Steven

Hello. How are you? I am fine. What is your name? My name is Jerry.

There was no way that Jason Cole could have prevented the sudden surge of adrenaline that shot through his veins.

It was an inherent bodily reaction in response to the text message he had just received on his wrist-watch. The message produced the adrenaline with the same persuasion an explosion might have carried. Both posed potential threats to Jason Cole's life.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered softly, his head buzzing, his temples growing hot. His wife looked up from across the table, tilting her head in a gesture of confusion.

"Hmm? What was that, dear?"

"Son of a bitch!" Cole yelled. He slammed his fist down forcefully on the table and the idle chatter that had permeated the elegant restaurant ceased in response to the sudden, unexpected clamor interrupting their hollow dinner conversation.

Worry spread across Mrs. Cole's face. "What's wrong, Jason?"

"I-dammit, I don't have time to explain, Laura, it has to do with work, and it's urgent-I have to go right now, I-I'm sorry, but I have to go." He sprang from his seat, kissed her cheek, and sprinted out of the restaurant as thirty gawking eyes studied his retreat.

He didn't dare drive cautiously. Time was now of the essence; if he was late, the results would be nearly as bad as a car accident-at least as far as his livelihood was concerned.

It took him six minutes to span the twelve miles that stood between the restaurant and his office. He leapt out of his car, the unlocked door slamming mercilessly into place, and rushed into the office building that housed the headquarters of the SpaceTime Harvest Company.

Tucker Manden tore his eyes from the pile of papers littering his desk and focused them on Cole's hurried entrance. Relief washed across his face at the sight of Cole's calm demeanor, which he had hastily adorned as he'd entered the building, realizing that the trepidation he felt inside wouldn't calm anyone else's nerves.

"Thank God you're here, Jason. Nobody knows what the hell they're doing."

"What's going on?"

"Exactly what we feared."

"So it's been confirmed-intelligent life?"

"Yes. And worse than that, Ken Gritterson has been calling us all day asking questions-he knows something's up."

"How'd he catch wind of this situation? Someone leaking information to the press?"

"I have no idea. Maybe he's been tapping into phone calls, maybe there's a mole in the company-I just don't know. But I do know that if the general public is told by the press that SpaceTime Harvest has been systematically slaughtering the first and only sentient extraterrestrial life form to have ever been detected, then we're going to face a very serious and dire P.R. problem."

Cole snorted. "P.R. problem. That's an understatement."

I saw Will Smith on David Letterman the other night, and I have to say that it made me feel a lot better about the movie. Firstly, Smith hinted that the trailer's depiction of an action-packed flick was exaggerated and that the movie may carry a much more subtle and intelligent storyline that pays better tribute to Asimov's genius. Secondly, Smith knew the three laws of robotics by heart--granted, that's nothing all that flashy to memorize, and I'm sure the laws are integral to the plot, but it at least shows that his heart is in the movie and it's spirit to some extent. I think as Asimov fans we should give the movie a shot, if for no other reason, then simply for the fact that if it does well, we may see more Asimov movie adaptations in the future that may stay more faithful to the original works.

THE ROOM

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something
for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.

Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School.

Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted
every piece of his life near them-notes from classmates and teachers,
his homework.

Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about
encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every
moment of the teen's life. But it was only after Brian's death
that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his
view of heaven. "It makes such an impact that people want to share it.
You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said.

Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was
driving home from a friend's house when his car went off
Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from
the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was
electrocuted.

The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the
family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make
a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of
it,

" Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share
their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I
know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him.

Brian's Essay: The Room...

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in
the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one
wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in
libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical
order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and
>> > >seemingly endless in either direction, had very different
headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention
was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping
through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I
recognized the names written on each one. And then without being
told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system
for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big
and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder
and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began
randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought
joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense
that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have
betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright
weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given,"
"Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in their
exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't
laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have
Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by
the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer
than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I
had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to
fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card
confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each
signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I
realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were
packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found
the end of the file. I sh ut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of
shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill
run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing
to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed
content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An
almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one
must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to
destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size
didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I
took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not
dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card
only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot.
Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long,
self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title bore "People I Have Shared the
Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost
unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three
inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it
contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they
hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on
my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame
of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes.
No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide
the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched
helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I
couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could
bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He
seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to
read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the
room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that
didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands
and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He
could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just
cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at
one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign
His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him.
All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him.
His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red
so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was
written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a
sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever
understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard
Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I
stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door.
There were still cards to be written.

Worked on kayak today. I think the chemicals involved are giving me headaches.

I'm building a kayak and it's crazy. It's weird to think that I'm going to have my own kayak, and the fact that I will have built it myself is even weirder. If I were doing it on my own I would have no idea what the hell to do.

News Radio seasons one and two come out sometime in February. I really liked that show, especially the episode where everyone had different stories as to how a coffee pot had broken, and Matthew's story involved a hamburgler-type character sneaking into the office and smashing the coffee pot for no apparent reason, other than pure maliciousness.

"Santa Claus? What are you doing in my head?"
"Once a year I find out if kids have been naughty or nice by scanning their brains! All done here!"

This was paraphrased. If I have the lack of laziness (???) to look up the exact quote I will do so because it was pretty damn funny. I wet myself.

"There are five cacti on my windowsill and a bonzai tree, living happily, together, in any kind of weather."