The Case of the Arlesheim Elf

In 2014 I wrote a short story about First Contact with aliens that was called "The Phasian Knot". That story was published online at another website, but it attracted Overseer attention and an effort was made to suppress it.

Later, in 2014, I mentioned that I was working on a 20,000 word story that was originally called the Sessily Trilogy. In 2016, I called that story "The Dead Widower Society"; another type of First Contact story in which it is discovered that an alien has secretly been living on Earth. I had been "saving" that story for possible inclusion in A Search Beyond, but during the past six months I went in another direction. The first part of the "Sessily Trilogy" is below, on this page.

The Case of the Arlesheim Elf
The publicity stunt that revealed the Elf's existence was designed to conceal another, deeper mystery, so there are two layers to this story. For reasons that will become clear, I question the wisdom of publishing this account of how Isaac Asimov exposed the secrets of the Arlesheim Elf and the last alien on Earth. However, Noah asked that I publish this now. How could I reject the request of such a famous biblical figure in his time of need?

I first heard about the Arlesheim Elf while driving through the Rocky Mountains on my usual long-haul run. I'd been working as a truck driver ever since giving up alien-derived nanite components of my endosymbiont. The radio was a welcome distraction from the turmoil of my thoughts which otherwise would turn to my troubles with the women I was dating, one lady in each city at the two ends of my route.

After listening to news reports about the Elf, I decided that I had to fly to Europe. Immediately. I drove to the nearest airport and spent my debit card account down to $23.17 by paying for airline tickets and a one night hotel reservation in Switzerland. I knew that by abandoning my loaded truck at the airport I'd never again get work as a driver.

The Mission Collaborators

If you noticed the Elf's fifteen minutes of fame then you recall the Swiss government's account of how a small genetic freak was found inside the abandoned Space Energy Missions headquarters. Tabloids published some fanciful tales about unauthorized nuclear radiation experiments and depicted the Elf as a modern Frankenstein's Monster.

A few disreputable web publications suggested that a living member of Homo floresiensis had been found in Switzerland, but the sensationalistic theories collapsed quickly under their own weight and were swept out of the next day's news cycle. Reporting quickly shifted from speculation about the Elf to news stories about cases of Ebola virus infection spreading out of Africa.

Stalking Asimov

Within minutes of first hearing about the Elf, my thoughts turned to the famous science fiction author Isaac Asimov. In my youth, I'd spent decades nursing my obsession with Asimov. Since entering into my retirement years, I'd been trying to forget about fiction writing, fiction writers and the unfortunate fictional delusion that had fueled my decades long attempt to influence Asimov and the course of his life.

While driving to the airport, I tried to understand why the unconscious part of my mind had linked the Elf to old memories of Asimov. I already knew that Isaac Asimov, as a time traveler, had played an important role in creating our universe. As I would soon learn, he continues to help the people of Earth struggle towards the stars.

My personal interactions with Asimov began many years ago when I was quite young. Thinking back over my many interactions with the good doctor, I well remember something he said to me when I met him at a science fiction convention in 1977. One short sentence that was so pregnant with meaning.

At the convention, Asimov and I were in a small group of writers and fans discussing great science fiction authors. Mention was made of Robert Heinlein's fictional character Lazarus Long, a long-lived product of selective breeding and rejuvenation treatments.

I was desperately trying to say something provocative that would attract Asimov's attention. I'd read much of Asimov's published work including his guide to the Bible. I suggested (rather jokingly) that long-lived biblical figures like Noah must have been genetically engineered to have long life spans.

Asimov looked at me and seemed to focus his eyes on my face for the first time. He said, "Space travel and long lives naturally go hand-in-hand."

1977 was the year when the Cambridge City Council in Massachusetts was trying to ban recombinant DNA research. The people of Earth were just starting to think about genetic engineering, but Asimov was already imagining ways to alter our genes and create newly designed versions of human beings.

A typical science fiction fan, upon hearing Asimov's statement, most likely would have suspected that Asimov was alluding to his own stories about the "Spacers", humans of the not too distant future who he had described as having long lives and living on the "Spacer worlds" several dozen light years from Earth. The free wheeling group conversation that day in 1977 quickly moved on to other topics, but Asimov's words had triggered in my mind thoughts about Asimov's past, thoughts that arose from a bundle of nanite-generated memories that had been implanted in my brain.

Overseers

In 1977 I was still carrying inside my head a swarm of memory nanites (infites) that had previously functioned as an integral part of Asimov's mind. It was as if I carried around part of Asimov inside me. I had to wonder: was Asimov (the Asimov of this Reality, the world as we know it) somehow aware (maybe only tentatively and by means of unconscious brain processes) of the secret history of Earth? And more importantly, were I to speak openly to him about those secrets, secrets held so closely by the alien Overseers of Earth, would I condemn both Asimov and myself to imprisonment on the Moon?

The memory nanites in my brain were from our previous Reality, an alternate version of the universe, now lost in Deep Time. The Asimov of our current Reality had never been abducted by aliens and had never encountered a dying positronic robot desperate to insert its memory nanites into a new host body. Still, our Asimov seemed to have uncanny (theoretical?) insight into genetic modifications of the human organism that, unbeknownst to him, aliens had already long ago experimented with.

Eventually, when I got to know him better, I provoked Asimov into assuming that I was delusional. I told him some of the secret history of Earth, including the fact that humans were artificially crafted and brought into being by aliens. Sadly, Asimov thought I was a UFO-crazed loony. The Asimov of this Reality was an innocent earthling until I needlessly involved him in other-worldly affairs.

Asterothropes

Years later, after I had learned that my mother was not human and knowing that her species had been genetically designed to spread efficiently between the stars, my thoughts kept returning to Asimov's remark about space travel and long lives. I asked my mother about the natural life span of the Asterothropes, her species, a primate species of the far future that was descended from we humans.

She admitted that as an Asterothrope she expected to live considerably longer than the typical Earth human, but Asterothrope females tended to "wear out" quickly under the strain of their designed function, which was having many children. However, she did tell me that an Asterothrope hermaphrodite might live as long as a thousand years.

My mother was 43 when she arrived by time travel in the 20th century where she lived about 90 years and had four children. Two of those children were born in the previous Reality and two in this Reality, her last pregnancy coming when she was at least 85 years old.

Thomas' mother
travels into the past

Exiting from the 20th century, my mother next went further into the past for her final time travel mission and lived through the span of several additional decades. Eventually, she abandoned her aging biological body and moved on to her second life as an extremely long-lived artificial life form, from then on using the name Syon.

I mention all this because when I worked with Asimov on the case of the Arlesheim Elf, he used techniques such as radiometric dating to verify that the Elf is over 5,000 years old. The great age of the Elf is only one of the wonderful discoveries that Asimov made while investigating the alien physiology of the Elf. However, before I can further unfold this story, and in order for you to understand how Asimov was on hand and available to help solve the case, I must take you even further back into Deep Time.

Reality Chain

"Deep Time" is a technical term that refers to the previous Realities that existed before time travel bought into existence the universe as we know it. I first met Isaac Asimov in our previous Reality, a Reality within which the people of Earth never experienced First Contact with the Buld. In fact, in that Reality, the Buld never sent a spaceship out from the Galactic Core to Earth.

At the point in Deep Time when I first saw Asimov, I did not realize that I was talking to Dr. Asimov. He was disguised, having taken the place of John Campbell as the editor of Astounding magazine.

Asimov had been sent on a time travel mission into his own past. Knowing the date and cause of Campbell's early death, Asimov rightly decided that there was a golden opportunity for his time-traveling self to assume Campbell's editorial role at the most influential pulp science fiction magazine of that time. In so doing, the time traveling "older Asimov" became the mentor for his younger self and in that way Asimov provided an early boost to his own writing career.

On that day when I first met Asimov, I was still just a boy, a precocious writer of science fiction stories. My parents had brought me from our home in Wales to the sprawling metropolis of New York City. In that Reality, the great city of New York was located in Virginia. My father dropped off my mother and I for a meeting in Campbell's office. Dad then took my sister shopping and we all planned to meet later for lunch at Katz's Delicatessen... but I must control my wandering thoughts, even if the Arlesheim elf is always connected in my mind to food and events in New York City.....

Cecilie

Flying to Europe, on my quest to find the Elf, I had to change planes at JFK airport in New York City. Walking through the JFK international terminal, I was thinking about the years of my youth that I had spent in New York City and how that city compared to the New York City of this Reality. I was looking for a comfortable place to spend the rest of my layover between flights when I turned a corner and spied a small sign for "Ben's Deli".

elf phone

The entrance to the deli was almost hidden behind a big red and white Swissair advertising poster. Inside the restaurant, I felt transported back to the 1950s. There wasn't a single computer or cell phone in sight, just people seated, eating and chatting at the small tables. A waitress immediately guided me to a chair. She said, "Sorry, but we're busy, as usual. I can squeeze you in over here. What's your name, sir?"

Judging by her accent, it sounded like the waitress was from New Zealand or possibly Australia. Just for amusement, I let my Welsh background tinge my own speech and I replied, "Thomas."

The waitress spoke briskly to a young woman sitting at a small round table for two that was positioned over next to a window providing a view towards the sea. "This gentleman is Thomas. Thank you for sharing the table." She asked me, "Drink?"

Pharism

I ordered tea and sat down. The woman said, "I'm Cecilie." She had been reading a book which she set down on the table. She was just a wisp of a girl, weighing only about half as much as I. The title of the book was Pharism: Alastor 458.

Cecilie casually asked, "Where are you off to?"

I was too startled by the book to reply in a civil manner. I demanded, "Where did you get that book?"

She tapped a finger on the book and giggled, "Strange you should ask. It’s a gift from a friend, part of a six book series, actually."

For a moment my head seemed to spin and I flashed back to my bad old days when I had to struggle to distinguish reality from nanite-generated memories. In the previous Reality there had been a book called Pharism: Alastor 458, but no such book existed in this Reality -or so I thought. In this version of the universe, the Alastor Cluster series includes only three short novels. I closed my eyes and massaged my brow. I wondered: had another Reality Change occurred?

With concern in her voice, Cecilie asked, "Are you alright?"

I forced my eyes open and tried to smile, "I just haven't slept for two days...I'm fine." Cecilie looked as if she did not believe I was fine.

The waitress returned with my tea and a turkey sandwich for Cecilie. I ordered a sandwich for myself and said to Cecilie, "Please, eat."

She gazed out the window at the pale light of that fall evening and said, "I'm in no hurry."

I sipped the tea and said, "To answer your question, I'm on my way to Europe."

She said, "As am I. I'm to cover this Elf nonsense."

I asked, "You're a reporter?"

"I work for the Port Jefferson Echo. Usually I write reviews of books and theatrical events, but I grabbed this opportunity to get some paid vacation in Switzerland." We quickly confirmed that we would be on the same flight to Europe.

I had not eaten more than a small bag of nuts in over twenty hours and Cecilie noticed me looking at her sandwich. She pushed the plate towards me, "Go ahead and eat. We ordered the same thing."

"Thanks, I've been on the run all day." For a minute we both ate. She gazed again out the window and thoughtfully chewed on a dill pickle.

The waitress brought my sandwich and there was not enough room on the small table for the second plate until I picked up Cecilie's book. I could not resist looking inside. She asked, "Are you a Vance fan?"

I nodded, "Very much so." Reading, I discovered that this version of Pharism did not contain exactly the same story as the book of that name that had existed in the previous Reality. However, the writing in this book was clearly in Vance's distinctive prose style.

Cecilie let me read for a few pages then she asked, "I don't mean to pry into your personal affairs, but why are you going to Switzerland?"

I handed the book to her and she tucked it away in the pocket of her jacket. Struggling to find a good way to explain my interest in the Elf, I started talking about my past.

When I was a young boy, my father thought that my obsessive writing of science fiction stories was a silly waste of time. However, my mother fully supported my artistic endeavors.

Miners of Earth

I first crossed the Atlantic when we were trying to arrange for serial publication of my novel, Miners of Earth, in several successive monthly editions of Astounding magazine. Asimov/Campbell had previously rejected the story, but my mother had a bold scheme for publishing the story which involved a new marketing strategy. The fine scent of money, possibly lots of money, had won us an appointment with Campbell.

Due to an indiscretion of Campbell's wife (before she learned that she much preferred living with her "new husband"), Asimov/Campbell had attracted the suspicions of Overseers, so there was an Observer robot stationed on Earth and specifically programmed to keep watch over Asimov.

When my mother and I showed up for our appointment with the man we knew as Campbell, with my body carrying some of my mother's advanced Asterothrope nanites, the Observer went into its pre-programmed aggressive "cleanup mode". One of the jobs of Observers is to vacuum up stray nanites that might have originated from Interventionist agents operating illegally on Earth. Since I was a hybrid and only half Asterothrope, I was not adequately skilled in containing my swarm of nanites. The Observer robot detected my nanite leak and sprang into action.

Before I was aware of what was happening, the Observer robot and my mother were engaged in a deadly battle while their nanorobotic swarms fought for dominance. Of course, as an Asterothrope from the far future, my mother's advanced nanites won that battle. However, my mother was then in a hurry to flee Campbell's office, knowing that an Overseer had been summoned by the robot and trouble would soon arrive.

My mother was, at that point in Deep Time, using the name Trysta Iwedon, the cover name she had used since arriving for her time travel mission in the 20th century. Trysta was desperate to not leave behind any clues about herself for possible Overseer analysis. She quickly extracted all the nanites from the inactivated Observer robot. She particularly wanted to obtain all the robot's nanites that might carry memories.

During the battle of nanites, both that humaniform Observer robot and Asimov/Campbell had collapsed and fallen to the floor. I myself had been dazed by the initial wave of nanites sent into my body by the attacking robot, but Trysta had been able to protect me from serious harm.

During their high speed but invisible struggle with the robot, Trysta's nanorobotic probes made an interesting discovery. Sent out from Trysta in "search mode", her hunting and seeking probes detected an unexpected swarm of advanced nanites inside the body of Asimov/Campbell. One of the jobs of those nanites was to provide Asimov with his disguise: the physical appearance and voice pattern of the former editor of Astounding, the long-dead Campbell. Trysta faced the problem of how to quickly contain, preserve and carry away all the memory nanites that she collected from both the robot and Asimov.

Her solution was to slip those nanites into my body and hope that I could slink away unnoticed while she drew the attention of any Overseers who might respond to the distress signal that had gone out from the Observer robot. With no time for goodbyes and just a few seconds to arrange a point of rendezvous, I was sent off on my own into the wilds of New York with Trysta expecting to rejoin me later that day. Things did not go as planned.

At that point in my autobiographical story, we heard the boarding call for our flight to Switzerland. Cecilie said, "Let me pay for that amazing story." She paid for both of our meals and, since I wanted to save my $23.17 for use as spending money in Switzerland, I gave her no argument.

We went to our gate and were soon boarding our flight. I heard a ticket agent call Cecilie "Ms. Vedra". I found my seat and stowed my small bag in the overhead compartment. It was now dark outside and I slumped against the bulkhead in exhaustion, looking out the window at the lights of the airport. I might have quickly fallen asleep, but I sat there puzzling over the inexplicable existence a Cecilie, with her name identical to that of a fictional character from a Vance novel popped out of Deep Time, her physical appearance matching that of the fictional character, and, adding insult to injury, I'd found her carrying a copy of a second Vance novel from Deep Time. Worried that I was in some odd time warp, I found it impossible to sleep.

During a departure delay, I was not entirely surprised when Cecilie sat herself down in the seat next to mine. She asked, "So, what happened after you were separated from your parents?" With her sparkling eyes fixed upon me, I continued with the story of my great adventure in New York City.

After leaving Campbell's office and separating from Trysta, I did not see my mother again for many years. An Overseer had responded quickly to the Observer robot's distress signal. Trysta first led the Overseer away from me then she used her shape-shifting ability to help make possible a narrow escape from New York City. I was left behind, on my own in the big city.

During the critical phase of Trysta's desperate attempt to escape, my father gave himself up to the Overseers as a sacrificial decoy, allowing Trysta to slip out of the city. She took my sister off to their new life, a life spent hiding in Australia. My father was taken as a prisoner to the Moon.

My young mind was nearly overwhelmed by the shock of absorbing all those nanites that had for so long resided either inside Asimov or inside an Observer robot. Now inside my brain, the nanites from Asimov and those of the robot fought a battle for dominance. For a decade I was shuffled through the public mental health hospitals of New York, not really sure if I was the time traveling Isaac Asimov, an alien hybrid boy named Thomas, or a robot from the Moon.

With the help of a young doctor named Janet Jeppson, I slowly formed a new functioning mind. Eventually I was able to leave behind my years as a ward of the State of Virginia. When I began my new life, I was still a story writer, but my nanite-ravaged mind preferred fantasy over science fiction.

When I began publishing my stories they attracted the attention of Trysta who could recognize my writing style. By the time when we were finally reunited, I had sorted through the memories that had been carried into my mind by the nanites from Asimov and the robot. With the help of those memory nanites, I already understood the basic outline of Earth's secret history and I insisted that Trysta tell me the truth about her own non-human biological nature.

Cecilie interrupted me and said, "I wonder if I've ever read any of your stories. I don’t recall hearing of a book called Miners of Earth." She asked, "Was it ever published?"

For a few minutes we were distracted by the routine of takeoff, then I replied to Cecilie's question.

I explained, "I wrote Miners of Earth in another Reality, an alternate timeline that I think of as the Ekcolir Reality, named in honor of my biological father." For a moment I looked out the window at the stars and tried to imagine where the artificial life version of my long-dead father might be.

I turned back to face Cecilie and for the tenth time I marveled at how closely her appearance matched the description of Vance's character named Cecilie Vedra. And how had Vance's novel Pharism been slipped into the present Reality? Maybe there was only one possible way Pharism could exist in our universe: in the same way that I, if I chose to do so, could resurrect my own novels from Deep Time and rewrite my own books once again in this Reality. But even if the author of Pharism had arrived from out of Deep Time and was now living in this Reality, how could he possibly bring into existence a living version of a fictional character?

Cecilie said, "You're a fun story teller, Thomas. You make me want to believe in the existence of alternate Realities." She reached out and gently placed her hand on my cheek. She asked, "Are you too tired to continue?"

I said nothing to Cecilie about my spinning thoughts and the mystery of her own existence. Collecting my wits, I continued with my story about events in the Ekcolir Reality.

By the point in the Ekcolir Reality when my mother finally found me, her expectations for me and the future course of my life had changed. By using advanced alien technology that allowed her to view the future, Trysta had seen the role that I would play in the next and Final Reality of Earth. She told me nothing about my future, but for the first time she spoke openly to me about her mysterious past (which, through the wonders of time travel, actually took place far in the future).

I was not entirely surprised to learn that my mother was a member of a non-human species, the Asterothropes. I had grown up with constant exposure to some nanite-assisted telepathic contact with Trysta's mind, although information mostly flowed from her conscious mind into the unconscious part of my brain.

From a very early age I knew that my mother kept secrets, not the least of which was the identity of my father. I grew up having to call my biological father "Uncle Bill". That was a good deal: I had two great fathers.

My biological father's real name was Ekcolir and he was an Ek'col. The Ek'col are a special human variant that had been designed and crafted to be inter-fertile with Trysta. The Ek'col are part human, crafted as a special mixture of human, Asterothrope and Preland genes.

I now finally arrive in this story at my introduction of the mysterious Prelands. As we flew across the Atlantic, Cecilie continued listening to my account with bemused good humor. As a boy, I was often praised for my imagination and creativity. As an adult, things changed, and I've often been viewed as a delusional crank. Judging by the looks of surprise and amusement that alternately swept across her face while she listened to my story, Cecilie seemed to be struggling to decide if I should be humored or shunned as a possibly dangerous hospital escapee with serious mental health problems.

I explained to Cecilie that about seven million years ago, some primates were taken off of Earth and domesticated on worlds of the galactic core. That domesticated ape tribe was forced through an artificial selection process which resulted in rapid evolution and the first steps towards producing a new primate species, the Prelands.

The meddling Nereid Interventionists were made use of as the means to keep a constant stream of Preland gene combinations flowing back to Earth from the galactic core. Eventually that gene flow and the harsh consequences of natural selection that were enforced by the environment of Earth resulted in the appearance of the human species. In a sense, humans are a tentative, wannabe variety of Preland.

By the time when the human species arose on Earth, the Prelands were a distinct species (more accurately, given their diversity on multiple worlds of the Core, a new primate clade). Prelands are quite different from any creature that has ever evolved on Earth.

As hermaphrodites, Preland reproductive physiology has been extensively modified and altered from the original mammalian pattern. The alien beings who designed and crafted the Prelands had a long-range plan for Earth. Their plan was to maintain the relentless flow of Preland gene combinations being sent to Earth. Had that process continued unabated, eventually humans would have been slowly transformed into a new type of Preland, hermaphroditic, mute, telepathic and adapted to the purposes of the alien Huaoshy.

Observer Base

Because of my past acquisition of memory nanites from Asimov and the Observer robot and through my special relationship with my mother, I'd obtained extensive knowledge of Asterothropes and the Ek'col. I was all too familiar with the presence of Earth Observers and Overseers who operate out of their hidden Base on the Moon. When I heard about the Arlesheim "elf" I'd quickly booked my flight to Switzerland since I suspected that the "elf" might actually be an alien being.

At that point in my tale, I paused and Cecilie thought that my story was over. I could have gone on, sharing more of Earth's secret history, but I was dead tired. She asked, "Thomas, how much of this crazy story is true?" I shrugged and tried to drift off into sleep.

I was two years into my retirement, two years during which I'd been trying to forget about the secret history of Earth and learning to live like a normal earthling. However, I could not ignore the existence of the Elf. First Contact with the Buld had been a bust: most of the population of Earth had completely failed to notice that momentous event. During that flight to Europe I kept imagining the possibility that the Elf might finally provide earthlings with convincing evidence of alien visitors on this planet.

Why had Cecilie suddenly appeared out of Deep Time? Was it possible that what the world needed was a trained newspaper writer, a professional communicator, someone who could expertly explain to earthlings the facts about how alien beings have crafted our species and influenced the course of human civilization?

I was very tired and I wanted to sleep but my eyes popped open. Cecilie was still watching me. I asked, "Are you going to tell me where you got that book, Pharism?"

She explained, "My boy friend gave me the whole six volume Alastor set as a birthday present. But he was almost as weird about it as you are. Apparently he was surprised to find it available online." She gave a delicate shrug and reclined her seat back.

I looked around the cabin and saw that almost everyone was trying to sleep. I wished that I could have drifted off, but my mind was swirling with thoughts of Vance and Asimov and the strange borderlands between alternate Realities and between reality and fiction. What was I to think of Cecilie Vedra, a flesh and blood woman in this Reality who had the name and physical features of a fictional Vance character from Deep Time? Could a fictional character in a past Reality be brought into existence by a Reality Change? I resisted the temptation I felt for telling Cecilie that a character in a Vance novel of the Ekcolir Reality shared her name. I sat there spinning hypotheses about how time travel might explain the appearance of the Vance novel Pharism in our Reality.

The Foundation Reality

That night, as I flew towards Switzerland, Asimov was also on my mind because in the Foundation Reality he had been involved in the events at Roswell, New Mexico, following a collision between two alien spaceships. It was at that point in Deep Time that Asimov had his first close encounter with a robot.

That robot, a positronic robot, critically damaged in the spaceship accident, sent its memory nanites into Asimov's brain. That chance event, a case of Asimov being in the wrong place at the wrong time, led to his becoming a time traveler. But that is another story that has already been told elsewhere. I believe that time travel is no longer possible in our present Reality, so I'll leave the twisty time travel details out of this story.

Suffice it to say, when I reached Arlesheim, I said goodbye to Cecilie and almost immediately ran into Isaac Asimov. We had both booked a room at Hotel Coop Tagungszentrum in Muttenz, not far from the headquarters of Space Energy Missions where the "elf" had been found.

Asimov noticed me and he breezily said, "Long time no see, Thomas."

It was a bit of a shock for me when I turned and saw who had spoken to me in New York-tainted English. Isaac Asimov had tragically died some 20 years previously, but the Asimov there before me looked like a young man of 25. My first guess was that I had encountered a time traveling incarnation of Asimov, but that was not the case.

Asimov stood to the side while I finished checking into the hotel then he took my room key, handed it to a porter and told her to take my bag to my room. Being Asimov, he also had to tell the pretty girl to stop by his room later in the evening so that she could have her chance to spend some time with the most fascinating man then on Earth.

Something in the way he said "then on Earth" triggered alarms in my mind, but he was rushing me out the door to his car. As he began to drive he said, "I assume you want to hitch a ride with me out to Space Energy Missions."

I soon was in fear of death when I observed how poor a driver Asimov is. In the first minute of our ride we narrowly avoided several collisions. After buckling into my passenger restraint system and while holding on for dear life, I finally found my tongue and muttered, "According to your autobiography, when you move to Boston you will learn how to drive."

Asimov laughed and said, "Been there, done that. With the swarms of medical nanites that I now carry in my body, I've lost my fear of driving." Asimov was rapidly taking us out of town and up into the hills.

I could well believe That Asimov lacked fear as he sped along, seeming not to care about the painted line that was there, dividing the winding road into two sides. I had to say, "I'm surprised, and somewhat terrified, to see you."

He nodded knowingly, "Of course, of course, but let's not talk about me." He got right to the point. "What do you make of this mysterious Arlesheim Elf? There is a truly inspired article in this morning's Le News comparing the Elf to Frankenstein's monster."

Unwilling to give voice to the confused speculations that swirled in my thoughts, I simply replied, "I'm in the dark. I don't trust anything I've heard from the press. Based on the garbled descriptions of the Elf, I suspect it is an alien, not a monster."

Asimov gave a brief nod. "Lucky for us, I have access to reliable information. The police will soon end the media circus and move the Elf safely out of range of the television cameras. The police raid will take place soon and they plan to secretly transfer the Elf to Witzwil."

I asked, "Witzwill?"

"A Swiss detention center." Asimov slowed the car as we approached a police road block that was holding back a throng of reporters at the entrance of a driveway that branched off from the highway. Asimov honked the car's horn and moved through the milling reporters and nosed right up to the police barricade. Cecilie was there, among the other reporters. She seemed to look at me with dismay and I nodded to her rather sheepishly.

Asimov rolled down his window and flashed an ID card at the guards. The barricade was opened up and we were waved on past.

It took Asimov another minute to go up the long driveway and park the car. The main office building loomed over us, a modernistic blob of glass and steel that had long outraged local residents. The architectural monstrosities that were the dozen or so buildings on the Space Energy Missions campus had been tolerated, situated as they are, out of town and mostly out of sight, because of the promise of high-paying jobs. The company had gone out of business a few years earlier when its top officers jumped onboard the Buld spaceship and abandoned Earth. That had been the precipitating event leading to my own retirement.

After parking the car, Asimov pulled a heavy suitcase from the trunk then we walked towards the Space Energy Missions main entrance.

As we crossed the parking lot I asked, "How do you know what the police have planned?" I later learned that Asimov had nanite probes strategically positioned that constantly monitored the police command center.

Before Asimov could answer me, we were intercepted by a running policeman who shouted, " Arrêt! Halt!"

Asimov again held up his identification card and the police officer immediately nodded and left us to ourselves. I asked, "Who are you pretending to be?"

He chuckled and showed me his fake I.D. "Agent Henderson of the NSA." Avoiding the sliding doors, Asimov pushed through the manual door that was set just to the right side of the main entrance. Space Energy Missions had long been out of business so the power was off and the building smelled of stale air and floor wax. Light flooded in through the high atrium's windows.

Using French, German and English, Asimov proceeded to talk his way past more police officers and into the heart of the building. I tagged along trying to look harmless. When we came up behind a soldier laying in a dim corridor, a sharp shooter rifle there on the floor at the ready, Asimov led me into an office. He went to the side bar and opened a bottle of brandy, poured us each a glass and then he eased into the soft chair behind the desk and threw his feet up on the desk. After sniffing the brandy, he said, "We have time for a chat."

I settled into a chair and took several sips of the liquor while various questions and ejaculations competed in my mind to gain control of my speech centers. Finally I said, "You're mighty spry for a man twenty years dead."

Asimov sighed and heaved a mighty shrug. "My death was not as terminal as my obituary might have led you to believe."

I stammered, "So, you did die? You are dead?"

He grimaced at my crude language. "I was duplicated while being teleported, so I'm only half dead." Asimov jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb, "This half is doing quite well. Deprived of medical nanites, my lesser half had no chance to survive."

I'd never known Asimov in his youth, so I felt like I was talking to a photograph of the young Asimov before his meteoric rise to fame as a writer and the later ghastly rise of his mutton chops. I commented, "Spatially you seem like half the man you used to be and temporally about one quarter of the age you must now be."

He nodded and rubbed his naked chin. "I like being young. I stupidly wasted my youth, but I'm making up for that now."

I asked, "Nanites?"

"Yes, nanites are the secret of my youthful appearance. And, to my surprise, my nanite probes find you to now be strangely naked and not a single alien nanite residing in your body." His eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Are you my old adversary? If you really are Thomas then what happened to your special nanites?"

I was saddened to hear myself referred to as an adversary. "You don't recognize me?"

"When I saw you, I deduced that you must be Thomas, but I've spent time with Parthney and I know that in addition to him there have been many other clones of Thomas. Are you Thomas or a clone impersonator of Thomas?"

"I am Thomas. I simply gave up my nanites."

"Well, wait until old age catches you and then you'll regret not having those nanites for their medical function, if nothing else. It is not fun getting old."

I am nervous about no longer having my own built-in medical repair system, but I shrugged and said, "I'll always have my good Asterothrope genes: I don't age quickly."

Asimov swirled his glass and said, "I have one more personal question for you. I'm not sure that I've ever seen the true and natural bodily form of a Thomas clone. Are you male, hermaphrodite or best put in some new hybrid category?"

I shrugged. "I've also never seen a clone of me that had been allowed to develop without developmental control nantites being present to sculpt the bodily form. However, I'm male. Some of my clones have fathered children, including Parthney."

Asimov tried to continue his line of personal questions. "Why did you never have any children?"

Only a Kac'hin female could bear my children, and there were no Kac'hin on Earth. I replied, "You've exceeded your limit on personal questions. What makes you think I've never fathered any children?"

Asimov chuckled, "Intuition.....I spent considerable time with Parthney and you long ago acquainted me with your writing obsession. I'm guessing that you, like Parthney, suffer from an innate dedication to your art. Parthney is devoted to his music, but he also suffers from having little interest in the fairer sex."

"Suffers?"

Asimov nodded. "I suspect you have the same problem."

I suppose Asimov was correct, at least about the younger version of me that he had known. One of the things I had tried to change since getting rid of my nanites was in the area of relations with women. I muttered, "I've been working to get over that."

Asimov let that matter drop. "Speaking of children and good genes, where is your lovely mother? I'd actually hoped she might show up here. Instead, you returned to my life like a bad penny."

Knowledge of Asimov's (allbeit an Asimov of an earlier Reality) lusty thoughts about my mother was one of the first shocks I'd received upon obtaining Asimov's memory nanites right after Trysta had transferred them into me. Trying to ignore Asimov's attempts to irritate me, I gave a simple reply to his question. "Her artificial life analog, Syon, has gone off on a mission into outer space with Kach and Parthney."

Asimov slammed down his empty glass on the desk. "Damn! I was invited by Many Sails to go on that new voyage with Parthney. I might have agreed to go along had I known that Syon would be onboard."

"Contain your disappointment. She was escorted by Rilocke." Rilocke was the adopted name used by Ekcolir once he'd entered into his second life as an artificial life form.

Asimov muttered, with sarcasm dripping, "Ah, so the star-crossed lovers were finally reunited?"

"Indeed." Although Asimov seemed not to want to talk about his own past adventures in space, I could not contain my curiosity about how he had spent the past 20 years. I asked, "So, you know Many Sails?"

Just then, there was the sound of a helicopter outside and Asimov looked out the window. Briefly he surveyed the activity in the parking lot then poured himself more brandy.

Asimov turned back towards me and seemed to be reflecting upon his memories. After a quiet pause he replied, "Upon being duplicated, this half of me was sent to Klyz, in the galactic core. Eventually I met up with Kach and Parthney and we went to the Andromeda galaxy aboard the God Boat, a sister ship of Many Sails. When I finally returned to Earth, Many Sails had completed her mission here. By then I'd physically returned to my youth and I was reluctant to go on another space trip and abandon the universe's largest collection of young women, here on Earth."

I could well imagine that Asimov would not have been able to resist using advanced nanite technology to rejuvenate his body. Still, in light of Asimov's healthy ego, one mystery remained. "Why do you keep your return to Earth a secret?"

Asimov explained, "I thought about publicly announcing my return, but first I consulted with my family. Why bring a flood of unwelcome press attention upon them? So, I started a new writing career, mostly centered on mystery stories." The sound of a siren came from outside. Asimov briefly looked through the window and glanced out into the parking lot. Again seeing nothing that provoked his concern, he turned his attention back to me and he asked, "What have you been up to?"

I tried to reply with a concise answer, "I'm trying to live as a normal Earthling."

"Good luck with that, after everything you've been through." It almost sounded like he was sorry for me. He asked, "Do you still write?"

I explained, "When I gave up my nanites I lost my hypergraphic compulsion."

"How sad. I still love writing. In fact....." Asimov pulled out his wallet and extracted from it a business card. He flipped me the card, which in golden letters on a black background said: Dead Widower Society. On the back was a URL. Asimov continued, "I'm about to publish-"

We were interrupted by the sound of someone running down the corridor. Asimov grabbed the suitcase and shouted, "Show time!" He opened the office door, ran out into the hallway and continued running on past the military sniper.

I stepped out into the corridor. Reluctant to follow the charging Asimov into a possible line of fire, I soon lost sight of him in the dimly lit corridor.

I tucked Asimov's business card into my pocket, wondering what the Dead Widower Society was. I turned and went back along the hallway the way we had come and made my way out of the building and back to Asimov's car. A black helicopter rose from the roof of the building and zoomed off into the sky, soon disappearing over the horizon.

A minute later Asimov came strolling back to the car, still lugging the heavy suitcase. He opened the back door and stowed the suitcase in on the back seat.

I strapped myself into the front passenger seat and Asimov drove out of the parking lot and down the driveway. I asked, "What happened?"

Asimov casually replied, "Thomas, meet Cyndir." He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.

I looked at the back seat and saw a small humanoid alien: the Arlesheim Elf.

Next: part 2.... The Case of the Giant Watcher

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