"I take it," Pinky surmised, "the final appeal failed."

"You could say so," Jim conceded. Fully dressed now, he crossed his legs as he repositioned himself on the pond bank.

"I guess you've come to learn about your mother," Pinky speculated.

"I guess I have. I want to know the truth about her. I've heard enough rumours."

"Rumours?"

"Crazy stuff, really." Jim explained. "Some of the locals say my mother was a communist. One idiot at Kelly's even told me she was a spy. A double agent, no less! This moron even went on to say my father was a G- man sent to kill her!"

The Mensaplasms did not respond. Instead, they went to work fashioning a picture on the water's surface. An image appeared: A man in a pleated grey suit with narrow, notched lapels and cuffed slacks is sitting at a table. He ignores the drink in front of him. As the picture sharpens Jim has an uneasy feeling. The man seems vaguely familiar.

"Is that him?" Jim asks. "Is that my father?"

"Yes," Rose answered.

The scene widens to take in some people mulling around, holding drinks and cigarettes in their hands. Jim recognizes the setting. It is the cafe. But the absence of sunglasses and the more conservative clothing styles on its patrons gave Jim the impression that this took place earlier in the fifties. The view pans around the room until it stops on Cory fastening a capo to the neck of her guitar.

"Is this where they met?" Jim wondered.

"Yes," Rose replied.

"Thank you for coming out this evening," Cory said. "This next song is about addiction, gluttony, isolation, hatred, stubbornness and complacency--all the ways we enslave ourselves. It's called `Prisoner of Freedom'. Hope you like it."

Cory began strumming her sixstring, establishing an upbeat tempo that contrasted with a mellow, plaintive chord progression. As with her other songs, this one touched on themes that were well known to Jim:

Prisoner of Freedom

So many habits that none can feed 'em
Caught in these vices, a prisoner of freedom.

These ironies haunt the vendors of greed
You get all you want; you lose all you need.

Now I realize that loneliness is when
We don't recognize who will be a friend.

Enemies who dare are in the hallway kissing
Fools can see what's there. Can you see what's missing?

Lemmings will ignore any course correction
Miles to go before we face the right direction.

Bluebloods and hoodlums continue to coast
Angels are born when they're needed most.

Jim was not surprised at the coincidence that both Cory and Kempeka had alluded to lemmings. He imagined that, considering the Neutralian's view of Terranians, the analogy might appear frequently in Neutralian song and rhetoric.

The scene switched back to Jim's father as he watched Cory's performance end. The man grabbed his drink and swirled it. An ice cube circled inside the glass. His focus switched to the cube as it went round and round. His drink was almost full. Around the man, seated at other tables, were the usual collection of would-be artists and intelligentsia. Overcoats were slung over each occupied chair. Rubber overshoes replaced sandals and running shoes as the preferred form of footwear. Gloves sat beside drinks.

"You must be from the recording company," said Cory as she approached the man.

"Huh?"

"The manager said the new tape recorder I was singing into was yours. So you must be from the recording company."

"Oh, yes," Jim's father stuttered. "Yeah, we do a lot of recordings...like this. Always, uh, looking for new talent."

"And how did you like the show?" Cory inquired.

"Quite good," the man allowed. "I think you'll really...go places."

"Really?" Cory cooed. "Hey, would you mind if I sit down? I don't have to go back on until tomorrow night."

Jim's father stood up and pulled out a chair for Cory, motioning her to take a seat.

"My name's Cory McGuire. And yours is...?"

"John. John Grasley."

This was the first time Jim had ever heard his father's name.

"It's short for Grasalichuksliowsky, actually. My grandparents were Czechoslovakian. They shortened it. You know, so people could spell it and pronounce it."

"Czech or Slovak?" Cory asked.

"Pardon?"

"Your grandparents. Were they Czech or Slovak?"

"Gee, I really don't know. I'll have to ask, next time I talk to my Dad. He'd know."

"So how did you get this assignment?" Cory wondered.

"What?" John gasped, apparently feeling exposed by the question. Cory immediately tried to put him at ease.

"Covering this joint. This type of music. It doesn't look like your cup of tea."

"Well," John recovered, "I suppose it's an acquired taste. And I guess I do stick out here...in this suit and all."

"Like a sore thumb!" Cory laughed.

"But enough about me. There's a few things I'd like to know about you. For your bio sleeve, I mean. Assuming the company decides to sign you, that is."

"Fire away," Cory invited.

"We'll get your personal information later. Date and place of birth, that kind of stuff. For now, tell me about your educational background."

"Masters in Physics."

"A Masters in Physics?"

"First female Masters grad in my university," Cory revealed proudly.

"And you didn't try for a Ph.D.?"

"Couldn't. Couldn't write a thesis. Besides, I got a job offer at Creighton Research on Gorman Road. Research assistant. That's what I do when I'm not here. Couldn't turn down a job like that!"

"Impressive! Now, then, there's your politics. A little left of centre, perhaps?"

"Hey, what is this?" Cory asked good-naturedly. "The HUAC?"

"No, no, nothing like that," John blubbered. "It's just that if your are a communist the company would like to know ahead of time. You know, to limit exposure."

"The answer is no," Cory stated matter-of-factly. "I am not a member of the Communist Party, nor any of its fronts or affiliates. In fact, I'm not a member of any political party."

"Do you have any friends in any communist countries?"

"Many," Cory replied flatly.

"These could be a problem," John conceded, "given the current political climate."

"It's the current political climate that's the problem," Cory countered.

John strove to avoid an argument by changing his approach slightly.

"You see, Cory, a recording contract is more than an agreement to produce albums. There is the matter of loyalty. For example, we wouldn't want you to go off and record with another company after we've worked so hard to promote your career. Wouldn't be fair. You see what I'm saying?"

"I think so," Cory responded dryly. "But let me ask you a question. What if I traded material with an artist that was contracted to another company?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let's say I wrote lyrics for some singer that worked for another company. They would repay me by arranging my music for me. Strictly barter. Would you call us disloyal?"

"You'd have to get the permission of both companies," John insisted.

"But if both companies have publicly stated that they are committed to an even playing field, a free exchange of ideas and to producing the best material possible, isn't that permission implicit?"

"I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"These...companies...tell everyone that they are only interested in parity. They're not trying to gain any unfair advantage, they say. They're not trying to bury the other companies. They just want to make a profit and stay in business. Now I ask you, if I and the other company's artists exchange material--helping both companies and establishing parity in the process--are we being disloyal? Or are we fulfilling the stated aims of both companies?"

"But why not ask for the company's permission before making this unauthorized exchange?"

"Because the company would refuse. And in doing so they would be revealing their true intentions. They would have to expose their naked, escalating ambitions. And in doing this, they would be exposing themselves as liars for having publicly espoused a balance of...economic opportunity. Now, as a loyal associate of your company, I would never dream of exposing its inherent dishonesty. Besides, if we believe in fair play our first loyalty must always be to the market as a whole. After all, without the market none of us would be in business."

John blinked his eyes, shook his head vigorously and wiped his eyes with his hands.

"Now," he joked, "it's me who's wondering why I got this assignment."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Cory consoled, grasping John's hand. "I'm sure your company sent the right man for the job. I'm sure they always do."

"Maybe I should've dressed more casually. Might've helped me blend in here."

Cory chuckled and shook her head.

"Believe me, you would never blend in here!"

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

"You need fewer disguises," she observed. "Not more."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Cory had struck a nerve. The next performer had taken the stage and began a raucous rendition of "House of the Rising Sun".

"Listen," she suggested, raising her voice to be heard above the din, "why don't we get out of here. There's a good Italian joint just around the corner. Are you hungry?"

"Starving!" John shouted, standing up and grabbing his coat.

"Good. I'll go get my coat. Hey, can you do me a favour? Grab my guitar off the stage. It's the Spanish one."

Cory went into the dressing room, emerging a few seconds later dressed in a native-American-style braided parka and carrying an empty guitar case. John was standing beside the stage, holding one of the three guitars that were leaning against their rests at the corner of the stage. He was looking quizzically at the instrument. Cory came up to him, wrested the guitar from his hands, returned it to its rest and picked up the one beside it.

"That was a flat-top," she corrected. "This is a Spanish. See? Wide fingerboard. Tuning knobs at the back, not the sides. I would have thought someone in the music business would know that."

"Hey, I just produce. I don't play," he explained.

"We'll see about that!" Cory giggled mischievously.

At the restaurant the two shared a mixed pizza. John's half had pepperoni; Cory's, mushrooms and green peppers. Both halves were covered in mozzarella cheese. Cory sniggered at John for spilling tomato sauce on his chin. Then, taking a napkin in her hand, she wiped it off. When she tried to take a bite of her own the cheese clung, extending from her mouth back to the pizza slice. She extended her arms, succeeding only in stretching the mozzarella further. John took the slice from her hand and began walking across the room with it. As the cheese string snapped Cory lurched forward, laughing hysterically.

Outside, the couple wrestled to fit Cory's guitar into her VW Beetle. Cory accidentally hit John on the nose with her elbow. He hammed it up, falling backward into a snow bank, clutching his hands to his face and howling in mock agony. Cory rushed over to him, screaming apologies. John lowered his hands, revealing a broad grin. She threw snow in his face and a snowball fight ensued. He retreated under a fury of snow, taking refuge in the passenger side of Cory's bug. She jumped into the driver seat, pushed John playfully and started the car. They drove off out of the city.

"There's fresh snow," Cory noted as they arrived at the McGuire manor. "Come on, follow me."

She dashed from the car with him in hot pursuit.

"Follow the leader!" she shouted. "Drag your feet and step wherever I step, okay?"

John complied as best he could, but shuffling his feet through the heavy drifts caused him to trip.

"No, no!" Cory screamed excitedly, "you can't ruin the tabula rasa. Get up! Get up!"

"Tabula rasa?"

"The new snowfall, silly."

Cory helped John to his feet and continued leading the way. After a few minutes she stopped and turned around.

"Now we retrace our steps," she ordered. "I follow you."

The pair soon found themselves back in front of the house. Cory pulled her guitar out of the car, walked up to the porch, opened the door and led John inside.

"My Dad lives with me, but he's in Australia this month."

"Oh? A vacation?"

"Yeah, sort of. He's visiting some of the aboriginal tribes there. Anyway, I think I have some wine in the fridge. Thirsty?"

"Sure!" John chirped.

Cory retrieved a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and a cork screw from the counter beside the stove. She wrestled without success with the cork.

"Never could get these things out," she cried in frustration.

"Here," John offered, "let me do it. You just relax."

"Big man!" Cory guffawed. "We'll do it together. You hold this thing and I'll hold the bottle."

She handed him the corkscrew. After much twisting and a mighty pull from both ends of the bottle its cork popped out of its neck. Wine spilled out onto the floor until Cory righted the bottle.

"There's some glasses in the cupboard above the sink," she indicated. John fetched two goblets and held them in front of her. Cory poured until both were full. John handed her one of the glasses and raised the other to his lips.

"No, no," Cory chided. "A toast. A toast."

"To your career, then."

"Uh, uh," she blushed, shaking her head. "A proper toast."

Cory raised her goblet and touched it to his.

"Yelni falma goh svenkata u mata stroika," she said solemnly.

"I didn't know you could speak Russian."

"It's not Russian," she corrected.

"So you don't speak Russian?" he persisted.

"Didn't say that."

"Well, do you or don't you?"

"Moi grammatika y brezhneshenya ochien ploxha," Cory replied, "a, da, ya govoryu pa russky."

"Hell's bells," John whistled, "a simple yes would have sufficed. Now, about this other language. Don't tell me, let me guess. Your last name's McGuire. Gaelic, then?"

Again she shook her head.

"It's the language of our people," she explicated. "My father taught me it when I was a child. Did your parents teach you Czechoslovakian?"

"Nah," John replied. "We weren't into that kind of thing. By the way, what does it mean?"

"It means you lost a great deal of your family's past--"

"No, no," John interjected. "The toast. What does it mean?"

"Like this wine, we must improve with age or time itself is a waste."

"Hmm, well, cheers!"

Both downed their wine in one tilt, refilled their glasses and sat down on the sofa.

"Cory, before we get too sloshed here, can we discuss what we were talking about earlier?"

"About companies, you mean?"

"Yeah, companies. Say you wanted to get some of your material to the competition. Say your company was watching you. How would you get the information to them?"

Cory smiled.

"You mean, like a code or something?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Maybe some hidden meaning in my lyrics? Maybe something in the musical notes?"

"Okay. Like that."

"Nah," Cory scoffed. "Those company security people are too clever for that. Heck, they'd probably send someone to record me and then try to decipher it."

John squirmed at this exposure. But Cory was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling as she thought about the problem.

"Maybe I'd teach my contacts in the other company a secret language," she guessed. John raised his eyebrows before Cory changed her mind.

"No, that wouldn't work," she concluded. "They'd just tape my conversations. If they can break a code they'd have no trouble learning a language. Too easy."

John shifted uneasily on the couch.

"I know!" Cory exclaimed. "I'd keep the message short and write it on the water for all the world to see!"

"Alright, alright," John capitulated, annoyed at the teasing. "I'm sorry I asked the question."

The next scene showed the couple waking up in Cory's brass bed. Jim's bed. John looked up as he heard the sound of an engine.

"What's that?" he asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Alexei's Airlines," Cory replied as she grabbed her bathrobe and got up. "Passenger and cargo service. They have a flight school, too. I got my pilot's licence there."

"So you're an Amelia Earhart, are you?"

"No, I gave up on flying. Too much work here on the ground."

Cory went into the kitchen and began making coffee. John appeared in the doorway, hiking up his pants and buttoning his shirt.

"Cory?"

"Yes, John?"

"I don't want you to work for the company. I don't want you to do...that stuff."

Cory stopped what she was doing and looked back at her new lover.

"I don't want you to work for the company, either," she countered. "But it's kiyata. It's--"

"Kiyata?"

"It's what we do. It's what we are."

"Is that an English word? Kiyata. Never heard of it."

"No."

John did not pursue the subject. Cory handed him a cup of coffee. He smelled and tasted it. With a smile, a nod and a short "hmm" he expressed his appreciation.

"Cory?"

"Yes?"

"Is there nothing I could do or say to change your mind?"

Cory looked at him blankly.

The next scene showed Cory driving John back into the city.

"John, what do think your company will do when they know I can't be dissuaded?"

"Well, I guess they'll send in their lawyers."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"Of course I do!"

Cory shook her head.

"Think of the publicity. Think of how the press might handle things. Young woman tries to hold the company to its word. Works to establish a balance. The company will try to portray her as a sinister mastermind. But a trial? That would do what the company fears most. It would be giving its critics a platform and a rallying point. Nah, bad idea."

"What are you saying?" John prompted.

"I'm saying the company would find it much more convenient if I had an accident. Now, let me see. I don't drink much. Don't take drugs. That complicates things. Too little traffic out here for a car accident. Maybe a heart attack. A little too much digitalis, perhaps."

"Listen, this is nonsense--"

"John, I want you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Please. Don't let it be a stranger."

The pond surface showed scenes of baby Jim being brought home from the hospital. Of little Jim playing with his mother. Of the child growing up.

Next the Mensaplasms showed Cory opening the door. There, standing in the light of a bright summer evening, was John holding a brown paper bag. Jim's parents stared at each other.

Breaking the spell, Cory walked past John out onto the front lawn. There were hundreds of flower pots there. Cory began rearranging them.

"Come on," she beckoned, "help me set these up so they can catch the morning sun. String out those daffodils in a line over there. I'll do these Morning Glories."

John looked baffled for a moment before laying down his bag and complying.

The work continued for an hour and a half. Rose seedlings in a semi-circle here. Orchids in a line over there. Perpendicular to this went the marigolds. Zinnias and petunias were set diagonally adjoining a string of daisies. When it was finished, Cory brushed the dust and dirt off her hands. John picked up his bag and followed her back inside.

John took a seat on the couch. Cory squatted on the floor beside him, resting her tired arms on his knee.

"Did you know you had a son?" she asked.

"A son?"

"Jim. He's asleep upstairs."

"No, I-I-I didn't know..."

"I would have told you but...well, it's not like you left me your phone number."

"No, I guess I didn't. You know, company business--"

"I know," Cory sympathized. "I know."

John reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle.

"I brought some wine," he said, "for old time's sake."

"I'll get the corkscrew," Cory whispered.

Cory went into the kitchen and brought back the required tool. She handed it to John, who accepted it and proffered the bottom of the wine bottle for her to hold. This cork came out with little effort. John took the bottle and went into the kitchen. Moments later he re-emerged with two goblets full of wine. He handed one to Cory. She looked at it glumly.

Cory raised her hand up in front of John. She opened it to show him what she was holding.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked.

"It's an acorn, isn't it?"

"It's an oak," she clarified.

"Okay. It's an oak acorn. So?"

Cory shook her head.

"It's an oak. You see, it doesn't need time, soil, sunlight and water to become an oak. It just needs time, soil, sunlight and water to prove to you that it always was an oak."

"I don't get it," he mumbled.

"You see it as an acorn. But in every fibre of its being, it thinks of itself as a huge oak tree."

"But very few acorns ever become trees. I'll bet ninety-nine percent of them never get past the acorn stage."

"Exactly," she said.

"I still don't get it."

"I want you to have my guitar," she announced.

"What?"

"My guitar. I want you to have it."

"But I don't play."

"You can learn. Here, I'll get you started."

The guitar lay in its case at the end of the couch. Cory pulled it out, gave it to John and positioned his fingers.

"This is an A minor chord. Hit the strings."

"Cory, I--"

"Strum!"

John ran his fingers limply across the strings. Exasperated, Cory snapped up the instrument.

"Here, let me show you."

Leaning forward, she demonstrated the correct fingering for a G, an F, an E seventh, a D minor, an E minor and a C chord.

"That's a chord progression. You just brush your right hand against the strings and you're playing. Simple."

"Listen," John tried to object. "I don't think--"

"Let me teach you this one song."

Cory began playing. It was not her usual lively style this time. She played more deliberately, stopping with each chord change to show him the fingering. As the progression was established her tempo picked up, becoming more natural. Her voice shook slightly as she began singing. But by the second stanza her old boldness came to the fore. John and Jim listened carefully to the lyrics.

Seeds

Some do as they choose
The rest do as we must.
Shake our heads at gruesome news
And boast of our disgust.

Main Chorus:

Seeds on the breeze
That float to the grass
Know most destinies
Will not come to pass.

The priest says we are children
The judge says we're adults
But who knows which one flatters us
And which of them insults.

I only know I'm in a booth
When the doors are tightly closed.
Still, it's nice to see a naked truth
In this world so fully clothed.

Guard us all from the criminal
And from the wild uncouth
But none of us is more dangerous
Than the one who speaks the truth.

Additional Choruses at end:

The waves on the seas
Won't reach tidal mass
Knowing most fantasies
Will not come to pass.

And our histories
Belong in the past
Like our memories
They're not meant to last.

The main chorus repeated twice before the song came to an end. Cory handed John the guitar and picked up her glass.

"Yelni falma goh svenkata u mata stroika," Cory said, lifting her glass. Then, without another word, she drank it down, staring John in the eye as she did so.

John stood up, laid the guitar on the floor and helped Cory lie down on the couch. He held her as she slipped away.

"Zaku na zul, zaku na zul, zaku na zul," he wept, rocking Cory's body in his arms.

The story had a strange epilogue. John stood in the doorway of Grandpa's bedroom. Jason McGuire sat up in his bed and looked at him.

"It's over?" Grandpa asked. John nodded his head and tossed an empty vial onto the bed. The two men looked at each other but said nothing. Then John turned away and walked down the hallway. He peered into the second bedroom to see Jim sleeping in the smaller of two beds.

The last scene showed Alexei Kasatonov flying over the McGuire manor. He had changed his name to Al Casey for professional reasons. Looking down at the carefully arranged flowerpots on the front lawn he could make out 3 letters.

B-Y-E.

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