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Subject: Connected (Part 1)
Date: Mon, 3 Mar 1997 02:20:15 -0600
Message-ID: <19970303081907343.AAE174@denp1-29.iglobal.net>

CONNECTED (Sequel to Third Time's a Charm) - Part 1
by Deb Parizek and Rhonda Hallstrom

Lightning creased the storm-blackened sky. Thunder boomed overhead.

Mother Nature sought harmony.

So did Peter Caine.

The serenity of the lake could not reach his soul tonight as it had every
other night, to date, of his stay at the temple. The ache in his body, after
a long day of training, and the ache in his heart, reason unknown, kept him
firmly grounded.

"Am I...invited?" A soft, masculine voice spoke from behind him.

Peter nodded, knowing his father would sense that he was welcome even if the
motion made in response to the question was lost in the darkness. Caine
seated himself on the grass to his son's right.

"Some herbal tea would ease the soreness of your muscles," Caine offered,
starting the conversation. He knew, however, the physical discomfort was not
the real problem plaguing his son.

"Yes, I know, Father," Peter replied quietly.

"I fear, though, the tea will not help the pain in your heart," Caine said.
"What troubles you, son?"

"It's nothing. I'll work it out," Peter told his father, eyes never shifting
from their hold on the rippling water.

"A wise young man told me once that happiness shared is doubled while sorrow
shared is halved...."

"Who was this 'wise young man?'"

"A certain scientist of our acquaintance...."

"Sam." Despite his mood, Peter smiled slightly at the thought of his friend
who leaped about in time.

"Yes," Caine replied. "But, let us speak of him later. Will you share your
sorrow with me?"

"I might if I knew what was really bothering me," Peter stated. His quiet
tone betrayed his feelings of sadness, anger and loss.

"Then you must concentrate on your feelings and bring them into focus,"
Caine suggested.

"I will try. Will you stay?"

"I will stay."

Peter closed his eyes and reached into himself, endeavoring to find the
explanation for how badly he felt. Caine, prepared to wait patiently, sensed
his son enter a meditative state ...

     Peter stood in a gray, formless mist. After a few seconds, a whirlpool
     of colors surrounded him. He appreciated the beauty of the sight then
     his mind imposed order on the maelstrom.

     Green settled into grass and leaves. Brown formed tree trunks and an
     aging building. Blue composed the sky. Yellow, the ambient light.

     He stood in bushes at the foot of a tall tree. As soon as he was able,
     he surveyed the rest of the area, finding himself near a old building.
     Trees and underbrush encircled the building with the exception of a
     wide path to the large door on the front face of the structure. Two
     men crouched a large tree just off the path. One man, clad in sand-
     colored camoflauge, sported gray hair. The other, completely attired
     in black, had black hair. They seemed familiar.

     Gunfire erupted, breaking the silence. Peter squatted down -- force
     of habit -- and searched for those who were armed. His attention was
     drawn back to the men as he heard the gray-haired one shout.

     "Get to the building. I'll cover you."

     The black-haired man nodded, reluctantly.

     Between bursts of fire from their opponents, the men, more like a
     well-oiled machine, moved in unison. The graying man brought his
     rifle to bear. An unexpected burst of gunfire resounded.

     A round hit the graying man square in the chest and flung him back
     into his comrade...

"Paul!" Peter yelled as his eyes snapped open.

Caine put a steadying hand on Peter's back. He, too, had experienced his
son's vision.

Peter turned a face full of worry to Caine. "I HAVE to help him, Father!" He
tried to stand but Caine's hand moved to his shoulder and prevented the
movement.

"You cannot - not at this time...." the priest told him.

"WHY?" Peter asked, angrily.

Remaining calm in the face of Peter's emotions, Caine said, "You have not
completed enough of your training."

"He'll DIE if I don't help!"

"That is true," Caine agreed, sadness growing in his heart as well.
"However, my son, you could not reach him in time....Perhaps, you could ask
another to assist your father...."

A smile eased the tension on Peter's face. He closed his eyes again....

*****

Blue-white light surrounded him. He felt the wrench of being pulled out of
time....

Sam Beckett blinked and staggered as a body was flung right into him. His
arms automatically extended to catch the body as he regained his footing. He
was dismayed to see blood on his outstretched hand.

"Oh, boy," he moaned as he grabbed the man and dragged him over to a
building, keeping low to avoid any bullets.

It was chaos personified. The minute glances Sam was able to steal told him
that he was in some kind of underdeveloped country under warfare. He ducked
reflexively as guns fired all around him out in the distance. Sam didn't
know WHAT was going on, nor did he really want to get in the middle of it.
He had a patient to deal with.

Sam breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he managed to drag the man into a
decrepit, rotting building. He knelt down to examine the man more
thoroughly, trying to ignore the pain in his left hand - apparently his host
had broken a few fingers.

He yanked the shirt open and found that most of the blood belonged to the
man lying on the ground, not him. Sam desperately looked around for
something clean to make bandages with, but saw nothing. Finally, he stripped
off his own shirt and began ripping it up as he heard the familiar sound of
the imaging door chamber.

"Sam?" Al's voice called.

"Over here, Al," Sam said, still working. Deliberately, he had dragged the
man behind a large pile of rubble.

Al repositioned himself to Sam's side and winced when he saw the wounded
man. "GEEZ, Sam...!" Al moaned, looking away from the gruesome sight. "Why
didn't you TELL me you were performing surgery???"

"I'm NOT!" Sam answered disgustedly. "I don't have any supplies for
surgery...he's hit bad, Al! He's going to die unless-" The man moaned. "Just
what I need," Sam muttered.

"Ryk...." the man moaned.

"Don't talk," Sam said. "Go back to sleep."

"...tell...Annie...and the girls....."

"Just be quiet," Sam reassured him. "I'm going to get you out of this."

"...Peter...tell Peter he's a damn good cop...the best...."

*Peter?* Sam's swiss-cheesed memory gave him a nudge. *Didn't I know a cop
named Peter???*

"...and a damn fine son...." The man coughed weakly and his eyelids
fluttered closed.

*Peter...Annie....* Sam's photographic memory tried to access the names,
despite the swiss-cheesing effect. *Ohhhhhhh-! Peter CAINE! And...this
is...this must be Paul Blaisdell!* Sam directed a scathing glare heavenward.
*Why can't You ever give me anything EASY???*

"What is it, Sam?" Al asked, seeing Sam's expression.

"This is Paul Blaisdell," Sam said, resuming his medical work. "Peter
Caine's foster father."

Al's jaw dropped open. "We just can't seem to get away from this family, can
we?" he asked sardonically.

"Al," Sam said, "find me the nearest hospital."

Al, after smacking the squealing handlink a couple of times, inputed the
question. "Don't you want to know who YOU are?" he asked between smacks.

"I doubt it'll matter to HIM," Sam said, indicating the unconscious man,
"but go ahead and tell me."

"A mercenary called Rykker. Would you believe we pumped enough truth serum
in him to fill a cargo hold and all we got out of him was the name Rykker???
I HATE these mercenaries!"

Sam smiled, then frowned as his memory jarred loose another fragment from
Peter Caine's life. "Kermit!"

Al winced. "Couldja say that a little louder, Sam? I don't think I could
hear you over my concussion!"

"Kermit was...IS a mercenary, right?" Sam asked.

"Oh, yeah," Al answered sarcastically.

"He knows Blaisdell and probably knows Rykker, too. Al, you've GOT to give
me that name of that hospital!"

"Here it is...El Hospital de los San Juan Marcos; about seven miles that
way," Al said, waving his hand to the east.

"Okay," Sam said, as he finished tying off Blaisdell's wounds. "I've got to
get there to get some supplies or he's going to die." He got up and began
rearranging the debris around the fallen man to hide him. "Al, scout outside
- see if there's some kind of vehicle around outside, how many men are
there, etc." Al pushed the handlink buttons and disappeared as Sam continued
working. "I hope Blaisdell has the sense to stay put if he wakes up again,"
Sam muttered to himself.

Just as Sam finished hiding Blaisdell, Al reappeared. "Sam, I found a jeep
for you! C'mon!"

Sam peered out the door cautiously. He could see a lot of smoke and hear a
lot of gunfire in the distance but didn't see anyone.

Al materialized around the corner to the left and called out, "Sam! Over here!"

Sam ran over to the vehicle at a crouch, just in case people decided to
shoot at him again. He looked for keys and found them under the seat. He
started the jeep and was off.

*****

Al was waiting for him when he arrived, waving his arms at Sam like an
air-traffic controller. As Sam got closer, he said, "Sam! I reconnoitered
the place - it's a piece of cake. C'mon." As Sam stopped the jeep and
clambored out, Al continued. "I found a side door that leads directly to the
doctor's lounge and I could only find one doctor in residence."

Sam looked at the small building with hope as Al pointed out the door. *This
is a hospital??* Sam thought with disgust. *Only one doctor....I hope
they'll HAVE adequate supplies for me to steal...."

He slipped inside without a sound. Thankfully, the doctor wasn't there...and
then he saw the door opening....

Sam flattened himself behind the door, reluctantly taking out the gun he had
on him and flipping off the safety, praying that he wouldn't have to use it.

The door swung open and covered Sam from sight as the doctor came in and
headed straight for the coffee machine. He was in the process of pouring
himself a cup when he saw Sam in the reflecting parts of the coffee machine
and turned. Sam leveled the gun at him while putting a finger over his lips
with his other hand. The doctor slowly put down the cup and raised his
hands. Sam closed the door.

"Do you speak English?" Sam asked, gathering from the name of the hospital
that he was in Latin America somewhere.

"Si...yes, Senor," the doctor said. He began to approach cautiously. "You
are hurt; may I help you?" Sam looked to where the doctor was indicating. He
had almost forgotten his host's broken fingers. The doctor took his hurt
hand gently in his own and examined it briefly. "Senor..." he said, "I must
tend to this or your hand will never re-heal properly."

Sam grimaced - he hadn't thought of that.

The doctor misunderstood the emotion. "You are safe here, Senor. There is no
need for that gun. We fight for de la pais."

Sam frowned. He didn't catch the Spanish but he still didn't know if that
meant he could put down the gun, or even which side HE was on.

"Come...let me take care of you."

The doctor took his arm gently and led him out. Sam let him, knowing that
the doctor would take him to a treatment room where he could get supplies,
but tucked the gun under his coat. The doctor nodded as if he expected Sam
to keep ahold of the weapon.

Sam was led into the treatment room as he had expected. The doctor began
busying himself with bottles and syringes as Sam looked on. Sam decided to
not give away his medical knowledge unless he had to...which came sooner
than expected. He pointed the gun for emphasis. "Don't bother with that," he
said, indicating a bottle in the doctor's hand. "I don't wish to sleep for a
week right now."

The doctor looked at the bottle, then at Sam. "You understand medicine,
Senor?" he asked.

Sam looked expressionless. "Just don't try that again. The bottle third from
the left should do."

The doctor looked at the bottle in question. *The man knows medicine VERY
well,* the doctor thought, sighing, as he took the local anesthetic down
from the shelf and prepared the syringe.

Sam watched the clock while the doctor worked. This was taking too much
time....He only hoped that Blaisdell was still hanging on.

Al appeared next to him, happened to catch a glimpse of the injured hand and
cringed once more. "I don't think I'm gonna like this leap."

Sam mouthed Al's name so that the doctor wouldn't be distracted by thinking
he was crazy. Once he had Al's attention, he mouthed "Blaisdell" as best he
could.

Al waved his ever-present cigar. "He's okay, Sam," he assured his friend, "I
just looked in on him. He's still sleeping." Understanding that Sam couldn't
exactly talk to him at the moment, Al continued. "Ziggy still doesn't know
why you're here, except to save Blaisdell's life, which has a 83%. One thing
is for certain: Ziggy says you are not, I repeat NOT, supposed to get
involved with the local dispute here. Doing so will only get you killed in
every single scenario Ziggy's run so far."

Sam was relieved. Maybe this leap would be easier than he thought.
Blaisdell's wounds were critical, but Sam knew he could save him once he got
there with the supplies. He nodded for Al to continue, while making sure
that the doctor wasn't trying to sneak another sedative past him.

"That's about all we have so far," Al said. "Oh - I dropped in on the kid,
you know, Peter Caine." Sam's head snapped up to look at him. Al raised his
hands defensively. "Take it easy, Sam. He wasn't there. And his dad's gone,
too. I don't know where they are."

"Thank you," Sam said to the doctor as he finished wrapping the injured
fingers. He held up his hand to inspect the job. The three fingers were
wrapped VERY securely; he only hoped that he could perform surgery like that.

"De nada," the doctor replied, wondering what Sam was going to do next. He
found out.

Sam rose and inspected the medical equipment. Making the doctor turn to face
the wall, he prepared another syringe. "I'm sorry to repay your kindness
this way," he said, as he turned the doctor around to face him and swabbed
the inside of the doctor's arm with alcohol.

The doctor sighed. "That is all right, Senor," he said. "I am used to it."
He watched as Sam effortlessly and painlessly injected him with something.
"I prefer your method to some that has been used in the past," he said,
rubbing his head with the memory.

Sam made the doctor lie down on the cot in the room and began his search for
supplies. By the time Sam found a handy shoulder-bag to carry supplies in,
the doctor was fast asleep. Sam opened drawers and stuffed the bag full.
"Al," he said, "go and stay with Blaisdell. I'll be there as soon as I can."

*****

Sam was on his way out the door when he saw the phone. *Kermit,* he thought
again. *Maybe he can get us out of here....* He picked up the phone and,
after a few moments of figuring out how to dial long-distance, dialed the
station number from memory.

"101st, Sergeant Broderick."

Sam cleared his throat as he tried to disguise his voice, making it deeper.
"Detective Griffin," he rasped.

"Hold on."

Sam waited as the call was transferred. This would be a very difficult call.
He had to fool someone who lived by his wits and cunning....Sam only hoped,
for the sake of the emergency, that Kermit would let him get away with it.

"Griffin."

*What do I say???* the flustered Sam thought. *Businesslike...be
businesslike!* He cleared his throat again. "It's me," he said, hoping
Kermit would know who he was.

He could almost feel the flurry on the other end of the line. "Are you
INSANE calling here?!?!" Kermit hissed at him. "This isn't a safe line!!!"

"I know - it's an emerg-"

"Hold on."

Sam obeyed, waiting for Kermit. Within 10 seconds, Kermit came back. "You've
got three minutes - don't waste them."

Sam frantically tried to organize his thoughts. "I need assistance.
Bl-umm...a friend is critically injured and can't be moved but we need a way
out of here."

"What do you expect me to do about it?"

"You have contacts...resources...."

"So do you."

Sam thought quickly. "YOU are the only one I remembered...I got hit, too."
He winced at the flimsy excuse but it was true, in a way.

Kermit paused. "Call me back at the other number."

"I don't KNOW the other number."

There was a longer pause. Then Kermit's voice came over the line, cold as
ice. "If this is a game, you will be very sorry, despite our history...all
right, call me back here in...six hours."

"Make it twelve...I have some surgery to perform."

"Twelve." Kermit hung up.

Sam hung up the phone. He couldn't blame Kermit for being so suspicious. He
would have to work on his story a little more before he called him back. On
the way out, he caught sight of himself - or rather, his host. It was a
short man with slicked, black hair and about a two weeks' growth of beard.
He looked really awful, in fact. Sam studied the image in confusion.
*Funny,* he thought, *I don't FEEL that awful.* Remembering Blaisdell, he
pulled himself away from the mirror and darted out of the hospital.

*****

Sam rushed back to the site where he had left Blaisdell. There was no sign
of Al, which seemed a little odd, but Sam was a little preoccupied with his
thoughts on how to save Blaisdell's life to notice. He just HAD to save him!
Not only for Blaisdell's sake but for Peter's. Peter had trusted Sam, albeit
a little reluctantly at first. The two men had become partners and
eventually friends - Sam would NOT betray that trust!

He stopped the jeep and leaped out, medical supplies in hand. Entering the
building, he was mentally reviewing everything he knew about the surgery he
was about to perform....

...Sam turned the corner to find himself facing the receiving end of a .45!

Blaisdell, fully awake and obviously as weak as a newborn, pointed the
deadly weapon at Sam. It was aimed straight and true, despite the sweat from
the exertion Blaisdell was under.

"Paul!" Sam exclaimed, halting immediately. No sense in getting
shot...."Paul, put the gun down - I'm here to help."

Paul Blaisdell's hand wavered...and finally dropped his arm, sweating and
panting with the effort.

Sam lost no time in kneeling by his side and taking the gun away. "I can't
believe you," Sam muttered as he next checked the bandages Paul had nearly
managed to mess up. "You didn't think I'd leave you, did you???"

Paul took the question seriously. "You should have...." he said weakly. "I'm
not going to make it...."

"Yes, you are!" Sam told him firmly.

"Well, I know I'm dying...." Paul murmured quietly. "Never thought I'd hear
you call me 'Paul'."

*Oops,* Sam thought. *Of course, mercenaries would be more professional and
less personal.* He shrugged. "Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age," he
said, hoping that sounded cynical enough for Blaisdell to buy.

"How about 'sloppy'?" Blaisdell corrected, grimacing in pain. "You should
leave right NOW. You can't fix me up; even I know that would take a full
hospital." Blaisdell put a hand on Sam's to try to stop the medical
treatment, but Sam shrugged off the hand and kept working with the I.V. "I
fully expected not to get out of here alive," Blaisdell continued. "It was
worth it - just tell my family-"

Thinking of Peter got Sam riled again. "I'm not telling them ANYTHING!!! I'm
going to get you out of here if you'd just shut up!"

Blaisdell looked at Sam oddly. Trying again, he said softly, "You'll never
get out of the country with a wounded man."

"Kermit'll figure something out."

"Kermit?!" Blaisdell exclaimed, trying to rise. Sam had to use his strength
to keep him down. Blaisdell grabbed his jacket sleeve. "Please DON'T tell me
you called Kermit!"

"Ummmmm...." Sam stammered, trying vainly to come up with an excuse.

Blaisdell saw the look on Sam's face and stared at him in astonishment. "You
called Kermit. I don't believe it....I wish you hadn't...."

The force of his objection weakened Blaisdell so much that he began
coughing. Fighting for breath, he asked, "Tell...tell my fam....." His voice
dropped to nothing as his eyes slid shut.

Sam stared at the unconscious man. *Why shouldn't I have called Kermit?* he
wondered. Then, he felt something painful in the pit of his stomach. He
realized that being a mercenary was more than just keeping secrets. Sam also
realized that he may have just signed Kermit's death warrant.

*****

Kermit swore a few oaths as he typed on the computer keyboard, trying to
make a phone connection that would be safe, and trying not to think about
*WHY* Ryker would call him. Kermit's mind was racing over the options as
quickly as his fingers typed on the keyboard.

Fact: Rykker does not call people for help.
Fact: Rykker said someone was hurt.
Premise: The 'someone hurt' was Blaisdell.

Fact: Rykker needed help getting himself and an injured man 'out'.
Premise: There was opposition that Rykker couldn't handle.

Fact: Rykker called him for help.
Premise: Somebody wants *him* specifically for some purpose.
Premise: Rykker was operating under duress, instructed to draw Kermit out.

Conclusion: WHY??????

Kermit shook his head, hoping the motion would shake out some of the
cobwebs. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. If someone
wanted him, there were LOTS of ways that was easier than using Blaisdell and
Rykker. And why Rykker??? Kermit didn't have many ties with him and didn't
really owe him any favors. He had stated their 'history' to Rykker as a test
and Rykker didn't really respond specifically. So either Rykker was so out
of it, he was incoherant (something Kermit had trouble believing, despite
the stupid amnesia ploy), Rykker was setting him up for an unknown purpose,
or there was another factor he hadn't thought of yet. But what could it BE???

Kermit made the computer connection and finished his patchwork hacking to
ensure that the call Rykker made could be traced by him and no one else.

*Ah, the life of a spy,* Kermit thought sarcastically. *Meet beautiful
women, drive Aston-Martins, swill martinis....Such glamor....*

*****

Peter lifted one foot high in the air, knee bent, as he balanced on the
sturdy pole. Placing the foot down slowly, he then raised the other, held it
suspended in air, began to lower it to the pole....

...He missed and tumbled off the pole and onto the soft mat.

He cursed as he used his forearm to wipe the sweat off his face. Suddenly,
his father was standing over him, holding a towel. Fighting the urge to ask
if Caine was disappointed, Peter took the towel. "Thanks," he said quietly,
wiping the sweat off and trying to hide his shame and embarrassment.

Caine stood there for a moment, his chi carefully examining his son's state
of mind and being. This exercise was not hard and Caine knew that Peter
should have had no trouble with this part of the training. When he found the
answer, he sighed in sympathy.

Peter looked up. "What?" he asked, almost defensively.

Caine put a hand on his shoulder. "I know what is wrong, Peter."

Peter shook his head. "No, I don't think so, Pop," he stated strongly. "I'm
tired, I've been at this for hours, the pole was slippery...."

Caine merely looked at him.

Peter tried to think of more excuses until he finally realized that it was
no use. "Oh, God," he said, burying his face in his arms, "Paul's gonna
die...and I can't do a DAMN THING!!!"

Caine knelt to hold his son to comfort him.

*****

"Are you still here?"

Kermit jumped slightly, out of reflex, and fought to not draw his gun that
he had moved underneath his desk. It was a good thing, too; it would not be
wise to fire a weapon at the Captain of the precinct.

"No, I'm not still here," Kermit responded, trying to put a sarcastic/jovial
tone in his voice. "I went fishing - this is my evil twin, Skippy."

"Hmmm...." Simms mused. "Kermit and Skippy...better not say that too loud.
Some TV exec might think that sounds like the name of a new sitcom!"

Kermit glared at her, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. "That's
hitting below the belt, Captain."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes, I'm still here."

This time, Simms glared at HIM. "I meant, my unspoken question. How long are
you going to stay here and why are you staying so long?"

"I found a terrific new Webchat...they discuss the finer points of
Tupperware and how to store them and great things like that. Somehow, I find
it too fascinating to ignore."

Simms stared at him. For Kermit to not give her a straight answer, the
matter MUST be serious. "Need any help?" she asked softly.

Kermit regarded Blaisdell's replacement thoughtfully. "Not now,
Captain...can I take a rain check?" he said, giving her a purposefully
wolfish leer to see what she would do.

She just laughed. "As you wish, Detective," she said and shut his door.

Kermit turned back to his work and was startled once more by the ringing of
his telephone. He cursed himself for being so skittish and glanced at his
watch. It was not yet time. Surely Rykker would not be so stupid as to-

"Griffin," he answered warily.

"Kermit?"

Kermit, despite himself, felt his jaw drop. "Peter???"

"Yeah!"

Kermit sat there as though a lightning bolt had hit him. Surely, Peter
calling didn't have anything to do with-

"How's it going, kid?" Kermit asked, inserting the jovial tone in once more.
"They got you staring at your navel yet?"

"Nah, that's for graduation! Kermit, I have something really weird to
ask....Don't think that this is out of left field, but this is important...."

"Shoot."

"Have you heard from Paul?"

Kermit's stomach clenched into knots. "Paul?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah, PAUL. My foster father, your friend from your spy days, ring any bells?"

Kermit could hear Peter's blatant exasperation but...there was something
else in his voice...he couldn't quite make it out....

"Oh, THAT Paul. Uh...no, I haven't heard from Paul. Why do you ask?"

"I have a feeling that he's...hurt. Dying."

Kermit could now hear what Peter was hiding: fear, pain, desperation....He
rested his head on his hand and tried to untie his jumbled thoughts. Should
he tell him? "Peter...."

Peter froze. He KNEW. All of a sudden, he knew that Kermit knew something.
His voice reflected his newfound knowledge as he leaned into the phone.
"Kermit!" Peter said urgently. "This is *important*! What do you know?"

Kermit let out a heavy sigh. "I can't tell you."

Peter nearly screamed in frustration, then thought it through, his mind
racing. "Okay, Kermit, just tell me...is he hurt?"

Silence.

Peter closed his eyes. "I KNEW he was hurt," he mumbled. "I saw it...."
Peter could almost feel the puzzlement that that statement generated but he
ignored it. "Look, you've GOTTA help him!"

"Peter...you don't understand. There's more to this-"

"DAMN YOU, KERMIT!!! IF YOU DON'T HELP...." Peter took a deep breath to
control himself. Shouting wouldn't do any good. "Kermit...*PLEASE*...."
Peter's voice broke.

Now it was Kermit who closed his eyes. *Great, just great.*

"Please...."

"All right," Kermit said quietly, barely aware of what he was doing. Then,
before Peter could respond, he said, "I've got work to do." With a sharp
CLICK!, he hung up on Peter and glared at the phone. *It's all YOUR
fault...* he thought at it. Bending over the keyboard, he got back to work.

*****
TO BE CONTINUED!