Somewhere along the way, Pastor Richard Stark's position devolved from a divine calling into an ordinary job. An avid fisherman, he longs for nothing more than escaping to serene lakes in the quiet countryside. A chance discovery yields a holographic answer to the age-old question: how can you be in two places at once? But some answers only lead to more questions.

This story was published in May of 1997.
Revised January 31, 1998
Reading time: Approximately 30 minutes.
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It was just another lazy summer day in the small town of Greenville. Sun-bleached sheets hung from backyard clotheslines, children cast fleeting shadows across green lawns, and the occasional dog found its way into a neighbor's garden. High in a cloudless sky, the sun traced its daily arc above the steeple of First Community Church.

Inside the stately building, Pastor Stark sat reading--not from the volumes of dusty commentaries that lined the walls of his comfortable office, but from the latest electronic issue of Field & Stream. He had started with an article about secluded river lodges, and then played the on-line Name that Bass game. Later he fired off e-mail to some idiot who had written a letter to the editor saying spinning rods caught more trout than fly rods. Sacrilege.

Just as his eyes were beginning to tire, the church secretary knocked at the door and opened it slowly.

"Yes, Kathy, what is it?" he asked.

"Is there anything you need me to do before I leave?"

"If you and Bob are still headed up to Taylor Lake this weekend, you could take me with you. I'm sure I've used up this summer's supply of rain by now."

"Oh, I was really sorry to hear about your trip. It must have been pretty bad to keep even you shut up in the cabin all weekend."

"I can fish in the cold or the rain, but thunder and lightning is a different story."

"I suppose getting another weekend off is out of the question, huh?"

Stark nearly came out of his chair. "Do you know what it took to get four weekends off this summer? If I went to the board and asked for a fifth, they'd have my head. I'll get no sympathy from those old buzzards."

"Honestly, your wife is right," Kathy exclaimed. "She always says fishing was you true calling. Jokingly, of course."

"Sister Stark never jokes."

"Well, if there's nothing else you need--"

"Now that I think of it, check with the church supply about getting some new hymnals. I've asked the deacons to rotate the ones we've got, but thanks to old Brother Cohen, I'd imagine most of them have broken spines and bent corners by now."

"Poor thing, his arthritis is so bad. I'll bet he drops one after nearly every song service. If he didn't have his daughter to take care of him, I don't know what he'd do."

"Just let me know how much money we're talking about. And have somebody check Sister Portly's pew--"

"Sister Porter," Kathy corrected in a reprimanding tone.

"Okay, okay" Stark chuckled, "just have someone look into replacing that seat cushion. It's gotten pretty threadbare under the load, and we're trying to run a first class operation here. I don't want anyone mistaking us for the mission down the road."

"You've got it."

Kathy shut the door, leaving him alone again with his thoughts. It was still an hour before he could leave, and he wished he had remembered to bring his spare fly reel so he could clean and reline it.

A patch of bright sunlight had taunted him all day as it made its way across the bookcase, down along the floor, and now up onto his cluttered desk. He noted how the newspaper it rested on glowed with a warm, golden hue, and his unsuspecting eyes fell across the words "Virtual Vacations." Intrigued, he picked up the paper and discovered an advertisement:

Skepticism was no stranger to Stark. He wasn't easily conned, and refused to be hoodwinked by companies whose marketing departments were always a few pages ahead of their development teams.

Years before, he had eagerly tried "Virtual Reality." The idea of donning a V.R. headset and thrill-seeking had fascinated him, but he was soon disappointed. He skied the black slopes in "Virtual Vale," but his hands never got cold. He rode Harleys with Hell's Angels, but felt no wind in his face. When he bungie jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge, he never felt the cord as it caught him 50 feet above the ray-traced boats below. Like the prophet Daniel said of King Belshazzar, V.R. was "weighed in the balances and found wanting."

He tried to dismiss the ad from his mind, but found himself inescapably drawn to the tantalizing idea. What if he actually could be in two places at once? He imagined the scene: racing to the lake on a sunny Sunday morning while his other self supplied the pulpit.

Then a sense of irritation surfaced. Who were these people to make such impossible promises? Childhood memories returned, images of comic book ads for 99¢ robots and $1.⁵⁰ flying saucers. Paper route money exchanged for broken promises. He decided to call the company and demand an explanation.

Pastor Stark entered the company's address into his desktop terminal and placed the video call. The word "connecting" flashed on the screen, and a small inset window briefly appeared so he could center himself in the camera's view. He noted his typically gruff countenance and quickly practiced a passing smile.

"Thank you for calling Doppelgänger Technologies. How may I direct your call?" The voice dripped with geniality. The screen displayed a computer-generated female operator designed to route calls to the proper departments. A list of options such as "Solution Opportunities" and "Client Care" lined the bottom of the screen. He preferred the good old days when unambiguous terms like "sales" and "service" were employed.

"Information," he said, hoping that was in her vocabulary.

"I'm so very sorry, sir. I'm afraid I don't recognize that option." A thousand lines of code engaged to wrinkle her brow with helpful concern. "Please refer to the friendly client-focused aids at the bottom of your screen and try again."

This was interesting, he thought. The operator knew he was a sir. Had it detected the pitch of his voice, or the bare spot on top of his head? Did it know it was a ma'am?

"How about a kiss?" he asked.

"I'm so very sorry, sir. I'm afraid I don't recognize that option. Please refer to the friendly client-focused aids at the bottom of your screen and try again."

Unimpressed with her parsing skills, he decided it was best to look for something that resembled information. "Friendly introductions," he ventured.

"Thank you so much." Her smile was broad and perfectly symmetrical. "I'll transfer you to someone in our family of helpful agents now."

Thirty seconds passed while Stark was placed on hold. The company's logo spun on multiple axes atop a flying star field and a throbbing nebula. As his slim stock of patience drained dangerously low, his index finger aimed for the disconnect key.

"This is Jenna."

"My name is"--he paused a moment, deciding to omit his pastoral title and the obligation of courtesy it carried--"Richard Stark. I just wanted to say that I saw an ad for your duality product and I don't believe a word of it. It would take a lot of convincing for me to spend my money on whatever it is you offer."

Jenna's eyes narrowed. "Okay, sir, I'll put you down as a confirmed skeptic. Thanks for sharing your opinion. Goodbye."

"Wait!" Stark's hand shot out toward the screen, nearly overturning a cup of cold, black coffee. An unaccepted challenge was always a disappointment. "You're not interested in even trying to make a sale? I thought you people operated on a commission."

Her lips drew tight. "The sales staff does, but I work for R&D and we're salaried. Now, if you'd like the phone number of our competition's development team so you can waste their time, I'd be glad to give it to you. Otherwise, I've got work to do."

A cautious smile crept across the unfamiliar terrain of Pastor Stark's craggy features. He eyed her approvingly for a moment, then laughed aloud. "I like you, Jenna; you've got spunk. I'm afraid I must apologize. My abrupt manner borders on rudeness sometimes. Forgive me?"

Jenna considered this for a moment, and appeared to drop her defenses. "Well, it's a vice I've been accused of having myself. We've been inundated with calls today and the phone staff can't keep up. I don't like playing operator, especially when I've got work to do, so my attitude probably contributed. Maybe we should start over."

She paused briefly as she adjusted a few errant strands of hair and straightened in her chair. "Now then, how may I help you today, Mr. Stark?"

He began again, this time without the challenging tone. "As I started to say, your ad sounded good. Too good, in fact. I'd be a fool to pass up an offer like that if it were true, but I'd be a bigger fool to believe it without an explanation. How could I appear in two places at once?"

"Holographics." She stated this plainly, as if it were self-evident. As someone might answer that it's gravity that makes a dish fall to the kitchen floor.

"Holographics," he repeated, as the word vainly searched his brain for a familiar place to lodge. "I didn't know that was possible. I suppose I don't keep up with technology as well as I should."

"That's okay. I'm afraid I don't keep up with theology as well as I should," Jenna admitted. "Maybe an information exchange could be arranged sometime."

Stark was momentarily stunned. How had she known he was a minister? He managed to mumble "Yes, perhaps," as he regrouped his thoughts. He recalled several recent video calls in which his indomitable temper had broken free. Perhaps those people, too, had known he was a man of the cloth. The thought was accompanied by a sharp pang of conviction for some of his careless words.

A puzzled expression crossed his face. "Jenna, how did you know--"

She interrupted with a quick laugh. "Lots of men have bookshelves behind their desks, but yours have communion trays on them."

He felt both relieved not to hear that he simply looked like a preacher, and foolish for overlooking the obvious. "You're plainly too sharp for this old horse," he said, "so I'll discard the pretenses.

"I'm a frustrated old pastor of a medium-sized church in a small town. I've lost the fire I once had, and the patience to deal with my monotonous job. What I need most is more time away, time at the lake to clear my thoughts. Please convince me that a company full of smart people like you has the solution I need."

She nodded gratefully in receipt of his compliment. "Our company started out in the Virtual Reality market. Simulations, games, that sort of thing. After a few years, we realized that most of our techniques--object modeling, ray-tracing, and so on--could be applied to holographics. To produce good V.R., you have to create true 3-D objects, so we were already halfway there. But instead of placing a real person into a world of created objects, we had to place created objects into the real world."

"Like a movie projector," Stark offered.

"That's right. So instead of exploring the Grand Canyon inside a V.R. headset, you can go enjoy the real thing. What remains in your place is a projection, a hologram."

"Of what?"

"You, of course. You leave behind your doppelgänger--your double--to do all the mundane things you're trying to get away from."

Stark pondered this for a moment. "So, what would prevent you from making the hologram do something illegal or immoral?"

Jenna smiled. "The technology isn't that far along. We can't make a hologram do anything we want; we can only replay recorded actions. For example, one of our clients works in a glass-enclosed office. We holographed her typing, organizing a file cabinet, and making phone calls. She's been taking extended lunches once a week for nearly a year now."

"You'd think someone would notice that she wears the same outfit once a week."

"Not really. She just wore a simple skirt and blouse. We produced several holograms, each with different colored clothes. It's just like colorizing an old black-and-white movie. Of course, she's an ideal candidate; we can't help receptionists, judges, or cab drivers. Naturally, we have policies against aiding lifeguards, child care attendants, or airline pilots. But many people find their work perfectly suited: college professors, janitors, public speakers."

The last one caught Stark's attention. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk. "Public speakers, you say?"

"Oh sure, they're easy. We've worked with lots of famous ones." Her voice lowered as she moved in closer to the screen. "The truth is that when you attend a motivational seminar--in Dallas maybe--the speaker might also be in Boston and San Diego at the same time."

With a faraway look in his eyes, Stark rubbed his chin as he considered this for a moment. Then he met her eyes again. "So you might be able to handle my case, too?"

She nodded. "Sure, I think so. The sermon would be simple, but we would have some trouble working around a song service."

He shook his head. "One of my associate pastors"--he searched for the right word--"presents me in time for the sermon. It gives the impression, you see, that I've been diligently preparing the message until the last moment."

In a reassuring voice, he continued. "You see, Jenna, people don't respect a pastor who floats around aimlessly each morning, talking about nonsense with the congregation. They need a more elevated figure, someone who inspires confidence."

"I see." There was a slight hesitation in Jenna's voice, and Stark hoped his candid admission had not unsettled her. "That should make things easier," she said. "The only other problem I see is how to handle the end of the service. I assume you shake hands at the door as people leave?"

Stark cleared his throat uncomfortably as he unconsciously loosened his tie. "Actually, you see--well, I do have a staff of associates. They usually handle that end of things. You know, the busy pastor thing and all."

"Sure, I understand completely," Jenna lied smoothly. "That would simplify everything. You're probably looking at a pre-production discount too, since you could provide the platform dimensions in advance."

"Speaking of costs, could you give me an idea?"

"Length of sermon?"

"About thirty-five minutes."

She looked down for a moment and quickly typed some keys at her terminal. Stark somewhat nervously ran a pencil's eraser in uneven circles along the desk. In a moment, a figure appeared in neat white numbers along the bottom of his screen.

"I don't see a problem with that, Jenna."

"That's just an estimate, but a close one. I'm also assuming your sanctuary has a PVM-compliant projection unit."

"Of course. We use it for song lyrics and sermon notes."

"Great. We'll just need a temporary password so we can log in and make some firmware changes. Also, our booking agent will need to contact your secretary to schedule your appointment. If you like, she could pose as a psychologist wanting to discuss counseling referrals."

Stark smiled approvingly. He admired thoroughness. "That would be perfect. She knows I don't do that sort of thing myself, anyway." A few quick keystrokes sent the information streaming to Jenna's screen.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked.

"No, thank you. You've been very helpful, and I've enjoyed talking to you."

Jenna smiled warmly and closed their connection.

A wide grin stretched across Richard Stark's face, its corners lifting heavy, flaccid cheeks as they made their way earward. He leaned far back in his deep leather chair, considering the possibilities.