From: perricone@wsyd.com (Frank Perricone)
Date: 22 Apr 94 15:48:51 -0500
Subject: The New Number Six
Message-Id: <9f7_9404230600@wsyd.com>
Organization: Fidonet: 


                          The New Number Six

                         by Frank J. Perricone

                            * * * * *

The room was very pleasant and tastefully decorated; the doorway out of the
bedroom was shaped like a huge keyhole, and beyond it, a carpet that looked
like a tiger decorated a nice living room, shelves full of books, a TV,
speakers.  "Finally, not dropped into a gunfight or anything."  Sam checked
his clothes.  They were plain, severe, a black suit with a white stripe
around the lapel.  "I'm not a woman, either."  Sam stretched back out and
rested on the comfortable bed.  "This is nice for a change."

"Sam, where are you?"

Under his breath, Sam said to himself, "What's Al doing here so soon?  He
never shows up during a leap until I've gotten myself into trouble.  Hmmm...
a nice place, Al here already... this is going *too* well."  Then, louder,
"I'm in here, Al."

Al walked into the bedroom, his lower half going through the wall where it
narrowed at the bottom.  "Oh, there you are.  Listen, Sam--"

"What are you doing here already?  You're never here this soon on a leap."

"Well, that's the problem.  Normally, it takes time to find where you've
leaped into, and then takes *more* time to search the databases and figure
out where, and who, you are.  But this time, Ziggy has absolutely no idea
who you are, where you are, or anything!  All she'll say is that there's a
51% chance you're not in North America."

"51%?  What kind of estimate is that?  Al, has Gooshie been trying to load
Lemmings onto Ziggy again?"

"No, it's nothing like that.  Sam, I've got a pretty bad feeling about
this.  Ziggy--"

Suddenly the TV came on, on its own, and a person depicted within seemed to
be staring at Sam.  She was a tall black woman, lithe and muscular, with a
threatening look, sitting in an odd, egg-like black chair.  She spoke,
seemingly, to Sam.  "Number Six, is there anything wrong?"

Glancing at Al, Sam muttered, "What kind of TV show is this?"

"TV show?" said the woman, clearly surprised.

"Oh boy."

                            * * * * *

"Well, Number Six seems awfully cheery today."  The black woman was sitting
in a chair that was hollowed out of an ebony sphere, in the middle of a
large, high-ceilinged circular room.  A ramp led down from a set of
imposing steel doors to the circular area surrounding the chair, lined with
control panels.  Three oddly-shaped telephones, in red, yellow, and blue,
sat on the console; the woman was talking into a green one.  One large arc
of the wall was taken up with a huge video screen, on which was shown a man
in a black suit, lying on a bed.  "His perpetual raincloud seems to have
vanished.... No, he can't possibly know that today is the day.... Leave
that to me.  I assure you, his tissues will not be damaged."  She put the
phone down, ungently, and then adjusted the controls on the console.  The
video image zoomed in.

"Well, well, well.  Not only is he not scowling, he appears to be talking
to someone who's not there.  I wonder what Number Six has cooked up for us
today?"  She picked up the yellow phone and pressed a few buttons.  "Number
Thirty-nine, there hasn't been anything done to Number Six in the last two
days, has there?  We have planned--  Well, he seems cheery and is talking
to someone... I see.  Thank you."

She adjusted some more controls, then turned to face the screen.  "Number
Six, is there anything wrong?" she said.

Number Six acted as if he had never seen the television set talking to him
before.  "What kind of TV show is this?" he said to his imaginary companion.

Playing innocent was not what she expected of the legendary Number Six.
"TV show?"

"Oh boy."  Number Six seemed even more startled that the TV reacted to him.

The woman flipped another switch.  "Well, well, well.  I can see we're
going to have an interesting day with Number Six today.  I guess the old
Number Two was right; Six hatches plots to test us, almost as often as we
hatch plots to test him!  Well, we shall learn what his plot is, soon
enough."

                            * * * * *

"Al, did you see that?"  Then, recovering his senses a bit, Sam urged Al,
with hand gestures, into the bathroom.

"Sam, I hate this.  Why do we always have to go into the bathroom?"

"Al, come *on*..."  Once inside the bathroom, Sam said, "Because, Al,
obviously someone was watching us in the living room.  Now, does Ziggy
even know WHEN I am?"

"Of course, or else I wouldn't have been able to follow you.  It's
October 19th, 1967."

"Great.  Now, what does Ziggy say I'm here to do?"

"She has no idea.  How could she?  She doesn't even know *who* you are!"

"How could that happen, Al?"

"Well, she's gone through the citizenship records of everyone who could
have been alive in 1967, and no one matches the profile of the person
in the Waiting Room.  Whoever he is, he seems to have vanished, at least
from 1967.  We're checking other years, but it takes a lot of time."

"The Waiting Room!  Al, go back and ask him who he is, and what he's
doing here."

"Don't you think we'd have tried that?  Beeks has been in there with
him the whole time, and hasn't gotten a fact out of him.  He's very
stubborn, and if there's one thing he won't give us, it's information.
Very weird fellow, too.  Beeks says he's a paranoiac.  He keeps asking
us what our numbers are.  I told him mine was unlisted, and he thought
that was very funny.  Said he wished he could get his unlisted too,
but everyone already knows it.  Beeks isn't sure whether the leap's
swiss-cheesing effect is causing the paranoia, or whether he was
paranoid beforehand."

"Well, tell her to keep working on it.  We need to get any information
we can out of him."

                            * * * * *

"He went into the bathroom; he's pretending that he thinks the
surveillance doesn't extend there too....  No, I don't know what the point
of that is....  His 'friend' is apparently named Al, and he seems to be
acting like he really sees this person....  No, we've done a full scan,
there are no broadcasts of any sort coming from the cottage.  Wait a--
well, well, well.  He's telling Al to try to get information out of
someone.  He must have something special planned tonight.... Yes, I think
that would be a good idea.  Double the watch at the tower as well."  The
black woman hung up the yellow phone, then picked up the red one.  "What do
you think--should we go through with the plan?....  OK, we'll start it
right away."  She hung up that phone, then pressed a few buttons on her
console.  The image of the black-suited man, now back in the living room
and heading to the kitchen, winked out, replaced by an eerie, surrealistic
image like a giant lava lamp.  After watching this for a moment, she got up
and walked up the ramp, where she was followed out the steel doors by a
midget butler carrying an umbrella.

                            * * * * *

"Listen, we're here to help you."

"Of course you are.  Everyone is."

"What is your name?"

"Number Six.  And yours?"  The man's smile was more bitter and sarcastic
than Beeks thought possible, especially on a face that looked, to her, like
Sam.

"My name is Verbeena Beeks.  I am a trained psychologist, and I want to
help you.  I just need a little information."

"Such as, why did I resign?"

"Resign from what?"

The man just chuckled.  "That would be telling."

"Has someone been trying to get information from you before?"

"Oh, perhaps a bit.  I don't really remember."

"Are you having a difficult time remembering things?"

"You know, it seems a bit odd, trying to get me to give up my secrets by
making me forget them.  But there isn't anything you won't try."

"Who do you think I am?"

"I don't know.  But I think that man must be the new Number Two."

Beeks looked where the man was pointing, at Al, who had just entered the
room.  "Why is he Number Two?"

"He seems to be the one in charge.  Of course, that doesn't tell much.  He
could just as easily be a flunky pretending to be Number Two."

"Who is Number Two?"

"I just told you, I don't know."

"Who is Number One?"

"Can't you think of any better questions than that?"

"I'm only trying to help you.  I can't help you unless you let me."

"Perhaps I don't want your help."

Beeks gave up and left the room with Al.  "I've been talking to him for
hours, and haven't learned a thing about him.  He thinks he's being held to
try to get information out of him, and refuses to tell me anything.  I
can't even find out how badly his brain is magnafluxed.  Are you sure he
wasn't being held in some kind of concentration camp or something?"

"Beeks, if that was a concentration camp, I'd like to see the deluxe
accomodations.  It was the most pleasant-looking little village I think
I've ever seen.  Admittedly, an awful lot of the people wore striped shirts
and carried around umbrellas when it wasn't raining, but apart from that,
it looked like the kind of place your uncle went on vacation last year."

"I think you should tell Sam to be careful about giving away information,
all the same."

"That should be easy; he doesn't know anything."

"True."

"I'll get back there.  Maybe he's found a wallet or something else to
identify this man.  You go get some lunch or something.  Our 'prisoner'
will still be here when you get back."

                            * * * * *

Sam was rummaging through the clothes in the closets.  "Ah hah!"  He pulled
a wallet out of the pocket of one of his jackets, then searched through it.
"ID cards.  That should tell me-- Number Six?  There's no name!"  Dealing
the cards off one by one, he read them off: "Health card, Number Six.
Scrip card, Number Six. Identification card, Number Six."  He peered at the
picture on this last card, then went to the bathroom and checked in the
mirror to find a matching face: a somber, gloomy face, strong and defiant,
with a protruding forehead and carefully-combed short black hair.  "The
woman on TV called me Number Six as well.  Maybe that's my name.  But why
isn't there any other information, like address or birthdate?"

His search of the rest of the house was similarly unilluminating, so he
tried going out into the town.  At first, he tried to bluff, so as not to
reveal his lack of knowledge.  "Can you tell me the direction to the
nearest police station?"  But people either didn't answer him, or said
something like "Questions are a burden."  Gradually, his questions got less
and less subtle, until he finally admittedly that he didn't know who he
was, but still, no one answered, nor did anyone seem to find it odd that
he asked.  He got his first reply when he asked where he was: "You're in
the village."

"What village?"

Again, the stony silence.

"Who are you?"

"Number One Hundred Eighty Two."

"Oh... I'm ... Number Six."

"Pleasant day, isn't it?  Will you be at the chess game?  I'm going to be
the white king's bishop."

"The... bishop?"

"Yes.  Be seeing you!"  The person waved oddly, with his fingers in an "OK"
shape pulled away from his eye, then left, cheerfully holding up his
umbrella.

"I don't understand."  Sam sat on the edge of a fountain which was spraying
water in the sunshine.

"Beeks thinks this is some kind of strange concentration camp."

Sam almost fell into the fountain.  "Al!  Don't startle me like that.  This
place is spooky."

"She says you shouldn't give anything away."

"That should be easy, I don't know anything to give away.  Have you found
out my name?"

"Only Number Six.  Actually, I was hoping you'd found it on some ID."

"No luck, all my ID says Number Six.  Has Ziggy come up with *anything*?"

"Ziggy won't speak to us.  She's sulking because she can't find anything.
Gooshie's more of a psychiatrist than a programmer, you know.  That's the
last time I let you talk me into giving any of my brain cells for
anything, especially anything *female*."

"Look, Al, these people won't even talk to me.  Most of them don't answer,
and they all seem to think my behavior is normal, no matter what I ask.
There are people here who don't even hear you, they just sit there.  One of
them just told me he was going to be a bishop in a chess game.  How am I
going to figure out what I need to do?"

"Just lay low for a bit and we'll come up with something.  Beeks and I have
been grilling our man in the Waiting Room; eventually we'll get through."

"Well, I'm not getting anywhere here, so I might as well get back to my
room and relax while I wait.  It's a nice enough place, anyway."

Al wasn't looking where Sam was.  "It sure is!  Take a look at *that*!  You
know, I once knew a girl who always wore striped shirts like that.  She
used to like to sleep with her head at the foot of the bed.  She was pretty
strange, but she had a lot of... stamina."

"Al..."

"All right, all right, I'm going."  The Door slid open.  "I'll let you know
if we find anything out."  Al stepped through The Door and it closed behind
him.

                            * * * * *

Sam was back in the cottage, which apparently was his; it was addressed
only with a small sign saying "6" and "private".  He'd been there for about
an hour, examining the surveillance equipment all around the house.  It
seemed there was no end to it; several times he'd find something in one
room, only to realize he'd missed the same item in several other rooms.
"There's not a private spot in this whole cottage!"  He was investigating
the front of the television set, trying to find a camera, when he heard a
hissing sound and became dizzy, and, as a cloudy gas filled the room, he
fell over.

It seemed that only a few minutes had passed when he woke up, but he found
himself somewhere very different; an underground cavern, walls of hewn rock
with stalactites and occasional metal struts, filled with seats, like a
train station.  Filling the seats were several dozen people, mostly men,
wearing civilian clothing, rather than the ubiquitous stripes.  Sam was
standing in the doorway, and at his side was the black woman who'd been on
his TV earlier.  Though his head was clear, there was a feeling, maybe an
itch, at the back of his neck that nagged at him.

The woman was apparently speaking to him.  "--anything, please don't
hesitate to ask. I'm so glad you finally came around.  The bus will be here
to pick everyone up in about an hour or two, so make yourself comfortable
until then."  A midget wearing a fine tuxedo stepped up and handed him a
suitcase.  "I've taken the liberty of packing your possessions.  Since
you'll probably also have some memory loss from the... operation, I've also
included a map showing the way to your old apartment, which has been
prepared for you."  When Sam didn't reply, she said, "Number Six?  Are you
all right?"

"Err, yes.  What operation?"

"Have you forgotten that much?  Don't worry, it will come back in time."
She seemed pleased with herself as she said, "We took you to one of our
labs, and you... eventually... proved very cooperative.  I'm sorry we were
forced to take such drastic measures, but of course, you forced us to.  Now
that we know all we need to know, you're free to go, as we promised."

"Oh.  Good."  Somehow, she seemed to be expecting more of a reaction from
him.  "Thank you."  He walked over to one of the chairs and sat down, and
eventually she and the butler turned and left.  He turned to the person
next to him, a portly, blond-haired man, and said, "What's going on?"

"We're waiting for the bus to take us home!"  The man seemed very excited.

"Home?  And where is that?"

"Oh, the probe must have hit you pretty hard.  Let me see your case." He
took the case, opened it up, and pulled out a packet of papers.  "Oh,
London.  Bully for you!  I've been to London a few times, would love to
live there."

"Where *do* you live?"

"Wolverhampton.  At least, I did, but it's been so long, I don't know if
there's anyone there for me now.  They say they prepared my home for me,
but I know I really should have given them what they wanted much earlier.
Do you know, I really thought they were lying when they promised we'd be
released once we cooperated?  To think of the years I've wasted.  Like you,
I didn't give in until they used the probe."

"Probe?"

"Yes.  You don't remember it at all?"

Sam was glad that he could say "Not at all" and be believed.

The man turned and held his hair up, revealing a bright red welt on the
back of his neck.  "You have one of these too.  The probe hooks to your
skin there, and electrically stimulates the nervous system.  It's a simple
process, really; within minutes, you tell them anything they want to know.
Much faster and more efficient than all those tedious mind games they play
with you at first."

"Then, why don't they just use the probe -- at first, then?"

"I asked the same question.  Do you know much about hypnosis?"

"Yes, I learned hypnosis in medical school."

"Then you know how the average intelligence resists it much better than
do both high and low intelligences.  The probe is kinda similar.  People
who have a very high -- shall we say, resistance to persuasion -- succumb
to the probe easily, like you and I did.  But people with little will --
the kind of people who are subjugated by the dehumanization they use out
there -- when they go under the probe, they sometimes end up scrambled."

"Scrambled?"

"Yeah, they get big holes in their memories--"

"Oh, they get swiss-cheesed."

The man smiled.  "That's a good word for it.  The problem is, the holes
never fill back in.  The very information that -- They -- need, gets
destroyed.  So they have to put us through the head games first, to be sure
we're not the weak-willed people who couldn't survive the probe intact.  I
guess you must have been the most strong-willed of all of us, from what
I've heard about you.  You must have babbled so fast under the probe that
they couldn't shut you up!"  The man laughed heartily.

"Err, yes, I guess I must have."  Sam was briefly worried: _Could they have
found out that I'm not really this Number Six guy, that I'm a
time-traveller? But why would they have let me go, then?  There is
something very odd about all this._

The man seemed determine to keep talking cheerily.  "I was a cypher
specialist.  Originally from the States, went to MIT, studied--"

"MIT?  I went there too."

"You?  I'd heard you were a Brit through and through."

"Oh... err... well, I didn't study there long, I was just visiting.  You
know, student exchange.  Err, I mean exchange student."

"Yes, of course.  I studied abstract algebra, got into cryptography.  I
developed a code system that no one could break.  It was the work of ten
years of my life.  It eventually got adopted by MI5 for internal use on
confidential and top-secret documents.  But, you see, I put a little twist
into the code.  A little oddity... an asymmetry, you might say.  Only I
knew, but the code itself contained a coded message.  If you applied the
code to itself nineteen times, you got back a message, which just said my
name.  I put it in for fun.  No one ever found it, but... They found that
there was *something* there.  They ran the code through their biggest
computers for months, couldn't figure it out.  They thought it was a back
door to the code, and they took me here to ask me what it was.  Of course,
I resisted, because I didn't know whose side they were on.  You don't get
top secret clearance without knowing how to resist interrogation.  But then
they probed me, and of course everything was fine after that.  That was two
days ago.  You're lucky, these buses don't leave every day.  See that
woman?  She's been waiting for over a week.  You were the last one in this
batch, though, so we should have the bus here in about an hour."

"That's good.  It's a bit damp in here."  Sam scratched absently at the
welt on the back of his neck.

"Yes, it is.  But then, London is hardly known for being dry!"  The man
laughed in an infectious way.  He was a hard man not to like immediately.
"You were in MI5 too, weren't you?  No, I'd have known you.  Say, were you
in the BTSS?  You must have been.  You must have some interesting secrets."

"Yes, they must be pretty interesting," Sam said dryly, then turned his
head away from the earnest man, hoping he'd drop the conversation.

"Oh, come on, you're not *still* going to try to keep them secret?  It's
all on tape, after all."

"It's a matter of principle."  He bit the words off sharply.

"Fine, be that way."  The man didn't seem annoyed, just amused.  "Come with
me."  He got up and walked to a unit like a TV, set into the wall.  A few
simple controls, unmarked, blinked below.  After a few button-punches, he
brought an image up on the screen.  Sam saw the face he'd been seeing in
the mirror, lying on a table, with a large, frightening-looking item
against the back of his neck.  The face spoke.  "I was on assignment to
protect a diplomat who needed to visit a woman in the hospital in Saudi
Arabia.  We had a rendezvous in Paris, catching an airplane there to Athens
before we transferred.  While we were transferring at the Athens
airport--"  The man punched a button and the image faded.  "See?  There's
probably hours of you talking on this tape, telling them, and anyone else
who wants to watch, all your secrets.  Not much point in keeping secrets
now!"  He smiled broadly.

"Sam, you've never been to Athens!"  Al's garish colors seemed to liven up
the drab, damp room, even though they didn't reflect off anything in it.

To Al, Sam replied, "Of course not!"

The blond man, thinking Sam had spoken to him, said, "Good, that'll make
the bus trip go by a lot quicker."

"Excuse me, is there a bathroom here?"  The blond man pointed, and Sam
headed to the indicated doorway.

"Sam, not again..."  Al followed Sam into the john.  "Listen, we're not
getting anywhere.  Beeks is going nuts.  About an hour ago, he managed to
get *her* to tell *him* about some embarrassing moment while she was in
college -- I can't get her to tell me what -- and she called it quits.
This guy's got a will of iron."

"Al, they're trying to get info out of me.  But they're not doing it any
obvious way, like torture.  Instead, they faked -- I don't know how, but
they did -- a bunch of evidence that I already told them all they needed to
know, and now they're seeing if I'll spill the rest to that guy I was
talking to."

"Are you sure it's faked?"

"Well, I couldn't very well have told them anything about HIS life."

"Maybe you told them about YOUR life?"

"But as you said, I've never been to Athens.  Go back and see if the guy
knows anything about a trip to Saudi Arabia with a diplomat, and a stopover
in Athens."

"Why?"

"So we can know if they really did get info out of me.  If so, the Project
could be in danger."

"What are you going to do?"

"Play along.  Tell them everything I know."

"But Sam, that's what they want you to do!"

"Al, I don't *know* anything.  I'll just make stories up.  It'll keep them
from trying anything else."

                            * * * * *

"Then there was a time when I had to go undercover as a prostitute, in
order to--"

"A prostitute?  You?"

"A woman prostitute.  I had high heels and all... it was terrible.  But it
was really a raid on this place where drugs were being sold, and--"

"Sam, is there anywhere private on this bus?"  Sam wondered how Al managed
to find time to change outfits every time he showed up.

"--oh, boy, I guess I have to go again.  Too much orange juice with
breakfast, don't you know.  Be back in a jiffy."  Sam smiled as he got up
and headed towards the back of the bus, where the bathroom was.  Once he
got there, he whispered, "Al, can you tell where we are?"

"What?  Oh."  Al leaned his head out through the wall, looked around, then
pulled it back.  "No idea.  Pretty, though.  Nice hills.  Wherever it is,
it's probably been clearcut and stripmined by now.  Listen.  Beeks asked
our friend about the trip to Athens, and he got all pale and asked how we
could have known.  Then he calmed right down, but I could tell he was still
shaken.  I know a thing or two about interrogation, you know." The distant
gleam in Al's eyes was full of pain for a split second, then Al returned to
the present.  "I tell you, Sam, this guy is good.  But the one thing that
could break him is to know that he'd already betrayed... I don't know,
whoever it is he's trying not to betray, I guess.  I pressed the issue a
bit, and he started to break."

"Great!  Did you find out my name?  Or what I'm here to do?"

"Well.... no, Sam."

"I thought you said you broke him!  Dammit, Al, I need that information!"

"Sam, you don't know what it's like.  If I'd broken him, then when you
leaped out, and he leaped in, he'd be... well, a broken man.  You don't
mess around with a will like that.  I think he's going to need it later."

"Al, if I don't do whatever it is I have to do, he won't leap back in,
because I won't leap out!"

"Ziggy agrees with me about this, Sam, but Beeks doesn't.  You've got to
trust me.  I know what I'm talking about.  I'm the only one of us who's
been there.  What you're here to do is not fall prey to this tactic.  If
you resist, they, whoever they are, won't try it again.  It's the only
thing that would break him, thinking that he'd already been broken.  You've
just got to weather it out."

"What did Verbeena say?"

"She says you're here to get free.  But I don't think they're taking you
to London; I think you're going right back where you started.  Beeks
doesn't see why this technique would work any differently than any other.
She hasn't been there, she doesn't know.  All she knows is theory.
But... sometimes, even *hope* is gone, and all you have is the knowledge
that, whatever else has happened, the people that are relying on you... you
haven't let them down.  Even if *they* let *you* down, you haven't let
*them* down.  You can get a lot of strength out of that." The pain was back
in Al's eyes, and didn't go away as easily this time.  "You can't ask me to
take that away from someone."

"So... all I have to do is wait this out?"

"Well, I hope so, Sam.  Either that, or you have to escape.  Beeks has
been right before."

                            * * * * *

"What do you mean, he's never even been to the States?"  The black woman
known only as Number Two was furious as she shouted into the red phone.
"He couldn't have made up all those stories!....  Are you SURE?.... What
about the story about the jet plane?.... Damn."  She slammed the phone
down, then picked up the blue one.  "Cancel the bus trip.  Bring them back.
He's playing along with us!  That's what all this has been about, all day.
I don't know how he found out what we were going to do, but he's been
playing along all day.  He's probably going to try to escape."  She put
that phone down and hit a few buttons.  On the video screen, an image of a
bubble formed, deep below the sea, then rushed upwards towards the surface.
It began to roll across the surface, towards the land.

                            * * * * *

Sam dove, rolled, and came up onto his feet, gracefully; then, he fell
over.

The bus screeched to a halt, the emergency door swinging wildly, but by
time it had come to a stop, Sam was already running full speed across the
fields.  "Which way should I go, Al? There's nothing around for miles!"

"I don't know, we don't know where you are!  I tell you, Sam, this was a
mistake..."

"I couldn't-- let an opportunity-- like that-- pass.  You know that."  Sam
panted hard as he sprinted across the dusty field.

"I told you, Sam, just ride it out."  Al's image glided effortlessly next
to Sam.

"What the hell is that?"  Sam pointed at a huge white bubble, rolling
across the plains at him, as if possessed.  A loud growling noise came from
it, and a rushing, windy noise.

"Run, Sam!  Get to the top of that hill!  I'll go ahead to see what's
beyond it."  Al's image blinked out, then reappeared at the top of the
hill.  He shouted something at Sam, but Sam couldn't hear over the wind in
his ears.

"What?  I can't-- hear you--"  The bubble had almost caught him as he
lurched to the top of the hill and saw below... The Village.  As he
collapsed, the bubble pounced on top of him, cutting off his air supply. He
thought he heard Al's voice, dimly, saying "Get up, Sam!" but he couldn't
move.  The bubble held him, and kept him from breathing.  As he began to
black out, he saw an image of a face, the face he'd been seeing in the
mirror, rushing towards him, only to be stopped by barred gates slamming
shut in front of it.  Then blue crackling light swept over the face, and
Sam leaped--

--- CrystalShip 1.1
--
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