Smallville Players IV: Encore By Barb Pillsbury Rated: G Submitted: December, 2003 Welcome back into the world of LnC juxtaposed with the world of a small community theatre--albeit a wonderfully talented one--the Smallville Players. As before, Lois and Clark are teachers at Smallville High School and both are very active members of the community theatre group directed by Martha Kent. As with SP III, I caution you to watch the dates very carefully as the plot and actors flit back and forth between two views of the present and two views of the future. I can't believe that we're here--the last in the quadrilogy. I hope that I've made the world of theatre one that you want to visit again and often. Films, DVDs, and TV are an integral part of all of our lives--but live theatre brings you something more. It gives us all a chance to share the event--to participate--rather than just watch the world go by. Our two favorite characters were always more than observers, and I hope that all of us follow their lead. At the end of the story, you will find credits, but right here, right now, I have to thank so many people. The friends I have made in the last two years are friends who have been there for me and will hopefully be part of my future. Thank you to Labby, Erin, Bethy, Tricia, Karen, and Wendy who have helped me become a better writer. Thank you to Saskia, Cristina, Merry, Gerri, Roger, Rivka, Shelley, Raquel, Carol, Yael, Kathy, Maria, and others I'm probably forgetting to mention, who have constantly read my work and encouraged and supported me. Thanks to the folcs on IRC--Pam, Laurie, Paul, Elena, Kaethel, Meredith, Lynn, Qex, Annette, Avia, and others whose humor, caring, and nurturing have helped me so much. This last fic in the series has been a Dutch Treat, because Saskia has joined Laswa as a BR and I thank her sincerely. Most of all thank you Laswa, who has been there for all four parts--your sustenance, your spark, and your loyalty has found its way into all my writing --- You're incredible. Sas and Laswa--you've been more than just a supporting cast -- you've had major roles in this production. I owe you so much! * * * Since this is the last fic in a four-part chronicle, we hopefully tie up all loose ends and leave our actors in a great place remembering that: All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts. Wm. Shakespeare As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7. ########## "Mommy, Mommy! Read me a story," the little dark-eyed boy shouted as he ran into the living room, handing his mother a book. The patient young woman retrieved the book from her five- year-old son's hand. "This one again?" she asked, looking at the volume lovingly. "Yes," the little boy insisted as he joined his mother on the well-worn couch in front of the fireplace of the old farmhouse. "Again and again and again!" She smiled, moved a lock of hair off of her son's forehead and opened the book to the dedication page. ########## ...There is a time for some things, and a time for all things; a time for great things, and a time for small things. But all in good time. Miguel de Cervantes Don Quixote The mother turned the page and her mind began its journey, as the words in the book took her back. ########## Smallville, Kansas Monday, March 14, 1994 Jonathan Kent walked down the long fluorescent-lit hallway of Smallville High School. Above the long row of gray lockers was a banner with `61 days of school left' printed in large red block letters. A couple of colorful posters reminded the students that Friday was a basketball game with arch-rival Hillsborough High School. The elder Kent turned the corner at the end of the hall and strode toward the lobby of the high school auditorium which the Smallville Players used as their theatre. He opened the door at the rear of the school's auditorium and walked down the aisle. A flash of white caught his eye as he ambled toward the stage. He paused and then moved sideways along one of the rows, flipping up seats as he went. He stooped down and picked up a wayward program that had slipped under a seat and remained unnoticed by the busy janitorial staff. Smallville Players presents `Arsenic and Old Lace', he read. Jonathan sank down in an auditorium seat and opened the program. He smiled as he glanced at the cast of characters and found himself thinking back to the production's final night. Was it just two weeks ago? A bulb in one of the chandeliers above Jonathan's head began flickering, but it went unobserved as his mind played an encore of that last eventful performance. Jonathan remembered that he had been stage left, behind the supposed Brewster dining room, waiting for his cue when Libby spoke. * * * Aunt Martha/Libby Barton: Well, Mortimer, now that we're moving, this house really is yours. Aunt Abby/Martha Kent: Yes dear, we want you to live here now. Mortimer/Clark: No, Aunt Abby, this house is too full of memories. Backstage, Jonathan was standing across from Dr. Mock when the minister heard his cue. Dr. Mock picked up the Bible and walked toward the Brewster's front door entrance. He paused behind the masked panel that hid the exits and entrances of the actors. Jonathan had been there when the minister and Clark had worked this out, and he was confident that Dr. Mock knew what to do. Jonathan Kent returned the smile Dr. Mock, alias Dr. Harper, threw at him and moved closer so that he, too, was ready for his prescribed entrance. Aunt Martha/Libby Barton: [Looks over at Clark and smiles.] But you'll need a home when you and Elaine are married. From his position, Jonathan could see Clark glance around the set to make sure that all the actors were in their places. They all knew what was to occur -- that is, all except Lois Lane. Mortimer/Clark: Darlings, that's very indefinite. Elaine/Lois: [Rising from the couch where she had been sitting.] It's nothing of the kind--we're going to be married right away. Mortimer/Clark: Yes, right away. In fact right now! Jonathan had seen Lois look over at Clark. He knew that she realized that wasn't the line and instead, were probably the changes hinted at by Martha before she went on. Clark usually didn't go up on lines. Aunt Abby, that is, Martha Kent was supposed to say....but people began moving to what looked like pre-assigned spots on the set. At the appointed moment, Jonathan Kent entered to stand beside his wife. Perry had returned from upstairs and took Lois' arm and escorted her to the center of the stage to stand beside Clark. Martha had taken Jonathan's hand and smiled up at him. Jonathan glanced over at Lois and could imagine what she was thinking. Lois looked around again. She looked at Martha, Jonathan and then the rest of the cast. This obviously looked real to her. It *was* real, she was realizing!!! Reverend Harper, uh...Dr. Mock was entering through the Brewster's supposed front door. Clark turned Lois to face him. "I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you. I've never stopped loving you, not even for an instant. And I will go on loving you for the rest of my life," he told her gently, putting his hand up to cup the side of her face. "Marry me now," he pleaded, his eyes searching into her soul. "Right here, right now-- in front of all of our friends and family. I can't live without you. I was so wrong to push you away. You mean everything to me. Please, please say yes." Clark pulled Lois into his arms and kissed her. Through the kiss he whispered: "Lois, I love you. Marry me." Tears welled up in Lois' eyes as she stepped back to stare at the incredible man who once again had asked her...asked her to... She closed her eyes. Was the jinx at long last over? Should she tempt fate and... she shouted at herself. Clark waited, hoping against hope. Lois looked up at him with confidence in her eyes, and in a warm and steady voice said: "Yes, Mortimer. I'll marry you," she began, matching the deep look into his eyes, "right here, and right now." * * * Jonathan Kent looked at his watch and shook off the reverie of the performance--that is, the wedding--vividly portrayed in his thoughts. No time for encores now, as he had promised Martha that he would prepare the stage so auditions could be held for the next play. He also had to move some set pieces that remained in the two wing areas to their small delegated storage room behind the stage in order to establish a large enough area for set construction. Jonathan shouldn't be spending time reminiscing because he really had to get working on this particular play quickly, as it had a lot of technical attributes requiring special features to be installed within and behind the set. The next play would be a technical director's tour-de-force; and it, therefore, would require a lot of his time. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt, though, as the dream-like remembrances held him. The elder Kent smiled as he folded the program and looked up at the closed red curtain with a large gold `S' within a circle embossed on it. Jonathan smiled again as the Smallville High School emblem reminded him of how far his son had come to finally realize his destiny. Only seven months ago, Clark had been hiding his powers and surreptitiously reaching out to help those in trouble. Jonathan had worried about his son being made into some kind of government experiment, poking and prodding him once they found out he was not like other men. But now with the advent of Superman, Clark finally knew why he was here and how he could make a difference. And his son had done just that. Jonathan stood up and walked up the steps to the stage. He paused in front of the closed curtain. Much had ended or been altered when the curtain rang down sixteen nights ago. The house of Luthor was no more, Libby Barton had resolved issues in her life and now faced her last days with friends clustered around her; and lastly and wonderfully, Jonathan now had Lois Lane as a daughter. The technical director of the Smallville Players Theatre Group stepped through the curtain and walked backstage. He reached up and, moving hand over hand, reopened the curtain. * * * Once again, Claire looked into the mirror, eyeing the reflection she saw staring back at her. She tossed her head and fluffed her dark hair, but that was just a way to procrastinate, as vanity was not one of her vices. She took a deep breath and gazed, yet again, at the dark resolute eyes and the determined chin. Although only fifteen, there was a maturity behind those eyes and a wisdom that came from an understanding heart. She had the family chin, her mother had told her; and the look in Claire's eyes when she knew she was right echoed the paternal side of her family back to her...her...no she couldn't get off track. Concentrate! "Hi," she said lightly to the face in the mirror. "My name is Claire Kennedy and I've just moved here from...from..." she paused, as she bit her lower lip. "Metropolis." Why was she having so much trouble with those simple lines? She was an actress. How dare she go up on her part! It's as if she had never been on stage before. She turned away from the mirror and gathered herself together. Claire had been in over a dozen plays since the age of nine--and always, always big roles. She had been Annie in `Annie', Mary in `The Children's Hour', Helen Keller in `The Miracle Worker', and even Juliet. Her current role, as Claire Kennedy, new student at Smallville High School, should be a snap for the young thespian. But so incredibly much was riding on this. Claire turned back to the mirror and, sliding her hand up to move a lock of hair from her face, checked the reflection one last time to insure that she looked the part, then spun away and walked toward the door. * * * * Lois Lane looked toward the door of her classroom, half expecting to see her husband walk by. In the just over two weeks that she and Clark had been married, she had gained a superpower of her own--the ability to know when her husband was nearby. Lois frowned and then smiled as she caught sight of him moving quickly down the hall. A few seconds later, a red and blue streak zoomed by the window of Smallville High School as Clark headed out toward some unknown danger. she thought, and turned back to her class. "Welcome back from spring break. I hope you had a great vacation. I know I did," she said, smiling. The class laughed and then they all turned to look at Keith Haley while encouraging him through gestures and whispers to go toward the front of the class. "Miss La...uh, Mrs. Kent," Keith began. "The class wants to wish you and Mr. Kent the best. We all think this is so great. You both are fantastic teachers and incredible people," he continued, smiling as he thought back to how the two of them supported him when he needed someone. "We're so glad that both of you found each other," he went on. "And, uh, well... we've gotten together to get you a wedding present," he said, as Emily Cox joined him, carrying a small package. "Thank you all," Lois told the class. "It's been such a real joy to be your teacher. I have learned so much from all of you," she finished as she opened the package. Inside was a small hardbound book, `The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail: A Play'. "This is wonderful!" Lois exclaimed. "You all know how I love Thoreau and this specific book has been out of print for about ten years. I have a small, worn, paperback edition, but have been looking for this. Thank you--each and every one of you." Lois put the volume down on her desk and tenderly placed her hand on it. She then smiled and faced the class once again. * * * Dr. Tim Post closed the top drawer of his desk and, for the third time, adjusted the diploma on the wall of his office at Smallville General Hospital. He stepped back again to look at the results of his machinations. He smiled and reached down into the box on the floor, lifting out two other framed documents that falsely and somewhat garishly testified to his ersatz credibility. Moving back to his desk, the visitor from the future opened the bottom drawer and removed a bag made of material not known to contemporary earth dwellers. He opened the clasp that secured the bag and poured some of its contents into a small plate that he had placed on his desk earlier. The granules of red crystals sparkled in the sun that filtered through the blinds at his window. "Just in time," the pseudo doctor sang. "I found you just in time. Before you came my time was running low." He took some of the finite crystals in his hand and letting them dribble out as if in some Navajo sand painting, he drew the familiar `S' on the desk. "I was lost," he crooned. "The losing dice were tossed. My bridges all were crossed. Nowhere to go." The flagitious phony got up and with the bag in his arms, danced around the room. He stretched out his arms and smiled at his treasure. "But now you're here. And now I know just where I'm going. No more doubt or fear. I've found my way," he crooned, as he strutted back toward the desk. Dr. Post put the bag down on the desk, whistling the final strains of the song. And looking at the crystals in front of him, he licked his lips and smiled. "And it's about time," he said out loud. * * * "It's about time," Lois told the class. "The novel we are going to study next is *all* about time. It is considered the first book to be written about time travel." "I know," sang out Tom Mock. "The Time Machine." "Nope," their teacher informed them. "Besides that's a British novel and this is American Literature. Think American." The class was quiet. "Do you know the answer, Rod?" asked their teacher. All heads turned toward Rod Purcell. Rod had been born in Smallville as had most of his friends. At age five, he was in a terrible automobile accident that killed his mother and rendered him totally blind. Rod's father had been a cardiologist but returned to Medical School to become an ophthalmic surgeon. He became renowned in his field as he spent the last twelve years searching for a way to help his son. Dr. Purcell and Rod spent four months in Switzerland, where the doctor had heard there was a new procedure that could help his son. Both had returned to Smallville two weeks ago, the operation unsuccessful. Lois looked out at Rod. "Rod? From what I've heard, this author is a favorite of yours." "Yes, Mrs. Kent," Rod replied. "Mark Twain. And the book you are talking about is `A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court'." "Right you are, Rod," his teacher acknowledged. "And, now, let me read this review." ...Mr. Clemens, we call him, rather than Mark Twain, because we feel that in this book our arch-humorist imparts more of his personal quality than in anything else he has done. Here he is to the full the humorist, as we know him; but he is very much more, and his strong, indignant, often infuriate hate of injustice, and his love of equality, burn hot through the manifold adventures and experiences of the tale. What he thought about prescriptive right and wrong, we had partly learned in The Prince and the Pauper, and in Huckleberry Finn, but it is this last book which gives us his whole mind. The elastic scheme of the romance allows it to play freely back and forward between the sixth century and the nineteenth century; and often while it is working the reader up to a blasting contempt of monarchy and aristocracy in King Arthur's time, the dates are magically shifted under him, and he is confronted with exactly the same principles in Queen Victoria's time. The delicious satire, the marvelous wit, the wild, free, fantastic humor are the colors of the tapestry, while the texture is a humanity that lives in every fibre. At every moment the scene amuses, but it is all the time an object-lesson in democracy... "So, Lois told them "through the eyes of an American humorist of the 19th century, we are going to view sixth- century Camelot." * * * "Camelot," Clark Kent said, as he quickly reentered his History II class. He adjusted his tie and began collecting the quiz he had hastily assigned his students while he made his `phone call'. "Camelot," he said again. "The New Frontier. The Kennedy years were something special," he continued, as he put the relatively easy quiz question the students responded to in his desk. "The lethargy of the 50s made way for the creative and youthful energy of the 60s as the youngest elected president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, took up residence at the White House. Just as the Camelot of old dealt with an idyllic view of the world-- might for right instead of might is right--a voice against injustice--an arm tilting at windmills. Oops," Clark interjected. "I'm mixing metaphors or legends as it were-- King Arthur and Don Quixote." The students chuckled. "But, maybe not," Clark went on. "Those are two views of not a particular time period in history, but of a concept-- a concept of commitment to an ideal--that there is good in all of us and that a government should be one that supports that vision." Clark walked around and leaned against the front edge of his desk. "Quixote's quest personifies romantic idealism--a state of mind which exists just this side of madness--in its purest form. His story becomes an inspiration to pursue our personal quests with unfailing dedication, unbridled optimism, unwavering courage, and unparalleled chivalry. I believe it finds its echo in JFK's inaugural commitment-- `ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.'" * * * "So what do we have to do with this one?" Tom asked the English teacher. "Dress up in 6th century clothing, put on a joust, search for the holy grail?" "No, Tom," Lois said, her eyes twinkling. "But it would be fun to see you try that." The students laughed and then looked at their teacher expectantly. She had always had an interesting task to go with the discussion of their assigned novel. What was in their teacher's mind this time? Lois smiled. "Okay, nothing controversial, no wandering out in the community, just an additional reading requirement and the opportunity to contrast several visions of knighthood in flower." Lois turned to write the names of several literary pieces on the board. Remembering that she now had a visually impaired student, Lois read off the titles as she listed them in chalk. "`The Song of Roland', `The Castle of Otranto', `The Talisman', `Ivanhoe', `The Idylls of the King', 'Le Morte d'Arthur', and `Don Quixote'." The groans from the class were loud and long. Lois turned back. "It's not going to be that bad," she explained. "Once again, you'll be in groups of four. You will read your supplementary piece of literature. One of you will present some information on the author, a second student will provide a summary of the work, another will compare the vision of knighthood depicted to that of Mark Twain's, while the fourth student will contrast the writing style of the two authors. Any questions?" "Can we pick our teams?" Cindy asked. "Not this time," their teacher responded. "I want to try to break-up a couple of your little cliques and give you the opportunity to work with some new people. Oh, and speaking of new people, a new student will be joining us shortly." "Who?" Keith asked, verbalizing what the others were thinking. "Claire Kennedy," Lois informed them, looking at a note on her desk. "She'll be here as soon as she finishes getting her orientation lecture from Principal White." "She'll get more than that," Cindy said. "She'll learn more about Elvis than she thought she'd ever want to know." The students chuckled in agreement. "Well, she should be here soon," Lois informed them. "Meanwhile...." * * * Claire quickly walked over to the auditorium. She just had to take one quick peek at the stage before she joined her class, which was already in session. Claire walked over to the light board. Well, this was certainly archaic. She expected that, of course. She looked up at the electrics, quickly figured out its system and pulled up the lever marked C3. Two ellipsoidal instruments, gelled in violet, brightly blazed down on center stage. Claire walked over, found its hot spot and looking out toward the empty seats, wet her lips and spoke. Claire/Aldonza: Please! Try to remember! Yes, try to remember. Remember something that hasn't even.... When was it? When? She stooped down and touched the very place on the boards where her father...her father...lying on a bed, center stage reaching out...reaching toward...saying those anguished lines from `The Man of La Mancha'. Quijana: Is it so important? Yes it is important--so important. She stood up and could almost hear his lines as if spoken aloud--although only a resonance etched deeply within her thoughts and memory. She continued the dialog, so much a part of her soul. Claire/Aldonza: Everything. My whole life. You spoke to me and everything was-- different! Quijana: I...spoke to you? Claire/Aldonza: And you looked at me! And you called me by another name! (She sings, pleadingly) Dulcinea...Dulcinea... Once you found a girl and called her Dulcinea, When you spoke the name, an angel seemed to whisper-- Dulcinea...Dulcinea... Claire moved out of the light as if she was dragged by unknown forces, but ran back to the light and continued. Dulcinea...Dulcinea... Won't you bring me back the dream of Dulcinea...? Won't you bring me back the bright and shining glory... Of Dulcinea... Dulcinea... Quijana: Then perhaps...it was not a dream.... Claire/Aldonza: You spoke of a dream. And about the Quest! Quijana: Quest? Claire/Aldonza: How you must fight and it doesn't matter whether you win or lose if only you follow the Quest. Claire wiped away the tears that had slowly fallen down her face and walked out of the auditorium door and toward her own quest. * * * Martha Kent closed the door of Libby Barton's bedroom and nodded to the hospice nurse who was wending her way carefully up the stairs, balancing a tray of medications and at the same time, attempting to avoid Miss Libby's attentive cat who was intermittently trying to rub against the nurse's legs. "Jinx," Martha said coaxingly. "Here, kitty." Noticing that the nurse moved with a slight limp and was trying not to drop the tray, Martha stooped down and picked up the cat. "Jinx is coming home with me," explained the older woman. "Miss Libby needs to see her settled somewhere." "Thank you," the nurse replied. "I think that's best." Martha carried the cat downstairs and set her down in the kitchen as she opened the cupboards one by one. Finding what she was looking for, Martha removed several cans of cat food and placed them on the counter. Jinx took that moment to scurry into the living room and hop up on to her accustomed spot on the window seat. Jinx turned around several times and snuggled down on the cushions that adorned the area. The sun streamed through the window and the warmth felt good on the cat's fur. She purred softly, but then stopped suddenly as her ears picked up a sound. A soft humming emanated from inside the cat's resting place. Jinx jumped off her perch and began moving back and forth against the oak grain of the wood paneling as if sensing something warm and alive within. The nurse returned to the living room and, eyeing the cat's movements, suspiciously moved slowly toward the feline. Martha exited the kitchen with a bag of supplies, and carefully picked up Jinx before the nurse could reach her. "How is Miss Libby doing?" Martha asked the nurse, gently stroking the cat in her arms. "She's holding on," Liz Lathrop explained, as she continued to regard the cat. "Her pain medication has been increased, and she is somewhat more comfortable. The end isn't far off." Martha sighed. "Let me know if she needs anything," Libby Barton's friend told the nurse, as she moved toward the front door. "Of course," the nurse replied, solicitously. "Here, let me get that," Liz Lathrop told Martha and moved over to open the door for the older woman and her charge. Dr. Liz Lathrop shut the door and, leaning against it, removed the badge that identified her as the hospice nurse. She took a deep breath and strode toward the window seat. One minute later, Liz stood there with a globe in her hand. * * * "...You know about transmigration of souls; do you know about transposition of epochs -- and bodies?" Anne Holland read aloud from the text of the novel that they were about to study. "Okay, you continue, Emily," their teacher instructed. "I said I had not heard of it," Emily added. "He was so little interested -- just as when people speak of the weather -- that he did not notice whether I made him any answer or not. There was half a moment of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the salaried cicerone." Out in the hallway, Claire looked down at her hand as it reached out to open the door of room 217. She pulled her hand back. In the classroom, Cindy, as requested, continued "...My acquaintance smiled -- not a modern smile, but one that must have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago...and muttered apparently to himself: `Wit ye well, I SAW IT DONE.' Then, after a pause, added: `I did it myself.'" "All right," Lois said, looking up from the book. "Let me ask you a question." Claire reached out again and turned the knob on the door. "Okay," the English teacher said. "Let me try again. How many of you believe in time travel?" Claire walked into Lois Lane's classroom. Lois and the students stopped and stared at the young brunette. "Hi!" Claire began. "My name is Claire Ken...Kennedy. I'm a new student here. I just moved to Smallville from Metropolis and, in answer to the teacher's question. I not only believe in time travel. I've done it. I'm from the future!" ########## "She shouldn't have said that, should she, Mommy!" the little boy said as his mother paused in her reading. The dark-haired woman smiled at her son, participating in the game they always did when she read the book. "What do you think?" she inquired, playfully--asking the question she invariably asked when they got to this part. "Uncle Herbie was upset at her wasn't, he?" His mother smiled again and turned the page. ########## Smallville, Kansas Monday, March 14, 1994 "That was a preposterous thing to say!" the elderly man admonished Claire. "They didn't believe it," she said, laughing and joined the man at the dining room table. "It sort of broke the ice, Uncle Herbie; and now if I say anything even remotely weird, they'll just chalk it up to my flakiness." "What about Miss Lane?" he asked her. "She's wonderful! Just like all the history books say." "And Mr. Kent?" Claire paused and bit her lower lip. "He's so like my father," she said, tears coming to her eyes. "Since my mother died, my dad and I have only had each other. We have to save him, Mr. Wells. We just have to!" * * * Dystopia December, 2121 Wil Kent paced up and down his small eight by ten foot jail cell. How long had he been there? The days and weeks seemed to have melded into one. And Claire? Where was she? The forty-seven year old father sank down on the cot and put his face in his hands. He tried to think--to put everything together; but it was like reaching out through a fog of pea soup. The sound of keys jangling brought him out of his frustration. "Here's your supper," the burly man, dressed in some kind of animal skin, told the prisoner and shoved a tin plate with three mounds--one gray, one green and one brown- - through the bars. Other than color, each pile was indistinguishable. "Ain't you gonna eat?" the guard asked him. "You gotta keep your strength up. We don't want to burn no cadaver at the stake." Wil looked at the food. "I'm not hungry." "Maybe you just don't like the accommodations," the grotesque man said laughing, his keys jangling loudly as he retreated. "Accommodations," Wil said aloud. "That's what the other guard said." * * * Utopia, April, 2121 The curtain rose on the Smallville Player's latest presentation. The one hundred and forty-three year-old community theatre group now boasted well over two thousand members. The legacy begun by Martha Kent was well entrenched and continued to blossom year after year. The utopian society, now in existence, was one in which literature, philosophy, art, music, dance, and drama flourished. Schools for the performing and visual arts were in every community. Factories, banks, department stores, stock exchanges, mini-malls, and medical facilities had all been replaced with museums, concert halls, art galleries, libraries, botanical gardens, halls of learning and most especially, theatres. All basic needs were dispersed through on-line national dissemination centers and health care was monitored through copper ankle bracelets. The citizens, no longer tethered to a work ethic, spent their time studying, recording the history of the world's cultures, enhancing environmental projects, and participating in the myriad aspects of the arts. The lights on the Martha Kent Theatre came up, but only dimly in order to give the appearance of a diffused meager light illuminating a large, cold, dank, rock-lined dungeon of a room. The door at the head of the stairway opened and a harsh light streamed down like a knife cutting into the vault- like dungeon. The metal stairs were lowered slowly and deliberately, creating a chilling sound of chain grating on chain. A small somber procession descended into the bowels of the prison. First was a uniformed Captain of the Inquisition, then two soldiers assisting a chubby manservant with a sizable but shabby straw trunk; then an impressive, yet gentle-looking man in his late 40s, carrying a wrapped oblong package under one arm. The manservant looked fearfully at the two soldiers who retreated back up the stairs and then at the Captain who remained. The mild-mannered man peered about, uncertainly. Captain: (Watching the new prisoner, sardonically) Anything wrong? The accommodations? Man/Wil: No, no, they appear quite interesting. Captain: The cells are below. This is the common room, for those who wait. Man/Wil: How long do they wait? Captain: Some an hour...some a lifetime... Man/Wil: Do they all await the Inquisition? Captain: Ah, no, these are merely thieves and murderers. (Starting to leave, then turning back) If you need anything, just shout. (Then, as an afterthought, he adds) If you're able. (He exits) Manservant: (Apprehensively) What did he mean by that? Man/Wil: Calm yourself. There is a remedy for everything but death. Manservant: That could be the very one we need! A large number of the prisoners in the common room began moving, circling, and approaching the new prisoners like animals who scent pray. Man/Wil: (With great courtliness). Good morning, gentlemen...ladies. I regret being thrust upon you in this manner, and hope you will not find my company objectionable. In any case, I shall not be among you very long. The Inquisition-- With a yell, the prisoners attacked. The new captive among them and his manservant were seized, tripped up and pinned to the floor. The older prisoners began busily rifling the pockets of the interlopers as The Governor, a big man of obvious authority, awakened from sleep. The Governor: (In a roar) Enough! Noise, trouble, fights...kill each other if you must but for God's sake, do it quietly! (To the new man) Who are you? Eh? Speak up! Man/Wil: (Gasping as his throat is freed) Cervantes. Don Miguel de Cervantes. The Governor: (With mock respect) A gentleman! Cervantes/Wil: (Painfully getting to his feet) It has never saved me from going to bed hungry. The Governor: (Indicating the manservant) And that? Cervantes/Wil: My servant. May I have the honor--? The Governor: They call me The Governor. What's your game? Cervantes/Wil: My game...? The Governor: (Impatiently) Your specialty, man. Cutpurse? Highwayman? Cervantes/Wil: Oh, nothing so interesting! I am a poet. A poet of the theatre--a playwright and an actor. The Duke: (A prisoner of draggle-tail elegance smirks.) They're putting men in prison for that? * * * Dystopia, December, 2121 Wil looked around his cell. "Precisely for that!" he shouted and walked toward the cell door. He placed his hands on the bars and shook them fiercely. His ancestor would have been able to bend the steel in his bare hands. But each succeeding generation of the Kent family possessed less superpowers resulting in this Kent's much limited abilities. His daughter, Claire, would joke that she believed he still possessed a modicum of visual and auditory powers, because he seemed to always know when she was just about to get herself into trouble and chastise her. "Claire," her father whispered. * * * Smallville, Kansas Monday, March 14, 1994 "Clark," Lois called out as she walked through the front door. She placed the wedding gift, along with a copy of a script she had picked up from Martha, down on the coffee table amidst a pile of presents, yet to be put away. Clark came out of the kitchen carrying a salad. He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. "I started dinner. How was the faculty meeting? Sorry, had to..." he explained, making a flying gesture with his hand after placing the salad bowl on the dining room table. "It was fine. Perry just barking about having to cut back some expenses," she informed him as she moved into his arms. Clark leaned down and captured her lips in his once again. Lois returned his kiss passionately, and then she pulled away. "Anything dangerous?" she asked, looking deeply into his eyes. "A warehouse fire in Topeka." "And earlier?" she asked, tilting her head as she stared at him, sensing something. "Ah, you saw that?" "Can't miss the red and blue," Lois replied with a grin. "An airplane almost crashed," Clark explained, some hesitancy in his voice. "You okay?" she asked, worried about him. She knew that he always berated himself when he couldn't be everywhere at once--couldn't solve all of the world's problems. She reached up and stroked the side of his face. The advent of Superman had finally given him a grasp on who he was and how he could make a difference--but not even Superman could do it all. "Yeah, fine," he paused, kissing her fingers as they moved across his lips. "What's wrong?" she asked, knowing that there was something he was holding back. "Something strange happened today. A new transfer student joined my Government class," he said and walked away to try to formulate his next words. "Yes, Claire Kennedy," Lois said, puzzled. "She's in my American Lit. Class." "Did you notice anything weird about her?" "Other than she joked about being from the future, no." "Didn't you notice the resemblance?" Clark asked, turning back toward his wife. "Resemblance?" "It wasn't her face, exactly. I mean she didn't really look like you. But there was something in the eyes, in her determination, in her manner. I don't know...." He stopped suddenly, finally realizing what his wife had told him. "She said she was from the future?" "But that's impossible," Lois told him. * * * "Nothing's impossible, my dear," H.G. Wells told the girl sitting across from him. "We'll ultimately be successful. Utopia depends on us correcting these aberrations." Claire bit her lower lip. "I know that my father is not a Superman like the Clark Kent here. But he is a super person. He has done a lot for so many people. He was a great teacher, someone committed to the values of truth and justice, and an incredible performer. He brought joy to...to...." she said, her voice cracking. "We'll save him," the writer told her gently. "*And* the world you two are so much a part of." Wells moved his bowler hat to one side and spread out the papers that he had been working on. "What's all that?" Claire asked, coming around behind him to get a better look. "This is a genogram and this is a time line," he explained. "The genogram delineates your family tree. As you can observe, this box shows our present Lois and Clark. Successive boxes show their son Christopher born in December of 1994; his son, Jordan Kent born in 2022; his son, Lane born in 2047; your father, Wilson Kent born in 2074 and finally you, young lady, born in 2105. He moved over a sheet to show her the time line he had compiled, and Wells pointed to a darkened circle on the graph. "That represents 2121, when I first met you and your father," he explained. His finger followed a line backwards and stopped at another circle. "This is now--March 14, 1994." Claire watched as Wells moved his finger forward along a different, yet parallel line to the first. "This circle represents April 27, 1994, the day I first arrived in Smallville and met Martha Kent. I came to seek out Tempus before he had had an opportunity to alter the future. But I was too late, something had already happened, and when I returned to the future, everything had changed." Claire closed her eyes, trying desperately to remember her life as it was before the mutation. Most people living in Dystopia, as the members of ENCORE called it, were slowly forgetting the utopian society that was. She couldn't, wouldn't allow that to happen to her. Theatre, theatre--her passion--if she could just hold on to the lights, the costumes, the music, the scenery, the words--especially the words. * * * Utopia, April, 2121 The lights at the Martha Kent Theatre changed slowly to signify that the actors were exiting the reality of the cold gray dungeon and entering a world of beauty and rose- colored light as seen only through the imagination and eyes of a madman. Cervantes/Wil: You have accused me of being an idealist, a bad poet and an honest man. It is true I am guilty of these charges. An idealist? Well, I have never had the courage to believe in nothing. A bad poet? This comes more painfully...still... The Governor: (Skeptically) Have you finished your defense? Cervantes/Wil: Ah, no, scarce begun! If you've no objection, I should like to continue in the manner I know best...in the form of a charade-- The Duke: Charade? Cervantes/Wil: An entertainment, if you will-- The Governor: (Intrigued) Entertainment! Cervantes/Wil: Then...with your kind permission...may I set the stage? The Governor waved assent. The prisoners shifted position to become an audience; as Cervantes gestured to his manservant, who scurried like a well-trained stage-manger to assist. Music started softly under the actions of Cervantes, seated center, who began a makeup transformation as he spoke. Cervantes/Wil: I shall impersonate a man...enter into my imagination and see him! His name is Alonso Quijana...a country squire, no longer young. Eyes that burn with the fire of inner vision. Being retired, he has much time for books. He studies them from morn to night, and often through the night as well. And all he reads oppresses him...fills him with indignation at man's murderous ways toward man. He broods...and broods...and broods--and finally from so much brooding his brains dry up! He lays down the melancholy burden of sanity and conceives the strangest project ever imagined....to become a knight- errant and sally forth into the world to right all wrongs. No longer shall he be plain Alonso Quijana...but a dauntless knight known as- -Don Quixote de La Mancha!!!! * * * Smallville, Kansas Monday, March 14, 1994 "Sure, I have a copy of that," Martha told the young voice at the other end of the line. "Come on over, Anne. I'll pull it off the shelf." Martha walked over to the appropriate bookshelf as Jinx followed her and rubbed against her legs. She removed `Don Quixote' and carried it to the counter. Just as she set the book down, the bell over the door jingled and two people entered. One was a young girl of about sixteen, the other an older gentleman wearing clothes dated around the end of the 19th century. Being in theatre, Martha knew costumes and she was sure these were authentic. "Can I help you?" she asked, quizzically. "We're here to help *you*," the man in the bowler explained, stroking Jinx who had come up to him. "We meet again, Jinx," he acknowledged. "Uncle Herbie! Get to the point." "Hrumph," the man began, clearing his throat. "My name is H.G. Wells and this is Claire Kent, your great, great, great, great granddaughter." "And we're going to help you enact a charade--that is, help you put on your next play," Claire explained. * * * Lois picked up the script from the coffee table and began to thumb through it as she sat down on the couch. "You're not going to audition for the next play, are you?" Clark asked incredulously, sitting down next to her. "I thought we were going to take a break and just get to be an old married couple, sitting home nights getting to know each other," he continued, cupping the side of her cheek and looking into her eyes. "As if you'll be able to sit home most nights anyway," Lois said, smiling. "Oh, speaking of plays, my American Lit. Class gave me a wedding gift. `The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail: A Play', by Lawrence and Lee." "Well, since most of them are in my Government Class, that explains this," he said and picked up a book off of the end table. "It's Lawrence and Lee's `Inherit the Wind'-- the play adaptation of the Scopes Monkey Trial, which we discussed in class three weeks ago--*my* present." "I guess the students have really gotten to know us and our passion for theatre." "Well, right now my passion is headed in a different direction," he told her as he leaned in to kiss her. "Ready for dessert even before dinner, huh?" Lois asked smugly. "Mmmmm," Clark replied and began nuzzling her ear. "Don't you think I look like her?" "I said I thought Claire Kennedy looks like you." "No, Audrey Hepburn." "I'm not following you," Clark said, his mind elsewhere as he continued his trail of kisses across the back of her neck. "And you're not even in babble mode," he managed to get out before resuming his journey. "Uh...uh...in the play," she explained as she turned abruptly in an attempt to concentrate on what she was trying to tell him, and held out the script. "Your mom's doing `Wait Until Dark'. I love that play and always thought I sort of looked like Audrey Hepburn. Although Audrey played the part in the movie and not on the stage." "Well, Audrey," Clark said, lifting her up into his arms and moving toward the bedroom. "I don't plan on waiting till dark." * * * Dystopia December, 2121 Wil lay down on his cot and closed his eyes. The darkness enveloped him but sleep wouldn't come. "Wil," a soft voice sang out. "Karen," Wil Kent responded. "Are you...?" He jolted awake. It had been a long time since he had dreamed of his wife. It seemed like it had been a long time since he dreamed about anything. * * * Utopia April, 2121 Karen Kent, dressed in a wench's costume and laden with things for the table she was waiting upon, walked toward center stage. She stopped, seeing a stranger gazing at her, stricken. Don Quixote/Wil: Dear God...it is she! Sweet lady...fair virgin...I dare not gaze full upon thy countenance lest I be blinded by beauty. But I implore thee--speak once thy name. Aldonza/Karen Kent: (Growling) Aldonza. Don Quixote/Wil: My lady jests. Aldonza/Karen Kent: Aldonza! Don Quixote/Wil (Approaching her.) The name of a kitchen- scullion...or mayhap my lady's serving-maid? Aldonza/Karen Kent: I told you my name! Now get out of the way, or I'll-- Don Quixote/Wil: (Smiling) Did my lady think to put me to a test? Ah, sweet sovereign of my captive heart, I shall not fail thee, for I know. (Singing) I have dreamed thee too long. Never seen thee or touched thee, But known thee with all of my heart. Half a prayer, half a song. Thou hast always been with me, Though we have been always apart. Dulcinea...Dulcinea... I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea, And thy name is like a prayer an angel whispers... Dulcinea...Dulcinea? If I reach out to thee, Do not tremble and shrink From the touch of my hand on thy hair. Let my fingers but see Thou art warm and alive, And no phantom to fade in the air. Dulcinea...Dulcinea.... I have sought thee, sung thee, Dreamed thee, Dulcinea? Now I've found thee, And the world shall know thy glory. Dulcinea...Dulcinea! * * * Dystopia December, 2121 In the darkness of the cell, Wil reached out. "Dulcinea," he whispered. ########## "Don't stop, Mommy!" the little boy implored. "We've got to get ready," his mother explained to him. "It's getting late." "Not yet--more please. And don't forget to skip the mushy parts." His mother sighed and then smiled as she saw her son's bright shining eyes eagerly anticipating her next words. she thought. In another wink of an eye, he would be as romantic as...as...and then would look forward to those mushy parts. She looked at the clock on the wall and then hurriedly turned the page. ########## Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, March 16, 1994 Claire Kennedy walked down the street carrying a packet of posters that Martha Kent had given her to distribute. She marveled at the cars as they drove by--cars she had only seen in museums. They were...but then she saw her quarry about a block away. She altered the pace of her steps so that the timing would be right, and began taping a poster to the window of the Midtown Clothing Store on Main Street. As Claire turned to go, she purposefully bumped into Dr. Post who was about to enter the shop. "Defacing private property, young woman?" the doctor asked her. "No, sir," Claire responded, barring his way into the store. "You're in my way," he argued, as Claire and the other future traveler zigzagged back and forth as if in a choreographed dance. "Sorry, Dr. Post," Claire apologized. He stared at her as if trying to remember something. "I'm new in town. How did you know who I am." "Duh, small town," Claire responded. Tempus paused. The girl standing in front of him, wearing torn jeans, a Smallville High School tee-shirt, her hair thrust back in a pony tail through a baseball cap was the epitome of 1990s teenagers, yet was familiar in several ways. "And you're...?" "Claire Kennedy. I'm new, too." "Ah! The theatre!" Dr. Post exclaimed as he examined the poster. "The house of Ibsen, Moliere, and Shakespeare." "Well, not so lofty, Dr. Post. The Smallville Players are doing one by Frederick Knott," Claire informed him. "Who?" "Oh! He wrote `Dial M for Murder' and this one, `Wait Until Dark'." "Well, as Oscar Wilde said: `I love acting. It is so much more real than life'." "Then you should come to auditions on Sunday," Claire encouraged. "Uh, since you apparently know a lot about *good* theatre, you can help the group. I mean, after all, this is *only* Smallville, Kansas. How much can they know? I'm from Metropolis and have had some acting experience." "Well, I've dabbled in thespian activities," he told her. "I'm sure you were absolutely wonderful," Claire proffered. "This amateur group most assuredly needs our talent. And, since we're new in town, this will be a way to meet people. Mrs. Kent is..." "Yes, yes," he began, and then realized he wasn't supposed to be privy to Smallville history. "I mean, who?" "Martha Kent. She's the director, and her son and daughter- in-law are very active in the group," "The Kents, yes, I've heard tell of them." * * * Lois snuggled up to her husband as they lay in bed after making love, and Clark kissed the top of her head. "Dessert before dinner is great," she said smiling. "I wouldn't mind dessert several times a day. Especially the kind that can't make you fat." "Well, I'm here to please," Clark said and leaned down to kiss her again. "Hey!" Clark exclaimed, looking beyond her and over at the table next to the bed. "You brought the script up here. Are you still thinking of trying out?" "Come on, Clark. You know I have to. Can you see Cat playing an Audrey Hepburn part?" "Well, no," Clark admitted. "She's more the Sharon Stone, `Basic Instinct' type. Remember the scene where..." "Ow!" Lois said, after poking Clark in the side. "No fair! This only hurts me," she said, attempting to look angry by pouting. Clark took her hand and kissed it. "Better?" "Mmmm, much," she said, as Clark tilted her face up and kissed her. "So, Audrey, this would be a really big part for you to tackle, the biggest you've had with our group." "But *you* don't have to be in it at all," Lois told him. "Dan can play my husband. He's always wanted to," she smiled, teasingly. "Ah ha!" Clark said. "I knew you've wanted to play a love scene with Scardino." "Well, the way his lips sort of crinkle when he..." "Lois, I know this is only a play, but I guess I'm just too possessive, especially now," he explained, his mouth planting little kisses on her neck. "That's okay, Clark," Lois said, inching away from him. "I know you've decided to take a break from the Players. Dan can..." "No! No one will play your husband but me," Clark insisted, sitting up and glaring at her. "Gotcha!" Lois exclaimed. "I knew dangling Dan in front of you would change your mind. Besides, the husband's part is really small. He's just in the beginning and a few words at the very end. In the last play, *you* had the big part and I bounced in and out. Now the roles would be reversed. That is, if your mom casts it that way." "Mom's not stupid, Lois. You're the best actor in our group." "You're not so bad yourself," Lois replied. "You want to go over the scene?" "Any kisses?" he asked, his eyes focused on her lips. "Yep." "Then sure!" he replied, leaning in and kissing her quickly. "Not now," Lois chastised him, as she picked up the script. "But soon," she explained, smiling. "Let's see, you're Sam and I'm Suzy. Sam is a photographer. The lights are off on stage because Sam is using the area as his darkroom." "Oooh," Clark said. "Romantic," he added, and started nibbling her ear. "Clark!" "Hmmm? Okay, sorry." "Although, Suzy is blind and should be able to get around the room easily," Lois continued. "Her accident was fairly recent, and she is still getting acclimated to her disability." "How does Sam treat her?" Clark asked, playing with a lock of Lois' hair. "That's the whole point of the play," Lois said, trying to concentrate. "And I'm sure Martha will see it that way, too. Sam does not pamper her or coddle her," she explained, moving Clark's hand away. "In fact, he goes out of his way to push her and at times even appear to be cold to her, because he wants her to get tough and be able to handle anything that comes her way." "I see," Clark said, understanding. "Shall we try it? And oh, when does the kiss come in?" "Soon enough," Lois said sharply. "Now behave!" "Okay." Suzy/Lois: Hear about the murder? "Murder? Not again," Clark said, interrupting. "Mom seems to be obsessed about plays with murders in them. This will be three in a row!" "Well, the first was a mystery, the second a comedy and this is a thriller." "You're reaching for an excuse," Clark told her, extending his arm around her to hold her closer as a demonstration. "Come on, I'll give you the cue again." Suzy/Lois: Hear about the murder? Sam/Clark: Just two seconds... The stage directions told Sam's character to pause, in order to wait for the light in Sam's enlarger to go on for exactly two seconds. Clark waited. Sam/Clark: ...what murder? Suzy/Lois: They found a body this morning--somewhere near here. Sam/Clark: Who told you? Suzy/Lois: On the radio. I only heard the end of it. A woman from Scarsdale--or somewhere. Sam/Clark: You making this up? Suzy/Lois: Why should I? Clark read the stage directions which told him to switch on the amber light. Clark leaned over and touched Lois on the nose, playfully. "Click," he said. "Be serious, Clark." Clark made a face, but continued. Sam/Clark: Having a possible murder nearby is a ploy to make me stay home. "Even though I don't need one," Clark inserted, kissing her again. "Are we going to do this or not?" "Do what?" Clark hinted, one of his eyebrows arching. Lois sighed. "The scene." "Yeah, sure." Suzy/Lois: It is not a ploy! Sam/Clark: You'd rather I didn't go? Suzy/Clark: Truthfully? Sam/Clark: Of course. Suzy/Lois: Well no. I mean yes. I always want you to stay home. But not because somebody's been murdered....because of me. Need the ceiling lights? Sam/Clark: Yes, please; it's a bit gloomy. Lois paused a moment as the script directed so that she should move carefully toward the wall, feel around and switch on the ceiling lights but then accidentally switch off Sam's lamp. Sam/Clark: That one I need. Suzy/Lois: Sorry. (She switches on the bench lamp). Sam/Clark: Now--quick check. Phone number for Police Emergency? Suzy/Lois: Oh--just dial zero and say you're blind. Sam/Clark: Operators get busy and don't answer. Suzy/Lois: Oh! *That* urgent! So the murder *does* worry you. Sam/Clark: This one you *must* know. Four four zero...one two three four. Suzy/Lois: Wait till I get the sugar lumps. Lois paused again while she counted in her head the time it would take to get over to the kitchen table and take some lumps of sugar out of the bowl and pick up a small sharp stick to use to mark the cubes. Suzy/Lois: Okay. Four four owe...one two three four. It's these easy ones that fool me...so it's *four*--*not* four owe, four *not* owe four, but *four four one two three four*? "Hold it," said Clark. "I gather this play takes place before the use of 911 for emergencies. It's a cute bit, but won't the audience find it difficult to believe?" "Well, the program will say that the play takes place in 1964." "I guess," Clark said. "Today there must be much improved ways that a visually impaired person handles things--what with computers, cell phones, etc., which are monitored to recall things with just a push of one button." "I'm sure it's better now. Rod Purcell seems to handle things easily." "Well," Clark said. "You've just met him. He had some struggles at first, but his dad and his school friends are really supportive. And, apparently unlike your Suzy, he is acclimated to his disability." "It looks that way in class," Lois acknowledged. "The students appear to respect him." "He's incredibly bright and doesn't use his handicap as a crutch of any kind." "Hmmm, if I get this part, Clark," Lois began, as she put her head on her husband's chest. "Do you think Rod would agree to coach me?" "I bet he would." "Okay, where were we?" Lois inquired, looking back at the script. "How about skipping to the kissing part?" Clark asked her, planting a brief kiss on her lips. He drew back and looked at her. "Yes, I know, the scene," he said reluctantly. Sam/Clark: Then ask for the Sixth Precinct. Suzy/Lois: Sixth Precinct. Four plus two, okay. (Rapidly) Doctor's office 924-6381. Want the Chinese laundry? Sam/Clark: Now--my bus leaves at five and they return from...where? Suzy/Lois: Asbury Park. Sam/Clark: At...? Suzy/Lois: Er...every hour on the hour. Sam/Clark: I'll phone you as soon as I get there and again when I'm leaving. Oh--and if that doll woman phones, just say I still haven't found it. Suzy/Lois: Maybe... "Wait! Doll?" Clark asked. "Yeah, that's sort of the A-plot--three men are looking for this doll they think Sam has. He had it once--he was holding it for someone--but now it's missing. He doesn't know that there is heroin inside the doll. The B-plot is Suzy's ability to outwit all the bad guys even though she is blind and *just* a woman--remember, it's the early 60s." "I see. Okay, go on." Suzy/Lois: Maybe Gloria's seen the doll. Sam/Clark: No, she hasn't. I asked her mother. But let Gloria look around for it while she is down here. It must be somewhere. Suzy/Lois: *That* girl isn't coming here today. Sam/Clark: *Just* to do your shopping--grocery list and five dollars by the phone. Suzy/Lois: *Not Gloria!* * * * Claire placed a poster in the window of the hardware store and paused as she caught her own reflection. She took off her hat, adjusted her pony-tail and regarded herself. Yep, she could do it. She could look twelve. She could be Gloria. It's a good thing that her height hadn't really kicked in yet. She was fifteen, sixteen next month, but she was just about 5'1". She knew she would spurt soon. Her father was over 6' and her mother was 5'8". Actually, it was a blessing in disguise that she was still small, as she could play younger girls on stage. She was thirteen when she played eleven-year-old Annie and fourteen when she played eleven year old Mary. Now she had to flip flop between playing a seventeen-year- old senior in high school and a twelve-year-old brat. Yes, she could be Gloria, the little monster who had a crush on Sam. * * * Lois paused and looked at her husband. "Sam is going to be a difficult role for you, Clark. You can't jump in and try to help Suzy at all. You can't be her protector. You have to be able to stand there and watch her struggle," Lois instructed. "The struggle, the challenge, the barriers she has to overcome is what creates the character that is able to win in the end." "I can do that," Clark insisted. "Sure you can," Lois said, unbelievingly. "You can be callous," she said in a mocking tone. "You can refuse to help your wife when she's in need." "I could act that way." "Yeah, right, Clark. You can't even ignore..." she began and then stopped as she saw that faraway look in his eye. "Uh huh.... Go!" Clark spun into his spandex and flew out the window. Lois scrunched down under the covers and read the next few lines in the script. She looked over at the indentation on the pillow next to her and moved over so she had her head where Clark had just rested his. She breathed in his scent and stroked the pillow. How in the world had she ever slept alone before? It was only a couple of minutes and she missed her husband already--his warmth, his hands, his lips. A whoosh interrupted her thoughts as Clark, once again wearing only his sleep shorts, climbed into bed beside her. Lois snuggled into him. "Missed you," she said. "A robbery of a gas station over on the interstate." Lois smiled at him. The character of Sam would be a stretch for him. She understood the concept of tough love, but knew her husband was incapable of it. Clark had tried it during their engagement. He had broken up with her for her own good, but that hadn't lasted long. They had both been miserable and had realized that no matter what, they belonged together--supporting, nurturing, caring. "I love you, husband," Lois said. "And I love you, wife," Clark told her, gathering her closer to him. "Now, let's get back to the script." "Lo-is?" "Trust me, Clark. It will be fun." "So what's next?" "According to the directions Sam watches as an angry Suzy knocks a salt shaker off the table. Suzy is then supposed to stop and wait for Sam to pick it up--but he doesn't." Suzy/Lois: Okay, then, where is it? Sam/Clark: Not listening? Suzy/Lois: Not listening! Sam/Clark: Near the table. Lois looked at the next directions and smiled. She complied by feeling circuitously for the dropped item. "Hey!" Clark exclaimed, as Lois' hand moved seductively under the comforter. "Now who's messing around?" "My turn to have a little diversion." "We don't have to finish the scene," Clark told her, his voice husky. "We can..." he encouraged and stroked her lips with his thumb. He moved his hand to finger a lock of hair as he leaned down and captured her upper lip in his mouth. His tongue darted into her mouth, seeking her out. * * * "Pass the salt," Dr. Post told his colleague, as the two voyeurs sat in front of a closed circuit television set, watching the love scene unfold between Sam and Suzy AKA Lois and Clark. "Popcorn is so perfect with such a hackneyed and cornball love scene," he told Liz. "Now of course, if I were the hero, I'd be enjoying a Merlot in front of a large rock fireplace toasting a lascivious woman, bawdily dressed in flimsy silk barely covering the erotic locales, her arms outstretched and chained to the rock wall, her.... Oh, but I digress. I'm the villain in this piece," he began, tossing a few kernels up into the air and catching them in his mouth, "and my job is to wear the black hat and to make Romeo and Juliet suffer." "You..." Liz Lathrop began. "Yes, I know," he told her. "I'm mixing my metaphors. Well, in a place like Smallville where the opportunities are so minute, that can't be helped," he said, watching the two embracing on the screen. "We should be making our own opportunities," Liz suggested, half to herself. "Well, perhaps this is where the villain accelerates things." ########## "I don't like that Tempus," the five-year-old said. "I don't either, son," his father told him as he came into the room. "How far are you?" he asked his wife. "About one-third of the way through. We could finish it tomorrow," she suggested, turning to look at her son. "No, Mommy. No, Daddy." "Maybe *you* should accelerate things," her husband hinted, kissing her on top of her head. "I'll see what I can do," she murmured, smiling up at him. ########## Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, March 16, 1994 "Mmmmm," Lois murmured, responding to Clark's kisses. "Later...let's finish the scene," Lois smiled. "You're a tease," Clark told her, nibbling her ear as an attempt to get her refocused on his goals. "Sometimes. But the scene's kiss is coming up soon." "Okay, let's get down to it," Clark agreed grudgingly, as he ran his fingers down her arm slowly. "Clark...! The scene?" Clark sighed, knowing that once Lois had made up her mind, he would have to comply and delay his agenda. Sam/Clark: What's wrong with Gloria? Suzy/Lois: Everything. She can't even close the icebox. (Still feeling around for the salt shaker) Am I anywhere near it? "Now you really don't want me to answer that, do you, Lois?" "Shush. Now go on!" Sam/Clark: Yes, try twenty degrees left. "There?" Lois taunted, unable to resist. "Lo-is? I thought you wanted to finish the scene?" "Uh huh." "You're not making this easy," Clark told her. "Since when have I been easy," Lois responded, moving her hand to stroke the side of his face. "Haven't you always insisted that I'm high maintenance?" "But well worth it," Clark said, kissing her again. "Come on, let's keep going," Lois said. "The next part is all about the icebox. That should cool you down." "I hate exposition in plays, it takes so long to get to the really good parts," he said, smiling. "But, okay. On with the play." Sam/Clark: If Gloria doesn't close the icebox--just say-- `close the icebox'. Suzy/Lois: And if she still doesn't? Sam/Clark: Then just say `that's the girl--thanks'. Suzy/Lois: What do you mean--that's the girl--thanks? It's still open. Sam/Clark: A little trick I learned in the Marines, sweetheart--always assume that an order's been carried out. Then if she hasn't closed it already, she'll be so embarrassed.... Suzy/Lois: Gloria isn't a Marine--she doesn't embarrass that easily....I'd much rather have a dog. Sam/Clark: Dogs can't shop at the supermarket. Suzy/Lois: Dogs can't rearrange the furniture. That's Gloria's latest hobby. Whenever we're out, she borrows her mother's key and sneaks in here and turns everything around. I nearly broke both my legs last night. "Oh, forgot to tell you, Clark. The first scene has the three men searching the apartment for the doll with the heroin in it, and some of the furniture is moved, including a garbage pail which Suzy is now looking for." Suzy/Lois: Now where has she hidden the garbage pail? I've been hunting for it all morning. Sam/Clark: (Finding it on top of the washing machine) Here...now you put it back where it belongs. Suzy/Lois: Where was it? Sam/Clark: On top of the washer. Where you must have put it. Suzy/Lois: It was Gloria! Sam/Clark: Oh come on now--take it easy on the kid. Her father's just left them again. And her mother's out looking for him. She's been battered back and forth like a sawed- off little shuttlecock. So be nice to her. Suzy/Lois: I don't know if I dare. Sam/Clark: Oh, speaking of the icebox, it needs defrosting. Suzy/Lois: Defrost the icebox! Do I have to have a project every time you're away? Sam/Clark: And if it stops raining--try walking over to my studio and back. And no cheating. Suzy/Lois: Did I cheat last night? Sam/Clark: How about that old lady who helped you across Sixth Avenue? Suzy/Lois: You were watching?! * * * "So were we," Dr. Post echoed, as the hidden camera continued to record and dispatch the images to the two spectators. "There's not much to watch," Liz told him. "I'm leaving," she said, getting up. "Yeah, the lyrics ain't much," Tempus interjected. "But it has a good beat. You can dance to it. I give it a 76." Liz opened the door and walked out of the office. Well, he was going to have to get rid of that one as soon as his use for her was nil. He returned his attention to the screen. Well, nil was the word for that as well. Nada, zilch, nonexistent, zip, goose egg, zero, cipher, naught, blank, nothing. If he was ever going to set his plan in motion, the newlyweds would have to do their part. He picked up the remote, turned off the set and threw the instrument at the screen. Dr. Post opened the bottom drawer of the desk and took out a small metallic object almost identical to the remote now lying discarded on the floor and pushed the button. Since watching this 20th century kettle boil wasn't helping, perhaps lighting the fire under the cauldron of a far distant time would be more self-serving and much more entertaining. * * * Utopia April, 2121 In the blackness of the stage right wings, the depraved man watched his hated adversary call out. "Dulcinea," came Wil Kent's painful cry. "There will be no Dulcinea," the evil actor said to his eighteen-year-old understudy who was standing next to him, poised to remove the cauldron from the stage. "What?" Scott asked the older man. Tempus adjusted his academic robe. "Just watch the pro in action and learn," Tempus told him, and as Dr. Carrasco, he entered from stage right. Scott stared at Tempus as the actor moved on to begin his scene. Once the lights shifted toward stage left and darkness covered the stage right area, Scott dressed in his blacks, moved onto the stage and removed the cauldron and then returned to strike two crates. He placed the props in a small alcove so they could be ready to be used again, keeping one crate for his own use. He sat on the crate to watch the rest of the scene. Something about Tempus bothered him. He knew it was not simply because he had wanted that part of the corrupt Dr. Carrasco the day that Tempus first showed up at their auditions. He just didn't like him and he knew from the moment he met him that he would never like him. Tempus had been difficult to work with from the onset of rehearsals, but the director had loved the evilness the man could portray. Claire wandered into the wings. She, as was Scott, had been cast in the role of an understudy--understudy to Antonia, Quixote's niece. Her other job was as costume assistant. No costume changes were required at this point, but Claire spent a great deal of time in the wings watching her father enact the role of his career. Scott gazed at her. She was lovely. She was only fifteen, but her maturity defied chronological labels. Scott looked back at the stage. It would be wonderful if the two understudies could be called upon to act together. Both he and Claire had been part of the theatre group since they were little and had worked together before, but Claire had always played children, while he was usually cast as her rebellious teen age brother, the delivery boy or the obnoxious son of the next door neighbor. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He had gotten one lead part, but Claire had not been in that production. The one opportunity to play Romeo to her Juliet had been denied him when he had broken his leg in a fall from a ladder. Somehow, telling people to break a leg for theatre luck wasn't in his vocabulary any more. He glanced over at her and then pulled his attention back to the stage as he watched `the pro' in action. Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: Senor? Don Quixote/Wil: Who is it crieth help of Don Quixote de La Mancha? Is there a castle beleaguered by giants? A king who lies under enchantment? An army besieged and awaiting rescue? Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: You know me. Don Quixote/Wil: Should a man not know his friend, Dr. Carrasco? Tempus regarded the famed leader of the Smallville Players. Wil Kent was no friend of the actor that stood in front of him. No! Tempus was his tormentor, his antagonist, the enemy that wore the black hat, his soon to be jailer--the master of all that Tempus surveyed. Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: Senor Quijana Don Quixote/Wil: I should prefer that you address me properly. I am Don Quixote, knight-errant of La Mancha. Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: Properly? You? You madman! There are no giants. No kings under enchantment. No chivalry. No knights. There have been no knights for three hundred years. Don Quixote/Wil: So learned, yet so misinformed. Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: These are facts. Don Quixote/Wil: Facts are the enemy of truth. Dr.Carrasco/Tempus: No, I'm your enemy. You have no monsters to do battle with other than me. You need to tilt your lance in my direction, not at windmills. I'm your worst nightmare. Tempus walked over to Wil Kent and pushed him down on his knees. From offstage, Scott, who as understudy knew all the lines and blocking, realized that Tempus was padding his part. Those last few lines were not part of the script. Several of the actors had clustered off stage to see what was going on. Tempus looked defiantly at Wil Kent, challenging him to respond. Wil Kent stared into the eyes of evil incarnate. During auditions, the director had selected Tempus because of his ability to radiate evilness. Now, Wil realized that perhaps this was not an act--the man appeared to *be* pure evil. Why hadn't he noticed it during rehearsals. Wil knew why-- it was his own need for perfection--to have the best person in each role. Wil raised his head. As an actor portraying Quixote, he couldn't let Carrasco gain control--at least not yet. That came later in the play. He pulled himself up from where Tempus had left him and invented the next line to get them back on script. Don Quixote/Wil: I do battle for my lady. And for her, I would fight dragons. Tempus grinned and returned to the script. Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: So there's a woman! Don Quixote/Wil: A lady! (Softening). The lady Dulcinea. Her beauty is more than human. Her quality? Perfection. She is the very meaning of woman...and all meaning woman has to man. Tempus paused and decided to fling one more arrow as he once again departed from the script. Dr. Carrasco/Tempus: There is no Dulcinea. There is no world of your making, no world that epitomizes justice--no world seen through the rose colored haze of goodness. After tonight it will no longer exist--she will no longer exist. Tempus turned and strode malevolently from the stage and through the group of actors watching him, and back to the 20th century. * * * Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, March 16, 1994 Still in bed with the script in front of them, Clark moved Lois closer to him. Suzy/Lois: You were watching?! Sam/Clark: Only while you crossed Sixth. How about it, huh? Just once to the studio and back? All by yourself. Suzy/Lois: Do I have to be the world's champion blind woman? Sam/Clark: *Yes!!* Suzy/Lois: How about just a little old bronze medal now and then? I'm an awfully good loser. Clark chuckled. "That's going to be a stretch." Lois was about to poke Clark again, but thought better of it. Sam/Clark: Much sooner have a winner. Clark held out his arm just above Lois. Sam/Clark: I'm holding out for you, sweetheart. Lois closed her eyes to get the feeling of blindness, and felt around for his hand; but, as directed, he kept moving it around just out of her reach so that she couldn't find it. Finally, she grabbed it and laughed. Suzy/Lois: Hey! You cheat! I've been there once already. Clark smiled as he read the next stage directions. He captured her lips and kissed her. The script's instructions had indicated a brief kiss, but Clark had no intentions of complying. With no director in sight, Clark ad-libbed the rest of the scene. * * * That evening, Claire walked into the school library with just one remaining poster in her hand. She tacked it onto the bulletin board and went to the back of the library to meet the other members of her Don Quixote team--Keith Haley, Anne Holland and Rod Purcell. "I guess the first thing we have to do is decide who's going to do what," Anne stated, getting down to business quickly, as Claire sat down. Anne, never a procrastinator, had called the meeting, even though the project was not due for another six weeks. "Claire's new," Keith said to the others. "Why don't we let her choose first, so she gets something she feels the most comfortable with." "Sounds good to me," Rod said. Anne nodded in agreement. Claire looked at her three partners. She already knew that Keith was an actor, which made him tops in her book. Martha Kent had told her that he was not going to be at auditions on Sunday for two reasons. First of all, there was no part in this play that was right for him. Secondly he had already received the lead in the Senior play which held auditions last week. The Seniors were doing `Godspell' and Keith would be playing Jesus. Claire smiled to herself. She had seen `Godspell' when it was produced the previous season by the 22nd century's Smallville Players and remembered that in the many revivals, including theirs, Jesus wore a Superman tee- shirt, something very much a part of the pop culture of her era. *He* had played Jesus in that tee-shirt, Claire remembered as she stared at Rod Purcell--so much like her dreams of Scott. That tee-shirt stood for something and seeing Scott in it last year, she knew she was in love. She was only fifteen, her father had told her and she had so much time yet to think about things like that. But now time seemed to have lost its continuity, its grace, its purpose. Albert Einstein said that the only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once. But now everything was happening at once. Time was folding in on itself--past, present, and future. * * * Dystopia, December, 2121 Another night had gone by without bringing Wil Kent the oblivion of sleep. Characters whirled around in his head-- Dulcinea, Karen, Dr. Carrasco, Tempus, Claire. The reality and the play were becoming confused within him. He looked around his jail cell. Was this reality? Or had he somehow become so immersed in the play that he didn't know which was real? "A Double Life," Wil said aloud. Ronald Colman was Wil's favorite actor. Colman was the personification of the gentleman hero, a type that was perhaps already 'Olde World' when Colman reigned as a star in the 1930s and 40s. His idealism, integrity, and graciousness belonged to a time that has since disappeared altogether, especially now. Wil Kent believed that he had brought back those values in his performances--an ethereal quality that took the audience back to Colman's gentler, simpler world. For such a gentle man, Ronald Colman had a core of strength, an adherence to his own code of honor--incorruptible and immovable. Wil had hoped that he, too, had conveyed that strength--that truth. As a young actor, Wil had spent a great deal of time watching old black and white films in the Motion Picture Museum. Seen them as they were meant to be seen--up there on a large screen--not in the privacy of a person's home altered into laser enhanced, colorized holographic representation. Twenty feet high faces of his heroes. Gregory Peck in `To Kill a Mockingbird', James Stewart in `Mr. Smith Goes to Washington', Henry Fonda in `Twelve Angry Men', and Spencer Tracey in `Inherit the Wind'. Wil had watched Colman in film after film. Thinking of his own incarceration, perhaps he could now relate to `The Prisoner of Zenda', one of Colman's swashbuckling roles. Yes, Colman could swashbuckle with the best of 'em, his comedic timing was priceless, and as a romantic star he was unsurpassed. He was saved from being too staid by a delicious wit, a twinkle in his eye that showed the audience he could laugh at himself and at others if need be. And always he shared that wistfulness--it was in his eyes, in his mannerisms, and especially in that voice. That modulated, liquid voice. His way of speaking, with the hesitations, the pauses between words, somehow conveyed his vulnerability as well as his sophistication. But it was Colman's Oscar winning performance in `A Double Life' that now took up Wil's thoughts. In that film, Colman chillingly portrayed an actor who so immersed himself in the role of Othello that he saw conspiracies where there were none; and in a jealous rage, killed the woman playing Desdemona--the actor's own wife. Is that what happened? Wil arose from the cot and began his nightly pacing. Am I locked in a jail cell or in the recesses of my own mind? Has the insanity of Don Quixote become my insanity? Have I killed my Desdemona--my Dulcinea? No! It can't be. He reached out to touch the confining elements of his prison. These cinder blocks are real. These bars are real and Karen is gone. "She's gone," Wil whispered. He couldn't shut down his mind or his torture. A diversion--he needed a diversion. Her favorite song from `Man of La Mancha'. What was it now? Little bird, little bird, In the cinnamon tree, Little bird, little bird, Do you sing for me? Do you bring me word. Of one I know? Little bird, little bird, I love her so, Little bird, little bird, I have to know, Little bird, little bird. Little bird, little bird, Oh have pity on me, Bring her back to me now `Neath the cinnamon tree, I have waited too long Without a song... Wil stopped the recitative in his brain--how long without a song? A decade, a year, no a mere month ago.... * * * Dystopia, November, 2121 The dozen members of ENCORE, the ENate Coalition Organized to Restore Elysium, sat in a circle on the floor of the sub-basement of the Martha Kent Theatre, where they had taken up residence since the Diaspora--since their world had suddenly and mysteriously mutated into a cold, callous, purgatory devoid of humanity. "We have to restock our supplies," Larry, the oldest of the group and appointed leader, suggested. "Yes, you hunter/gatherers, and we nurturers have our assigned jobs to do," Claire said, glaring at him. "Stop it, Claire," her father told her. "We had to divide up the tasks to keep us alive," Wil argued. "I know," she admitted. "Well, I agree with Claire," Kia, a very vocal woman in her 20s, told the group. "Who said the men had to be the ones taking all the chances. The women are just as much a part of this, and we need to carry our weight." "You do," Wil told her. "Yes, we paint signs, you march. We print leaflets, you protest. We need to be out there with you--out on the firing line," Kia insisted. "You men aren't the only ones who tilt at windmills. We can see the giants as well--the monsters who try to dissuade us from our quest--those who tell us that what we have in our hearts is dead. It's not dead." The members of the group looked at each other and then back to the young woman. "I remember..." Kia continued, "I remember opening night when the lights glowed on our stage, and the audiences responded to the performance with a fervor that stunned even the most sanguine of us. It was a phenomenon we were to grow familiar with at each performance: a sort of electricity crackling randomly among the audience for a time, then polarizing totally toward a massive discharge of emotion. They weren't just watching our play, they were having a religious experience," she said, pausing. "And that was due to all of us--all of us together." "Go, girl," Claire told her. "Yeah, before the change, women were equal to men," twelve- year-old Jessica began as she joined in on the side of Claire and Kia. "Elysium believed in truth and justice-- values handed down by *your* family, Wil. And just because the society around us has become medieval and barbaric, doesn't..." the precocious young girl continued, "...doesn't mean we...our group...has to lose all we previously achieved. We're here to fight this thing, not each other. We're still alive, we few. We still remember what it was like before the change," she said, looking back and forth at the two factions. We have to stay together--to keep our commitment to freedom, beauty, and our way of life." "And a child shall lead them..." Scott said, putting his arm around his younger sister. Jessica leaned into her brother and put her hand out to touch the emblem on his chest--the remnant's of a Superman tee-shirt. Scott glanced down at his little sister and then looked up to see Claire smiling at him from across the group. * * * Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, March 16, 1994 Claire looked around again at this group--a study group. It was far from the band of freedom fighters she had left a few days ago. A few days...was that what it was? Time made no sense now. But time was all she had. Continuing to look at the three young people gathered around the table, Claire assessed them. She was going to need an ally and she had to figure out who she could really trust. Anne Holland was obviously a very organized, intelligent and creative student. She wrote for the school newspaper, and was senior class treasurer. She was also captain of the girl's soccer team. Rod Purcell was an incredibly popular student. He had been elected senior class president; but the vice-president, Tom Mock, had been acting in his place while Rod was in Switzerland. Now that he was back, Rod quickly assumed the reins of the presidency and had a lot of plans for the last three months of their high school careers. Claire, being an overachiever, was very happy with the three students who had been selected to be in the group. Being new really had its advantages, resulting in Miss Lane asking Claire which piece of literature she wanted to research instead of assigning it. Claire had, without a second of hesitation, selected Don Quixote. Then Miss Lane chose the three students to join her. "Well," Claire said. "I love this story. I've read the book a couple of times and `Man of La Mancha' is my favorite musical. We did it in the community theatre group that my parents were a part of...when...when I was younger. My father played Quixote and my mother was Aldonza." "Wow!" Keith said. "Have you been on stage?" "Yep, many times. And yes, Keith," she said smiling at him. "Mrs. Kent has already recruited me for the Smallville Players. I'll be auditioning on Sunday." "Too bad you weren't here earlier. You could have auditioned for the senior play," Keith told her. "That's okay. I think I'll really enjoy being in a community theatre again. And I hear that this is a fine one." "So," Anne insisted. "Can we get back to our assignment?" "Sure," Claire told her. "I guess I'd like to do the comparison of Cervantes' view of knighthood to Twain's view." "Whew," Keith said. "Glad you took that one. I think that would be the hardest part." Keith paused "Can I deliver the biographical information on Cervantes, the easy job? I really don't want to *not* carry my load, but playing Jesus is going to take a lot out of me and I don't want to promise something I can't fulfill." "Would it be all right with you, Rod, if I do the summary of the book?" Anne asked. "Sure," Rod said. "I've read both books before, so contrasting the writing styles won't be that difficult." "Well, that was easy enough," Anne told them. "Claire and Rod have read the book so that leaves you and me, Keith. Do you know the story of Don Quixote, Keith?" "I've seen the movie of `Man of La Mancha' and know, I guess, what most people know-- without reading the book, that is--that Quixote was crazy and he fought windmills." "Oh, it's so much more than that," Claire insisted. "Don Quixote has a nobility. He fights for truth and justice. He is childlike--ingenuous. He is endlessly curious about human behavior and about man's slippery slope toward self- destruction. He shows us that a little bit of madness is necessary to face life and that the goals of one's life is a quest." * * * Utopia April, 2121 A special amber gelled light shone down on Don Quixote who was kneeling just left of center stage. He looked up toward the sky and in a prayer-like tone laid out the rules for his own life--for his quest. Don Quixote/Wil: Call nothing thy own except thy soul. Love not what thou art, but only what thou may become. Do not pursue pleasure, for thou may have the misfortune to overtake it. Look always forward; in last year's nest there are no birds this year. (He closes his eyes) In the wings, Claire placed a shawl upon her mother's shoulders. Karen Kent kissed her daughter's cheek and then, in the role of Aldonza, entered the courtyard en route to a rendezvous with one of the muleteers. She stopped, watching Don Quixote and listened. Don Quixote/Wil: Be just to all men. Be courteous to all women. Live in the vision of that one for whom great deeds are done...she that is called Dulcinea. Aldonza/Karen: Why do you call me that? Don Quixote/Wil: (He opens his eyes) My lady? Aldonza/Karen: Oh, get up from there. Get up! (Don Quixote rises worshipfully) Why do you call me by that name? Don Quixote/Wil: Because it is thine. Aldonza/Karen: My name is Aldonza! Don Quixote/Wil: (Shakes his head respectfully) I know thee, lady. Aldonza/Karen: My name is Aldonza and I think you know me not. Don Quixote/Wil: All my years I have known thee. Thy virtue. Thy nobility of spirit. In the wings, Claire Kent watched her parents. She loved them so much. They were the heart and soul of the Smallville Players. They were dedicated to using the medium of theatre to impart a vision of man's commitment to man-- to teach the audience all about love, truth and justice. Aldonza/Karen: Why do you do these things? Don Quixote/Wil: What things, my lady? Aldonza/Karen: These ridiculous...the things you do! Don Quixote/Wil: I hope to add some measure of grace to the world. Aldonza/Karen: The world's a dung heap and we are the maggots that crawl on it! Don Quixote/Wil: My lady knows better in her heart. Aldonza/Karen: What's in my heart will get me halfway to hell. And you, Senor Don Quixote--you're going to take such a beating! Don Quixote/Wil: Whether I win or lose does not matter. Aldonza/Karen: What does? Don Quixote/Wil: Only that I follow the quest. Claire moved closer to the corner of the proscenium and kneeled down. This was one of her favorite parts of the play and if she sat on the floor between the curtain leg and proscenium, she would be only three feet away from her father, yet the audience could not see her. There was something in his eyes that Claire had not seen before. He was looking at his wife with concern. Wil closed his eyes for just a brief second. *The song* was next and he had to put everything into it. It was the essence of the production--what the theatre group was trying to get the audience to feel and to believe in. But what had Tempus meant when he said...? No, it was nothing, just an actor going up on his lines, reaching for something to say. Claire stared at her father. No, what had flickered briefly in his eyes was now gone. Wil turned his attention to Karen. Aldonza/Karen: What does it mean--quest? Don Quixote/Wil: The mission of each true knight...his duty--nay his privilege! (He sings) To dream the impossible dream, To fight the unbeatable foe, To bear with unbearable sorrow, To run where the brave dare not go. To right the unrightable wrong, To love, pure and chaste, from afar, To try, when your arms are too weary, To reach the unreachable star! This is my Quest, to follow that star, No matter how hopeless, no matter how far, To fight for the right without question or pause, To be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause! And I know, if I'll only be true to this glorious quest, That my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest. And the world will be better for this, That one man, scorned and covered with scars, Still strove, with his last ounce of courage, To reach the unreachable stars! The audience at the Martha Kent Theatre, on that evening in April of 2121, all rose to their feet as if one person; and sounds of bravo echoed throughout the auditorium. Claire wiped the tears from her eyes and beamed with pride as her father and mother basked in the warmth of the love that flowed from both sides of the footlights. ########## "Mommy?" the little boy asked, worried, as he climbed up on her lap. "You're crying." "I always cry at this part. Remember?" ########## Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, March 16, 1994 Keith and Anne looked at each other then at Claire. "Are you all right?" Rod asked her, realizing by the catch in her voice that she was close to tears, if not crying already. "Yes," Claire insisted. "I'm fine. We've got to get started. We don't have a lot of time." "We've plenty of time," Anne told her. "Miguel Cervantes said," Claire told the group, "`There is a time for some things, and a time for all things; a time for great things, and a time for small things.' This *is*..." she emphasized, "...the time for great things." * * * Utopia April, 2121 Back on the stage of the Martha Kent Theatre, the metal dungeon stairs, painted to look rusty, began their slow and halting descent as the chains clanged together, finally looping around the winch. Cervantes/Wil: (Uncertainly) That sound...? The Governor: The Men of the Inquisition. Cervantes/Wil: What does it mean? Prisoner #1: They're coming to fetch someone. Prisoner #2: They'll haul him off--put the question to him. Prisoner #3: Next thing he knows--he's burning! Cervantes/Wil: Are they coming for me? The Duke: Very possibly. What, Cervantes? Not afraid? Cervantes shook his head dumbly. The Duke: Where's your courage? Is that in your imagination, too? Cervantes retreated away with The Duke following inexorably. The Duke: No escape, Cervantes. This *is* happening. Not to your brave man of La Mancha, but to you. Quick, Cervantes-- call upon him. Let him shield you. Let him save you, if he can, from that! The Duke pointed dramatically toward side of the dungeon which seemingly held the only entrance and exit. On the stairway the men of the Inquisition appeared. They were robed, hooded, frightening in aspect. Cervantes, paralyzed with fear, only his eyes moving as the two somewhat sunken orbs followed the Inquisitors as they descended into the vault. As the formidable jailers approached Cervantes, the guards paused menacingly, then turned abuptly to open a trap in the floor and drag out a different prisoner. They hauled the enslaved captive up the stairs while the terrified man yelled and struggled. Cervantes sank down on a bench, shaken. The Governor brought a goatskin of wine to Cervantes, who took it with trembling hands and drank deeply. The Governor: Better? Cervantes/Wil: (Faintly) Thank you... The Governor: Good, let's get on with your defense! Cervantes/Wil: If I might rest a moment.... The Duke: (With tolerant contempt) This La Mancha--what is it like? The Governor: An empty place. Great wide plains. Prisoner: A desert. The Governor: A wasteland. * * * Dystopia December, 2121 The sun came up, yet it was still bleak both within and without the jail cell. Wil Kent walked slowly over to the window. It was too high to look out. If he only had the power to fly--fly? If he had his ancestor's powers, he could tear apart the cell and leave. He turned and pulled a wooden stool toward the window and stepped upon it. He looked out.... Nothing. There was a wide expanse of barren earth--no trees, no grass, no flowers--not like the... the world he.... But he was forgetting.... No, he couldn't let himself forget the Utopia--the Elysium that his family had helped create. It had been a mecca for the arts; and through the arts, a vision of truth and justice. Now it had become a wasteland, a shadow of the world he had known. It had metamorphosed from a place of beauty and light to one of desolation and darkness--a void so empty of all he believed in, all he treasured, all he loved. He heard a sound, a vulture flying by searching, searching. Then another sound, this time not animal--a metallic sound far away. A cell door was opening--not his--perhaps the door to the courtyard that led to the row of cells. The sounds came closer. Trudging feet, jangling keys once again, whispers. Several men appeared in front of his cell. They were all dressed in long black robes, their arms folded within the opposite sleeve, hoods covering their heads. He had seen these men before or men like these--somewhere before. Why was it getting harder to remember? Harder to hold on to that dream? He had to remember. Without that memory, he was lost. He had to force himself to remember lights, music, words.... Was he going crazy? Crazy? He had been there--not crazy but...but.... * * * Utopia, April, 2121 The Duke: La Mancha apparently grows lunatics. Cervantes/Wil: I would say, rather...men of illusion. The Duke: Much the same. Why are you poets so fascinated with madmen? Cervantes/Wil: I suppose...we have much in common. The Duke: You both turn your backs on life. Cervantes/Wil: We both select from life what pleases us. The Duke: A man must come to terms with life as it is! Cervantes/Wil: I have lived nearly fifty years, and I have seen life as it is. Pain, misery, hunger...cruelty beyond belief. I have heard the singing from taverns and the moans from bundles of filth on the streets. I have been a soldier and seen my comrades fall in battle...or die more slowly under the lash. I have held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no gallant last words...only their eyes filled with confusion, whimpering the question: `Why?' I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived. Claire stood in the wings beside her mother who was waiting for her next entrance, their arms around each other. Silently, they were acknowledging the power that Claire's father and Karen's husband was holding over the audience. The soul of the actor and the souls of the audience were joining as they all moved from the reality that was the dungeon, to the irrationality, yet singular truth of the madness of Quixote. Quixote/Wil: When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams--this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be... * * * Smallville, Kansas Friday, March 18, 1994 Clark looked at his government class and picked up a book. "On June 8, 1968, Ted Kennedy gave the following eulogy for his fallen brother, Robert," he began. Clark opened the book, flipped a few pages and read: "...Some believe there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array of the world's ills. Yet many of the world's great movements, of thought and action, have flowed from the work of a single man. A young monk began the Protestant reformation, a young general extended an empire from Macedonia to the borders of the earth, and a young woman reclaimed the territory of France. It was a young Italian explorer who discovered the New World, and the thirty-two-year-old Thomas Jefferson who proclaimed that all men are created equal." Clark perched on the edge of his desk and continued. "These people moved the world, and so can we all. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance..." Claire stared at her teacher as he continued reading. Clark Kent was exactly as depicted in all of the history books. Imagine a history teacher being written up in history books. But he was so much more than that. Clark Kent was a hero, but not because he was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive or able to bend steel in his bare hands. He wasn't a hero because he flew around in tights and a cape and foiled the bad guys and rescued those in need. He was a hero because he stood up for what he believed. Although it was the acts of Superman and Lois Lane that founded the Utopia she lived in, it was the spirit of Clark Kent and Lois Lane who created its core values. Clark stood up and began walking up and down the aisles of his classroom. Claire refocused on what their teacher was reading. "The future does not belong to those who are content with today, apathetic toward common problems and their fellow man alike, timid and fearful in the face of new ideas and bold projects. Rather it will belong to those who can blend vision, reason and courage in a personal commitment to the ideals and great enterprises of American Society. "Our future may lie beyond our vision, but it is not completely beyond our control. It is the shaping impulse of America that neither fate nor nature nor the irresistible tides of history, but the work of our own hands, matched to reason and principle, that will determine our destiny. There is pride in that, even arrogance, but there is also experience and truth. In any event, it is the only way we can live." * * * Dystopia November, 2121 "It's the only way we can live," Wil said to the members of the underground movement known as ENCORE. "Yes," Kia agreed. "We *have* to put on the play again. Even though we will be arrested, we have to do it." Kia looked around at her fellow actors. "Remember Augusto Boal and his book `Theatre of the Oppressed' where he described a new way of understanding and using theatre. In it," the inflamed woman continued, "he rejected the classical notions of theatre in which the audience's cathartic experiences immobilized them and subjected them to the status quo. Instead...instead..." she said, forcing back the tears, "he urged oppressed people to become actors instead of spectators, to create solutions by using theatre as a tool--to take solutions rehearsed on stage to political and legal chambers by seeking the creation of laws that will benefit marginalized people who have little to no political representation." Larry shook his head. "Of course, Boal's ideas rouse us to action. But in this world?" he pointed out, as he glanced around at the theatre which lay in ruins around him. "Perhaps the pursuit of art in this world of massive economic, social and legal inequality is simply privileged playing and bemusement? Perhaps art has no value, but as marketable, profitable entertainment? And now it has come to be seen as even less- -as not worthy of this world at all." "Art and specifically theatre can change this world, any world." Kia insisted. "A world without choice, a world without beauty, a world without truth is not *our* world," Claire told the group. "We have to stand up to them," Scott said, moving over to take Claire's hand. "By acting out the parable, we let the people know that they don't have to live under oppression." * * * Smallville, Kansas Friday, March 18, 1994 Clark looked around at his class as he made his way to the front of the class, and then, although still holding the book, spoke from memory. "...This is the way he lived. My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life, to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it. "Those of us who loved him and who take him to his rest today pray that what he was to us and what he wished for others will some day come to pass for all the world. "As he said many times, in many parts of this nation, to those he touched and who sought to touch him: "Some men see things as they are and say why. I dream things that never were and say why not." * * * Dystopia November, 2121 The members of ENCORE held hands and sang the last four lines of `The Impossible Dream'. The sun was setting and the orange hues began casting long shadows on the Smallville Players of 2121. As the dark of night enveloped them, several men broke into their hide- out, grabbed the activists, bound their hands and led them away. * * * Smallville, Kansas Saturday, March 19, 1994 Jonathan Kent was up on the catwalk adjusting the lights. Two fresnels needed to be gelled again, and one of the elipsoidals' barn doors needed to be pulled in. "Do you need some help," a voice yelled out. Jonathan looked down from above to see a girl staring up at him. "I'm Claire Kennedy," she told him. "Your wife told me you'd be here." Jonathan entered the cherry picker and pushed a button. The machine whirred and the box moved down, bringing Jonathan from forty-five feet up to stage level. He stepped out and looked at her, and then glanced around before he spoke. "You're the one that H.G. Wells, the writer who supposedly died in 1946, brought with him, right?" he asked incredulously, taking off his work gloves. "I'm still not sure that I believe in...." "Please believe, Mr. Kent. We need you to." "Martha needs to believe. I know that," he said putting his gloves on a stool nearby. "She wants to be a grandmother and she needs to know that you're part of her family. Family is so important to her." "Well, you have a son from Krypton who flies. That was a hard pill to swallow for some people in your time. Is it so hard to believe that I'm his great, great, great granddaughter come here from the year 2121?" "And your world has changed because of something Dr. Post is going to do in the next month or so," Jonathan summed up. "That's right." Jonathan looked at her. Something in her eyes.... "Please help us." "What do you need me to do?" "You can employ this diagram and assist me to construct an alternative time device," Wells said as he walked down the aisle of the auditorium. "It will take some time to gather the needed commodities, but we are equal to the task and will accomplish this." "Clark can help...." "No, I consider it ill-advised that Lois and Clark should informed quite...quite yet," the writer cautioned. "When I arrived once before, in April of 1994." "April?" Jonathan questioned. "It's only March now." "Time travel is not linear, Mr. Kent. It's chaotic at best. Be that as it may, when I was here, Dr. Post's depravity was already at work. His vile undertaking had consequences of cataclysmic proportion--not the least of which was to alter the genetic characteristics of Lois' unborn child." "Lois is pregnant?" "Not yet, but very soon. And we must prevent that dastardly villain from destroying the future," he said, taking out his pocket watch and looking at it. "Now I'm here on time. We have an interval of space now provided us to strategize and put this blueprint into action. But before, before..." he ruminated, sadly. "I was too late. The last time I...." * * * Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, April 27, 1994 Martha Kent had gotten to the bookstore quite early that morning. Something told her that it was going to be an eventful day and she had much to do. She hadn't even had a chance to unpack her last shipment of books and shelve them. Jinx number five, relaxed now in his new home, curled up beside Martha who had squatted down on the floor to begin her work. Martha opened the box and began to take out the books one by one. This was one of her favorite parts about owning a bookstore--the anticipation as she touched each book and perused the titles that would soon open a child's eyes to the wonder of the world around him, or bring back bittersweet memories to an older person's life, or challenge the opinions and beliefs of a stagnant society to see the options that creativity could invoke. This shipment was no exception. She gazed at the book titles and thought back on the events of the last few months: Chekov's `The Cherry Orchard', Hawthorne's `The House of the Seven Gables', and H.G. Wells' `The War of the Worlds'. Martha opened the last book and read a quotation by H.G. Wells on the inside cover of the book jacket. "Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe." The bell over the door tinkled and Martha looked up surprised. She hadn't thought she had unlocked the door. There in front of her stood a diminutive man in a dated suit, and bowler hat. Jinx scooted over and rubbed against the legs of the visitor, welcoming him. The stranger leaned down and stroked the cat, then walked over to the window and opened the curtains to let the spring sunshine in and, smiling, turned to cross toward Martha. "Mrs. Kent," the man said. "I see you've been reading my book." "Your book?" "Yes, Mrs. Kent. I'm H. G. Wells and I've come from the future to stop Dr. Post from..." "Oh, Dr. Post!" Martha exclaimed. "He's a darn nice guy," she finished, apparently now totally unconcerned about the man from the future who had appeared suddenly in her bookstore. "A darn nice..." Wells began and looked over onto the counter where an amber vial labeled, `Take three a day for arthritic inflammation -- Dr. Tim Post', stood next to a carafe of water and a recently used glass. Martha got up from her position amidst the books and looked at the worried man. "Can I help you find a particular book?" she asked, dazedly and oblivious to Wells' prior comments. The diminutive man took out his pocket watch and stared at the dial. "Too late, too late..." Wells intoned, and scurried out the door as if he were the white rabbit. * * * Utopia April, 2121 On stage of the Martha Kent Theatre, the Smallville Players were reaching the climax of their last performance of `Man of La Mancha'. Aldonza was backing away from the gang of muleteers. As she moved, a pain shot through Karen Kent's body. Something was wrong. She was only four months pregnant, barely showing; but in the flowing, yet tattered, costume she wore, the audience was unaware of the wonderful condition she was in. Karen and Wil had been surprised when at age 47 and 44, they found they were expecting another child. Karen clutched her abdomen, and took a deep breath. Her important scene was coming up. She had to get through this. The muleteers pushed Aldonza to the ground and ran out. Aldonza crawled toward a pail of water and putting in a cloth, wet it, and then washed her face. The cool water felt good on Karen's brow. The pain began to subside somewhat. She bit her lower lip. she thought, looking into the wings and seeing her husband standing there. A shot of concern flashed in his eyes as he awaited his entrance. Karen took another breath. Innkeeper: (Horrified at Aldonza's bruises and her tattered rags) Aldonza! What happened? Aldonza/Karen: (Seeing Quixote enter) Ask him. Don Quixote/Wil: I shall punish them that did this crime. Aldonza/Karen: Crime! You know the worst crime of all? Being born. For that you get punished your whole life! Don Quixote/Wil: Dulcinea-- Aldonza/Karen: Enough of that! Get yourself to a madhouse. Rave about nobility where no one can hear! Don Quixote/Wil: My lady-- Aldonza/Karen: (Passionately) I am not your lady! I am not any kind of a lady! (Singing) I was spawned in a ditch by a mother who left me there Naked and cold and too hungry to cry; I never blamed her, I'm sure she left hoping That I'd have the good sense to die! Then, of course, there's my father--I'm told that young ladies Can point to their father with maidenly pride; Mine was some regiment here for an hour, I can't even tell you which side! So of course I became, as befitted my delicate birth, The most casual bride of the murdering scum of the earth! Don Quixote/Wil: And still thou art my lady. Aldonza/Karen: And still he torments me! Lady! How should I be a lady? (She rises to her knees and sings) For a lady has modest and maidenly airs And a virtue I somehow suspect that I lack; It's hard to remember those maidenly airs In a stable laid flat on your back. Aldonza, still on her knees, moved closer to Quixote. Won't you look at me, look at me, God, won't you look at me, Look at the kitchen slut reeking of sweat! Born on a dung heap to die on a dung heap, A strumpet men use and forget! If you feel that you see me not quite at my virginal best, Cross my palm with a coin and I'll willingly show you the rest. Don Quixote/Wil: (Kneeling down across from her and saying tenderly) Never deny, thou art Dulcinea. Aldonza/Karen: (Standing up and, even more frantically, walking away two steps and then turning back to face him.) Take the clouds from your eyes and see me as I really am! (Singing) You have shown me the sky, but what good is the sky To a creature who'll never do better than crawl? Of all the cruel bastards who've badgered and battered me, You are the cruelest of all! Can't you see what your gentle insanities do to me? Rob me of anger and give me despair! Blows and abuse I can take and give back again, Tenderness I cannot bear! So please torture me now with your `Sweet Dulceneas' no more! I am no one! I'm nothing! I'm only Aldonza the whore! Karen clenched her fists and sank to the floor. Wil watched her and although the direction called for her to collapse, this was one line too early. Don Quixote/Wil: (Crawling toward her) Now and forever thou art my lady Dulcinea! At this point, Aldonza was to scream out `Nooooo!!!!'. There was a scream, but it came from Wil's lips. * * * Smallville, Kansas Wednesday, April 27, 1994 H.G. Wells knocked on the door of Lois and Clark's home. He looked down at his watch. He knew he was late--but maybe there was a chance. Clark opened the door. The little man pushed his way in. "I've no time to explain. Where's Miss Lane, errr, Mrs. Kent?" Not knowing why, but sensing the alarm in the man's eyes, Clark allowed him in. "She's upstairs. What is it?" "She hasn't...she hasn't...." The sound of Lois' body hitting the floor, brought the two men up the stairs. Using super speed, Clark arrived before the older man. "Nooooo!" Clark shouted and knelt beside her. Alongside Lois' outstretched hand was the amber bottle that read: Take one a day with breakfast. Dr. Tim Post. ########## "But Uncle Herbie is in time--*this* time, right?" the little boy, always a fount of questions, asked. "Nothing bad happens to her, right?" "You know the answer," his mother told him. "Yes," he said, pouting. "But sometimes maybe it will come out different." The young woman smiled at him. "You're just like your father," she told him as she saw her husband walking in with a load of firewood for the fireplace. "And," she whispered, "I love you both." "Keep reading, Mommy," her son said, dodging the kiss she tried to plant on his cheek. ########## Smallville, Kansas Sunday, March 20, 1994 Once again, Martha was preparing a circle of chairs to be used during an audition. But this time, Claire was helping her place scripts on each of the seats. Martha watched the girl carefully, and shook her head. Her great, great, great...well whatever number of greats...granddaughter. Could it be possible? But looking at the fifteen-year-old, she noticed something--a grace, a defiance, a genuineness-- a promise of the future and a reminder of the past--a reminder of a young man searching for his own truths. Clark had been a gift, the most remarkable of gifts. And, according to H.G. Wells and the young girl moving between the chairs, that gift was going to create a new world-- unless stopped by Dr. Post. Martha didn't need Clark to be a great man, although he was. She wanted him to be and do what was in his heart. She would have loved him if he had been a grocery clerk, a gas-station attendant or an unemployed actor. But he had become something great--a teacher imparting understanding, and the man who saved the world on an almost daily basis. Martha knew that no matter her incredulity, she had to believe Claire and be strong enough to help save Lois and Clark. Martha picked up her clipboard. This audition was going to be different--as if any of her auditions seemed to be routine anymore. So much had happened since the beginning of this season's presentations. How could she ever believe that any audition would be mundane again? Let's see, an audition that introduced the wonders of Lois Lane to her son and his family, a forced presentation by an evil and ruthless man that provided a juxtaposition between reality, or their view of it, and the stage. A resurrected corpse auditioning, a supposed murderer trying out for the role of a murderer, and now time travelers! What else? * * * Liz Lathrop paused from her work and reflected. In the past few weeks, her life had been ripped apart at the seams. She had finally, after years of searching, found her biological mother--a woman who was upstairs in this very hospital in a coma--a woman who had so little time left. Liz had been informed that she had had a twin brother--a powerful man by the name of Lex Luthor, whose life had been cut short by that self-same woman who now lay almost lifeless, attached to several machines. Liz's anger mounted. Although she had loved her adoptive mother, Rebecca, her growing up years had been hell. Brian Lathrop- -a man she couldn't bear to connect with the word father-- had treated her like a leper, a pariah he wanted nothing to do with. He viewed her deformity as a punishment of some sort from God and Liz as the anti-Christ. As the years went by and he and her mother were unable to have children of their own, Brian had vilified her. He used her as the scapegoat and the reason why he had not been a success--why their family had been relegated to the `wrong' side of the tracks and why he had never been able to cash in on that elusive pot of gold he was always trying to find. Well, she--Brian Lathrop's little crippled adopted daughter--had found that pot of gold and *she* was going to cash in on it! Liz went back to her work and then looked up quickly from the small spinning centrifuge that contained a minute sample of the strange red crystals as she heard the door to the basement lab open. The man from the future in his guise of Dr. Tim Post entered the dank, secluded room. "A bit musty for my taste," he commented, as he removed his sunglasses. "But workable," he said, as he scanned the room. "So, darlin'," he continued, slipping the shades into the pocket of his white coat. "How *is* the work coming?" "Slowly," Dr. Lathrop explained. "That response is unacceptable," he said to her. "Although, as the great philosopher, Mick Jagger said, `Time is on my side, yes it is', I'm an avidly impatient man." "Well, that's why I'm spending hours in here on a Sunday. But we do have time," Liz insisted. "Mrs. Kent hasn't been impregnated as yet," she reminded him. "Ha! So, the man of...," he paused, realizing he almost played his ace in the hole, "passion, of decency...of uprightness hasn't been able to...to...." "And this pleases you?" "Duh! I do so love irony," Tempus sneered. "Why don't you just eradicate one of them?" Liz asked. "Wouldn't that be easier?" "Easier, perhaps--but not quite as much fun. And I must have my fun. This is a profusely more ingeniously devised and insidious plan," he assured her, smiling evilly. "I believe that the Kents conceiving a child who is apathetic, dispassionate, and phlegmatic--would be the irony to end all ironies. And then were their heir to go on and sire listless, lethargic, languid little ones--ooh, the synonyms go on ad infinitum." "Ad nauseam, you mean," Liz injected. Tempus walked over to where Lex's twin sat and put his hand under her chin, jerking her to look at him. "Don't spar with me! It would be folly on your part! And," he added, removing his hand to reach for his sunglasses, "speaking of parts," he continued as he put on his glasses and turned toward the door, "there's a role I have to see about." * * * Lois and Claire faced Martha with the scripts in their hands. "All right," Martha began. "Claire, you're Gloria--a young girl who lives upstairs from Suzy and Sam, who are the recently married couple who rent the basement apartment from your mother. You're sort of a brat and you aren't very nice to Suzy because you have a crush on Sam. You are coming into the apartment to put back the doll you stole earlier." Claire smiled over at Lois. "Okay," she said. "And Lois," Martha said, turning to her daughter-in-law. "You're character's nerves are somewhat frayed. Suzy has been blind for eighteen months due to an automobile accident and her husband is forever pushing her to become as independent as possible- -a sort of tough love concept," she explained. Lois smiled to herself. Martha saw the play the same way she did. Lois knew that her mother-in-law/director would understand the characters and see their relationship vividly. "You go to school, studying Braille and mobility; and every day Sam gives you some kind of project to do on your own," Martha continued. "You're tired, irritable; and, to top it off, there has been a murder in the neighborhood and several men have already invaded your house saying that they're the police or interested parties. They are hinting that your husband has had some kind of an affair and as a result has had something to do with the murder," she explained. "And here comes little Gloria sneaking into the apartment as she does on occasion just to taunt you." Lois beamed at Claire. "Ready?" she asked. "Uh huh," Claire responded. Suzy/Lois: Who is that...Mike? Gloria/Claire: Oh, hello, Suzy. Suzy/Lois: (Startled) Oh! It's you, Gloria. Don't *do* that to me! How did you get in here? Gloria/Claire: I borrowed Mother's key. Because when I got upstairs, I found I'd left a stick of butter in the bottom of the bag... Suzy/Lois: (Putting out her hand) Thank you, honey. Gloria/Claire: It's already in the icebox. I closed the door. You can pay me tomorrow if you like. It came to four seventy-two, but you owe me thirty-five cents from last time--so if I give you thirteen.... Suzy/Lois: Don't! No more numbers, please, I'm not a computer. Just call it quits-- O.K.? Gloria/Claire: Thanks. Bye-bye, then. (Gloria pauses) It's none of my business but that man who was in here with Sam's friend... Suzy/Lois: That was a Mr. Roat...yes?... What about him? Gloria/Claire: Is he a detective? Suzy/Lois: (Very interested) Why?...What makes you think he is? Gloria/Claire: Because of the lady who was murdered last night--that's all. "Okay ladies, I want to stop you here. It's at this point that Suzy begins to use the psychology that Sam suggests to her earlier in the play--being positive with Gloria. In fact, it's right now that Suzy brings Gloria in as her ally," Martha explained. "Gloria realizes that she is being trusted, which is something new for her, and she begins to work with Suzy instead of against her. Now just follow the script's directions as to movement, and let's see what you can do with it. The stage directions told Suzy to get a kitchen stool. Lois reached out into the air and felt around and finally pulled over one of the chairs. Suzy/Lois: Look, honey, if you stand on this...can you see through the window? Gloria/Claire: (Stepping up) I think so. Suzy/Lois: There's a police car outside... You see it? Gloria/Claire: No. Suzy/Lois: Look carefully--are you sure? Claire mimed looking through venetian blinds. Gloria/Claire: No police car. Suzy/Lois: It must have gone. There was one there a few minutes ago...can you see a policeman? ....*Anywhere?* Gloria/Claire: No. Suzy/Lois: Or *anyone* who might be watching this house? Gloria/Claire: Don't think so. Not many people around. It's been raining. Can I get down now? Suzy/Lois: Yes, of course... Oh wait a minute. When we first moved in here--Sam used to make his phone calls from a phone booth somewhere out there. I think it was near some traffic lights. Can you see a phone booth from the window? Claire pantomimed looking harder by going up on tiptoes and straining. Gloria/Claire: Yes, there's one by the parking lot at the end of the street. Suzy/Lois: Is there--a car parked anywhere near the phone booth? Gloria/Claire: One of those Volkswagen buses...it's right beside it. Suzy/Lois: Anyone in it? Gloria/Claire: I can't see. * * * "I...can't...see!" Rod Purcell told his father slowly and deliberately, emphasizing each word. "And I will *never* be able to see. Can't we just accept it?" "*No!*" his father shouted. "I will never accept it." There was a knock at Dr. Purcell's office door. "He's here," Rod's father told his son, getting up to let the guest in. "If anyone can help you, he can." "No, Dad!" "He's flown all this way and arrived here on a Sunday for the sole purpose of examining you. You'll comply!" Rod shook his head sadly. Years of searching, years of chasing after something that just seemed out of reach. He knew that his father blamed himself for...for.... Rod had tried to follow his father's wishes, but he had had enough. Dr. Purcell opened the door to let the renowned doctor in. "This is my son," the hopeful father said to the specialist. Rod, this is Dr. Leit." * * * Dystopia November, 2121 Someone removed the blindfold from around the new prisoner's face and shoved him into a cell. Before he opened his eyes, Wil Kent knew where he was. He had heard the hollow clang of the door as it was opened, and the air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and putrid--he was in prison. Wil opened his eyes slowly and blinked several times while he adjusted to the light, as minimal as it was. He scanned the area. The bare rock walls, the high window covered by an iron grate, the straw covered cot was reminiscent of the way the set designer had constructed his Spanish dungeon. But no longer in a play, he was confronted with an authenticity he co