The Heart of Ajs An'hlj

Diane pulled into the drive of the only house on Mulberry Lane. It sat alone on an abandoned farm. She got out of her car and made her way toward the porch.

"Did you bring it?"

She looked around for the voice's owner until she spied his head sticking out the upper floor. "I'm sorry?"

"The box. Did you bring it?"

"Here." She lifted it for him to see.

"Wait right there. I'll be down to let you in." The man's head disappeared. A minute later, he opened the door. "Good afternoon, Miss Moore," he said, "Won't you come it?"

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage Mr. . ."

"Laxalt."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Laxalt."

"Likewise," he said. "Put the box on the table. Let me go get the tea. You do like tea, don't you?"

"Yes, thank you."

"How do you like it?"

"Plain.

The sitting room was well appointed with a couch, a low table, and armchairs to complete it. Wood was set in the fireplace and ready for lighting. On the mantel and set in the wall were electric lights in place of candle sconces. Next to steps leading upstairs was an impressive grandfather clock.

A few minutes later, she was sipping a warm cup of tea. "I'm an anthropologist by trade," she said.

Mr. Laxalt laughed. "You're the first if you can believe it."

"Really?"

"It's always the physicists who come calling. Military too --especially brass. They never make the cut."

"I did," she said. "Why?"

"The visitors have their own agenda," he said. "Speaking of which, they've invited you to sup this evening. You don't have a change of clothes, do you?"

"No."

"No fear, Miss Moore. I have a wardrobe that's bound to have something to suit you. He led her upstairs to a small bedroom. "Take your pick. I'll be downstairs."

Diane was a pathological snoop (which explained her career choice). She stole out the room and tiptoed about (if anyone asked, she was looking for the bath). She found a study across the hall. Inside, a smoking chair occupied a corner. Her mouth watered at a large glass humidor occupying half the wall next to it. But the prize was an oversized roll top secretary. She walked over and gingerly tried the top. It wasn't locked. She rolled it up. Inside was a map of the property, notes in the visitors' lopsided script, and an appointment book --among other things. The book was open. The page was blank, except for her name and the date: Moore, Diane, 1928/6/24.

She heard a noise downstairs. Quick as a hare, she closed the roll top and flew to the bedroom. She threw on the first gown that might fit --elegant, sleeveless. A quick sniff under the arms --no problem.

Mr. Laxalt was sitting on the couch when she came downstairs. "Fits you, does it?" he said.

"Perfectly."

"Good," said Mr. Laxalt, getting up. "I'll show you around." He took her to the library.

"You can browse the books here," he said. "I have a collection of modern anthropology that's renowned in the state."

"This is impressive," she said. "But, I want to pick your brain about something, if you don't mind."

"I like my brain unpicked. But, since you asked politely. . ."