                              THE PHARIN AGENDA
                                      by
                              John R. Llewellyn  
                                   
                                    Part 1
                                 Castle Luna


        
        It was a hot night.  The sky above the city was a heavy, lead-filled

black, like a giant lid sealing in the sweltering heat of the day.  Peter

Baines didn't notice.  It was hot, even for the city in midsummer, when any- 

body who could afford it escaped to the country or the coast.  Peter Baines,

walking along the heat-splintered sidewalk with his shoulders hunched under

his suit jacket, felt a chill.  He looked up at the full moon, shimmering in

the waves of heat still rising from the tops of the buildings, and shivered.

        A hovercab whined past in the air above the street beside him, 
        
whipping up clouds of dust and paper debris that danced in the cone of light

from a streetlamp just ahead.  Peter shielded his eyes from the brief dust- 

storm, but didn't glance at the cab.  

        He walked past a newsstand just before an intersection.  The papers

had quit printing front-page stories about the terrible Phobos-Deimos disaster

two months before, and the headlines were all screaming "HEATWAVE!" and other

such sentiments.  As he waited for the traffic light to change, Peter wondered

what the headlines would be screaming if their writers' knew what he knew.

        But what do I know?, Peter asked himself.  It's not like I have any

real proof, any eye-witnesses or anything.  It could just be a huge assumtion

on my part, he thought, a small spark of hope growing inside him.  The spark

died, and he shivered again.  He knew.  Somehow, he knew.  How could they be

so stupid, he thought.  How could anyone be so naive, so blind.  Well, if

anyone could, he mused grimly, it would be the Company.

        Crossing the street, he came to the lighted display window of a small

toy store.  On impulse, to ease the tension he was feeling, he swerved in to

buy a present for Amy.  Amy, his two-year-old daughter, always seemed to have

a hint of mischief in her eyes, but never any meanness or selfishness.  She

could be counted on to cause a commotion of one kind or another, but she was

kind and generous to a fault, constantly giving the toys her parents gave her

to other children she met in the park or on the street.  She would grow up

just like her mother, Peter thought, and smiled.

        Beautiful Jen, with her grey eyes looking so serious, always ready to

put ice down his shirt or pepper in his coffee, always catching him off-guard,

always loving him completely.  Gorgeous Jen, now one-and-a-half months 

pregnant with Amy's little sister.  It must have happened during that weekend 

vacation we took for our anniversary, he guessed, and then his present dilemna  

slammed back down on him like a mailed fist.  The weekend of our anniversary.

The weekend Wilson died.



        "Peter, it's Sean," the young man said, peering out of the vid-phone

in Baines' hand.  Sean Wilson, at twenty-three, was the youngest member of

Peter's staff at UAC.  Despite his youth, he had the same knack that Peter

himself had, the ability to examine a process or procedure and see immediately

where time or money could be saved.  Peter, only twenty-eight himself, got

along better with Sean than any of his other advisors.  In fact they had 

become friends.

        "Yeah, Sean, what is it?  I thought you were leaving for Colorado 

this morning," Peter said, propping the vid-phone on the nightstand while he

continued his packing.

        "My plane leaves at noon, just wrapping up a few things at the office.

I'm glad I caught you still in the city.  Where are you off to?"

        "Barbados.  Catch a little sun, see the sights, you know..."

        "Yeah, I know.  I'll be suprised if you see more than the room service

menu," Sean said, grinning.

        "And I'm sure you won't be doing anything but rockclimbing in 
        
Colorado, either.  What's on your mind?" Peter said, grinning back.

        "Just a quick question.  The Luna project is still on hold, isn't it?"

        "As far as I know.  Why?"

        "I've just been going over the shipping records from the last month,

you know, looking for wasted space and such, and I found a few shipments that

seem to have been headed for Titus base.  The only thing we have near there

is that Castle Luna, or whatever, that PR gimmick, isn't it?"

        Castle Luna, or the Luna project, was actually a pretty good idea from

a public relations standpoint.  Jack Forbes (senior VP of PR), a medieval

history buff, had read a story a year ago about a derelict castle in Scotland

falling prey to the ravages of time, etc.  At the same time, the citizens of

the Titus colony, the first fully terraformed area on the moon, were 

complaining about the lack of culture or entertainment for their children.

So, UAC arranged to buy the castle, ship it brick by brick (at enormous 

expense) to the moon and assemble it a mere one hundred miles away from Titus

base, still within the terraformed area.  It was billed as a major contribu-

tion to culture and education for the colony, with part of the castle restored

to medieval condition, and part being converted to a fully functioning

laboratory devoted to humanitarian pursuits.  The whole thing was to be open

to the public.  The media absolutely loved it, and public opinion of the

Company was never better.  Everyone had been enthusiastic about the project, 

even Julian Pharin, the senior VP of Research & Development, who was usually

jealous of every dime that didn't go directly to his department.  The project

was put on indefinite hold, however, after the incident at Phobos and Deimos.

        "No, Sean," Peter said, still packing, "we don't have anything else

near Titus, and I'm sure that Luna is still frozen.  Are you sure that's where

the stuff was going?  What was it, anyway?"

        "Listen, I gotta run.  Do you have a blank?  I'll send you a care

package in case you get bored."

        "Not likely," Baines murmered as he rummaged for a blank minidisk.

He found one, and slid it into a slot at the base of the 'phone.

        "Okay, there ya go, Pete.  I'm sure it's nothing serious, just a snag

in the automatic invoicer or something.  Anyway, I'm off, catch ya later."

        "See you Monday, Sean, and be careful."

        "You know it, man," Sean Wilson said, and the screen blipped out.



        Peter Baines didn't look at the minidisk that weekend.  He didn't

actually see more of Barbados than the room service menu.  He returned to the

city Monday morning, to the news that Sean Wilson had died in a fall, climbing

alone in the mountains of Colorado.




        "That will be $13.81 with tax, sir," the clerk at the toy store said.

Peter blinked, looked at her, and realized she'd said the same thing twice 

already.

        "Sorry," he mumbled, and fished out his wallet, withdrew a twenty, and

handed it to her.

        "Could I have the change all in singles, please?", he asked while she

flicked the keys on her register.

        "Certainly, sir.  Here's your change, and would you like a sack for 

the doll?"

        "No, thank you.  Can you tell me where the nearest public mail booth

is?"

        "There's one two blocks south of here, sir.  Can I call you a cab?" 
        

        "No, but thanks anyway." Peter picked up the doll and headed for the

door.

        "Have a good evening, sir," the clerk said as Peter opened the door

and stepped from the air-conditioned coolness of the shop into the blast-

furnace heat of the city at night.  The clerk shook her head.  No-one walked

around outside in a heat wave like this when they could afford to ride, she

thought, and he looked like he could afford to ride.  She shrugged her

shoulders and turned to help the next customer.


        Baines had not remembered the minidisk for three weeks after Sean's

death.  He had the funeral to attend, then the task of dividing Sean's current

workload to his other people.  And of course, the problem of finding a 

replacement, if he was going to.  People like Sean Wilson were hard to come

by.  He remembered the conditions present when he was first transferred to

corporate HQ, how thinking like his and Sean's was mostly discouraged by

comfortable executives and lazy plant managers.  Peter himself had started

out as an inventory clerk in one of the Midwest plants that made waste

containers from start to finish.  He had started at seventeen after his dad,

a retired Marine Captain, had died of cancer at 43.  Working in the stockroom,

he quickly realized how much time was being lost looking for parts and other

supplies.  He devised a better method of organization, and steeling his nerve,

showed his idea to the manager of the stockroom, who liked the idea enough to

use it and claim it at his own.  The improvement in resupply time was great

enough to attract the attention of the plant manager, a rare example of the

breed in that he was always open to new ideas.  The plant manager also knew

the storeroom manager well enough to know that he couldn't have come up with

the system on his own, and he guessed it had been Peter's idea.  Recognizing

talent when he saw it, he created a special position at the plant for Peter

Baines.

        "You've got lots of bark, boy, but no bite.  None." the plant manager

had said to Peter.  What he meant was that Peter would have access to every

area of the plant, from the production line to the bookkeepers' cubicles.

He was to examine every aspect of the plant's activities, looking for ways to

improve efficiency.  However, he had no power to implement his ideas.  All he

could do was take them to the plant manager, who would decide based on his

experience and knowledge of the processes involved.

        "You're smart, kid, but you're not an expert on everything."  He was

right, and some of Peter's ideas were shot down, but most of them were 

approved, and worked.  The plant, already a well-run operation, picked up so

much speed that the senior VP of Manufaturing at headquarters took notice,

and suddenly Peter found himself transferred to HQ itself, with the same type

of job he had had at the plant.

        Of course, most of the top executives resented having a mere twenty-

four year old stock boy being able to look over their shoulders, but no one

was more offended than Julian Pharin.  Pharin, a tall man with black hair shot

through with grey, at 50 still looked trim and athletic.  In fact he looked 

more like a senior diplomat or politician than a scientist, and he ruled the

Research & Development department like his own private duchy.  Peter would

always remember the first words Pharin had said to him.

        "Welcome to HQ, my son," Pharin had said. "I hear the Old Man gave

you carte blanche access to every department.  I just want you to realize that

that doesn't apply to R&D.  We are always working on something or other that

the competition would love to get its hands on, and we have to guard against

industrial espionage, so anything you feel you need to look at, you come

to me first.  Do we understand each other?  Good."  And he had walked away.

Since then, it had always been a hassle trying to do his job in Pharin's

department, but Baines had learned to deal with it.  But there were always

certain areas that he just couldn't get access to, certain records Pharin

would never let him see.  Even the Old Man (the Chairman of the Board) 

couldn't persuade him to open those areas to Peter.

        "He just does what he wants," the Old Man had told Peter once.  "If

he wasn't so good at his job, I'd sack him."


        So, three weeks after Wilson's accident, Peter Baines still didn't

have a new assistant.  So, he took up some of the slack himself, and started

the next project Sean had on the calendar, a run-through of procedure at the

headquarters' Communication Center.  One day, almost a month after Sean's

death, as Peter was strolling through the Com room, an operator called out to

his superior.

        "Sir, I need a runner to the top floor.  I have an OCEO for Mr.

Pharin."

        "What's an OCEO?", Peter asked the senior operations clerk.

        "It means One Copy, Eyes Only.  We keep no duplicates of such messages

and the single printed copy is sent immediately to the recipient by one of our

runners."

        "Does Mr. Pharin recieve a lot of those?"

        "More than anyone else, sir.  It's probably because of all the secret

research he does.  You know, for new products."

        "Yes, I'm sure it is," Peter mused.  "Hey, I'm on my way to the top

floor now, why don't I take it with me and save your boy a trip."

        "Why, that's very kind of you, Mr. Baines.  We are a little under-

staffed at the moment."  The man stressed the part about understaffed.  Peter

took the single sheet of paper and headed for the elevator.

        On the elevator ride up the 34 floors to the top, Peter glanced at the

paper.

OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originate: Titus Relay System/UACInst/Luna Project
Type: Standard Priority/OCEO
From: Stephen Crowther/Exec Auth Luna Project
To : Julian Pharin/SVP RDSec/UAC-HQ
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
First run completed 03:45 GMT yesterday.
Preliminary findings show resulting lifeforms to be fully viable.
Tests reveal acceptable IQ levels in all lifeforms. 
Lifeforms also display acceptable suggestability.
Proceeding with Phase 2.
Message ends.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO

        Peter was suprised.  As far as he knew, the Luna project had been put

on hold after the infestation on Phobos.  In fact, wasn't it Pharin himself

who had asked for the freeze?  He had said he would need all his best people

to figure out what had gone wrong with the Phobos-Deimos link.  But this 

message was from Stephen Crowther, one of Pharin's top minds.  Baines looked

the paper over again.  This didn't sound like any humanitarian, low-level

experiment, the kind that Luna Castle was originally supposed to be doing, if

it was doing anything.  Luna, why did that sound familiar?  A chill went 

through Peter as he remembered his last conversation with Sean.

        "I'll send you a care package," he'd said, "in case you get bored."

        The elevator door opened at the top floor, and Peter went left down

the hall and into Pharin's suite.  His secretary looked up and asked, "Can

I help you, Mr Baines?"

        "I was just down in the Com Center and an OCEO came through for Mr.

Pharin.  Since I was coming back up here anyway, I brought it along."

        "Oh, just one moment," she said, and turned to murmur into an 
        
intercom.  She straightened back to him and said, "Please, go right in."

        Pharin was standing behind his desk, looking out over the city through

the huge plate-steelglass windows in his corner office.  He turned at the 

sound of the door opening.

        "Hello, Baines, good to see you.  Oh, I never told you how sorry I was 
        
to hear about young Wilson.  He was a sharp boy.  Tragic."

        "Yes, it was tragic."  Peter handed the sheet of paper over to Pharin.

"This came for you while I was in Communications.  Thought I'd bring it up and

save someone the trip."

        "How thoughtful," Pharin said as he quickly scanned the message.  When

he read the origination heading, he looked up sharply at Baines.

        "Did you read this?" he asked, staring intently at Peter, his ice-blue

eyes focused like plasma beams, giving Peter the the urge to blink or break

eye contact.  Peter returned the stare.

        "I did notice the Originate heading.  I thought Luna was frozen for

the time being.  It would be good PR if we decided to open it, after all."

        Pharin relaxed somewhat.  He folded the paper and laid it on his desk.

"That's what we were thinking.  We decided we needed a quick public-opinion

boost to make up for recent, ah, events.  So we sent some people up to set

things in motion."

        "I'm suprised I haven't heard anything about that around the office,"

Peter said.  "It's a great idea, and we could all use some good news about

now."

        "Well, we didn't want to raise any hopes until we knew for certain we

could open the facility to the public.  In fact, that turns out to have been

a wise precaution.  It doesn't look like we'll be fully operational for some

time yet.  So I would appreciate it if you didn't mention the project to any-

one."

        "Sure, Julian. I understand."  Peter turned to go.  "Tell me," he said

suddenly, turning back to Pharin, "How did this end up in your lap?  I mean, I

thought it was mostly a PR thing, more Forbes line of work."

        Julian Pharin's eyes narrowed slightly.  "The senior VP's felt that 

the humanitarian research aspects of the project should be emphasized more,"

he said, and looked at Peter coolly, as if daring him to question the 

judgement of the combined senior VPs.

        "Of course," Peter said.  "I wasn't thinking ahead.  Well, I'd better 
        
get back to work."

        "Thanks for stopping by," Pharin said without emotion, and stared at

Peter Baines until he had walked out the door, closing it behind him.

        Peter went down the hall, past the elevators to his office.  He asked

his secretary to hold his calls, and closed the door separating them.  He went

to the bar and mixed himself a scotch and soda.  He wasn't a serious drinker,

but after that little scene with Pharin, he felt slightly weak.  Taking his

drink with him, he went to his desk and retrieved his briefcase from beside 

it.  Inside the case was his portable vid-phone.  The minidisk he had put 

there a month before was still in the slot.

        He accessed the disk through the 'phone, and Sean Wilson's face 
        
appeared on the screen.  Peter stared at the young man's image, hardly hearing

the words coming from the speaker.

        "Here's that manifest I was talking about," Sean said, in the carefree

manner he always used.  "Check it out when you have the time.  If you ever 

come up for air, that is.  See ya."  Sean Wilson winked, one last time, and

his face dissapeared.  In its place was a copy of a shipping manifest, dated

the week before his anniversary.





----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Manifest #GL83564/3B- UACS STRATTON 
Scheduled Departure - 02:15 GMT from UAC Fredricks Launch Facility, New Guinea
Destination - Titus Base, Luna Terraformed Zone, ES1

Contents:
   Lot 2367: 43 crates general lab supplies - fragile
   Lot 4253: 4 crates GEX-17 mainframe and components - highly fragile
   Lot 3288: 17 crates/4 Unicom miniframes and components - highly fragile
   Lot 6636: 2 crates Cheops systems and components - CAUTION extremely fragile
   Lot 8342: 1 crate GMS-X4716A complete - COLD STORAGE

Crew: 6

   Note: Load secured according to stress requirements.  Inspected by Captain.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------


        Peter frowned to himself.  The Cheops system was the state-of-the-art

in genetic engineering equipment, extremely expensive, and not at all the kind

of machine you would expect to find in a Public Relations circus.  Not to 

mention the GEX-17 mainframe, which by itself had as much computing power as

the Planetary Defense System.  The Unicom systems were usually more than 

enough for most lab setups.  He look at the name of the ship.  The STRATTON

was a 'freezer' ship, that is, it was equipped with a cold storage facility

for highly unstable materials or...

        Peter looked at the last entry.  GMS meant Genetic Material Sample,

the 'A' after the ID number meant it was a duplicate, taken from an already

existing sample series.  Apparently it contained a sample of every type found

in the original, hence the 'complete'.  And genetic material needed cold

storage.  Peter pursed his lips.  If GMS-X4716 was a series of grain samples,

or cancer or other diseased tissues, then perhaps the Luna project was still

exactly what it had been billed as originally - a humanitarian research

facility.  But Peter Baines could not shake the sense of foreboding he felt as

he remembered the Eyes Only message for Julian Pharin.  

        "Preliminary findings show resulting lifeforms to be fully viable."

        "Tests reveal acceptable IQ levels in all lifeforms."

        "Lifeforms also display acceptable suggestability."

        Peter turned off the disk and called Brian Harmon, one of his 

assistants, who was currently working in the main research facility, in New

Zealand.

        "Brian, this is Peter.  How are you?  Good.  Listen, have you made any  
        
friends on the research staff down there?  Who?  Excellent.  Tell him you need

a favor, off the record.  Tell him you need to find out what types of material

are in GMS-X4716A.  Write that down.  It's a genetic sample series.  I don't

know, that's what I want you to find out.  He'll be back when?  Not till next

week?  Damn- no, that will have to do.  Call me as soon as you hear anything.

No, call me at my private number.  My mobile number.  Thanks, Brian, I owe

you one.  Goodbye."



        In the week that followed, Peter Baines spent most of his time in the

Com Center, pretending to review procedures.  In reality, he was waiting for

another message for Julian Pharin to come through from Luna.  As luck would

have it, he caught a glimpse of another message three days after his call to

Brian Harmon.

OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originate: Titus Relay System/UACInst/Luna Project
Type: Standard Priority/OCEO
From: Stephen Crowther/Exec Auth Luna Project
To : Julian Pharin/SVP RDSec/UAC-HQ
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Third run completed 03:42 GMT yesterday.
All resulting lifeforms have so far proven completely viable.
All lifeforms so far also meet minimum IQ requirements.
First run lifeforms show highly positive responses to Phase 2.
Subsequent runs show decreasing responsiveness to Phase 2, exhibiting signs
        of hostility and reluctance to obey certain commands.
Working on isolation of variables in spawning sequence.
Is possible that equipment responsible for behavior differences.
Will post update soonest.
Message ends.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO
        
        Peter felt the foreboding grow inside him as he scanned the message.

Whatever they were doing up there on the moon, it wasn't any humanitarian

research.  It was wrong.  He had to stop it, whatever it was.  But how?  What

could he do?  He had no authority.  All he could do was tell someone else.

But who?  Who already knew about Pharin's little Luna project?  Who else was

involved?  Feeling dizzy and tired, Peter left the Com Center, called his

secretary, and told her he was leaving for the day.  He had to think.


        For the next two days, Peter hovered around the Com Center.  Not

because he expected another stroke of luck like the one before, but simply

because he didn't know where else to go.  Occasionally, a call came down from

Pharin's secretary, asking if Mr. Pharin had received any messages.  But none

came.  Peter seemed to feel Julian Pharin's impatience all the way from the

top floor.  He still hadn't decided who to talk to, who he could trust.

Then, five days after the second message from Luna, his vid-phone buzzed in

his pocket.  It was Brian Harmon.

        Peter asked him to hold while he ran to the elevator and rode to his

office.  Closing the door, he activated the screen once again and saw Brian's

face looking triumphantly out at him.

        "Well, I asked him about that number you gave me, " Brian said, "and

for starters, there is no GMS-X4716A.  That would imply a duplicate sample

set."  He said this importantly, as if lecturing on his area of expertise.

"And beleive me, there is no duplicate sample set of that particular series.

And it's a damn good thing, too."

        Peter's mouth went dry.  "What is in the original sample set?", he

asked, praying that the answer wouldn't be what he knew it would be.

        "GMS-X4716 just happens to be a complete cross-section of samples from

the creatures encountered on Phobos and Deimos.  Peter?  Did you hear me?"

        But Peter had gone numb.  Completely numb.  How could they? he thought

dazedly.  Who would tamper with something as serious as that?  That would be

insane.

        "Thanks, Brian, I'll call you later," Peter said mechanically.  He

shut off the phone and sat behind his desk, just staring, for about three 

hours.

        On his way out of the office that night, he stopped in the Com Center

for his briefcase.  There was a commotion at the far end of the room.  He

wandered over to where the senior operator was arguing with a man at a 

console, waving a piece of paper in his hand.

        "You must have done something wrong! " the senior operator shouted.

The man at the console stood his ground.  

        "No, sir," he said firmly, "I did everything the same as always.  That

is how the message came in."

        "He's been screaming for this message for days," the senior operator

cried, looking almost panicked now.  "We can't take him this!"  He waved the

paper again, then threw it onto the console.

        Peter read the paper, and it seemed his heart stopped.

OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originate: Titus Relay System/UACInst/Luna Project
Type: Priority 1 - Flash Traffic / OCEO
From: Stephen Crowther/Exec Auth Luna Project
To : Julian Pharin/SVP RDSec/UAC-HQ
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
70% of all lifeforms exhibiting signs of complete Phase 2 conditioning
        failure.
Attempting reestablishment of Phase 2, and containment of unconditioned
        lifeforms.
Request immediate resupply and additional security personnel.
Control of facility remains in
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Flag from Titus Relay: Message terminated upon loss of signal.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO OCEO



        Peter Baines found himself standing in front of a public mail booth,

the stifling heat plastering his hair against his head, gluing his shirt to

his body.  In his right hand he held a minidisk.  In his left, he held a doll.

He looked at the doll, and seemed to find an inner strength.

        For Amy, he thought, and for Jen.  For all the Amys and all the Jens,

for all the people on Luna, and all the people here on Earth.  He couldn't let

this thing snowball until it was too late.  He had to stop it now.

        Reaching up, he slid the minidisk into the proper slot, and pressed 

the 'send' button.  A prompt on the screen queried, "Address?"

        He entered the name of Major Douglas Hollings, the man his father had

served under in the Marines.  He knew the major was still active from the 

calls to his mother.  Hollings had always tried to keep in touch with the

family after Dad had died.  A Major.  He would have enough rank to get things

moving, but he was probably small enough not to have been bought by Pharin or

anyone else in the Company.  The screen blinked "Complete" at him, and ejected

the minidisk.  He started to pocket the disk, then slid it into the 

incinerator slot on the mail machine.  There was nothing else he could do,

anyway.

        Peter turned, and feeling slightly better, walked the rest of the way

home.  It would be good to see his family's faces tonight.  He would hug them

and tell them how much he loved them, and share in Amy's delight over her new

toy.  As the last traffic light changed in his favor, he started to cross the

street to his building.  

        Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice screamed a warning.  He 

became aware of a rushing of air and a high-pitched whine.  He turned just in

time to see the hovercar, it's lights turned off, bearing down on his right 

side.

        The hovercar struck him in the upper chest, sending him flying a dozen

feet or more.  Pain exploded across his chest as he lay on the pavement, dazed

and staring around him.  He still had the doll in his hand.  As he began to

think that his head had somehow escaped injury, he saw the driver of the 

hovercar get out and run over to him.  

        He couldn't make out the man's face.  The streetlight above the corner

made a halo for the man, drowning his face in shadow.

        "Are you okay?," the man asked worriedly.  "Someone call an ambulance!

Quick!"

        As the man said these things to anyone who happened to be around, 

Peter felt the man searching his pockets.

        "Wha-what are you- " Peter tried to say, but the man stopped him.

        "Easy now, take it easy, you're gonna be alright," the man said.

        Then Peter felt the tiny jab of a needle at his neck, saw the man's

face clearly for a moment.  Then his world slid slowly down into darkness.


                              The End of Part 1
        


---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transmission #1347SMQ95A - 7/30 14:50 GMT
From: Major Douglas Hollings, Strat Com HQ, I.P.M.C.
To: PFC #744FH32-C, 37th Battalion, Spec Ops
RE: Mission Directive
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
1.  AS OF 13:00 GMT THIS DATE YOU ARE GO REPEAT GO FOR OPERATION NO 
    UMBRELLA.
2.  OPERATION NO UMBRELLA WILL COMMENCE 7/31 01:15 GMT.
3.  YOU WILL BOARD TROOP CARRIER FERNANDEZ AT PRESENT LOCATION, ARRIVING
    AT TARGET AREA ON 8/3, 21:30 GMT. 
4.  INSERTION TIME WILL BE AT 23:30 GMT.

MISSION OBJECTIVES
1.  PRIMARY MISSION OBJECTIVE - SCANS SHOW TARGET AREA 99.5% COVERED BY 
    HIGH-GRADE SHIELD GENERATOR.  DE-ACTIVATION OF SHIELD IS OF PRIMARY
    IMPORTANCE.
2.  SECONDARY OBJECTIVES - ATTEMPT TO ASCERTAIN WHETHER HUMAN ACTION   
    IS RESPONSIBLE FOR PRESCENCE OF ALIEN CREATURES.  ALSO ASCERTAIN
    WHETHER SITE IS UNDER HUMAN OR ALIEN CONTROL.  ALSO SEARCH FOR ANY
    SIGN OF GENETIC MANIPULATION OR ATTEMPTED TRAINING OF ALIENS.

COMMENTS:  The only place where the shield is thin enough to permit insertion
           is a small observation booth attached to the only entry point into
           the facility.  Therefore the team must be small, possibly only
           yourself.  Also, the shield will not permit large metallic objects
           through at any point.  Therefore, we can send you no heavy weapons.
           This is a Priority 1 excercise, Marine.  We stop these things here
           or we'll have all hell to pay, literally.  Good luck.
END OF MESSAGE
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