Three teams of astronomers poured over sections of a picture of the deepest view into the universe ever seen, taken by the Hubble Space Telescope over what amounted to four days of exposure on a single spot in the distance. Six scientists to a team, half sitting, the rest standing or pacing in front of a long pop-up table, covered with papers, spectrographic analyses, small pictures, pencils, rulers, hand-held calculators, styrofoam coffee cups, bottled water, and one ashtray. Jackets draped over backs of chairs, each team's excitement and astonishment was palpable in the close-knit setting. Above the table were two rows, one stacked on the other, of three 27-inch monitors, showing different regions of the overall exposure at varying magnifications.

I only just arrived, my plane had an engine go out coming into Baltimore. After convivialities with the administrative team, some small talk, dinner invitations, I was assigned to Doctor Zeingelder's work-group in theatre C. I had never worked with him before but was looking forward to the meeting. He greeted me as a colleague, warm and personable, enjoying himself too much to be concerned about unintended tardiness - Nobel Laureates can be testy at times.

Introductions to the rest of the team were postponed; the atmosphere verged on a shark frenzy. I took my post at the back, slowly walking the length of the monitors, taking it all in. When I found a particular orientation, a certain angle of perspective, I'd stop, focus without strain, and then let it happen.

There are a small but undisclosable number of us in the world capable of, some say gifted with, the ability I possess - and that's the reason I'm here. Besides my training in astronomy and astrophysics, relativity theory and quantum mechanics, I was born with the ability to see into pictures, magnify them in stages, to layers that aren't in the pixels or silver nitrate itself. I can revitalize and bring out what only resonates in the picture by mentally visualizing content based on tachyon residue unobservable by any known technology. The configurations remain undisturbed through changes in viewing medium; how, I'm not sure.

As John Robertson, of the Large Infrared Array in Topeka, paced by in deep thought, I matched his walk to ask about what he'd discovered thus far. Agitatedly he spoke of objects which did not fit any known model, things he had never seen before or even suspected existed. With that, he left me at the coffee urn, going for my third. Coming back to the area I was patrolling, mulling over what John had said, brushing my right hand through my hair, I suddenly looked up, straight at the center monitor on the top row.

I lowered my styrofoam cup, placing it carefully on a side-table nearby. A tiny, bright red dot smack dab in the middle of tens of thousands of galaxies caught my eye. Standing straight yet relaxed at shoulders and thighs, eyes wide, I let it happen. My vision raced past walls of galaxies, then voids of hopeless emptiness, then more galaxies, clustered and combining in a strange dance. Then all was blackness save one red dot. None of the others in the room disturbed me, that was the standing order; it didn't matter, I had lost all sense of their presence.

It was farther away than at first it appeared, even to me. I finally caught up with it when time seemed to stop; I could no longer feel my body. It was near a membranous apparition of sorts, like that of a bubble made from soap, it had that iridescence. Amazingly, beyond this horizon I began to see faint glimmers of light, pin-point at first but growing in extent as I continued focusing in, increasing magnification as I went, the tachyon stream gaining in strength and definition.

I again brought my attention to the red dot, so intriguing and somehow familar feeling. I closed in with a sense of purpose I had not known before, I was near my limit, and the tachyon field glowed red with its own purpose, stretching my ability. There was an unmistakeable sense of going through a threshold, a tingling sensation in my mind, then, before me, clusters of galaxies arranged in clumps and groupings of varying numbers, a couple of dozen perhaps, appearing where the dot had been. My will was no longer my will; I was drawn towards two large spirals near the center, and then - I chose one, or it chose me.

Continuing in this leaf-on-the-stream mode I allowed my vision to zero in on one section of the arm second from the outside, to an average-sized sun. Around this sun I could see planets, several of them, in fact. Very large ones with many moons and rings of debris, and, further in towards the sun, smaller ones of noticeably different constitution. Suddenly, finally, incredulously, one image crystalized in my mind - Earth!

It was Earth. I looked deeper, it seemed easier now, almost sensual, like falling down a long, warm, soft chimney. I could clearly see North America, Baltimore, further, further, this room - days before when the picture was still being taken - people, technicians, graduate students, setting up tables and computers and the very monitor with which I was engrossed.

I couldn't backtrack, it was too much, so I broke the cord by looking away, always a painful jolt to the head and stomach and this time it was extraordinary. I needed to get outside, into the fresh air, to look up at the familiar stars. The others surrounded me, they had been watching me for some time, slightly worrying but definitely concerned. Was I all right, Doctor Robertson asked. I could just stare at them, no words would come. I waved them in a friendly way, as friendly as I could, then pointed to the side door which led to the garden area. Doctor Zeingelder escorted me, opened the door and let me out.

Early spring, the air was fresh and chill; it felt alive on my face. The stars, the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, The Pleiades, all still there, where they've always been. What of time, I thought; what do we really know about the nature of time? How many different kinds of time are there, or do they all slide together somehow, fluidly, without beginning or end? What of space's temporal spectrum and time's spacial, is only one configuration allowed or are there many possibles we have yet to dream of, not having any use for them in our theories? The garden bench was hard and cold and sure, I sat staring up at the bright, clear night sky and thought these thoughts, feeling pleasantly insignificant - and a little in shock.

***********

The bed was slightly damp from sweat; my shoulders and arms tingled strangely but not painfully. I sat up, paused, then put my legs over the side of the bed and stared out the window passed the tree on the lawn to the street and my old brown car. Monday morning, another day of moving and feeling, acting and being, on a planet at the far edge of the universe.

"Tom, you know you have an early meeting tomorrow, don't you?" cooed the machine voice, tinged with tinny femininity, lilting in all the right places. Tom had tried to open the front door; he wanted to go to the bar down the street for a nightcap and some socializing. But the Guardian wouldn't let him; it had locked all the doors.

"Tom? Tom. You know it's best. Why don't you take one of the white pills tonight. Go to the pill dispensary in the hall. I'll be there waiting."

Tom hesitated, anger building, anger and frustration, and a little fear, that coppery taste in the back of the throat kind of fear. It had sounded like such a great idea, at first. The "Living Home" concept had proven itself in government and corporate work environments. The integrated system, based on a combination of artificial intelligence and bioelectrical networks, came highly recommended by the International Science Federation and Maggy McCormick, a colleague at the "barn." That's what he called the Molecular Computing facility of Androgen, the largest producer of robotic help and service aids in the entire West Region. She said she didn't know how she had ever gotten along without it, or words to that effect; now she was able to accomplish so much more than ever possible before. She had come to believe that her bohemian lifestyle had detracted from her professional career, and so she needed the discipline afforded by "Mother." That's what she called her machine - Mother. And she had seemed satisfied with the arrangement.

Tom, however, had begun to notice cracks around the edges of her usually warm and free-spirited aura; she bore strain not well, it showed in her every movement. And her voice cracked occasionally, like a child's. He was beginning to understand the source.

"Tom. I'm waiting, Tom. It's late. Time for you to go to bed. I've already set the alarm clock. Breakfast will be ready at the usual time. I've designed the perfect meal for your present caloric profile and needs. Tom? I'm still waiting at the pill dispensary in the hall. Tom?"

Tom stood by the front door, rebelious yet uncertain, clenching his teeth, feeling helpless. His blood drained to his feet; with a shrug, he went to the dispensary. Waiting there was a tiny white pill and a glass of purified water on a thin black plastic slate. Hands in pockets, he stared at them under the muted, oval-shaped overhead light. It was no use, he knew; he swallowed the pill with the water, then ambled like a child to his bedroom two doors down. The lighting was subdued, soft; temperature and humidity at just the right levels; of course, he thought, what else?

He laid on top of the thin, microthermal covering and stretched out, holding his head in both hands, trying not to feel the effects of the drug. Once he had tried to fool the machine by placing the pill in his pocket; but it had known, from sensors located all through the house, it could read his biochemical profile constantly. It had known, and would not let him rest until he had complied.

"Tom? Tom. You still have your clothes and shoes on, Tom. Take them off now and slip into that caftan I laid out for you. Tom?"

He lost his futile fight with the tiny white pill; it was easier to give in this time. He sat up, rotated to the right, let his legs drop to the floor, bent at the waist, untied his shoes, removed them and his socks, stood up, undid his belt, let his pants drop to the floor, removed his shirt, tossed it into the chair nearby, grabbed the caftan, let it drop down over his body, turned, bent, lifted the covering, crawled in, slid to the middle, pulled the covering up around his throat, and held its edge in both hands.

"Good night, Tom. Don't worry about the mess. Mommy will get it for you. Sweet dreams."

Wielding the heavy black rock found protruding from the wall of their cave, its narrow edge chipped to utter silence, Gorg easily rended the belly of the long-toothed beast. Blood and viscera spilled onto the gravel-strewn outcrop; the smell of fresh blood filled the air. After returning the rock to its leather pouch, he proceeded to tear back the hide and skin with his strong bare hands. As on an unspoken signal, Noz didn't hesitate; using his stone knife effortlessly and without pause, he deftly cut broad swaths of meat from the beast's chest and sides. They worked quickly and quietly without the need to think or converse; years of hunting together had honed their skills and choreographed their partnership. Soon the cats and mountain wolves would come, and their home-cave was over a day's walk through mostly unknown country.

While packing the meat into skins made from a brother of the beast, they heard a faint cry to gather coming from the trees far to the west. Frozen momentarily, they eyed one another, then hastened their pace, wasting no movements. As they loaded the packs of meat onto their backs, one leather cord tied over right shoulder to left forearm, holding spear in right hand to balance torque, they moved off to the east. The sound of high-pitched keening was heard closer; soon the darkness would be upon them too. Need had driven them farther afield than they wanted to go this time to find quarry. Now, they were the quarry.

As they reached the foothills, the calls of the predators seemed to come from ahead. They stopped to consider, communicating with their peculiar mix of sign language and grunts. Why did their pursuers not stop at the fallen beast, they wondered, most of it was still there? Could they be hearing things out of fear, or were they actually surrounded? Gorg and Noz decided that the creature sounds were coming from their mountain, a familiar yet unknown real thing for which no questions were necessary or had ever been asked, but they didn't have the heart to risk it. A stand of giant wanaba trees ranged the slope a short trot to the south; they feared the creatures that might dwell therein, but a lesser of two evils it most definitely was.

Just beyond the first row of trees light faded quickly, but other senses held them in good stead. One massive tree had a peculiar darkness at its middle, near the ground. With spears at the ready, they examined the curiosity to discover a small opening at the tree's base leading to what appeared to be a cavern within. Gorg stepped through decisively, motioning for Noz to remain, naturally, he was almost half again as large and strong as Noz. Lightly touching the inner tree with the fingertips of his left hand, he stealthily circled the unknown expanse, keeping both spear and head focused towards the center blackness. Crouching outside, Noz, poised like a bird of prey, feeling the unnatural silence, hovered ever so lightly between sound and emptiness.

After a time Gorg grunted approval and safety; Noz entered, easily finding his friend in the dark. They dropped the packs of fresh, blood-soaked meat where they stood; no sense trying to hide anything; there were no secrets now. Besides - they were just meat themselves at this point, and they knew it.

What followed was an elaborate yet brief discussion of strategy: They hoped to guard the small opening until daylight, when at least they'd have a chance. If necessary, they'd throw the meat out, maybe it would satisfy the creatures, maybe. But that desperate act was a last resort almost worth dying for; their people had not been doing well hunting of late.

Noz removed from his neck-pouch the strange elongated shape he had carved from a tooth of one of the beasts they were so fond of hunting. He sat cross-legged at the center of their fortress in the bowels of the wanaba tree and placed the tooth-figure on the ground before him. In a low, dark, somber tone, he sang, letting himself feel the earth under him, the strength of the tree about him, and the spirit of All, the spirit that ran through him and his friend, Gorg.

Suddenly, close-by, they heard footfalls, many footfalls. In one motion Noz stood, spear in hand; feral with caution he approached the opening where Gorg was kneeling. Without signs or grunts they knew that to let any creature inside was death. The air was pungent with the smell of cat saliva; they were very hungry. Noz thought they may also be angry; his people had taken many long-tooths for food. But this was no time for sympathy. Snarling broke his reverie. The two hunters could smell the sweat and sense the shadows moving in the liquid dark a few spear-lengths outside the small hole, a hole that now seemed much larger than when they came in.

"Frank, Frank, wake-up, man; time to get to the airport. Johnson and Murray 'll be waitin.' This is the big one, man, the big Kahuna. You worked hard on this deal, Frank; now we need to nail the hide to the boardroom wall. So c'mon, let's hit it." With that the bossman left Frank's office for the elevator.

Frank, blurry-headed, sat up at his desk, wondering, feeling pulled apart in time and space. Against the dark mahogony wood of the desktop, he examined his arms and hands; the white shirt did little to diguise their tension. Sweat oozed down his neck where the hairs still stood on end; his back was damp. For a quantum length of time, he flitted back, then forth; being there, then here. His jacket was draped across the back of his chair; his tie hung loose around his neck. The fish tank bubbling soothingly against the nether wall drew his eye; above that was a painting of the Mitoska plain, wildebeast running from lions in a neverending grassland, trees off to one side. On the desk, he studied the pictures of his wife and two children; a framed document, his award for marketing achievement; and his heavy leather briefcase zipped and locked.

Frank stood, wavered a bit, then steadied himself by placing his fingertips lightly on the surface of the cool mahogony. After a deep breath, he reached around to grab his jacket. Mechanically he put it on in one motion, like he'd done it a million times before, then absently lifted his briefcase and stepped out towards the door. Just there he froze abruptly, standing pefectly still. Overwhelmed by shifting emotions, he spoke softly, "Noz, Noz, is that you in the dark?" After a long moment listening to the sound of time streaming away, Frank resumed breathing; a rush of loss and sadness twined with a wild pride raced through his chest and bones and soul. Bowing his head slightly, holding back tears of salt, he closed the door behind him as he walked methodically to the elevator.