Except for the technological updating, I think it has held up well over the years.

BEER RUN.

What if you went out for a six-pack and never came back?

It was midwinter, one of those crystal clear nights where the almost freezing wind whips in off the desert from the east and the moon bathes everything in a bright, pearly glow. Hal, my landlord, was off to a science fiction convention back East and the UFO Spotters were using our place -- a dilapidated rooming house in the old section of Tempe near the University -- for their monthly meeting. Being the only roomer in residence (the others having taken off for parts unknown, it being semester break), I was a.s.signed the job of keeping them from tearing up the place and making sure the cops had no probable cause for a drug bust.

They came drifting in about eight. By the time the formal meeting had started, there were fifty-odd people scattered in the various nooks and crannies around the old house. And I mean fifty odd people!

In Hal's absence, Weasel Martin took over the meeting. Weasel is a short, bearded graduate studentwhose most prominent feature is his nervous tic. He banged on a table with a wooden spoon to get their attention and called the meeting to order.

I was in the kitchen dishing out taco chips and bean dip. Jane Dugway was helping me, as well as pulling the pop-tops off two dozen cans of Coors. Somehow, they managed to disappear into the other room as fast as she opened them.

I had first met Jane at school. Although I am an engineering major, the University is determined that I get a well-rounded education. Therefore, in order to complete my eight hours of social studies required to graduate, I took a course in Anthropology. Jane was a graduate student in Anthro and my discussion group leader for one semester. She is not one of those lucky women blessed with the gift of beauty. Her hair has a terminal case of the frizzies, and the c.o.ke bottle gla.s.ses do nothing to improve her image.

However, there is a mind behind that mannish face of hers that is as sharp as a razor blade.

We carried the taco chips and bean dip into the living room just as Weasel Martin called for old business. PeeJay Schwarz got to his feet and began an excited narrative about an Alabama farmer who claimed to have been to the moon on a flying saucer. Weasel ruled him out of order. PeeJay sat down with a thump and a pout on his face.

After that, things settled down considerably. It might as well have been a meeting of the League of Women Voters, with everything run in strict adherence to Robert's Rules of Order. I was fast losing interest when Joel Peterson decided to get the evening's debate launched. Joel is a prissy sociology major who wears bow ties with his blue denim shirts and dirty Levi's. He revels in being the club skeptic and is especially skilled in sparking controversy.

"I don't believe in UFOs," he declared loudly. "Not as interstellar visitors, anyway."

There was a murmured undercurrent in the crowd -- something like you see in the movies just before the lynching. Weasel Martin got red in the face and prepared to smite the unbeliever.

"Then you're dumber than you look," he said to Joel. There was a scattered round of applause and a couple of muttered comments that that must be pretty dumb, considering his looks.

I had to give Joel credit. He stood his ground. "What makes you think UFOs aren't just a mammoth hoax? Have you ever seen one?" It was a good attack. Although several members claimed to have spotted UFOs, everyone knew that Weasel never had, and considered that fact a personal affront.

The wrangling went on for another half-hour before Weasel got fed up. "Okay, smart a.s.s. If they aren't visitors from other stars, what are they? And don't tell me swamp gas!"

There was a pregnant pause. Joel got a smug look on his face. His trap had been set, baited, and sprung. "They're time travelers from the future, or maybe from a parallel universe," he said in triumph.

This was greeted by a chorus of Bronx cheers, boos, and catcalls. Weasel was about to launch his counterattack when Sam Grohs pushed open the kitchen door and diverted everyone's attention.

"Hey, what happened to the beer?"

"Gone," I said.

"Gone? Hey man, I'm dying of thirst."

Then the general chorus began. "Beer run, beer run, we want a beer run!"Weasel took time out from the debate to look around. He found someone's discarded cowboy hat and pa.s.sed it to the a.s.sembled congregation. "Okay, you turkeys. Ante up for a beer run."

While the hat made the rounds, Weasel gave us all the once over with his eyes. "Who'll make this run?" he asked.

"Duncan MacElroy," someone in back piped up. "He's not doing anything."

The chant began again. "Send Duncan, send Duncan..."

I did not join in the chanting. I am Duncan and I did not want to go out into the cold to buy another case of beer.

"How about it, MacElroy?" Weasel asked. 'Want to make a run for us?"

I shrugged. "Why not? But I can't carry it all by myself."

"I'll go."

I turned around to see Jane Dugway get to her feet. I might have predicted it would be her. Jane is one of the few people in the club who ever volunteer for anything.

"Okay, wait a sec while I get my coat," I said.

Jane waited for me on the sidewalk out front, bundled up in a fur coat with her black leather purse over one shoulder.

"Got the money?" I asked.

She nodded. "Shall we take a car?"

I looked around. I could barely see my cla.s.sic Jag through the cl.u.s.ter of parked cars that slopped over from the driveway onto the front lawn. "I'm parked in," I said "Me too. I guess we walk."

"Okay," I said. "It's only two blocks." We set out at a leisurely pace up Oak toward the red and white sign of our local convenience market.

The liquor coolers of the market were spa.r.s.e hunting. We finally ended up with twelve six packs of three different kinds of beer. I loaded them into two sacks and we started for home.

The conversation drifted to anthropology. I walked in front, feeling my way over the tilted, broken slabs of the sidewalk, discussing a pet theory I had developed about the affinity of modern Americans for vicarious enjoyment via the b.o.o.b tube. The next thing I knew there was a hard shoulder in the small of my back and I was flying head over heels into a hedge of Texas sage. I landed on my belly amid the clatter of aluminum cans. Two of the cans burst on impact, spraying me with a cold shower of carbonated hops.

I spit out a mouthful of dirt and gra.s.s and turned over. It was dark there in the shadow of the hedge, but I could see Jane lying flat on her belly peering down and across the street at something.

"What was that for?"

"Quiet," she hissed."What the h.e.l.l is going on here?" I asked, sitting up. I wrinkled my nose as the wind carried an odor to me. I smelled like a brewery.

She reached up with one arm and pulled me down again. She was surprisingly strong and I could feel the bruises where she had grabbed me.

"If you value your life, stay down."

I opened my mouth to reply, and then shut it again. I had just caught sight of the gun.

Except it was not a gun. Even in the gloom with only scattered patches of moonlight to see by, that much was obvious. The thing in her hand was a weapon of some kind. It had a handle, a trigger, and a trigger guard. However, the barrel was a long thin gla.s.s pipe that glowed with a faint blue fluorescence.

My mind sorted through its dusty files and came up with a name for that glow. Cherenkov radiation! It was the glow of a nuclear reactor under two dozen feet of water.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Over there," she said, gesturing toward a large oleander hedge halfway down the street on the other side. "At the base of the oleanders, about twenty feet from the end."

I strained my eyes; conscious of how much the cold wind bit into me where the beer had soaked into my clothes. The spot she named was well lighted by the corner street lamp, but I could see nothing.

"I don't see anything," I said.

"Look closely. See the area that seems to be fading out of focus?"

I squinted. I was not sure, but I thought I saw what she referred to. Some trick of light and shadow caused a small section of bushes to advance and recede while I watched.

It was like seeing something under water, all blurry and changing.

"I see it," I said.

"That's a Dalgiri aversion field. One of them is watching your house."

"What's a Dalgiri?" I asked, thinking I was being set up for a joke. You know: "What's a Greek Urn? Oh, about two dollars an hour."

"A near man and my mortal enemy," she said, glancing up and down the street. Somehow, she did not look the type to have enemies. "He will try to kill me if he can. You too, I'm afraid, if he sees us together."

"What the h.e.l.l is going on here, Jane?"

"Shhh," she said, placing a finger to her lips. "I'll neutralize him. You stay put."

Without waiting for an answer, she crawled into the black, leaving me to listen to the rustle of the wind through the bare limbs of the trees.

I lay still for nearly five minutes, feeling more foolish by the second. Joel Peterson had put her up to this, I decided. It was just his kind of joke. I felt a flush rising in my cheeks. I got to my hands and knees and peered over the Texas sage.A bolt of lightning flashed before my eyes.

There was no answering thunderclap, no sound at all. However, the blast of searing light cut into my eyes like a knife, followed quickly by a sudden wave of heat. I dropped to my stomach once more, whimpering in panic. The night returned to normal. Darkness closed in again except for the whirling afterimage of the flash that continued to dance before my eyes. Besides the odor of stale beer, another stink penetrated my nostrils. There was a strong smell of ozone in the air.

Nothing happened for two minutes and I risked raising my head once more. The white splotches were still carved into my retinas, but my vision was clear enough to see Jane in a crouching run across the street to where the oleanders reached the sidewalk on the other side. She disappeared into the dark. I waited one more minute and then scrambled to my feet and raced after her.

I found her kneeling over the body of a man. He had been no beauty in life, and his looks had not improved in death. He stared unseeing at the moon, a gaping hole burned in his chest.

The wound smelled of cooked flesh. I gagged twice, trying to keep the beer and taco chips down.

"My G.o.d, Jane! What have you done?"

She looked over her shoulder at me. "I thought I told you to stay where you were."

"You killed him!"

"He would have killed me."

"With what? For all you know he was just some poor peeping tom."

She felt around in the bushes where the dead man's hand disappeared into the shadows and came up with a gun similar to hers. It too had an oddly shining gla.s.s barrel.

"What's going on here?" I asked.

"No time, Duncan." She turned to look directly into my eyes. "I need your help. Where there's one Dalgir, there'll be others. Can I count on you?"

"Sorry, but when it comes to murder, I draw the line. See you around!" I backed out of the hedge hastily, turning to run.

"Wait!"

I felt a p.r.i.c.kling sensation run up my spine. I'd almost forgotten the gun she held.

"For what?" I asked, turning back to her.

"Hear me out. Then if you want to leave, go ahead."

"Okay, start talking," I said.

"Well, firstly ... this is a Dalgir, a near man."

"Okay, you've already told me that. Now what exactly is a Dalgir?"

"You would name him Neanderthal. One of a race that died out fifty thousand years ago on this timeline. On others, however, they survived and prospered. It is such a line that I and my people waragainst."

I looked at the corpse. d.a.m.ned if he did not look like the Neanderthal exhibits in the museums.

Jutting bony eye ridges, sloping forehead, slouching posture as he lay in death. However, the Neanderthals in the museums had not worn hunting clothes straight out of the Sears catalog. And they had not carried gla.s.s-barreled pistols that emitted Cherenkov radiation as they lay quiescent on the ground.

"Timeline?"

"A parallel universe with its own history, culture, and peoples. Joel Peterson was speculating on the concept only an hour ago."

"I hope you think up a better story than that before the police arrive," I said, turning once more to leave.

"If I'm not from a parallel universe," she said, a hint of humor in her voice, "How do you explain these?" She gestured to the two guns.

She had me there. I had attended a couple of lectures on laser weapons. One thing every expert agreed on: A laser pistol with a six-inch barrel was theoretically impossible. Except a dead man lay at my feet with a hole burned in his chest with just such a weapon.

"Okay," I said. "Let's suppose you are telling the truth. What do you want me to do about it?"

"This Dalgir was waiting to ambush me even though they aren't supposed to know this timeline exists. The very fact that he's here is a disaster. I must report."

"So report," I said. "But take this body with you when you go."

"I need you, Duncan. You have to help me dispose of the body. It would never do to have it discovered by the local authorities."

I chewed on my lip, squirming on the horns of the dilemma. I have never even been late paying a parking ticket. Here I was being asked to cover up a cold-blooded murder. So why did I choose to help her? d.a.m.ned if I know! Maybe down deep I really believed her story.

"Okay," I said, regretting the decision even as I made it. "What do you want me to do?"

"We need some place to dump the body where it won't be found for eight hours or so."

I lifted my right arm and pointed west. "There's an old weed filled ditch that parallels the Southern Pacific tracks half a block over. How about there?"