course, I could've forgone that meeting -- it wasn't so important. But I elected to go."

"Big mistake."

"Yes, indeed. Word has it that the scientist's really ticked off. Of course, he doesn't know all the details. I still haven't told him everything because I know just how upset he'll be."

Dr. Manner said, "You've been a bad boy, Wallace. A very bad boy. May God have mercy on you."

"May God have much mercy on me, Dr. Manner," he said unhappily. "Yesterday I spent nearly three hours in my room, alone. Pondering over how I should approach the scientist or what I should tell him. How will he react by my telling him that it is I who created such a mishap? I wouldn't be surprised if he stated he wanted to kill me for what I've done."

"The scientist wouldn't do that. Stop trying to think negatively. You know that and I know that. You know that Dr. Tannenbaum would never put himself in such a position. You are the light of his eyes. You were the one whom he first hired when he and a group of other scientists decided to undertake such a task. You are his boy."

"Not anymore. For years I'd been bothered by the possibility that someone would eventually appear from Out There. I mean, what if several millions of light-years away from Earth, in the darkest realms of space, appeared a man? This is not just my imagination. What if the man or men who appeared from Out There could talk, could think, could move, could eat and digest, and could undertake all of the processes we human beings undertake -- only at a greater level? Definite possibility. What if the creatures had the ability to destroy us, with weapons much more potent and insidious than the nuclear bomb? After all, I don't think we're the only ones in the universe. We can't be. The universe being so large, it's hard to imagine there aren't other life forms Out There."

Wallace began perusing through the documents. "Is this all you printed out?"

"All and everything we could get on him," replied the bald scientist.

Wallace looked at the documents a second time. "Whereabouts?" he asked, throwing them hard on his desk.

"Whereabouts totally unknown," the scientist replied, biting his lip.

"You mean he hasn't been spotted as of yet?"

"That's correct, Wallace."

Wallace took a napkin out his pocket and wiped his forehead. Perspiration had already broken all over Wallace's face. Even with the room's relatively cool temperature, his entire body was beginning to feel clammy. "One other thing," he said.

"Yes?" said Dr. Tannenbaum.

"I found out today that the professor was murdered."

####

The day of the winter solstice, thoughts of a world war lingered on people's minds following the kidnapping of three American diplomats by Arab extremists and the announcement by the head of the group that, if America didn't withdraw its troops from one of its provinces, they would wage a "Jihad," or "Holy War," against the "Great Giant Beast" -- as they referred to America. And in New York, professors and students in colleges and universities throughout the city were still reeling from the recent murder of a popular Columbia University professor. As Detective Lampart listened to Maria's harrowing account of having seen a suspicious-looking man minutes prior to Professor White's death, he thought to himself that, if there was ever a Hell, then he -- as well as all of humanity -- was living it, right here on Earth.

"How did the man look?" he asked, not bothering to write the notes down on his pad, opting instead to tape-record the conversation. He'd placed it on the small lamp table beside the large sofa in the living room, next to a statuette of a man with myriad wound over his chest and body and a frail-looking dog licking at the wounds.

"Big," she said, spreading her arms apart and opening her eyes wide. "Muy grande."

The detective wondered if she really meant what she said, for she was a big woman herself, measuring over 200 pounds. Her belly protruded at least two feet from her body. Her face was bloated, further tarnished by the myriad blemishes on her face.

Barking could be heard coming from another part of the apartment. It was a low, innocuous bark, probably coming from a Chihuahua dog.

"What sort of dog is that?" he asked, wanting to satisfy his curiosity.

"It's a cross between a Doberman Pinscher and a Chihuahua." She smiled, revealing a mouth totally lacking in teeth.

"What?" the detective asked, not believing his ears.

"Its name is Lassie. Her mom was a Doberman Pinscher and her father a small Chihuahua."

He said nothing.

"Por qué?" (Why?) she asked. "Are you surprised that there could ever be such a thing as a perro (dog) like that?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Maria, I'm not that good in science. I guess I never knew that a Pinscher would be able to mate with a Chihuahua."

"Oh, sure. All dogs can mate with each other -- with very few exceptions, of course." She fixed her gaze to the statuette on the lamp table. "But sometimes the dogs come out stupid -- tonto -- if you know what I mean." She shifted her attention back to the detective.

"That's strange."

"Oh no it's not." She grinned. "Would you like to see?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders, half expecting himself to say no, but nonetheless overcome with a morbid sense of curiosity.

"Lassie!" she called.

No dog emerged from whatever it was. Neither was there a bark.

"Lassie, venga aquí!" (Lassie, come here).

A second later the dog appeared, running quickly out of the room, as if its master had just told him that it was time to eat. It was polka-doted, like a Dalmatian, though the fur was dark brown.

His head was disproportionately larger than his entire body and was shaped like a pear, and his legs were shorter than those of most dogs.

To the detective it resembled a polka-doted capybara.

Wanting to laugh out loud but nonetheless aware he was in the dwelling of a stranger and that doing so would be utterly rude, he held back the urge.

Instead, he'd wait until he left her house.

"That's really nice," he said, not knowing what else to tell her. "How old is he?"

"How old is she," she corrected. "Oh, she's only three months old. Was born right here in this apartamento." She turned to the dog. "Now you go back into your room, sweet dear."

The creature growled, then turned and headed back to its room.

"May we continue then?" the detective asked.

"Sure. Like I was saying, the man whom I saw tonight, well, he was big -- like a weight lifter or wrestler."

"What was he wearing?"

"It was really dark out there," she said. "All I could see was he had on a black sweater and a baseball cap."

"What color was the cap?"

"Black also."

"A black baseball cap?"

She nodded.

"Anything else you noticed that was unusual -- gait, demeanor, anything else out of the ordinary?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"The way he walked."

"What about it was strange?"

"Well, he appeared to have a slight limp. I mean, when he walked, most of his weight seemed to be put on his left leg."

"Anything else about him that you noticed that would be of use to the department?"

"No. Like I said -- it was very dark in there tonight."

"Then ten minutes after you see this man enter the building, you hear a scream upstairs, right?"

"Correct, officer."

"Were they loud screams, or soft ones?"

"One very loud scream -- then silence."

"Thank you very much for your cooperation," he said, picking up his tape recorder from the sofa. "If there is anything you feel that you may have neglected to mention to me now, you can contact me at the 35th Precinct. Here is my phone number." He handed her his office card.

"One question, officer."

"Yes?"

"If you ever catch him, could you please let me know, OK?"

The detective didn't even answer as he walked out of there and out into the cold night. He didn't know if that would ever happen.

"You believe in life in outer space?" Detective Ross asked. They were in the car heading toward the precinct when the detective hit his partner with the question.

"Well, I really don't know. I'm open to the possibility that there's life out there. Surely we can't be the only ones, especially with the universe as large as it is."

Ross said, "I was listening to a radio program yesterday." He looked out at the cold and dark October night. "They had this scientist who claimed to have witnessed spaceships landing in his front lawn. He seemed so --"

"That's rubbish," Detective Lampart interrupted. "I don't believe in that science fiction stuff."

Detective Ross gave him a chagrined look. "What really convinced me was how intelligent this man seemed to be. He was well-spoken, very articulate. Really seemed to know what he was talking about."

As they halted at a red traffic light, the rain began pounding on the car more heavily. Detective Lampart switched on the windshield wipers.

Detective Ross continued: "This man was no quack. What could he get from lying?"

"Ratings," Detective Lampart said, chuckling.

"Ratings?"

"The show put him on for the ratings. The more people watching, the merrier the television folks."

The traffic light turned green, and Detective Lampart stepped on the gas pedal before realizing that he'd pushed on it a little more than usual; the car jetted forth with such a great force that his partner, who'd not bothered to put his seat belt on after leaving Professor White's apartment, jumped forward several feet, barely missing hitting the front windshield. "Put some cash in anybody's face and I can guarantee you they'd be willing to lie."

"So you're saying he was lying?" Detective Ross asked in a low tone. "And be careful with your driving. You'll get us both killed." Detective Ross was silent for several moments before he said, "You're saying he was paid to do this?"

"I don't know. Can't tell you for sure, but it's possible."

"Nah -- I don't think so," Detective Ross said, his voice rising. "This guy didn't seem like he was after money. I mean, you'd be surprised what some people would do for money. "

Detective Lampart remembered once seeing a talk show featuring a teenager who claimed to have been kidnapped from aliens from afar. (When asked from where these beings from somewhere had come from for him, his response had simply been "Purple Land.") According to the doctors who later examined the kid, there had been obvious signs of hypertension and stress for seven consecutive days during the period immediately following his supposed kidnapping and redeposit on earth. But, since no signs of psychiatric illness had been found, they'd decided to release him after just under five hours of observation. A hitchhiker would later find him several hundred miles away from home two days later, naked, dazed and near death. The parents of the kid would later sue the two physicians and the hospital charged with his care for ten million dollars. The kid probably laughed on his way to the bank, the detective thought. "Better put your seatbelt on," he said.

"Sure thing." Detective Ross clipped his strap into the lock.

"That's just it," Detective Lampart continued, making eye contact with his partner for the first time since they'd left the dingy apartment where the professor's lifeless body had been found. "Have someone make some outrageous claim -- only have an old man do it -- and before long you have the whole world believing you. No one would believe an old man -- a ninety-three-year-old man -- would be capable of making such outrageous claims. They might as well have put a child on there. It's all about ratings, Percy, as I said. Ratings translate into dollars." Again his thoughts lingered on the story of the insane kid who was now a millionaire.

Both were silent.

"Why are we talking about this anyway?" Detective Lampart asked impatiently. "We have a dead professor. Shouldn't we have other, more important, things to talk about than life in outer space?"

"Titillating conversation."

"Titillating?"

"Yes -- quite fascinating, I'd say. We could talk hours and hours about it."

"Maybe some other time, but not now. We don't have much time. Looks like we have another Jack the Ripper on the loose. Roaming the city streets at this very moment."

"Yeah, Jack the Ripper," Detective Ross said. "Perhaps he's an alien, too. Not of this world."

####

The next day, seated at his desk, Detective Lampart began to wonder.

Around him the hustle and bustle of a New York City police precinct began taking effect. Officers, both uniformed and plainclothes, began their daily repertoire of going out into the world to combat crime. The smell of coffee permeated the entire office. Phones rang and rang. A crime victim sat on a precinct stool, despondent she had to live in the filth and grime that was New York. Officers brought in prisoners in handcuffs. Many were adults but some were kids of no more than fourteen. As the years waned on and on, it seemed to him -- as it most likely also did to all other police officers -- that the doers of crime in our society were becoming younger and younger.

Detective Lampart slouched down in his chair. He thought about the Zodiac Killer, a ruthless killer who targeted victims by their birth sign. During his three-month killing spree, the killer shot three men -- one fatally -- and wounded a fourth in Central Park. The shootings all occurred on Thursdays, 21 days into the month, or in multiples of 21 days apart. The four men he attacked were a Scorpio, a Gemini, a Taurus and a Cancer. After striking on June 21, 1990, the gunman disappeared.

Cops throughout the city were left to wonder whether or not they'd apprehend the vicious psychotic. Months passed without another killing, and cops were left wondering whether the killer had died, or perhaps moved on to a different city, as is the custom of many a killer. Moving from one police jurisdiction to another, making the task of finding and arresting them evermore difficult. Some even stipulated he was a homeless man who had died.

Not until the summer of 1996 was the killer finally captured. Police apprehended a suspect in the shooting of his sister. In his room they found handwriting samples similar to those with which the killer had often taunted members of law enforcement and the media. Convinced this was the man they'd been looking for years, all that was needed was to compare notes. After careful comparison, cops had the guy they'd long wanted.

Suddenly the telephone rang.

He picked it up. It was Perry.

"Hey, Jeremy. How are you doing?" he asked, his voice raspy, perhaps because of an incipient cold. The enthusiasm in his voice that usually characterized his partner was not there now.

"OK," Detective Lampart said. "Not bad. What's up?"

"Oh nothing, really," Perry blurted out. "I was just wondering whether or not you got any results back in yet from Penn Plaza concerning the blood sample taken from the scene of the crime?"

"Yes, Perry. In fact, I did that this morning."

"Great. 'Cause it could be of importance to this case. You know that the blood wasn't the victim's."

"It didn't even look like blood at all."

"Yeah, but it was blood. It certainly felt like blood."

"OK, then. I'll see you around."

He hung up the telephone. Detective Lampart followed suit.

Someone hollered from the other side of the room. It was Paul Young, assistant at the forensics lab. He was dressed in red boxer shorts, a T-shirt that read, "NY Yankees-1999 World Series Champs," and a Mets baseball cap. He was standing near the receptionist's desk when Detective Lampart ushered him to come to his desk.

"I've got the results."

"Wonderful," the detective said, smiling. "Hey, but first I'd like to ask you -- what's with the shirt and hat combo?"

"I'm both a Yankees and Mets fan," Paul replied, grinning.

"Can't go together. It's like wearing a picture T-shirt of Jimmy Carter and a cap saluting the GOP." The detective pointed a finger at Susan the secretary, smiling, acknowledging her presence. He looked again at Paul. "How about that Subway Series we almost had last year?"

"Yeah. Too bad they got beat by those Braves."

"Yeah, too bad."

The young man stood silent for a while, his smile trimmed down a bit. Focusing his attention back on the package, he said, "I brought in the result from the tests. They said they couldn't fax it because some high tech computer hackers had recently broken into their system. They don't want to risk divulging any sensitive information to anyone by faxing."

"How come that never makes the news?"

The youngster shrugged his shoulders, as if not knowing what to say.

"Beats me," he said.

"Tell it to the mayor," interrupted Susan the secretary.

Paul looked at her, then glanced back at Detective Lampart.

The detective gave Paul a wry look.

"Thanks a million, kid. I'll see you around next time."

"Sure, Jeremy. I sure hope you'll solve this case," he said, then walked away with his head bowed down.

####

Detective Lampart took a deep breath, then looked at his partner. "This is my first one in at least two months." He sighed. "I really don't like what we're getting ourselves into."

They were inside their car. Furnished by the department, it was a blue Honda with New Jersey State license plates -- intended to appear like any other civilian car. Larocke had even insisted on having mounds of bird manure on both the front trunk and windshield, instructing them to park the car at 8 a.m. for twenty minutes underneath a train track at 108th Street in Washington Heights; the birds loved to congregate there in the morning, he'd told them.

Behind them, at the corner of the street, were Captain Larocke and three other officers from the precinct. The scientist wasn't considered a very dangerous man, though the Captain had insisted that the detectives take precautions by having at least two other officers beside them come along in case anything surprising were to happen.

Detective Ross said, "It can't be so bad. I mean, you did it before, didn't you? What could be easier than searching this guy's house? I can guarantee you this guy's probably some nerd or some bookworm who spends his whole day in front of a computer. He won't give us a hard time."

"That's what you say," Detective Lampart said, shaking his head. "Why won't you come, then?"

His partner was silent.

"It can't be so bad," Detective Lampart teased.

"I'm just obeying Larocke's orders. I'll stay here while you go and serve Mike Wallace the warrant."

Detective Lampart stared at him impatiently. "You come with me or I swear I'll never again talk to you again. No more barbecues at my house, no more running to me to save you whenever you've got a problem at the precinct. I'm gonna distance myself from you -- and don't ever think that I won't."

After a short pause, Detective Ross said, "OK, fine. I'll come. But one thing, though. I won't shoot -- even if I have to. It'll be all up to you." He smiled wryly.

Detective Lampart shrugged his shoulders. "Fine with me," he said, opening the door. "I never had to use a gun before but won't hesitate if I have to."

His partner laughed. "Man, I haven't seen blood in a long time. I'm just dying to see somebody's head blow up!"

The detective got out of the car; his partner exited on the opposite side.

"Don't be so funny," Detective Lampart said. Yours could be the next to blow up." He put his hands on top of his head. "Whoosh! Just like that," he said, spreading them apart. "With pieces of brains here and there -- so disgusting -- no one would want to clean up the mess."

"Yuck -- you're sick. Where the hell do you get such gory ideas?"

"From you -- you're the one talking about all of this crazy stuff."

"Geez, but I'm not as graphic as you are."

Detective Lampart looked behind him at the captain's car, whose tinted side windows afforded only a light view of him and the officers inside.

Now, he turned his attention to the house. It was a beauty: Redbrick, with black-framed storm windows, and a modest-sized front porch. Evidently, the scientist was of modest income. Starting prices for houses in the area ranged from the mid- to upper three- hundred-thousand-dollar range; he guessed the scientist's to be in the upper range. It appeared much newer than most houses in the area, in addition to being of slightly greater size than the ones on this particular street.

A large hammock swung from side to side on the front lawn -- propelled by the calm Indian Summer wind. Four white plastic chairs surrounded a small coffee table on which lay several magazines, two thick books, and a coffee mug.

Two small maple trees framed the entrance to the house. As he neared the entrance, Detective Lampart was overcome with a sense of foreboding, as though a hidden evil lay within the house, waiting to devour him. Though he realized that he was still within the grip of his departmental orders to continue to try to get much -- needed information from the scientist, he considered doing an about-face, heading to the captain's car, and asking that the entire mission be called off. He was relatively inexperienced serving warrants. The only other time he'd ever served one had been merely two weeks after he'd joined the force, when he'd been instructed to serve one to a 92-year-old woman suspected of stashing away marijuana for her grandson, a suspected king-pin for one of New York's most notorious drug gangs. She'd been fairly cooperative, and had not attempted to put up a struggle when cops found enough evidence to arrest her and take her to the precinct for further, more intense questioning.

But he didn't know what to expect of Mike Wallace. Based on testimony from his former wife as well as the journalist whom he'd met the previous week at the NY Post headquarters, the scientist seemed to be a calm and collected man. He was reputed to have a great interest in Buddhism and religions of the Far East, and in the past had studied at a local seminary to become a priest.

He didn't seem like the type that would give cops trouble.

On the other hand, the detective knew that appearances could often be deceiving.

Slowly, with the warrant in his hand, and his partner trailing him behind, the detective approached the home. He paid particular attention to the fenced yard to the right of the house -- psychologically preparing himself for any dogs which might emerge from hiding. By all accounts, the scientist didn't appear to have any dogs -- no food tray, no toys, no dog poop anywhere -- although the detective wasn't discounting the possibility that there might be dogs inside of the house. He wasn't taking any chances. With a light hand on his holster, he moved several feet to his right -- enough to be able to see behind the maple tree.

A burgundy bungalow stood several yards beyond the fence in a perfectly tended yard filled with nothing other than a golf bag filled with a pair of clubs and several balls and a black mountain bike, which leaned against a wrought iron fence behind the bungalow.

He turned his attention to the front door, walked ahead.

He reached the porch. Underneath the hammock, at the corner of the porch, stood a statue of an angel, this one twice the size of that of the old frail man he'd seen two weeks ago in Maria's apartment.

Statues. Weird.

There was something about the way the angel smiled which gave the detective the creeps. He didn't know what it was. It was as if the angel was suggesting that the entire situation was ludicrous and that going after the scientist might yield nothing more than useless information -- therefore, the laugh.

Though the scientist for certain had ties to Richland Research Corporation, it hadn't been established just how strong those connections were. The information gathered against the scientist up to now -- tips given to him by Dr. Tannenbaum's former wife, as well as clues provided by the copies of telephone bills detailing calls made to Dr. Tannenbaum's old residence several days after the murder of Professor White -- were the only tips that they had thus far. They now hoped to get some more evidence which would hopefully link the scientist to Dr. Tannenbaum, possibly forcing the him to give up more information in the face of further threats to bring about any charges they could possibly bring against the scientist for lack of cooperation in the case.

"Is he home?" his partner asked.

Detective Lampart looked behind him, glancing at the captain's car. "Should be. Remember -- anything unusual and you'll call for back-up."

Detective Ross looked at his watch, sighed, then said, "Sure. You got it, Jerry." He paused, then said, "What do you think I am -- some rookie cop who knows nothing? If that's the case, you got it wrong."

"Just being safe, Perry. Let's all play it safe here."

Detective Ross glanced nervously at the captain's car, and said, "What a job. What a life."

"What time you got there?" Detective Lampart asked, looking at his watch.

"Two-thirty. Why?"

"Well, I don't think we should spend more than thirty minutes here, really."

His partner took a deep breath, then stared deep into the detective's eyes. "Who cares?" he said firmly. "If it takes ten minutes or twenty or three hours -- as long as we do what we have to do, that's all that matters."

Detective Lampart knocked on the door.

"I bet you this guy looks like some creep. I mean, all scientists are weird. Ever see those pictures of Einstein. In all of them he's got his hair all puffed up, looking like some lunatic who hasn't taken a haircut or combed his hair in ten years."

"Oh," said the detective, ringing the door again. "Don't say that about poor Albert. His theories are really important. He was a genius."

"Oh yeah?" Detective Ross lowered his voice, knowing that the scientist would answer the door any minute. "What in the world does that got to do with me?"

"What do you mean?"

The detective rang the doorbell for a second time. "Who cares? All I know is Albert Einstein was a genius. He said you could time travel, that it was possible -- if only we could travel faster than light."

Detective Ross laughed aloud. "Shhh ..." whispered the detective, putting his finger up to his lip. "Calm -- our nappy-haired scientist might be coming to the door any moment now."

"Oh, yeah? And what's he going to do? Zap me to the 22nd century."

"He just might."

A minute after the second ring, they heard footsteps, then a click, click coming from behind the door. The door opened, and someone -- they couldn't see the person's face -- stood behind the chain lock, the door opened only very slightly.

"Hello, sir," said Detective Lampart, in a voice lower than usual. "We are Detectives Lampart and Ross with the New York City Police Department, and we're here to speak to Mike Wallace."

"What do you want to speak to him for? He ain't here."

Detective Ross' face flushed pink with anger. Detective Lampart knew his partner was immediately angry, and when he became irate, there was no room for kind back-talk. "Watch your mouth, buddy."

"OK, I am Mike Wallace. What do you want from me?" he said sarcastically. He opened the door up some more, though it still remained locked.

"Can you please open up so we can talk to you? This will only take a few minutes." Detective Lampart knew that the interrogation would probably take much more than a few minutes, but in cases where a subject wasn't cooperating, he had no choice but to lie in order to ensure that he'd get what he wanted from them.

He was dressed in a bright red bathrobe. A gold chain of the Star of David hung from his neck over the robe.

But then the detective noticed something -- he was looking at his own mirror image!

Lampart cleared his voice, then said, "So what the hell do we have here?"

####

October fifteenth dawned gray. The air was heavy with mists that swirled and curled about the entire city, covering the top of the tallest buildings, causing disgust and anguish among the office workers accustomed to pristine vistas of the metropolis. The wind blew the mists eastward, taking with it the heat of the day en route to the cool waters of the Atlantic Ocean. There, the fog would dissipate, leaving in its wake an orange-gray haze that, behind the thin gauge of the smog that had recently passed through, would leave the sun dull and sullen.

In a dark alley in a secluded part of the city, Lampart's mirror image said, "It was the same with that guy in London in the 19th century -- what's his name?"

"Jack the Ripper."

"Right," said Lampart's mirror image. "It's funny how humans always thought -- and still think -- that he was a man. If only they knew. And now, they'll be looking for 'detective Lampart,' who of course doesn't exist, nor has he ever existed."

"You know, there's something else that made me laugh, and still makes me laugh today."

"And what's that?"

"How the professor stared at me just before he died. The look of pure horror on his face. It almost scared me."

"A heart attack," clarified Lampart.

"Yes," the mirror image agreed. The smirk on his face grew wider. "I gather they're still trying to determine how he died."

"Now we can rest assured that our secret is safe from all of humanity." There was a long pause. Then: "Next time, though, would you just make sure of something?"

"And what's that?"

"Next time you have the authorities at your door, would you just not open? You could've gotten us both killed. Really."

"The whole idea of having me walk away and you do the same, and then have the bomb explode." Lampart let out a quick laugh. "As it turns out, mission still accomplished -- I wouldn't be surprised if they'll be able to put their body parts back together for a decent funeral."

"So, where are we going now?"

"Wherever you'd like to go," answered the mirror image. "I'm at your calling. I'd say let us go back. To where we came from. In the future there'll other missions. But for now let us consider this one finished."

"Right."

"Mission accomplished."