Hades Connection

by Gabriel Timar

Copyright ©2004
ISBN: 0-87714-868-6 eBook edition
ISBN: 0-87714-321-8 PB edition

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Mookie, my inspiration, my love, my life.

THE AUTHOR

Gabriel Timar was born in Hungary, and following the 1956 revolution immigrated to Canada. He worked in the West, Ontario, and Labrador as a civil engineer. As a United Nations Environmental Engineering Advisor, he spent twenty years in Africa, Asia, and the South Pacific. In the early eighties, he married and returned to Canada. He was a professor at Seneca College since 1987, retiring as the Chair of the School of the Civil and Resources Engineering Technology.

He settled in Mississauga with his wife Adrienne. Now he spends his time writing in English and in Hungarian. His short stories, science fiction and adventure novels are available in both languages. His 1999 novel Bardán Kapcsolat was nominated for the prestigious Zsoldos Award, for the best sci-fi novel published in Hungary.

Artistic and journalistic credits

Published several short stories in the Forum magazine, Toronto Star, and the Kanadai Magyarság, which is the largest Hungarian language weekly in North America. His writings are mainly historical, political, or scientific commentary.

His full-length science fiction novel (Bardán kapcsolat) was published in 1999 (in Hungarian) and 2000 (second edition). The novel was nominated for the prestigious Zsoldos Award, offered annually for the best science fiction novel published in Hungary.

Technical Publications (all in English)

College textbooks, illustrated
Hydraulics
Hydrology
Sanitation Technology

United Nations, Government of Ontario publications, all illustrated
Computer aided Solid Waste Management
Computer aided Hydraulics
Zebra Mussel Manual (co-author)
Rural Water Supply Manual (co-author)

THE BOOK

George Pike, a lawyer, dies. His soul is delivered to the third dimension, and the representative of the Board of Trade interviews him. After hearing all details, he accepts that Hades Inc. will represent the interests of his soul in the future. He is pleasantly stimulated, until the managing director of Hades invites George to work for him. He is given a new body and an assignment to come back to the first dimension. His job is to promote the interests of Hades, and prevent Armageddon. After hair raising adventures in space and on Earth he succeeds and returns to the third dimension.

Sample pages

The last things I remember about my life on Earth are the suntanned, streamlined, naked body of Lynn, the report of a gun, the bullet hole in the wood paneling, and my blood on the white carpet next to the black towel.

I slowly started slipping into oblivion. I don't know what part of my body or intellect staged the fight for survival. Was it a motor reflex or the nervous system? Was it an automatic reaction of the mind? Could it have been my immortal spirit hanging on to its shell? I don't know, and perhaps nobody knows.

I completely immersed in the fight to regain consciousness. For the time being, I was winning as I stopped at the opaque brink of perception. It took all my strength to maintain the status quo. I did not think, because I knew if I diverted even an infinitesimally small portion of my powers to thinking or reasoning, I would slip into the dark hole of oblivion from where, I was sure, there was no return.

Just like an arm-wrestler gives way when overpowered by the strength of a vastly superior opponent, a great surge of power pushed me over the brink, and suddenly a piercing beam of white light painfully penetrated my field of perception. The pain was intense, but mercifully short. Then my opaque world and marginal existence exploded into a kaleidoscope of pleasing colors. There was no need to fight, think, or resist. My exhausted spirit relaxed. I was curiously satisfied, even though I knew I was dead.

The sharp boundaries of the lively colors slowly faded into pastel washes, and like a comforting cloak, a cool green light covered my field of perception. My mind broke free, and I could think and reason again!

Suddenly, I sensed a presence; someone was trying to talk to me! I don't know if it was vocal communication, or a telepathic link, but the message was coming in loud and clear.

In all my life on Earth, I was very perceptive when it came to women. Apparently, my instinct stayed with me after death as I sensed the nearness of a feminine being. Apparently, she was trying to communicate. Honestly, it was weird.

"Welcome to the third dimension, Mr. Pike," she sounded like an airhostess welcoming the passengers on board.

My thoughts were not exactly complimentary, but I suppose she was used to it and did not react at all.

"Sir, this is your moment of truth," she continued. "As your soul has been graded at one-hundred and sixty Bertons, you must decide now who should represent your immortal spirit in the future. Several corporations are eagerly awaiting your call."

"She means this is the final judgment," I thought. "Someone will decide whether I'm going to Heaven or Hell."

"Not exactly," she came on strong. "You and you alone should make that decision. A compatible management firm would represent the souls rated one hundred Bertons or lower. The Board would select the firm making sure that it has the same ideology as the soul had during its life in the first dimension. They have no immediate choice, but later they can ask for a Board of Trade review. However, highly rated souls like yours must make the choice for themselves."

"She must be joking," I concluded. "She's just tormenting me. I was taught in school and church that your fate after death would be decided on the basis of your sins and good deeds."

"That sounds like the illicit advertising campaign of some unscrupulous soul management corporations," came the message from my distant lady friend. "I represent the Board of Trade, Mr. Pike. My job is to make sure that you decide on your own without undue pressure or interference."

"Very kind of you," I replied. "May I ask what my options are?"

"I can give you the names of the corporations, describe their place on the ideological spectrum in a manner similar to the ways in the first dimension, and give you a short definitive statement about each of them. A lifetime of influence and the information I give you should be enough to make up your mind. If I said anything else, you might construe it as interference. Rest assured, sir, irrespective of your choice, you will be pleasantly stimulated."

"Good Lord," I growled, "this is just like a goddamned election!"

"Exactly, Mr. Pike," came the prompt reply, "just like an election."

"Okay," I said amused, "let me have the list of the candidates."

"Starting from the extreme ideological left," she started, "there is Red Star Company Ltd. They could be classed an egalitarian group, suggesting that you must do your best to have your needs satisfied."

"Just like any of the Marxist groups on Earth," I remarked. "I pass …"

"Nirvana Corporation is next," she continued. "They are relaxed, have very few compulsory activities, but they meditate a lot."

"I never enjoyed meditation. I pass…"

"The next is Heaven Inc."

"I'm very curious," I interrupted, "tell me more."

"Most terrestrials are curious about them," she replied and continued: "they have perhaps the most extensive advertising network in the first dimension. However, Heaven Inc. is very dogmatic and strict. They claim the most important qualities of a soul are its level of faith, discipline, and obedience. Creativity is secondary."

"Disappointing," I remarked. "I was never very disciplined, but always thought creativity was important. As far as my faith in others is concerned…

"Yes or no, Mr. Pike?" she asked impatiently.

"I pass for the time being, but reserve the right to have this option explored further at a later date," I replied.

"Very well," she sighed, "the next one is Hades Ltd. They encourage discussions, thrive on controversy, and rate creativity as the most important quality of a soul."

"Just like the liberals," I said. "They are a definite possibility. What else?"

"Seventh Paradise Inc. is on the extreme ideological right," she continued. "They seem to appeal to people with straight laced conservative beliefs. They demand high standards of discipline and hostility against all other soul managers."

"No, it's not me," I concluded. "Anything else?"

"These are the major corporations," she said. "If you are not satisfied with any one of them, there are several small specialist firms. I must tell you these are all subsidiaries of the big ones, but slightly adjusted to accommodate the needs of the very special souls. You could request representation by one of them. In that case, we will have to arrange another selection session. May I have your decision, please?"

"It is not going to be easy, honey," I remarked. "If, on the spur of the moment, I elected Heaven Inc., Father Golding's soul may become my constant companion. I could not take that very long. He will not let me recall my pleasant memories like the events in the back seat of a car with a cute little chick. We shall always talk about church, large donations; and he would not let me think of booze. Since I'm not much of a disciplinarian, I detest communism, and I don't like meditation, by the process of elimination Hades Ltd. and I are going to get stuck with each other."

"So, your pick is Hades Ltd.?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it is," I sighed.

"Thank you, Mr. Pike, you decided as a free spirit."

Like an iron door slamming shut in my face, the kaleidoscope returned, but this time instead of the pastel the dark lively colors dominated. It was very pleasant. If I wanted, I would be able to think, but there was no to exercise my intellect…

I lost all sense of time. I didn't know if a day, a minute or a century had passed when suddenly a surge of purple blotted out all other colors, and again a feminine personality communicated with me. Maybe women liked me in the third dimension as well.

I could sense she was not the civil servant type like the first one. She was an energetic gal, just like an accountant suddenly promoted to bank manager.

"I'm Arabella, Mr. Pike," she started, "on behalf of the management of Hades Ltd. I would like to congratulate you for your clear, logical and fair decision."

"I really had no choice, honey," I replied. "Perhaps it was a vote for the other poor souls I left behind."

"It was a logical choice," she continued. "If you're interested, your explanation was very similar to some of the greatest souls we get from Earth."

"Like who?" I demanded.

"Oh, like the very special ones, Julius Caesar for one. I know you're a great admirer of him."

"Yeah," I grunted. "I was always fascinated with him. Caesar was the pinnacle of professional leadership, and came as close to perfection as possible. He made only one big mistake; relying on tradition hoping that everybody will observe the "no arms at the senate" rule. It cost him his life. You understand that in this respect I differ from my idol. I have no use for traditions because I know they would always get me in trouble. What else do you know about me, Arabella?"

"There is not much I don't know, Mr. Pike," she replied. "I know most of your secret desires and many things even you forgot or would like to forget…"

My new body must have been the exact replica of the old one, since it performed quite well during the rather interesting bedroom gymnastics. I slept like a log; I did not even noticed when Cleo left the apartment. Only the lingering scent of her perfume on my pillow reminded me of last night's exciting events.

I dressed swiftly but with care since appearances are important in legal profession. As always, I looked in the mirror before stepping out of my apartment. I was satisfied; I radiated confidence.

Although I was never a fast driver, I managed to beat Arabella's record to the office easily. It was not nearly as scary as my first trip. I had very little doubt that it was the combination of my route planning and the supremacy of the American cars that did the trick. It was a pleasant drive, although a shade faster than my normal tempo.

Like walking into my old office, I swaggered into Luce's inner sanctuary exactly at seven o'clock. The project team, Attila and Niccollo, was there. They seemed to be in an ebullient mood. Doubtless, they solved most problems related to my mission.

"Hi, George," Lucifer greeted me, "I see you took yesterday's little fiasco in stride. You look well."

I mumbled something unintelligible just like in the old days when I made my remarks to the press during a trial, a special statement, which could be sufficiently misunderstood or misquoted. I sat down, loosened my tie, put my feet up and displayed one of my standard smiles, the one I used at the opening statement to the jury in an apparently lost case.

"Let's get on with the task at hand," Luce started. "Nick, could you give us an update on the state of the project?"

Machiavelli opened the lid of his computer and begun his presentation: "I ran a situation analysis program of project Earth Two. My conclusions are quite interesting. George, your primary objective is to convince the planet's leaders about the decay of the orbit. This will take some doing, but given the proper scientific evidence you would likely succeed. The most difficult part of your project will be the arrangement of discreet contact with the Earth leaders. No matter what happens, you must avoid the big splash. In comparison, talking the terrestrials into cooperation with the Khomus to correct the orbit of their planet would be easy."

"I'll have to work out a quiet but effective approach," I replied.

"That's right," Nick said. "We won't be able to help you in this aspect of the work."

"I understand," I replied.

"The actual correction of the orbit will involve the construction of a field of thrusters on the moon," Nick explained. "Given the current financial state of their major industrial powers, this will be difficult to manage but not impossible."

"I'll do my best," I grunted.

"Don't try to persuade the Earth leaders to accept the Khomus as immigrants and give them a reasonable piece of real estate they could call home," he continued. "Leave that to the Khomu politicians when they arrive. They need professional satisfaction anyway."

"I won't discuss the matter of immigration and homeland," I promised.

"To conclude," Nick said like a jury foreman announcing the verdict, "I fed all the data including George's record and his personality profile into the supercomputer. The output is that if we installed him as the Khomu negotiator, the probability of total success would be 77.45 percent. If we used any other negotiator from our reserves, the chances would be down to 62.28 percent at best. Any questions?"

All eyes were on me. I shrugged: "I am beginning to like your computer. Finally, someone appreciates my talents. At this point, Nick, I've no questions."

"Well," he continued, "the major problem will be the installation of George as the Khomu negotiator. It would not be as easy as you might think."

"Nothing is easy," sighed Luce.

"Let's see what our options are," Machiavelli continued giving Luce the dirtiest look he could manage. "The skipper of the Nimrod, Captain Rudolf von Vardy, is one of the most decorated officers of the Khomu fleet; a brave, courageous soldier, a very competent spaceship commander. There is, however, a little matter, which bothers me: his state of mind. He was severely wounded during their Great War, and spent a long time in a sanatorium. When our agent examined his record, he found that his injury was psychological in nature. This is his first command in five years."

"It doesn't matter," Luce interjected. "His job is only to drive."

Nick gave him a long look: "I wish you'd let me finish before making your comments. Anyway, the negotiator appointed by the governing council is a brilliant young lawyer, Ann Forrest. She is on board of the Nimrod. Our man on the cruiser, the ship's doctor, says that there were sudden significant changes in Miss Forrest's behavior: she started a red hot love affair with the Captain."

"Big deal," I remarked, "they just like one another. Two young, energetic, healthy people; it is their choice."

"You too should learn to shut up until I finish rather than draw premature conclusions," Nick stated. "According to our records, Miss Forrest is a refined, reclusive lady. There were rumors that she was a lesbian. Now she behaves like a streetwalker, smokes cigars and drinks like a sailor. Although scanning naturally evolved persons is strictly against the law, we ran a scan on her. We concluded that her soul and body link was artificial. In other words, her soul belongs to somebody else, a guy we know as Ivan. He already cost us a bundle on other projects. If he were in charge of the negotiations, it would be a spectacular failure for sure. If the talks collapse, Captain von Vardy can start shooting and earning some more battle honors. Our situation analysis suggests that it won't be easy installing George as the negotiator, in fact it will be very difficult."

"I don't think so," Luce said firmly, "Gemma could find a body for George in the first dimension, and put him into a little ship with a neutron drive. Let him catch up with the Nimrod. George could carry forged documents saying that the Khomu President ordered him to take over from Miss Forrest. It should be relatively easy; we could implement it in a couple of days."

"No," I snapped. "It wouldn't be wise. Whoever is inside Miss Forrest, will immediately know who is sending a replacement for her. Obviously, she has a measure of control over the Captain; thus, I would either spend the rest of the trip in the brig or put on the public transport immediately. Then we'd be back to square one."

"George has a point," Attila interjected. "I don't think it would work either."

"What if George would be sent to replace the Captain?" Nick suggested. "We could create the impression that von Vardy was promoted to admiral or something."

"This is not much better," I said quietly. "Although any interference with the established routine of the ship would be dangerous. Ivan may immediately smell the rodent, and whatever form I used, he would put me on the public transport. I am sure we could work out something to preempt Ivan's attack on me. The major problem is that I don't know the controls of a spaceship from my own arse."

"You could learn," Attila interjected.

I gave him the dirtiest look I could come up with on such short notice but continued relentlessly: "Perhaps the first alternative would be a little better. Either way, I'd have to take some chances."

"What if we yanked the soul out of Miss Forrest's body and installed George's?" Nick asked. "I know it's illegal, but who cares. Gemma has to prove herself, and the Nimrod is still very close to her base; she could set it up easily."

I was shocked. The fact that I may have to occupy the body of a woman scared me out of my mind. Fortunately, before I could express my misgivings, Luce came to the rescue…

"Good morning, Toronto Herald," came a bored, angelic, feminine voice. I knew her from the good old days; the lady weighed no less than 350 pounds, was a bitch, and resembled the overweight Wicked Witch of the West, but her voice was impeccable.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Michael Horn, if you please," I replied.

"Just a minute," said the bored angel at the other side of the line. There was some clicking and static, but finally a familiar throaty voice came through the ether: 'Mike Horn speaking."

He was a good friend; we met first in the early days of my legal career. Mike interviewed me while I was suing the Canadian Government on behalf of a small Newfoundland fishing company. I reached a sizeable, out of court settlement, which was news in those days since the government did not settle with anybody. Actually, I managed bluffing another bluffer with a mediocre hand. The government lawyer believed that we had a very strong case. We did not although I was sure percentages slightly favored my client at a trial.

After the interview, Mike and I got roaring drunk and I allegedly challenged a bronze statue for a wrestling bout. It was such an enjoyable time that we kept in touch and had quite a few similar adventures, each involving different combinations of wine, women and songs all taken to excess.

Mike was born to become a newspaperman, as I was born to be a lawyer. Nobody in the media business operated quite like him. He was a perfectionist, scrupulously honest, intelligent with great sense of humor in addition to being the most capable writer I have ever read. He did not write a single word on the greatest sensation until he could substantiate all of his claims. His writing style was easy to read and most entertaining; I wish I were half as good as he was.

With such qualifications, Mike was a prime candidate for the unemployment line, but he disappointed everybody becoming a syndicated columnist and political commentator. His column was widely read and often debated by large segments of the population. Being the best in the business many young journalists tried to emulate him. Mike's secret was that he recognized the basic qualities of the politicians early in his career and figured out what made them tick. Having an analytical mind, he could predict most major political events with uncanny accuracy. I decided to contact him, come clean, ask for his advice, and then work out what to do.

I swallowed hard: "Hi, this is George Pike speaking. How are you, Mike?"

There was a momentary silence.

"You must be mad; George is dead," he said. "In fact, I wrote his obit and attended his funeral. Now, you claim that you are he. Do you think I am some kind of a fool?"

"Mike, I am neither mad, nor do I think you are a fool," I replied calmly, "but that doesn't change the fact that I am George Pike reincarnated. Test me if you wish."

He must have thought I was completely crazy, but evidently, he was not very busy and decided to play along.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "I cannot be talking to a dead man!"

"There is always a firs time, Mike," I replied. "I wish you'd test me. Ask me any question about George Pike and you'll see I'm genuine."

"Well," he said, "I'll play along. Do you remember the details of the suit of Red Cod Ltd. versus the Government of Canada?"

"It was my favorite case," I replied.

"What was the outcome?"

"We won. I convinced that nincompoop, Addison Bigglestown-Kirklance the third, B.A., Ll.D., Q.C., etc., to settle out of court."

"How much was the settlement?" he snapped.

"Mike, old friend, when you asked me that the first time we met. I said it was confidential. Do you remember?"

"I do," he replied slowly.

"Since I'm dead and no longer the lawyer of Red Cod, I can tell you although I'm sure you checked it out. Did you?"

"Of course, I did," he replied.

"Well, it was four million dollars," I replied.

There was a long silence on the other end.

"True," Mike said, "but I just thought of another possibility: George's secretary may have known the details and passed them on to her boyfriend."

"That's a laugh," I replied. "Gail's only boyfriend ever was a crazy Russian sailor who loved overweight women, preferably heavier than three hundred pounds. Gail with her 280 was a little bit on the skinny side. Anyway, if I were Igor, I'd have a Russian accent."

"That's correct," Mike stated, "but you could be a friend of Igor. May I ask you a few more questions?"

"Shoot."

"Do you remember the events when George and I went out for dinner after the first interview?"

"Vaguely, yes," I replied. "We went to a Hungarian restaurant and ate stuffed peppers in tomato sauce. You drank a red wine called Bull's Blood, and I had a medium dry Medoc. Later we got drunk in a bar called the Jungle, and the film broke. I do not remember anything else except that I recovered in my hotel room in bed with a strange brunette. Her name was Cecilia something, an air hostess of Lufthansa."

"Close enough," he said. "George was prudent enough not to talk about Cecilia to anybody because he was married at the time."

"Come on," I remarked, "do you think I'd ever let a petty issue like marriage wows stand in the way of a great adventure as she was? Anyway, Jo-Ann was cheating on me at the same time. She was in Chicago in the bed of a gallery owner exhibiting her paintings. The guy was Harry Whistworth and according to Jo-Ann, he loved oral sex. She told me about him after our divorce. Do you have any more questions?"

"Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "George challenged a bronze statue for a wrestling bout. Who was it?"

"Mike, you are incorrigible. You tried this bullshit on me often. You claimed I challenged Sir Wilfrid Laurier, but I am afraid I cannot confirm it. I was too drunk."

"Reluctantly, I must agree that you were either the closest confidant of George Pike or you really are some kind of a reincarnation of him. What can I do for you?"

"I would like to have your advice in a very sensitive matter," I replied. "It would be a long and difficult discussion over the phone."

"Just give me a hint."

"You'd faint if I told you," I stated.

"I'm tough."

"Remember, Mike, you asked for it," I replied.

"I do, now come on, give."

"Well, Earth has been invaded by an extraterrestrial mission," I stated, "and I am the leader of their advance team."

I half expected him slamming down the receiver, but the newsman in Mike prevailed. No matter how stupid a call may be, a good reporter must listen for a while. Every wild story has a remote chance of being true.

"You're right, I asked for it," he said in a resigned tone. "First I have to deal with the reincarnation of a friend; and now you throw in extraterrestrials too. I need a drink."

"I'm sure you still keep a bottle of Cardhue in the lower left hand drawer of your desk," I remarked.

"Shit," he exploded obviously losing his cool. "Nobody knew that! You may just be the reincarnation of George Pike. I want to see you. Where are you?"

"I'm at the Castle Motel on Dundas Street in Mississauga, in unit thirty three," I replied.

"Stay put," he roared, I'm coming."

"Just one thing Mike, please come alone. I don't want to have a TV crew to deal with. I know I can trust you, but I am not sure about the others. One of them may decide to go to the tabloids with the news."

"George old boy, do you think I've gone completely bonkers since we last met?" Mike asked. "I wouldn't trust my mother with this story. When do we meet?"

"As soon as you get here," I replied.

"Don't move. I'm on my way," Mike said and slammed down the receiver.

I hung up and took a deep breath.

"Well," Esther asked, "how soon will he arrive?"

"No less than an hour," I replied.

"Fine," she said and stood up. "We just have time for a quickie," and she started peeling off her clothes.

"Why should I object?" I asked myself.

I called Desan. He immediately replied.

He was intelligent, well spoken, blunt, organized; obviously knew exactly what he wanted. He demanded safe conduct out of the country with three of his hostages, or he was going to kill all fifty of them, and for good measure, he suggested to eradicate the hotel staff as well.

Desan explained that he did not want to waste time with negotiating and he was not giving us any hostages to show good faith. He bluntly told me that I had one hour to come up with his safe conduct, or he would start shooting hostages. He said all that in one breath.

I listened and did not interrupt him. When he finished his monologue with the usual "do you understand me", I simply replied, "I don't" and waited for his reaction.

Nothing happened. He was not prepared for that.

"Look, Mr. Desan," I started, "we are both professionals and we don't want to waste our time with unnecessary formalities of routine hostage negotiations. By the rules now I would have to start handing you a lot of bullshit and attempt to gain your trust. We both know it is plain, old-fashioned crap. If you carry out your mission, one of two things may happen. You and your team would die together with the hostages."

Desan was still on the line; I heard his heavy breathing.

"The Americans are not likely to let you go with your hostages. Your chance of you fighting your way out of the hotel is slim. Eventually arriving to China and delivering the hostages might not end your contractual relations with Kuo. If you take the wrong people, General Kuo will have you killed on the spot. Arriving with the right captives might not assure the payment of your fees in full either. I would not put it past Kuo to have you killed anyway since he would not have to pay a dead man. If the Americans play the high and the mighty and don't let you take your captives, you would kill a number of people and die yourself for nothing. Why don't we talk about our options like a couple of sensible people?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. He did not hang up; that was a good sign.

"Okay," I continued pushing my luck a little, "I have an hour to get your safe conduct. I have no intention to renegotiate that or hand you a lot of crap about the President not being available or anything like that. This is your timetable. If I can get your safe conduct, it is fine; you will leave. If I cannot, you just as well get ready to die. However, before we finalize our deal, I'm going to explore a few other avenues and would like to talk to you in twenty minutes."

"Fine," came the guttural reply. "Call me. You have my number," and he hung up.

That was exactly the reaction I expected of him.

I let the President know that if I cannot dissuade Desan, I am going to grant him the safe passage out of the country and let him take whomever he wants. Holdsworth was not pleased with my decision, but he knew it was the best deal we could get.

I instructed Garfield to invade the cable television system satellite and get us a channel. Meanwhile Fedorov set up a scanner to give us a bird's eye view of the town of Burao. I also established telephone contact with the mayor and patched him in on my line to Desan. Only twenty minutes passed, when I dialed Desan's number.

"Yeah," came the reply.

"Okay, Mr. Desan," I started, "please switch on your TV set and tune it to channel sixty-one."

Desan said something in Somali; there was momentary silence on the line.

"Yeah," he came back. "I can see an aerial photograph of Burao. So what?"

"Can you identify the mayor's house?" I said.

"Yes. So what?"

"Now, Mr. Desan, the mayor is listening in on this line," I explained. "Tell him what you want done to convince you that you are really seeing a live aerial view of Burao."

"Okay," he said in a suspicious tone and begun to talk in Somali again. The mayor answered him and in a few minutes, certain lights started to flash on the TV screen.

"Mr. Desan," I interrupted, "are you satisfied?"

"Yes, I am," he replied.

By this time, I had the image fixed on the monitor of my wristwatch and had it projected on a screen in the operations room.

"Thank you, Mr. Desan," I said in a cold tone. "Can you see the small gray building on the lower left side of your monitor?"

"Yeah," he grunted. I felt the suspicion creeping into his voice. "That is a pumping station built by the Chinese Aid Organization many years ago."

I cupped the mouthpiece and ordered Fedorov to wipe out the building with a laser shot. The result was spectacular.

"What was that?" Desan asked nervously.

"It is my secret weapon," I replied calmly. "In five minutes I will start systematically wiping the community off the face of this Earth unless you surrender unconditionally."

"I'll start shooting my hostages," he said with resignation in his voice.

"Go ahead," I replied. "You have fifty of mine, and I have twenty-five thousand of yours. Is it worth it? Besides, I guarantee your safe passage home provided you sign that you would not accept any more mercenary contracts against us."

There was a moment of silence on the line.

" Okay, Ali Ahmed," I kept pressing, "tell me what will it be. Do we start shooting?"

Shortly after noon, I entered the intensive care department of the Grace Hospital. It looked very familiar. An institution with the same name exists in St. John's. I remembered the place well because the nursing school was part of the hospital and I loved to chase their female students.

Michael was waiting for me at the nurses' station. We shook hands and he produced a receipt for the body of Esther Jackson and the soul of Ann Forrest.

"As soon as I take possession, I'll sign it," I stated.

"You can trust me."

"No, Michael," I said, "I learned a long time ago not to trust anybody, especially the guys who say I can trust them."

"You've a suspicious mind," he smiled. "Let's go."

We entered Esther's room. A nurse and a doctor were preparing the body for the transfer. I was sure these guys accepted a salary from the hospital, Hades Ltd. and last but not least from of Heavens Inc. It must be nice to collect three paychecks.

The doctors had connected Esther Jackson's body to all kinds of machines; she looked like the spider in the middle of its web. The doctor and the nurse were removing the wires one by one.

When they disconnected all the wires and tubes, Michael took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. Obviously, someone on the other end answered because he firmly issued his instructions: "Start the transfer, Herc, now."

He folded the phone, looked at me, and took out the receipt again. Before he could say anything, I held up my hand: "I'll sign that damned thing Michael as soon as I confirmed that she was the right soul in the right body. Just keep your shirt on."

He shrugged. In about ten minutes, Esther or Ann opened her eyes looking a little bewildered. I must have looked this way when I got my new body. She was tough because she managed to control her emotions.

I stepped up to her and looked into the deep blue eyes. It was a weird sensation. Although they were Esther's, something was different about them.

"Hello, Ann," I said.

She did not answer, just stared at me, obviously waiting for the password.

"Come-By-Chance," I intoned slowly, carefully modulating my voice as if I were cross-examining a child witness.

"Burin," came the quick reply.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Ann," I said and wanted to reach out to shake her hand, but suddenly Michael stepped in my way.

"Now," he said and stuck the receipt under my nose.

"Okay," I said and quickly signed the receipt. "Now, get the hell out of here Michael, I've work to do."

I handed him the receipt and turned my back on him. As I could not stand the sight of him, it was a glorious feeling to insult him.

Ann was just lying there motionless.

"Don't be afraid, my dear," I said, "your arms and legs are where they are supposed to be and I'm sure they work. Try them."

"It's a pleasure to see you, George," she said, but still did not move.

Although the voice was Esther's, the intonation and the accent was slightly different. Anyone knowing Esther would realize in a matter of a few minutes that a different soul was occupying her elegant, streamlined body.

Wearing the hospital issue pajamas, which did not properly cover her curves she slowly got out of the bed. I caught her looking at her legs at the first opportunity, but she did not say anything.

"I hope you're satisfied," I asked with a smile.

"I can't say," she replied. "As soon as you get out of here, I'll inspect the merchandise and give you a full report. By the way, do I get any clothes?"

"I'm afraid you have only a borrowed safari suit and a pair of hush puppies," I replied. "I think we should visit a department store to get you some clothes," I declared.

"Do you think it would be wise?" she asked. "What happens if we can't come to terms?"

"I consider my investment into your wardrobe low risk venture capital," I replied. "This would be the first one I made in either one of my lives."

She smiled uncertainly and gave me a dirty look: "You may have seen every detail of this body during the manufacturing stage," she said, "but as long as I am in it, I would appreciate your respect of my privacy. So, kindly leave me alone and let me get dressed."

I just nodded and stepped out into the corridor. Although she was testy, I liked Ann Forrest. She valued her independence and obviously knew just how far she could push people. I thought I found an intellect in her that would not compete with mine but complement it very well. Of course, I was referring to professional matters only. How we would match up in bed, I had no idea. I was not too interested in sexual relations with her, since Cleo was picking me up in the evening, and I hoped she would give my glands a proper workout.

Leaving the hospital, we got into my car and drove to Elizabeth Towers. For the time being, I did not know what to do with Ann. It was too late trying to get her to the office. However, I remembered that upon receiving my new body I had to eat a complete meal. Therefore I took Ann to a buffet restaurant called the Mandarin and watched her stuffing herself with all the delicacies. After the cognac, we both relaxed. My first thought was to leave her at my apartment. This was not a good idea since I had to get ready for the evening, and there was a good chance of hooking up with Cleo after the party. It would look funny taking her to a dingy motel.

Fortunately, Ann had other ideas.

"Just park me in a motel and give me a major credit card with a spending limit," she said, "I'll look after myself. Don't worry, I will buy only one outfit, and it will not be an expensive one. I never bought designer clothes because I did not think I should pay some idiot for putting his name on my clothes. I need only one outfit for the formal negotiating session tomorrow. By the way, what time do we start the interview?"

Apparently, the negotiations were the only things that mattered to Ann Forrest. It was not surprising. When I was in the limbo, I was ready to do anything to return to the land of the living.

"You are right," I replied, "I'll check you into a motel, give you my Amex card, a hundred dollars, my cell phone in case you get into trouble, a map of the city and the keys to my car. You will be on your own until tomorrow morning. At eight thirty sharp come to my apartment and we will go to the office to discuss the terms of your employment. Is that okay with you?"

"Very well," she said with a smile and extended her hand. I had the feeling that she was slowly finding her bearings. I was equally sure that everything would work out just fine between us.

With Ann Forrest safely tucked away in the Golden Hawk Motel just a couple of blocks from Elizabeth Towers I turned my attention to other important matters like my evening engagement with Luce. Around five o'clock I took a long luxurious bubble bath, toweled and used a hair drier to dispel the last drop of moisture off my skin. As always, I dressed with great care. This time I decided wearing my light green suede suit with the matching shoes, shirt, and tie.

When I was ready, it was almost seven. I expected that Cleo would be downstairs waiting. I gave myself a parting look in the mirror; the suit fitted well, I created the impression of a sophisticated individual. My mirror image changed my mood. Suddenly, I felt happy and very much alive. After all, I had good reasons to be satisfied. I just finished a job quite well, and as a sign of his appreciation, my boss invited me to his place for dinner. I knew he would promote me and give me another interesting assignment.

In the lobby, there was no sign of Cleo. I checked my watch and realized that I was ten minutes early. Sitting on one of the sumptuous leather couches, I let my mind roam free.

My reflections after a difficult case were always interesting because on those rare occasions I could be honest with myself. I realized that I enjoyed being the lord and master of a planet, the ruler with absolute power. Is it possible that my vocation is not law, but politics? Perhaps most lawyers get into politics because they taste power on the course of their work and find it enthralling. The average person may become addicted to power and does not want to give it up. I hoped I could control the corrupting nature of power.

Cleo's arrival interrupted my train of thought. She looked well wearing a tight black pantsuit, which accentuated her curves. She was beautiful and desirable, but I did not let my imagination run wild. It was possible that due to my relatively long period of sexual deprivation, even the Wicked Witch of the West would have looked sexy and desirable.

"Hi, George," she greeted me as a long lost friend. "How was the mission?"

"It was okay, darling," I replied and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

She looked fantastic; I warned myself to be careful because she might not be under orders to look after me.

"Luce told me not to wear my gun in the same fashion as I used to," she said.

I remembered where she kept the gun very well. The thought of those thighs nearly drove me nuts.

"I am sad to hear that," I replied. "I have no reason to look for your gun this time."

"I am not dressed for body search either," she replied with a smile.

I thought it was sad but did not say anything. Perhaps Cleo found somebody while I was away. Besides what right did I have to expect her to wait for me?

We got into the car and started out. I knew that Cleo did not like talking while driving. It was a blessing in disguise because suddenly I did not feel like talking.

Although Cleo was a nice person to talk to, I became deeply involved in the analysis of my mission and the effects of power. Just before we got to Luce's house, she turned to me and remarked, "I know you just returned from a tough mission, and you may be interested in some female companionship."

She was right, of course. Cleo knew about my top priority.

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