CONCRETE EDEN

copyright 1998 Chaz Thompson

Yesterday, a priest shot at me from the steeple of his church.

Rest easy. He wasn't trying to kill me. He was trying to save me. Or, at least, my soul.
Obviously a novice with weapons, he botched the shot, and I got away, Scott free, soul and all.

An amazing thing, the human soul. Since we learned how to extract it from the physical body, the civilizations of man have consequently strengthened all of their arguments regarding religion, pro and con, to grotesque proportions. More grotesque than usual, that is.

It seems persistently clear that every step we take to solve life's metaphysical dilemmas render us deeper into their enigmatic abysses, respectively, without so much as a "pardon me."

Not surprising to most, the churches were the first establishments to utilize the procedure for extracting souls on a profitable, if highly illegal basis. Those aging, decaying, gravebound seniors searching for a consumer's guarantee on a risk-free Heaven waited in lines for days, in hungry hope that their meager savings would allow them the fortune of an eternal afterlife on Earth, not too far from their ungrateful offspring -- that never called, even when health was less than failing. They imagined their lives would continue unhampered by biological diseases and physical breakdowns. They imaged a fluid, floating existence, not unlike sleep, but not sleeping. They imagined an ability to interact with corporeal earthliness with the same zeal they realized as young folk.

And they were pretty close to the truth, too. Except for the fact that there is really nothing to do as a ghost. I'm sorry, that's not politically correct. I understand they preferred to be referred to as "bodyless humans". In any case, they handed over their hereafters to those who, so it was believed, held the keys to the Great Door.

But religion, as with all other human endeavors, is fiercely competitive, and continued to invalidate its doctrines with each one it sought to endorse. And enforce.

* * * *

They don't call us "scientists", any more. That went out with '50s drive-in movies. It was always the "scientist" called in to explain why the monster chose to attack bikini-clad nymphets in the summer, as opposed to, say, a three-legged mule in Cuddahay. Anybody could be a scientist. All one needed was a lab coat.

I guess things haven't changed all that much.

If "bodyless humans" can stand up for their moniker, I can stand up for ours. I prefer to be known as a physicist. I studied long and hard for my lab coat. Well, long, anyway. Some would have you believe I acquired my position with BioMech Labs unethically. That is to say, that I bought my position. Or that my parents did. To these slings and arrows I can offer only this simple response:

So what?

I wouldn't be writing this now if my motivations and abilities were as base as some would have you believe. On the other hand-- well, I digress.

Two years before I joined the ranks of physicists at BioMech Labs, the individual who developed the recipe for dragging the mortal soul from its ever-so-mortal host did so, true to traditional favor, by accident.

He has since admitted to having forgotten exactly what it was he was trying to accomplish, and has resigned himself to sharing the not-so-humble ranks of such accidental giants as Alfred Nobel with his dynamite and Alexander Fleming with his penicillin. That he is no longer among the living adds more than a little curiosity to this tale, as will become apparent.

"I think it had something to do with toothpaste," he told me.

This seemed neither comical nor farfetched, to me, since oral hygiene was the cornerstone of BioMech Labs commercial endeavors. Since the turn of the millennium, their line of dental-related products have surpassed that of Johnson and Johnson.

In any case, Professor Chalmers recalled to me that it was late in the afternoon of a dismal December day in his antiseptic lab that he held out a small spoonful of a squishy, pink paste to another professor, Jeremy Hillman, for a candid taste appraisal, or some such evaluation.

Professor Hillman accepted the spoonful with less than a nod of acknowledgment, as he was concentrating on his own side of the experiment, using his own concoction. "Abrasive. Bland," he said, without breaking stride, then abruptly passed out, falling face down on his work table, up-ending any number of experiments-in-process. Dozens of fragile beakers, test-tubes and Bunsen burners became briefly airborne, showering both professors with liquids, powders, gooze and slimes.

"Then," Professor Chalmers told me, "out of Hillman's body arose a foggy replica of his physical self. A vapor, but somehow solid. His features were only implied, but I could see that it was him. And he was pink. Translucent pink."

The visible soul continued to rise Heavenward until it entered an air conditioning vent, effectively distributing the soul of Professor Jeremy Hillman throughout the corporate offices located in the same building.

Chalmers referred to this unfortunate event as "the haunting of BioMech Labs". Indeed, ever since then, ghostly occurrences have consistently plagued the employees. The regular stuff; hardly worth mentioning here.

Chalmers frantically entombed the research papers in the lab's small safe, spinning the combination dial in nervous panic. Its placement there, however, was not meant to be enduring. He recalls intending only to deter unsolicited appropriation of the papers by individuals even more panicked than he. His plan was to recover the formula for rigorous scrutiny at a more opportune moment. Unfortunately, the moment was forced when insurance investigators pressed him. More unfortunately, he discovered that he did not have the combination. Ironically, the one person who did know the combination was Jeremy Hillman, who had been responsible for the safe's acquisition in the first place.

Hillman's body, incidentally, did not die immediately. His heart would stop beating, as would the hearts of every "client" who ingested the soul-removing paste, in roughly one week. Healthy hearts could last longer, weak ones, less. Jeremy Hillman's soul would know nothing but the texture of tables and flasks, the sensuality of moving bottles or making water drip sideways.

* * * *

Fewer old folks are on the streets, these days. Or in the hospitals. Or in the morgues. Only behind the facades of cathedral churches does one encounter the senior spirits, pinkly floating this way or that, moving through walls or ceilings, content with pipe-organ hymns or heavenly choirs. These were the first "clients" to enlist the church's assistance. Those were the good old days. Before the lawyers and congressmen muddled the whole process: You went to church, you ate the paste, you floated around in sanctuary for eternity.

Some of the less ethical houses of holy actually brandished advertisements on their marquees, such as as:

HEARAFTER HERE!
or:
HEAVEN ON EARTH!
or:
RETURN TO EDEN!

Then a funny thing happened. Churches began to refuse the black market applicants for so-called sanctified deaths. With every octogenarian that was sent to the happy hunting ground of his or her choice, something gradually became apparent: How was this state of being different than plain and simple death? The answer, to those who feared for their souls, was obviously that in real death one went to a real Heaven, not an earthly facsimile. When one took one's final breath -- for good - one went to The One and Only Heaven.

Or Hell.

And it occurred to the churches that perhaps those so willing to assume their spirits' earthly comforts had good reason to fear death, if they were sinners, destined for a fire and brimstone eternity. They would gamble on a painless, boring limbo rather than risk the tortures of Dante's Inferno.

Thus was created the Vigilante Priest, making the ultimate sacrifice - his soul for the sake of others - by committing the ultimate sin in order to prevent other souls from committing an only slightly less atrocious sin; one not mentioned in the ten commandments: evasion of one's spiritual just desserts, whatever that might be.

The priest who shot at me might have argued that he was trying to save me from an undeserved limbo, assuring my entry in Heaven, whereas a rival minister might have maintained that I had no moral right to allow anyone but God, Himself, to judge where I might spend my eternity, be it Heaven, Hell, or Oblivion.

I would argue to both factions that they should ask questions first, shoot later. I had no intention of turning over my soul to any thing or any one. I am a scientist - excuse me, a physicist - content with the attempt to comprehend life. And though the soul-removing paste is of much importance to me, I have no desire to abandon my life's pursuit this soon in the race. More succinctly: back off.

My intention is to unwind the soul-removing paste formula for a scrutiny deprived of my profession since the birth of the drug; since the formula was delivered to bathtub chemists. The ingredients are easily available; the process notoriously simple; the black-market remarkably profitable.

More recently, I have been reading over Professor Chalmer's research papers. The originals, I might add, though charred from the blast that freed them from the lab's safe so many years ago, and it appears that ninety-eight percent of the formula does only one thing, and that one thing is not the separation of soul from body.

Ninety-eight percent of the formula gives the soul pigment.

Pink.

The soul is extricated from the body by the reaction of a mere one percent of the paste. This one percent somehow "irritates" a genetic particle so small it is only theoretically conceivable by science; a particle that somehow hinges our spiritual and corporeal entities together. The chains of two planes of reality hooked together by a metaphorical paper clip. Sounds audaciously simple, doesn't it?

Well, that's God for you.

The other one percent? When applied orally, it gives one whiter teeth. Completely immune to decay.

That's no light task, either.

Pope Al told me, "These are the final days of Earth. Capitalists have finally polluted the soul."

"Aw, bullshit," I said.

Don't get the idea that I was on speaking terms with the Pope. It just happened that we bumped into each other digging through the same alley trash can. I was in Rome pursuing the path of the research papers, at the time. The Pope was there because that was where he lived, albeit not in the alley.

I was digging through garbage for the papers.

The Pope was looking for clothing.

And he really wasn't talking to me, but to a stray tabby sitting on the lid of an adjacent can, hoping His Holiness would uncover some food.

The Pope ignored my remark. "What else could I have done?" he asked the tabby. "I have no authority if people don't respect my influence."

Once a Pope, always a Pope.

Pope Al had slipped his trolley, though. Gone 'round the bend.

This is the way that story goes: One fine, summer day, an aging and physically dilapidated peasant was brought to him. A wheelchair-bound peasant with a moral dilemma. He had acquired, through non-Christian means, the necessary funds to purchase a taste of the paste. Even to the most casual observe, this individual's life was hardly worthy of the oxygen it consumed. In days of old, he would have been cast into the pit with the rest of the lepers. That he would opt for the pink and pleasant alternative to death surprised no one, not even the Pope. When the peasant described to His Holiness the disgusting, lecherous acts he was compelled to perform in order to obtain the money, our good and pure host of the holy suffered an emotional/intellectual/ spiritual hernia.

The urban myth says that the peasant is now living the life of a king, secluded away, but catered to around the clock. I have heard variations on the theme, but all stories seem to agree that what he experienced while confined to his wheelchair, parked in front of the Pope, were substantial enough to earn his tale everlasting mortality, thanks primarily to national tabloids.

Nobody debates that the Pope lunged from his throne, descending on the startled peasant like some glorious dragon. Nobody doubts that the collision propelled the wheelchair, peasant and all, backward, down a procession of high steps, through open double-doors, into and across a vaulted lobby, then smack into and consequently through a stained-glass mural depicting Christ's Last Temptation. Nobody argues that divine grace alone, in the form of an overgrown tree in the garden below, prevented the peasant from a headlong splat the likes of which would have been heard around the universe.

Here's where the curiosity lies: between the lunge and the collision, something occurred. Perhaps the Pope tripped over his own robes. It could be that in his rage he meant to flog the poor peasant. Urban myth perpetuates these options: Firstly, that the Pope was actually scrambling for the peasant's wallet, in order to prevent his ability to buy the soul-remover; or, and this one is way out there, but it has gotten some mileage recently, that he was, again in his rage-induced lunacy, attempting to relieve the peasant of his genitalia.

Hey, it sold papers.

Of course, none of the above is true. Yes, I know the truth. I got it from the horse's mouth, so to speak. If one can believe the horse. I'll tell you later.

Regardless of the specifics, clearly he was no longer a sane individual, and, let's face it, sanity is one of the job requirements of a Pope. Ultimately, he found himself sedated and isolated.

Isolated is a polite word.

The wheels and gears of the Catholic church are no less than imposing, and it is fair to say that it is no more "directed" by the Pope than the U.S.A. is "directed" by it's president. Even for an individual a mere one step away from God, Pope Al had overstepped his boundaries.
He found himself surrounded by the true heart and soul of the church, and it didn't help his condition.

Then he escaped.

Accidentally, of course. He was probably searching for a bathroom when he discovered himself outside. Who knows? He doesn't.

He was able to travel incognito around the alleys of the city, bad-mouthing capitalists for the downfall of the human soul.

We found nothing in our respective trash cans, so we moved on.

I should point out that the garbage can I was rummaging through belonged to Professor Chalmer's sister-in-law, whom it is rumored he paid a visit to before disappearing from public view. But more about her later.

Pope Al looked me over hungrily. I believe he was considering my outfit. "You're not looking for clothing," he said.

"I'm looking for some important research papers," I replied. It was a desperate attempt to inflate my ego before this mendicant.

His eyes went big and he proceeded to stomp about the alley, kicking stray garbage. "They're everywhere!" he cried. "No salvation!" he shouted at the tabby. "They're all out to make a buck!"

Which made me wonder: how many people were digging through garbage for research papers, these days? Then again, he was a raving lunatic. I was about to leave when he grabbed me by the arm.

"If I give them to you, will you stop it?"

I just looked at him condescendingly. Not a wise thing to do with a raving lunatic. He gripped me tighter and lugged me up the street, muttering a mixture of Italian, English, Slavic, and maybe even Martian. All I could do was search desperately for a policeman.

Then he stopped abruptly, we bumped, and he hissed at me with breath foul enough to curdle
yogurt, "I left them at the Vatican."

"Right," I said, unclenching his talons from my arm.

"We've got to stop them!"

The man had a rigor mortis grip on me, so I changed tactics.

"Okay," I agreed. "Let's stop them. Lead the way."

He sprinted away excited. Unfortunately, he was still clutching my arm. My shoes slid on pavement for a good ten feet when he stopped suddenly again and I plowed into his backside.
Rome had seemed so large until the longest, highest, sleekest silver limousine I have ever beheld turned the corner. It seemed the size of an ocean liner. How it managed to traverse the streets and still have room to open its doors upon stopping, I'll never know.

The doors did open. And for all of his outrage and fear and nervous belligerence, Pope Al froze solid before the gapping door like a sparrow before a cobra.

He was inside without a struggle.

I turned to leave.

"Please," a voice said, and I found myself between two large men, though by no means thugs. They were in frost-white suits and gloves, with golden crewcuts and tanned smiles one can only obtain in southern California. One of their gloved hands clutched me exactly where Pope
Al's death grip had been, only this was serious.

"I'm just passing through," I explained.

"Please" one of them repeated, leading me to the limo. It was not a request.

The first leg of our ride was possessed by a wicked silence, violated only by the sound of my perspiration wedging its way through my pores. Pope Al kept his head low, starring ahead emptily, eyes glazed.

The second leg began with a click. I was perched on the centermost seat, facing aft and Pope Al with this white bookends. Behind me was the driver, protected by a smoked glass partition. The click came from the stereo built into the partition. I was grateful it wasn't a gun. Electric guitars and Merle Haggard's voice filled the car.

I'm proud to be an Oakie from Muskogee

The CD player blinked dispassionately.

A place where even squares can have a ball

The faces of the white bookends grimaced with abstract smiles as Pope Al sang along softly.

We don't burn our draft cards down on Main Street

The Italian countryside receded out the rear window.

And white lightnin's still the biggest thrill of all

For the next forty-five minutes Pope Al sang along with every song on the disc. I was finally considering the possibility that he might be the real McCoy. This gave me mixed feelings. On the one hand, if he was truthful, I might have the opportunity of viewing the research papers, provided they had actually found their way to the Vatican.

On the other hand, given the bizarre appearance of his escorts, this could be dangerous.

Still, I couldn't help but envision being privy to the secluded revelation of chemistry's holy grail.

No such luck.

We wound up in a gymnasium. A basketball court, to be precise. No benches, no rubber mats or other exercise equipment; it was just a full sized basketball court.

The two white escorts ushered us into the gym, where we met another man, also dressed in white, carrying a black doctor's satchel. He knelt, opened the satchel and removed a syringe. Pope Al accepted the injection placidly, staring ahead like a weary bloodhound on a hot day.
I guessed I was next. My mouth was dry, my palms wet, and my heart throbbed in my throat. I contemplated violently resisting, knowing I wouldn't succeed. I was about to vomit when the gym began whistling Sweet Georgia Brown.

A fourth man in white entered from across the gym, carrying a brand new basketball. We all watched as he unceremoniously walked across the court and held out the ball to the Pope. Without losing his bloodhound expression, Pope Al took the ball and began dribbling up and down the court, faking left, dodging right, shooting long.

He played badly.

One of the escorts touched my arm, saying "Please," and we left Pope Al, the doctor in white and the basketball carrier. The three of us entered another, smaller room, with two plastic seats and a locker. The room smelled of sweat and wine. We stood for a moment in silence.

"What did he tell you?" one of them asked.

"About what?"

"What did he tell you?"

What was the secret I felt I needed to pretend I hadn't heard?

"He told me capitalists have polluted the soul."

"What else?"

"Is this something that will get me in trouble?"

"What did he tell you?"

"Look, I don't know even who you are."

They consulted for a moment, passing whispers between them. Then, "Where was he taking you?"
I didn't know what to hide and what to reveal to make my lies credible. I wasn't even sure why I felt had anything to hide, aside from my need to protect my life, with the outside chance of getting closer to my precious research papers. "To the Vatican," I admitted, finally.

"The Vatican? Why?"

The urge to burst into tears was overwhelming. "He said the research papers were there." I felt like Stan Laurel defensively explaining my plight to two golden Oliver Hardys.
"Research papers? What research papers?"

"You know," I said. "The famous lost formula notes."

More hushed consulting, then: "What formula?"

"The research papers for the soul-removing formula."

They stared at me blankly for a moment, then: "Why would he think he could get you inside the Vatican?"

All I needed was the gray derby. "He said he was the Pope."

They broke into laughter, casually strolling around the small room. One of them dabbed his eyes with his white silk handkerchief. After a moment they calmed, and the distant strains of Sweet Georgia Brown, punctuated by slopping dribbling, drifted in the door. "Is that all?"

"I guess. Yes."

They turned to each other. "He's okay," one of them said, making no attempt to cover his voice.

"So, he's not the Pope?" I asked.

Laughter again. A little forced, I thought. "Sorry. He says that now and then."

"Who is he?"

The laughter cut off and they turned me out of the room, led me down a hallway, through another door and outside to an awaiting limousine, all the while ignoring my inquiries about Pope Al's true identity. As I entered the limo I managed to ask, "Can you tell me how to get to the Vatican?"

They froze, then one spoke. "I thought we explained--"

"Crazy or not, he's got a point. I hadn't given it much thought before, but I have nothing to lose by investigating."

"You're wasting your time."

"I'll risk it."

They climbed aboard and closed the doors. They took their time settling in, too, careful not to wrinkle a crease. One sat on each side. The one on my left said, "Suppose you tell us who you are."

"Nobody, really," I said. "A physicist. I'm looking for--"

"The research papers. You said."

From the one on my right: "What are you trying to prove?"

These guys were good. I looked from one to the other, then shrugged. "Prove? I'm on assignment."

Silence. I swear they were communicating by telepathy. So I wouldn't think about it. I wouldn't dwell on how right they were. Ignore the shame of failure, the pain of family disappointment. Blank out how I just gave up. Blank. Blank. Blank. Just look at them with a blank.

The one on my left sneered, then nodded knowingly. "Okay, physicist," he said. "That man in there. You want to know who he is?"

"Sure."

"You've read the papers. You know the story."

"He is the Pope," I gasped.

"No," said the one on my right.

The one on my left spoke, "He is the peasant."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

But it was. It was the biggest crock of horseshit I would hear that day.

"Then, that must mean you two--"

The one on my right opened the door, saying, "Let's leave it there, okay, dude?"

But the one on my left hesitated. "If we were to give you copies of the papers you seek. Will you take them and go away, physicist?"

I gulped. Nodded.

I sat in the cavernous back seat of the limo for twenty minutes or so, sipping wine, listening to Merle Haggard, until one of the white hoods returned with a large manila envelope.

He looked me in the eye as I held the envelope. He had not released it, yet. "Now go back home to your rich family."

The door closed, the music stopped, the limo rolled away.

I opened the envelope and removed a stack of pages, poorly copied pages, of hand-written scribbles and computer print-outs. It was a mess. A random mess of stream-of-consciousness babble. I took advantage of the limo's space and spread the pages across the seats and floor.

I found myself chanting.

I'm proud to be an Oakie from Muskogee

The countryside was settling into twilight.

A place where even squares can have a ball

A handful of pages fell into a sequence.

We don't burn our draftcards down on Main Street

Fifteen pages, with handwritten notes up front. Only . . .

White lightnin's still the biggest thrill of all

The first page, or pages, was missing.

I went through the mess again. No, this one belonged on top, and clearly it began in the middle of some information. But why? Why would they give me almost the whole picture? Okay, so they're paid to protect the dignity of the church and the Pope and all that. Send me away with a lollipop. Figure I'm not bright enough to notice they short-changed me.

I was so deep in thought that the chauffeur must have spoken many times before I heard him. I realized we were once again on the dinky, city streets, cruising rather slowly, when I heard his voice. "What's that?" I asked.

"Any place in particular, sir?"

I looked out the window. We were passing the alley outside Chalmer's sister-in-law's apartment. "The Vatican," I said, and sat back, evaluating the papers in my lap.

Had I known where the Vatican was I would also have known I was not being taken there. Indeed, had I been paying any attention at all I would have noticed I was being returned to the gymnasium.

The door opened and I recognized the two white hoods, frowning. "We gave you every opportunity," one of them said.

* * * *

I never was much of a basketball fan, but I have gained a new respect for the sport. I had more fun out-shooting Pope Al, day after, than I ever could have had watching the game on TV. But then, Pope Al played so poorly.

The exercise also provided me prolonged trains of thought. As my spastic hook shot rocketed past the backboard by ten feet I reflected on what I knew. As I blundered into Pope Al, knocking us both to our butts, I thought about what they thought I knew. In either case, my limited information offered no solutions.

I didn't know who he was, by the way. Pope or peasant, he was a stinky old geezer who sang country songs as badly as he played basketball. He was beginning to annoy me.

I slept in a different room than Pope Al. Mine was claustrophobic, with just a cot and blanket. I only assumed his was more comfortable. My breakfast and dinner came to me in my cell for three days. On the fourth morning I was greeted by the two hoods in white.

They stood comfortably still, while one of them announced, "Our religious beliefs discourage murder, but be assured we are prepared to kill you if you don't cooperate."

"I don't want to be killed."

I think I convinced them, for they delivered me to another room, with thick carpeting and lush furniture. A servant appeared with a silver tray and a glass of wine for me. As we all took seats, the first white hood spoke. "We want you to tell us his secret."

"And what secret is that?" I asked.

"The secret of the antidote to the soul-removing formula."

I nearly choked on my wine. "There's an antidote?"

More wine was poured.

The second white hood leaned forward and spoke evenly. "His Holiness--"

"He is the Pope," I blurted out.

"He was the Pope. He was Pope when the formula that released souls first entered the world. It upset him very much when he first learned of it. For weeks he refused visitors and stayed in his chambers.

"One day a stranger arrived, requesting audience." Normally, casual requests are dismissed politely. I can only imagine how many "strangers" visit the Vatican, if not hourly, then at least frequently. The white hood went on to describe how this particular stranger, claiming to be the inventor of the soul-releasing formula, succeeded in gaining private audience with the Pope. The stranger was invited to stay, and for days they secluded themselves in secret discussions. "It is rumored they wrote volumes of pages," he continued.

"We know," the first white hood cut in, "that His Holiness and the stranger were working on an antidote to the formula."

As it turns out, Pope Al was quite the scholar, as far as physics is concerned. So teaming up with Xavier Chalmers, and who else could the stranger have been except Chalmers, seemed a wise move.

"Wait a minute," I butted in. "How can there be an antidote?"

"Theoretically," the second white hood continued, "if injected into the body before the heart fails, the individual will awaken and the soul be rejoined. Regardless of the soul's proximity."

"And the Pope discovered this antidote?" I realized I was gaping.

"With help from the stranger."

A sip of wine. Another sip. I drained the glass. "Where is this stranger now?" I asked.

"No one knows," the first white hood replied. "He is rumored to be dead. He was rather aged. One day he was simply gone."

"You know this stranger," the second white hood said. "He was Professor Chalmers."

"We've never met," I commented, "But, yes. Chalmers leaves. They must have finished. But why wouldn't the Pope give you his antidote?"

That was the magical question. The golden egg. The fruit of knowledge had not been as dangerous as that question. The reason the Pope would not reveal the key component to his soul-recovering formula to the church administrators had two answers. One was the correct answer, and one was the wrong answer.

"Because," the first white hood began, "the interests of the church do not want him to reveal to the free market a competitive product to the soul-remover, an item that is heavily invested in by our organization. And he knows his intentions would be undermined."

That was the wrong answer. Honest, but wrong.

"It is necessary for our organization to obtain the formula to the antidote," he continued, without blinking, "so that our resources can create a modified formula immune to the antidote."

"Or," the second frost-white hood spoke up, "to adjust our investments to benefit from the sale of the antidote."

"So," I said, "you want me to get the secret from the Pope and turn it over to you."

They nodded.

"But he's crazy," I pointed out. "How can you trust what he says?"

"Drug induced paranoia," the first white hood replied.

"In order to discredit him," his partner continued, "we introduced into his diet a variety of drugs that bruised his sense of reality and confidence. He knows what he knows. We have merely seen to it that no one believes him."

"Except me."

"Except you."

"Presumably," I offered, "you've already searched his possessions and--"

"Do you think us stupid?" the second white hood glared at me.

"Suppose he does give me the secret. What becomes of me?"

They stood, straightened their clothing. The second white hood spoke. "Enjoy your basketball."

* * * *

Pope Al did not say one word for four days. I had been throttling him severely in each of our daily skirmishes.

I began losing.

Pope Al began talking.

He talked and talked and talked.

He talked about his childhood, his mother, his first car, his adolescent loves, his college years, his physics classes and his spiritual calling. Had things turned out differently, I might be writing his biography, he talked so much. The only thing he did not talk about was the antidote.

So one day I stopped, mid-dribble, and asked him. "What's the goddamn secret to the antidote?"

Again with the bloodhound stare, then he looked away. "It's a secret."

"Tell me."

"I can't."

For the rest of the day he just stood there on the spot where I asked him the question. I played around him.

The next day he played as though my question had not been asked. He continued to speak of his early ministry and his rise to the position of Pope. He said he was seventy-three. He looked seventy-three.

As each day that he refused me the secret passed I became more and more concerned for my own, frail, bored life. The next morning, after breakfast, my self-indulgent depression was interrupted by a servant's question. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

I hadn't been paying much attention, the previous few days, to the servant whose job it was to bring me my meals. The only thing he ever said to me was "Will there be anything else, sir?" and the only thing I ever said to him was "No, thank you."

This morning he stood waiting. He wasn't very clean shaven for a servant, though he was wearing a house uniform. He appeared to be waiting for something, or debating with himself over some obscure issue.

"Is there something else?" I asked him.

He didn't respond. Standing there, tray with my dirty dishes in his hand, he looked very tired. And old. Older than Pope Al.

"How old are you?" I asked.

He sighed. "About seventy, I think. I'm not sure any more."

It was not the way he looked directly into my eyes - most servants stare ahead militarily. And it was not his advanced years that tipped me off. It was his voice. He spoke direct English with no trace of European accent.

"You're American," I said.

"Yes," he replied, dropping the perfunctory "sir".

"Where from?"

"California."

Sweet Georgia Brown echoed in the gym.

"What's your name?"

"Xavier Chalmers."

I stood up. "Professor Xavier Chalmers?"

"I was a professor at one time, yes."

"What are you doing here?" I was beside myself with ecstasy and fear, shouting and whispering simultaneously.

"I work here." He struggled lamely to "attention".

"Why?"

That seemed to do it. He relaxed from his stance, still holding the tray. "To watch over His Holiness."

"To watch over him for what?" I asked.

"For you."

Suddenly, I was far ahead of where I was prepared to be. I looked around for a sign of the white hoods. "Does anybody know you're here?"

"Everyone knows I'm here. I work here."

"I mean, does anyone know you're Professor Chalmers? The Professor Chalmers?"

"I don't think so," he said, thoughtfully. "Probably not."

Pope Al tripped over the basketball, crumbled clumsily to the floor and just sat there, complacent. I peeked out the door more worried than ever that we would be caught.

"It's all right," Chalmers said. "It's Sunday. Mass. We can speak freely." At last, he set the tray aside and sat down on my cot, asking, "May I?"

"Of course, of course," I stammered, arranging my barrage of questions. Now it was his turn to talk.

And he talked.

He spoke of his research, his discovery, his horror and shame and his flight from his profession, home and friends. He spoke of how he attempted suicide when his formula somehow landed on the marketplace at a time in the world's history when organized religious participation was at an all-time low. He spoke of how his gas-induced suicide attempt failed when he was discovered by his sister-in-law, who carted him away to Rome, where he stayed for two years, contemplating his place in life.

He spoke of how he continued his work on the formula and tried to undo the travesty he felt he'd committed, by making a pilgrimage to the Vatican and offering his guilt to the Pope for penance. He spoke of Pope Al's education of physics and how this renewed interest propelled them toward the discovery of an antidote to the "Soul Stealer", as he called it.

"Unfortunately," he said, "we never quite finished."

"Do you mean there is no antidote?"

"We almost had it," he said. "But then His Holiness began acting strangely. He began behaving paranoid, very erratic. It affected his thinking. He hardly speaks to me at all, now."

Incidentally, he cleared up the confusion on what Pope Al really meant to do with the poor peasant who wound up taking the heat for the Pope's mental disintegration. It turns out the Pope was not accosting the man in any way. "Utter nonsense, that," scoffed Chalmers.

"Then what?"

"He was trying to heal the man, of course." Chalmers stood, collected the tray. "He wouldn't harm a flea. He merely believed that the best way to save this man's soul was to heal him."

That the prospect of spontaneously healing the beggar didn't sound any more practical than the rumors did to me, was not something I ventured to speak out loud. Chalmers assumed that the great pressures of society and religion and the burden of releasing mankind from the grip of the evil Soul Stealer were the true source of Pope Al's fears and anxieties. He didn't know that the Pope was surreptitiously medicated to create this condition.

I spilled the beans.

"That means someone was on to us," he said, pacing the small room. "That means he's still being drugged." He stopped pacing and looked at me. "It means that someone thinks we actually succeeded in creating the antidote."

"It does?" I asked, innocently.

"Of course," he said. He's here so that whoever has interests in the Soul Stealer might obtain the antidote, for whatever reason they have in mind." He paced some more.

"What did you mean," I asked, "when you said you were watching for me?"

He delicately disengaged himself from his train of thought to answer me. "Not for you, specifically," he said. "But for whomever His Holiness brought back with him when he was caught. I knew, when he escaped, that he would eventually return. So I waited."

It seems, all he had to do was don the uniform of a house servant. Since no one had been privy to the private sessions of the professor and the Pope, no one really got a good look at him. He simply assumed the duties of a lowly servant. The stranger just mysteriously disappeared.

"I have dedicated my life to serving him, since his descent from sanity. But," he paused, mulling it over, "I always thought I had been the cause of that descent. I left my destiny in the hands of God. There was no doubt in my mind that God would deliver you to me."

Three cheers for God.

It also seems that at no time has the good professor attempted to disguise his identity or mislead his acquaintances. The incidentals took care of themselves. By being confidently conspicuous, no attention had been paid him by anyone other than Pope Al. And me.

"So, now what?" I said. We had been talking for over three hours. Pope Al was asleep on the hardwood gym floor. "What should I do?"

He wandered out the door. "Enjoy your basketball."

* * * *

Two days passed, and I didn't see hide nor hair of old Professor Chalmers. Two days of dull, boring gibberish from Pope Al, who had discovered a recent innovation in the game: whistling along with Sweet Georgia Brown.

He whistled as poorly as he played.

At no time during my three week imprisonment did I see any sunlight. The only clue of daytime given me were the fluorescent lights in the gym. When I went into my room, closed the door and doused the light, noon became midnight. So, it was with a calm not normally due me that I woke to a figure lurking through the black shadows toward my cot. I thought it was morning and the butler had merely decided to wake me before bringing my breakfast. But as the figure bumbled and stumbled in the small room I became quickly concerned. Not that his intent was to attack me, but that he might trip over something and fall on me.

He tripped on the foot of the bed and fell on me.

I felt obligated to scream.

"Sorry. It's only me," he said. I recognized the professor's voice.

I lifted him off, asking, "What are you doing?"

"We're leaving," he replied, sitting on my feet. The bones of his rear end were like oblong boulders gouging my toes.

"Leaving?" I blinked and mumbled a few incoherent sentences, to which he politely listened, then stammered, "We're just going to walk out?"

"More or less, yes."

And so we did. We tiptoed across the gym, down the hall and out into the moonlit courtyard to his antique auto, a 2001 Chevy Corvette, parked among the fleet of newer, nuclear-powered Cadillacs.

"If I'd known it was this simple," I whispered, "I would have left weeks ago."

"You probably wouldn't have succeeded," he replied, as we climbed into the car. "Tonight is only the second time they've trusted me to activate the security sentry for your area."

"They let you guard the palace? What did they expect you to do, tackle me if I decided to run?" I looked at the other vehicles. "Why don't we take one of them?"

"I don't have the keys for them," he said, digging out the keys for the Corvette.

"Wait," I said. "What about the Pope? Are we leaving without him?"

He put the key in the ignition, but hesitated. "He'll be okay. I'm sure."

He turned the key, and the car awoke with an explosive racket that hammered the serenity of the placid courtyard. I nearly swallowed my tongue.

"Listen to that," he beamed. "They don't sound like that any more."

"Get us out of here!" I shouted, and our rear window exploded. My ears were ringing. Through the breach I saw one of the white hoods, standing on a balcony, a Quasar-53B phase-rifle aimed directly at us. "MOVE IT!" I stomped my foot on his and the Chevy lurched forward. The ground behind us exploded, filling the courtyard with a cloudy rain of soil and silt.

We drove madly, my foot over his, my hands hogging the wheel.

"Oh my," he gasped.

The guard at the gate stood valiantly defiant in our headlights until he realized we weren't about to stop. He stepped aside as we plowed through the gates, shredding the antique fiberglass body as though it were, well . . . fiberglass.

"Oh, my," Chalmers gasped again.

He sat behind the wheel as I steered and pedaled on top of him, until we were clear of the compound. When I finally dared take my eyes from the road, I could see by the moonlight that Chalmers was quite pale and shaken.

"I didn't expect that," he stammered.

"Did you think no one would hear this bomb?" I panted, heart racing. "Hey, are you okay?"

I steered the car to the shoulder of the road.

"I thought we would make it," he said, weakly.

"We will," I said. "We will."

He looked at me. "I don't want to die."

"You won't," I said. "You won't."

We changed positions, and as I climbed in behind the wheel, the night's calm seemed to stretch tight, as though prepared to snap shut at any moment. Chalmers dabbed his forehead with a hanky.

"I thought I wouldn't be afraid of death," he said. "I thought Heaven would be my reward."

I put the gear in drive and glanced in the rear view mirror. A bank of bright headlights was streaking through the countryside at Mach 3.

"I do believe in God," Chalmers lamented.

"Of course you do," I said, flooring the pedal.

The whiplash nearly took my head off as we blasted away, sliding this way and that on the curvy road. Then, right there behind us, like four white suns squeezing their way in through our shattered rear window, the headlights of the white hoods' silver limousine glared hotly, illuminating us with searing, bluish-white ferocity.

"Don't let me die," said Chalmers, his hand raised feebly before him, scraping the air. "Please don't let me die."

"I'm trying," I squeaked. What I didn't realize was that his plea was legitimate. I knew there was nothing I could do about his death. He knew there was.

This is what I could have done: I could have opened the glove compartment.

The silver ocean liner Cadillac, breathing light-fire from its glass eyes, slammed into us with a jolt that threw us back in our seats, and popped open the glove compartment door, spewing papers and trash to the floor, and dropping a small, white tube delicately in Chalmers' lap.

The hideous whine of the poor, antique Chevy drive train shrieked under the stress. I shifted into neutral, hanging on for what may have been left of my dear life.

Chalmers was suddenly quiet, but I didn't dare look. Our little Chevy was a bullet, propelled by a rocket, swaying this way and that, held to road by prayer and tight bowels.

I felt Chalmers head slump against my shoulder.

We were zooming through the moonlit countryside with a mounting speed that blurred my peripheral vision. Smoke began pouring out from what was left of the hood. The smell of burning rubber and oil filled the car. Bugs hitting the windshield sounded like blasts of buckshot.

Then the screaming white headlights behind us, and the Chevy's bright interior, turned a sickly, cotton candy pink.

The road crested, and we were airborne. The Chevy crashed down again, smashing our suspension to bits. We spun to the right, stopped only by the titanic Caddy plowing into our side.

The pink was gone.

Chalmers's head slumped into my lap, eyes wide, unaffected by the white horror of the Caddy. On the floorboard, I saw the small tube, capless. I reached for it.


But the Caddy swerved off, spinning us the opposite way like a pinwheel. I gripped the wheel for support as I caught swirling glimpses of the Cadillac charging erratically through brush and trees, gouging a path into the woods. For all its beef and power, it bounced and slid as though a driverless toy, until at last it met a formidable tree with an explosion that flared hot and bright, if only briefly.

We spun to a gradual stop in the center of the road, facing the Caddy's ruins. The quiet of the night was on us again, broken only by the hissing, dripping and groaning of our beaten Chevy.

I looked down at the dented tube on the floor. It was sitting on a thick envelope, addressed to Mary Chalmers, the professor's sister-in-law. As I picked it up I heard a mournful, piercing moan, coming from the Cadillac. Up from the wreckage arose a slim, lanky stream of smoke, like the smoke off a cigarette.

It was pink.

It hesitated in the air, moonlit and wistful, then corkscrewed delicately heavenward.

Silence returned, and I reconsidered the envelope. It was unsealed, so I removed the contents: folded papers similar to the papers I had been given by the white hood. Except that some of these were burned on the edges.

Driving back into the city took a while, considering the condition of the Chevy, but I was knocking on Mary's door before morning. I had left Chalmers in the parked car, hoping any passing constable would presume the old geezer intoxicated.

Eventually, the door opened, and there before me stood the most alluring, sexy, blond fifteen year-old Lolita I could ever dream of meeting. I wanted to ravish her on the spot. A thin, man's pajama top kept her ample body from spilling out all over my lust. "Oui?" she said, half asleep.

"I'm American," I said. "I'm a friend of Professor Chalmers."

"Oh," she sighed, voluptuously. "Another one. Come back later, 'kay?" She started to close the door.

"He's dead," I said.

She held the door against her body, and I wanted to leap on her like a horny hound.

"I was just with him," I said.

Behind her then appeared Mary, bleary-eyed, wrapping herself in a flannel robe. "Who is it, Louise? Oh, it's you. Why do you say things like that? I told you a month ago--"

"He's outside, in his Chevy," I said. "I think it was his heart."

It was his heart, though he didn't feel much because he had vacated his body before it got too painful. He vacated his body and drifted back to the Caddy, which was no match for the power of a ghost. But I didn't tell her that.

We carted his frail, old body up to her apartment and put him in her extra bedroom. It was a bedroom that once belonged to him. Then we sat and drank coffee in the kitchen and sorted things out.

This time it was Mary's turn to talk.

And she talked.

She talked about her husband, Daniel, the professor's brother, who had died from a stroke ten years earlier, leaving her and her luscious daughter a comfortable insurance sum. Daniel Chalmers was ten years younger than Xavier, making him about fifty when he died, and he was, as they say, healthy as a horse. He didn't smoke. He didn't drink. He ran five miles a day. He was financially secure. He loved his work and his family.

Then one day he died.

The professor, on the other hand, chain smoked, ate poorly, drank gallons of coffee, rarely did anything more strenuous than think, and Mary said he had blood pressure high enough to pump a fire hose to a tenth story window. He lived twenty years longer than his brother, who swore he wouldn't need the soul-remover for another hundred years.

Poor Daniel.

It was Daniel, Mary explained, who introduced the soul-removing formula to the marketplace. It was Daniel who sold it -- when Xavier condemned it -- to underground chemists commonly producing the likes of LSD, Angel Dust and the god-awful Black Hammer of Thor, the infamous death simulator. "This is better than a simulator," Daniel would declare to his prospect. "This is the real thing. Without the side effect." The side effect being genuine death. It was Daniel who fought the obvious legislation against the drug.

It was never legalized in America.

If you were caught selling the soul-remover you were put away and the key was tossed into the Grand Canyon. Most states had concocted a special criminal code just for this drug. That it stomped all over the constitution slowed down no one.

Those caught buying the soul-remover were usually so close to death that no action, other than confiscation of the drug, was taken. Unless it was purchased for the purpose of re-selling it. At a higher price, naturally. This particular low-life was usually elected to the senate.

Daniel Chalmers had just begun his European killing, financially speaking, when he kicked the bucket. His wife, Mary, took the insurance policy, which was legitimate, and high-tailed it out of the country for good.

With ex-Professor Xavier Chalmers.

He was more than fifteen years older than Mary, yet her infatuation with him had been accelerated by her disappointment in Daniel. Unfortunately, Xavier was obsessed with what he considered his criminal folly, and so never truly acknowledged her feelings, and certainly never admitted to any of his own. But she truly did love the old fart.

Young, sweet Louise Chalmers was a mere five years old at the time, not that it matters.

I was thirty.

I wouldn't lose my job for another nine years. The day my father bought a tube of "Soul-Remover". What does one event have to do with the other?

My father owned BioMech Labs.

I guess I didn't so much lose my job as I gave it away. What the hell, I certainly didn't need the money. But there was something I did need.

The antidote.

Not for my father. It's years too late for him. Anyway, I wouldn't want to revive him into the incurable condition he was in before he left. His was a lost cause.

I visited him, not long ago. In the First Presbyterian Church of Norwalk, California. Here's one thing nobody tells you about the soul-remover: It's wonderful for the "bodyless humans", but it's torture for their families left behind. They don't respond to you, they just float around with this blank, blissful, pink expression. You can't talk to them. You can't touch them.

But they're right there.

As I said, it's torture.

No, my father took his shot and bailed.

My mother remains here.

And if you think it's torture for me, it's absolute hell for her. When I found out that she had bought a tube of the vile poison I confronted her right there on the yacht.

"But you're strong as an ox!" I shouted, pacing the deck. "Dad was suffering."

"I'm suffering, too," she said, looking out at the horizon from her chair. The sun was setting, and the sea was calm.

I threw myself onto a deck chair and scowled at the sunset. "It's not right. It's not fair."

"You were always so shallow," she said, placidly. "This is not the same as complaining about an unwanted birthday present. No matter what we bought you, it was wrong. The wrong size. The wrong color."

"You can't do it."

"You're not taking this back to the store."

I stood up and paced some more. Our butler stepped out from a doorway. "Shall I prepare dinner now?"

I spun on him, frothing, but Mother intercepted. "Not just now, thank you."

He left us alone again. I just looked at her. "Will you make me a promise?" I asked.

"I don't think so," she said, and reclined, closing her eyes.

"No, listen a minute," I said, kneeling beside her. Her eyes stayed closed. "Wait for, I don't know, six months."

"Why?" Eyes still closed.

"Just wait, please. Can you make that one compromise?"

Her breathing didn't change. Her eyes remained closed.

"I won't change my mind," she said.

"I know. I know. I won't say any more about it. That's my promise. If you'll just put it off for six months. Six months from today."

At first I thought she had fallen asleep. Seagulls squawked as they circled for food. Then, "All right."

That was five and a half months ago.

When Mary finally went to bed, just before dawn, I sat down on the sofa and browsed through Chalmers' papers. Everything was here. All of his original notes.

And something else.

Another set of scribbled notes. Two distinctly separate handwriting styles, at that. And this single page that I held was magical.

It was just what I was looking for.

The apartment doorway shattered as though made of balsa wood. Two tall, glacier-white gangsters pounded in so swiftly I thought they would pass by me before stopping. They did pass. And they took me with them.

Right to an open window. I found myself hanging upside down outside the window, the street swaying, far below.

"It's a long drop," the glacier spoke.

"Yes," I agreed. "Very long."

Then Mary's shrill voice assaulted the scene. "What? Who the hell do you think-- Let him-- Get away from-- what--?" A loud smack ended that.

"I think you have something to tell us," the glacier said.

"Now that you mention it," I offered.

I glided back inside and effortlessly settled on the floor. For all their ruthlessness, they were smooth and gentle. These were different men than those I had dealt with before. These were gorilla gangsters, but still dressed in white. Impeccable white linen. One of them was gently laying Mary on the sofa. Louise had apparently not deemed the situation worthy of her involvement. I was sorry about that.

The glacier took me by the arm. "We're waiting," he said.

And I knew what they were waiting for.

"There is no antidote," I said. The grip on my arm tightened. "Listen, you put the paranoia clamp on the pontiff too soon. They were that close, but you blew it. The professor told me everything before he died." And I told them. I had no reason to hide anything. I pointed to the papers. "There it is. You can have it. Those are the original notes from BioMech, and those are the notes from the Pope and the professor."

The glacier glanced at the papers, then turned to me. His breath smelled like peppermint. "I don't believe you," he began, "when you say there is no antidote. But I also believe you are stupid and a coward and would reveal such a secret if you knew what it was. I believe you have the secret to the antidote at your fingertips and don't even know it."

He glanced at the papers again, then back to me.

"If the antidote finds its way to any house but ours, you will suffer. Know this: for the rest of your life we will be over your shoulder. For the rest of your life we will be listening to your every breath and whimper. Your barber will be my uncle. Your tax lawyer my nephew. When you marry it will be to my cousin. Don't think you can shit without us knowing what color paper you use."

I was losing the circulation in my arm.

"Would you like me to repeat that?" His eyes were wide. Murine-clean, ice-blue eyes.

Without waiting for an answer, he released me, scooped up the papers and stomped out, followed by his bookend.

Louise came out, and we revived Mary. The neighbors and police arrived later. Some of my story to them was honest. We substituted common thieves for the glacier-white gangsters, and I eliminated any reference to the Vatican. And, of course, they never knew we had a stiff in the extra bedroom.

Mary and Louise saw me off at the airport that day. I walked up the gangplank, my heart aching as the sleepy-eyed vixen coyly waved to me. I swore I'd come back.

I sat on the plane with my hand in my pocket the whole time. Gripping the piece of paper. The magical piece of paper. The one magical piece of paper that was just what I was looking for. The piece I was able to wad and jam into my pocket before dangling from the window.

And before I fell into a calm, overdue slumber, an observation came to me that had somehow managed to evade most civilized political, religious and philosophical organizations that past few years. Or maybe it had been ignored. Anyway, here it is: This thing from which we've managed to disconnect ourselves, this floating awareness so eager to depart, is not our soul.

It can't be.

We've made the error of separating pieces of our "selves" as though we were metaphysical Tinkertoys. Our soul is not something we have. It's what we are. Physical, metaphysical, and whatever else that is beyond our mere five senses to comprehend. The true horror of this realization is that, whatever that entity is that we eject from our "selves" when we use the paste, it can never find true peace, in the eternal, infinite sense that is the ultimate say-so of our existence. Whether or not it comes to rest will remain to be seen, but, for the time being, I view Chalmers more as Frankenstein with his creature, rather than Nobel and Fleming, after all.

In the meantime, I closed my sweaty palm over the crunched ball of paper in my pocket. I didn't dare remove it and examine it again. Not in plain sight. But I had seen it once, and I knew it was right. I knew it was the missing link that Pope Al, Professor Chalmers and the whole army of glacier-white thugs had been hungry for. I knew that I could do what none of them had been able to do. I was on my way home with a week to spare. Plenty of time.

I would give my mother a week to experience what she needed to experience with my father. A week to discover what shallow truly means, as an earthbound ghost. Then I would bring her back.

It wouldn't matter then, when I got the letter from Mary, describing Louise's new boyfriend, the bank-teller. It wouldn't matter that I'd lost her to man who dressed impeccably in frost-white linen.

The End