MJ

Doctor Samuel Beckett, Nobel Prize winner and wunderkind Science Director of Project Star Bright, adjusted his red foulard tie glumly while staring in the hotel room mirror. "Remind me again why we're doing this, Al." He regarded his white shirt and gray pin-striped suit with horror, but there was no way out of the suit that evening.

Admiral Albert Francis Calavicci, Ph.D., was finishing adjusting his uniform and attempting to determine his exact level of babe magnetism. They were, after all, heading into a cushy cocktail party; you never knew what—or who—might happen. "Because, Sammy boy, the National Conference on Educational and Scientific Funding is the largest collection of suckers with money you'll ever wanna find. Tomorrow they start hearing oral presentations on the proposals that were submitted, and then…then, the good part, is that there's a bunch of foundations and people with more money than they know what to do with, and they decide if they like your proposal. Somebody likes, it, they write you a check. We're here to help them part with their money in a worthy cause. Namely, ours."

Sam grimaced. "There's gotta be an easier way than this."

"Trust me, Sam, this IS the easy way. We go in tonight, we schmooze, we charm rich guys who don't know what in hell we're talking about but hope their names will go down in history on our idea. Then when we do the pitch, they remember that we were those great guys from the opening night cocktail party. Nothing to it," Al assured him. "I've done this a dozen times."

"I hope you're right," his irritated partner groaned.

»»»

The party at the Waldorf-Astoria was in full swing when the men arrived. The rich, Al observed cheerfully, were different—they threw better parties. And he intended to enjoy the fact as much as possible that evening, just as he always did when he pitched a funding sale to these rich nozzles. They loved it when Al was there, he'd discovered—they were rich, but he'd been an astronaut, and that was a degree of success that none of these people could earn. Some of 'em even remembered him as America's poster POW, and Al figured he'd funded at least twenty million dollars' worth of science on Vietnam guilt alone from this crew in his career as a pitch man for research projects the government wouldn't fund by itself. The older guys, ones who'd been in World War II, were easy touches for him—a chest full of ribbons, all earned the hard way, a few Viet Cong prison camp reminiscences after hearing their own recollections of liberating Paris, and a few tales of being up in orbit with the Apollo missions, and he could write his own check with some of them.

This was Sam's first time at the conference; he'd been an employee at Star Bright, not needed to sell the goods, but Quantum Leap was his baby, his and Al's. It had been Sam's idea, as the followup to where Star Bright would be going by the time it was wrapped up, but he'd refused to carry the ball alone and had all but begged his best friend to join him on it. After all, he'd explained, it was half Al's doing—Al sitting up listening to him until three in the morning, Al doublechecking algorithms because the wonder child could goof at mathematical computations as easily as anyone and sometimes more easily, Al picking at the occasional holes in Professor LoNigro's "string theory," Al saying "convince me, I dare you." Al who'd lost a wife to failure to come home at night because he and Sam were working on Sam's ideas.

And Al was the engineer; Sam professed that he was able to sit around and spin theories all day, but Al was the one who could turn theory into the machinery that Sam needed. When Al had protested, Sam had fixed a gaze on him and sighed, "Don't you read, Al? Don't you watch movies? Even kids know that you can't have time travel without a machine. Even if you could have time travel without a machine, where's the romance if you don't?"

No way in hell was Sam Beckett going to this blasted conference to ask for money without Al there. Sam was scientist enough to have mildly impaired social skills and a good case of social inhibition in a crowd like this, but Al, now—Al could charm birds out of trees, and he was a professional coddler of geese that laid golden eggs. And he enjoyed this sort of thing, which was reason enough for him.

Al was working his way merrily through stuffed mushrooms, stuffed celery, and assorted stuffed shirts, sipping at a club soda with lime that looked enough like a gin and tonic to keep him from being thought antisocial. Since he'd dried out, he didn't need a drink to feel loose enough to work over his victims at one of these things. "Another drink, Admiral?" one of the shirts was asking.

"Yeah, thanks, tell the waiter that I want my usual. They'll know how to pour it." A couple of twenties in the right hands on his way in always guaranteed him that he'd be brought club soda all night. He looked around the room for Sam as the foundation president he was stroking with war stories searched for a waiter.

Sam Beckett was definitely not in his element. A gaggle of attractive young women was surrounding him and asking to be chatted up. Although the crowd of lovely young things with plenty of money they didn't know how to spend appealed to Al on two counts, Sam was conspicuously uncomfortable with them. Thank God, Al thought, that Sam hadn't taken up university teaching. He'd be beating off female students with a stick.

Al turned to find another club soda pressed into his hand, and resumed his chat with his foundation president and the portly but rich grandson of a railroad tycoon. For the project he and Sam had in mind, he was willing to be bored a bit longer before checking out the more interesting guests present…like the little redhead with the cleavage that wouldn't quit that someone had said was a university dean looking for a grant for her own physics department, something to do with quarks. For a chance at that, yeah, he'd talk quarks. Electrical engineering was more his own speed, that was his degree, but he'd learned enough over the past few years to be able to keep a conversation with a woman like that going as long as it took to get her to her hotel room.

Suddenly, Sam was at his elbow. "Al, can I talk to you for a minute?" Sam's face was flushed, his voice urgent. Hell, maybe he'd hit the big one, maybe Cal Tech wanted in? Michigan? They were big players among the university crowd this year, both looking to land major government projects. Hell, a couple of guaranteed professorships, never see any but the best of the graduate students, that was the life.

"Sure, Sam." He made his excuses to his charmed acquaintances and was pulled into the corner. "Whoa, easy there, Sam…what's up? We going to Harvard or selling out to the Rockefellers?"

"Neither." Sam's face was a picture—of what, Al wasn't quite sure. "I can't do this, Al."

"Sure you can," Al soothed. "You looked like you were doing just fine there."

"That's the problem."

Al was confused. "I don't getcha."

Sam pointed across the room. "See the blonde in the red dress?"

Al looked. And looked again. Oh, was there a lot to look at on that blonde. "Oh, yeah. Like I said, no problem."

"Maybe not for you."

Al stared. "Whatcha getting' at, Sam?"

"She wants to sleep with me."

Al was disgusted. "Sam. That. Is. Not. A. Problem. Unless…everything's workin', right? Or—she has a roommate? You need our room? You shoulda said so, kid. No problem, I can score one myself, it'll be fine. Get back there before she takes off without you!"

"No, Al. That's not it. She…she…she's a Kramer. The Detroit Kramers?"

Al blinked. The Kramers owned a national Chinese takeout empire, a football team, and enough radio stations to broadcast their team's games from coast to coast. This wasn't any problem Al could imagine. He should have such problems. And they'd funded the Kramer Science Foundation, which was notoriously generous if it liked you well enough to fund you. "Sam, screw her blind and don't forget to propose afterwards. You got a big schnoz, they'll take you right in. You got the nose, a Nobel Prize—you speak any Hebrew?"

"I can read hieroglyphics, but I missed that. Sorry."

"You moron," Al groaned, gesturing wildly, "Egyptians are dead. Those Egyptians, anyway. But there's lotsa nice, Jewish girls out there. And they can cook. Ruthie could, like a dream. And this one's rich. Well, you have a Nobel, her family might like you anyway," Al said thoughtfully, reining his gesticulating. "Go back to her and come back engaged. That's an order."

"She doesn't want to get married," Sam told him.

"So? Move in. I'll pack and follow ya."

Sam gripped his best friend's shoulders through the uniform. "Al, she wants a one-night stand. She offered me ten million dollars for the project if I'll…uh…do it with her."

Al shook his head in disbelief. "Ten?" he mused. "Yeah, I see your point. Try for fifteen."

"Al, I'm not prostituting myself for science!"

Now Al really stared. Sam had obviously gone 'round the bend. "Sam, she's hot, she's horny, she wants to fund the Project. Get with the program."

"Al, are you crazy? We're here for grants, not for…for…" Sam was at a loss for words.

Al stared across the room, contemplating options. "Gee, Sam, I do understand. You can't do this. Hmm…think she goes for uniforms?"

"Al! You will not!"

Al turned to face Sam and raised an eyebrow slowly. "You want this Project or not, dammit? It's in our laps, for Pete's sake. The ball's in your court and you're just letting it fall to the ground?"

"Al, I had no idea you were so mercenary."

"It's only sex, Sam. One night, get your rocks off, walk home with the Project fully funded from the start?"

"Al, no. We're not gonna do it."

"If you say so, Sam," Al sighed, resigned to his friend's lunacy. Sam's blasted Midwestern farmboy puritan streak had gone way too far. "Only thing is," Al debated aloud, "how ya gonna say no to someone that important? What's gonna happen if you tick her off? She mouths off to anyone around here about you, we got no chance in hell for a dime."

Sam leaned against the wall. "Oh, boy." He slumped. "How do I get out of this without getting her mad?"

Al leaned against the wall beside his closest friend on earth. "I'm trying to think of things women understand. And as I don't understand women, that ain't easy. I can think of one—just one—excuse that might register without getting her mad at you personally."

Sam reached out to grasp Al's arm. "God, Al, I love you."

"Exactly," Al proclaimed cheerfully.

Sam turned his head, stared at Al. "What?"

"Of course you love me. Women don't get pissed when they find out the guy that turned them down is queer. I've heard 'em talk. Gets 'em sad, but they don't go on a rampage. They figure it wasn't anything personal if the guy can't help it 'cause he's light in the loafers."

"Al, you're not serious."

"Of course I am. And I'm gonna go talk to her, because you are not gonna get this right, I can tell."

"What do you think you're doing?" Sam gulped as Al strode away.

"Asking her to lay off my boyfriend, what do you think?"

San tried to find words of protest, but the best he could do was, "Don't get in a fight."

Al strolled as casually as possible towards Deborah Kramer and her entourage. He took a few deep breaths, retreating into himself to find what he needed, a delicate balance of babe magnet and bullshit. Both came naturally to him, he reasoned, so this was gonna be cake. He insinuated himself into Ms. Kramer's coterie with a few well-placed deep glances at the women on the outer fringes of her group. "Ms. Kramer? Could I have a word with you?"

Deborah Kramer, Chinese take-out heiress and football team vice-president, looked up at the speaker. He knew what her eyes took in: uniform, ribbons, deep brown eyes, dark curls graying at the temples, and the meaningful sincerity that Al was best capable of generating when he was lying to a female. He smiled, and the Calavicci charm oozed forth upon another unsuspecting female in full force. "Why certainly, Admiral…" she trailed, unsure of his name.

"Calavicci, Ms. Kramer. Al Calavicci." He held out a hand.

"The astronaut?" Al swore to himself. That Sam…hell, if he wasn't going out on this limb for Sam, he'd have been able to haul Deborah Kramer to any room in the hotel he wanted, including the nearest broom closet. Shit outta luck. It just figured. Ms. Kramer grasped his hand with delight. "I'm so pleased to meet you. What can I do for you, Admiral?"

"Do you think we could make this a little more private? It's rather important."

Kramer nodded and made a shooing gesture with both immaculately manicured hands at her friends, who backed off several steps. She moved aside with him. "Now, where were we?"

Al shifted position, attempting to look vaguely nervous. He found it disturbingly easy to do at that moment. "Well, um, it's a little complicated. Actually, it's about…Doctor Beckett."

Kramer arched a perfectly shaped brow. "I beg your pardon?"

Al proceeded to put on a display of vast discomfort. That was easy, too. In fact, he almost wasn't acting. "Sam…well…he…talked to me a minute ago, Ms. Kramer. I don't know exactly what happened, but he's rather uncomfortable, and I'm afraid I need to make an apology to you for both of us."

"Both of you? I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"Sam told me…I'm trying to find a way to put this delicately…that there was a certain…rather unusual…funding proposal made."

"Oh." She was obviously torn between being taken aback and trying to look like an iceberg. "I'm not sure what this has to do with you, Admiral."

"Rather a lot, I'm afraid. Sam was worried, because he couldn't quite think of how to explain things to you. I told him that the best thing to do might be to just be up front about it. But he's a little worried, you have to understand, because of me."

"Because of you? I don't quite follow."

"What Sam didn't want to tell you," Al sighed with the same sigh that had made his second wife fall in bed with him on their first date, "is that he appreciates the offer, but it's totally impossible. Um, literally. He's, um, well, he and I…shit," Al said, warming up to his acting, "we've spent so long trying to make sure the Navy didn't find out about us that I'm sort of stuck for the words."

Kramer's eyes widened. "You're telling me that that, over there," she said, nodding her head toward a nearly-hyperventilating Sam against the near wall, "is gay?" Al nodded. "And you two…I had no idea. Oh. Dear. I'm…I'm…honestly, I had no idea. I mean, I…I…" She sighed. "What a waste."

Al chuckled. "I don't think so."

"Well. No. Obviously. I guess you wouldn't. Oh, God, I am so sorry. I am so embarrassed." And she was; she was blushing furiously.

"You didn't know," Al soothed. "I mean, really, we try not to let people know, you follow? Sort of thing that doesn't make the Navy very happy."

"And I mean," she rattled, "I don't want you to get me wrong, I'm not a fag hag or anything. My sister, I hate to say, is a big one, but I mean, I like gay men, I have gay friends, but I don't go around hitting on gay men deliberately or anything…"

Al slipped an arm around her consolingly. God, Sam owed him big for this. This woulda been so easy, but you couldn't warn a woman off of your man and then head up to her suite with her. Not while being convincing, anyway. "It's okay, it's okay," Al soothed again. "No hard feelings. It was just that Sam, you know, he's a genius but he's not real good with talk. And he couldn't figure how to tell you why it wasn't gonna work, especially 'cause he was worried about letting it out about me, so I figured I'd just better talk to you myself."

She was starting to regain her composure. "I'm glad you did, Admiral. I apologize again. If I'd known, it never would have happened. He could have told me, I don't bite…" She grinned. "Let me make it up to you two. The Kramer Science Foundation's having a private dinner tomorrow night over at the Ritz-Carlton. I'd love to have you join us. The food should be good, it shouldn't be too boring…and an astronaut and a Nobel Prize winner would be sort of a catch as guests. Besides, you might meet a few people with some blank checks." She grinned again. "It's black tie; will that be a problem?"

Al shook his head affirmatively. "We packed just in case. I'm afraid I'll have to make do with dinner dress whites, though. Will that work?"

She gave Al a look that said that it was way too bad about him, because how he was looking in his uniform right then was enough to make her want to peel it off of his body with her teeth, and nodded. "I love going to military dinners. All those men in uniform." She shivered.

"I feel just the same way," Al laughed conspiratorially. "We'll be there."

"I'm glad you can make it. Oh, please tell Doctor Beckett how sorry I am, would you? And…look, I do understand…I…please, Admiral, tell him he's got the ten. Plus whatever the Foundation might decide to contribute. It's…the least I can do to apologize," she mumbled sheepishly, looking down at a black patent and gold sandal.

"Of course," Al assured her, patting her hand. "No hard feelings." No, no hard feelings at all. His dick, however, was feeling pretty hard. Damn that Sam. Still, Al Calavicci had once again rescued a funding opportunity, and that felt pretty damned good.

»»»

"What are we doing here?" Sam groaned as Al ushered him into the Ritz-Carlton by the elbow with a determined grip. They had spent the better part of the day giving the same pitch to and answering the same questions from three different panels, and Sam's suggestion of how to spend the evening had involved room service, a hot shower, and hiding in his bed with the television on. Al had informed him flatly, with gestures threatening death, that ten million dollars from one blonde and the possibility of more where that came from if they schmoozed the Foundation nozzles meant that a black-tie dinner at the Ritz-Carlton was exactly what they'd both felt like doing their whole lives.

"Whatta ya think we're doing here? We're buying a dream, kid. You wanna be a staff physicist forever, even if everyone knows you're a genius, or ya wanna run your own show? You can be a grunt or you can be Project Director. Pick one and don't think too hard, huh?" Al steered his reluctant charge towards the Ritz-Carlton ballroom, pausing to admire his own reflection on some of the more reflective surfaces. Yeah, full dinner dress whites always knocked 'em dead. And Al looked good, even if he said so himself. "Tonight, all ya gotta do is be a star. This crew don't wanna hear the pitch, they wanna press flesh with a guy with a Nobel Prize. All ya gotta do is shake hands, nod, smile, and say hello. Anyone can do it, even a genius."

"If you say so, Al," Sam sighed weakly. Al could feel Sam pulling himself together as they approached the doorway. Where Sam saw terror, Al saw what looked like paradise. Rubber chicken, this dinner wasn't. Waiters were circulating trays of appetizers that Al had never seen in any restaurants where he felt like paying the tab. God, it beat the days of suffering through rumaki and pineapple drinks with parasols in them back when he'd been stationed in San Diego and the officers' wives were on that damned Polynesian kick. Was that arugula over there on that tray? Oh, yeah, it certainly was…

He was about to zero in on his target when the enemy spotted him. "Admiral Calavicci! Doctor Beckett! I'm so glad you made it!" Deborah Kramer, bursting at the upper seams in a body-hugging floor-length sheath covered in crystal beads, came scurrying over to her prize captives, three Viet Cong—uh, guys in black ties who were probably Foundation board members—in tow, and a room full of people staring down the celebrities. Yeah, the enemy was capturing them and preventing completion of Operation Tray Raid. That waiter better get his ass back over their way double-quick, because Al had missed lunch thanks to that damned dean from Worcester Polytechnic who wanted everything diagrammed. "Bernie, Jerry, Elliott, I told you they'd come."

The largest and best-dressed of the three shot a hand out to both of them so quickly that you couldn't see it move. "Admiral, Doctor Beckett, happy to met you. I'm Jerry Bernstein, Executive Director of the Kramer Foundation. This is my assistant, Bernie Wexler, and this is Elliott Stern." Handshakes went all around the group.

"Elliott Stern?" Al asked. "Aren't you with Westron Aero Systems?"

The gray-haired man in wire-rims nodded. "CEO now. I was Chief of Design and Engineering when you found that bug in our Galactica-V rocket electrical system. Should've offered you a position when you left NASA. Anytime you want one, you know where to find me." He produced a card which Al pocketed. "Sounds like you're tied up for the duration on this new project of Beckett's, though. Listen, Beckett, you ever get interested in astrophysics, you call me. We can use a few guys like you on the team. If you ever want to go private sector, give me a ring." He shrugged. "Of course, I'm on the board of this blasted thing, so I guess I'll have to cut you a check instead of hire you. Deborah insists you two are the prize of the Conference, and she's got a nose for that kind of thing."

He turned to the others. "Jerry? Bernie? Mingle. We got neglected guests out there." Back to Al and Sam, he sighed, "Hang on," and waved. Two waiters came over at breakneck speed to the small cluster. "We've been keeping you from the food, I'm afraid. Please, help yourselves. Now, gentlemen, let's talk business, shall we?" He turned to Kramer. "Debbie, I'll let you get to show off your prizes later. I think Professor Gordon needs one of us to be there to convince him that we really will fund his whale study; he looks nervous. It's bad to be ditched by everyone when someone with a Nobel walks in the room. Cheer him up, huh?" Kramer nodded and slid across the room to a younger man with a worried frown on his face. Stern lifted drinks from a passing tray and pressed them in his guests' hands.

"Deborah told me the news, Admiral," Stern informed them. "I just wanted to assure both of you that the Foundation really couldn't care less. All we want is return on investment, and your track records tell me you can give us that. I'd be slightly concerned if either of you were likely to be political about it—soapboxes just are not good for business, from our point of view, but I'd feel the same way about your politicking for anything else. Now, you, Admiral, have a bit of a reputation as a firebrand, but this obviously isn't one of your crusades, or we'd all have heard more about it. I still remember you with Doctor King in Selma."

"Yeah," Al shrugged. "But this crusade the Navy doesn't think is compatible with career military. Why push it, you know?" Yeah, why'd Kramer have to go push it? This was gonna wind up being fucking embarrassing; Al could smell it.

"As I said, you could go private. Westron would be happy to have you on board. Both of you. Your project's entirely compatible with our astrophysics research. And you'd certainly be able to be a little more…open…as long as you were relatively discreet. You're obviously both that. But if you insist on one of these joint government-private funding hybrids, I'll drop a bug in Weitzman's ear for you before the Congressional hearings. And…well…" Stern jammed his hand in his trouser pocket. "On a personal note, Deborah's a reliable woman, as far as that goes…but it's entirely possible this could still get out. As I said, the Foundation doesn't care as long as it's quiet, but if the government hears anything, frankly, I'm not willing to fund this without your name on it, Calavicci. I'm considering our insurance options here. Would you like me to tell Binky to order a lid on it?"

Al blinked. Then he stared. Then he…gaped. "Binky? Binky?"

Stern shrugged. "I was Navy myself before Korea. Lieutenant Commander. Binky Caldwell was my CO."

Sam, finally gathering his wits and still royally confused, at last spoke. "Who on earth is Binky Caldwell?"

Al turned to him, dark eyes flashing. "He's Secretary of the Navy now, Sam."

Stern continued placidly. "After all, if word just accidentally gets out, the Navy would have to do something, and that wouldn't be pleasant for any of us. But Binky owes Westron a few favors, so if I tell him that if it comes up, the Navy sits on it, you'll be fine as long as you don't push the envelope. Just remember the old line and stick to it."

Al nodded grimly. "What old line?" Sam asked.

Al grimaced, nearly spat. " 'It ain't queer if it ain't at the pier.' I get the message, Mr. Stern."

Stern shook his head. "We're going to be doing a lot of business, Admiral. It's Elliott. You too, Doctor Beckett." He looked around. "I think they want us to get seated. You're at the head table with Deborah and me. I want to talk shop on some rocket design, if you don't mind. I'd like some input from both of you." He turned, saw Al's expression. His own face changed radically, softening considerably at what he thought was in Al's mind. "Admiral…Look, believe it or not, I understand the situation. My son's gay. He met his…um, friend…at Parris Island. I know the kind of bind you're in. It took a lot of guts for you two to level with Debbie like that." He paused. "It's settled. I'm talking to Binky tomorrow, first thing. Don't make waves, like I said, but I'm telling him you two are strictly hands-off. Listen, let's get up there before we're pushing through a crowd."

»»»

They stumbled into a cab bleary, exhausted, and perhaps just slightly inebriated, somewhere around midnight. Al threw himself back against the seat, after ordering the cabbie to get them back to the Algonquin Hotel, and moaned, "That's another nice mess you've gotten us into."

"Sorry, Ollie," Sam replied almost automatically. Then, he sighed, "My fault? You're the one who told Deborah Kramer we're married." He suddenly hoped that the cabbie wasn't listening, but noted both the glass divider and the fact that the cabbie's command of English when being hailed had been marginal and decided that it was pointless to worry.

"Yeah, Sam, but you're the one who couldn't get it up for ten million bucks. I'm the one who got the ten mil back and got us a commitment from the Foundation, an in with Weitzman's committee, and permanent job security in military contracting."

"Well, you wouldn't have gotten us that if I'd put out, would you?" Sam countered. "If I'd slept with her, it wouldn't have happened, so don't complain."

"Hey. Lover boys," the cabbie called in thickly accented and halting English. "You gonna fight, I don't need it. Whoever the babe is, I don' need to hear. Okay?"

"You got it," Sam sighed.

The cab pulled up to the curb, blessedly, a few minutes later, and Al shoved several bills at the driver as Sam climbed out and began undoing his bow tie while waiting at the door. "Go to bed," Al growled as they entered the lobby. "I think I'm headin' to the bar and tying one on."

"Don't tell me what to do, Al," Sam groused back, stopping in the middle of the floor. "And you shouldn't be drinking. You've had enough already."

A younger man, a little too slender, a little too well dressed—a little too obviously gay, if you asked Al, who was waiting for someone or other to emerge from the Blue Bar, turned and tapped a finger against the wall. "Ladies," he sighed quietly, "they'll hear you. You'd better have the hissy-fit upstairs."

Al slammed the palm of his hand against his head as they crossed to the elevators. It didn't hurt enough. "Jeez Louise."

»»»

James F. Caldwell stared down the officer in front of him as best he could. "All I can say, Calavicci, is you have some damned big friends. You're pretty damned lucky. But you just better pray there's another Democrat in office next term, because the next guy in this chair may not owe Elliott Stern."

Al nodded. A lecture from the Secretary of the Navy. Just what he'd always wanted. "I understand, Sir."

"Be sure that you do. And I hope to God that this—this—whatever it is that we're funding—look, Calavicci, put the damned thing anywhere you want in the country, just not near another naval base. And nowhere near this town. All we need is reporters getting wind of the fact that our leading classified project manager's screwing Time's Man of the Year from a couple of years ago and that I'm letting it happen. It's not like there aren't enough jokes about sailors already. Not that I care myself, Calavicci, just keep it away from the pier, you get me? And keep out of Washington unless you've got a reason to be here. Budget hearings. Funerals. The Skins winning the Super Bowl. You get me?"

"Absolutely, Sir." Al saw his life pass before his eyes. If this was as close as he came to death after Nam and the Apollo missions, it was too close.

"All right, Calavicci, that's all. Like it isn't more than enough. You're giving me a migraine, damn it."

»»»

Al threw his cap across the office and himself on the office couch. Secretary Caldwell wasn't the only one with a headache. He hadn't gotten this much credit for something he hadn't done since his days back at the orphanage. The nuns had been good at playing the blame game. But this time he really had brought it on himself. Of course, he told himself, he had gotten credit before for a few sexual exploits he hadn't actually had, but never for ones that were likely to get him court-martialed.

Still, Caldwell had just informed him that he wasn't getting court-martialed. Which would be fine if he'd done something to get court-martialed for, he reasoned, but getting a pardon for a non-event was a waste of time, energy, and reputation.

And for something that nobody was supposed to know, a hell of a lot of people sure seemed to know all about his non-relationship with his best friend. Whoever it was that hadn't said anything, they'd sure kept their mouth shut all over town.

Before he could get comfortable enough to fight off the headache threatening to take over his whole body, the office door opened and shut again. Damn, he knew he should have locked it; he wasn't up to arguing with anyone else today. No, wait, it was Sam's voice. "Hi there, Mrs. Beckett," Sam cooed, teasing the other man.

The kid was dead. It was as simple as that.

"Hello, Mrs. Calavicci," Al muttered. "I got a new asshole drilled by our good buddy Elliott's pal Binky today."

Sam plopped himself into Al's desk chair. "So he did call the Secretary, huh?"

"Yeah." Al wiped his forehead. "And I was assured that my life is contingent upon locating our next project as far from DC as possible without being in spitting distance of another naval installation."

"Good," Sam mused. "I was thinking about mountains. Not that there's a radiation issue. But I'd still feel better. That ought to keep people off our backs. If we go southwest, we wouldn't have to see other living beings for miles. Which is fine with me. Which reminds me." Sam pulled a thick cream-colored envelope out of his notepad. "I got this in the mail." He tossed it over to the couch; Al snatched it before it landed.

"Huh." Al examined the address. "Sent it to both of us at your apartment, huh?" He opened it, pulled out a heavy card. "Dinner with Congressmen. Oh, joy." He looked again. "It's not Weitzman?" A double-take. "Daniel Lebowitz? Shit."

"Who's he?" Sam asked. "A Kramer cousin? Stern's nephew?"

"For Pete's sake, Sam, doncha read the papers? He's from Jersey, he was married, his wife came home and found him in bed with his speechwriter's brother? He's out of the closet, big time, his boyfriend's a stockbroker, he's—oh, fuck, he's on the Armed Services Committee." Al tossed the invitation back to Sam. "This I need like a hole in the head. Just shoot me now." The pain was excruciating. And no end to it appeared to be in sight. Next thing you knew, they'd be the first non-gay non-couple ever begged to be the marshals at some gay pride march.

"I don't know," Sam mused. "This one could be fun."

"You got a strange idea of fun, Sammy, let me tell ya." The kid was deranged, it was obvious.

"I don't know, Al," Sam pursued. "We've been dragged out kicking and screaming, as it were, to all of these straight people who are taking all of this absolutely seriously. Maybe the gay crowd won't buy it."

"And maybe they'll wanna put statues of us up in the park, kid. Jesus H. Christ."

"But Al," Sam purred maliciously, "you know no one can resist you when you're in dress uniform. Don't you want to see what these guys think of you?"

"Fuck you, Sam."

"Keep that thought and we'll do fine," Sam assured Al, laughing.

Al moaned in sheer agony. "Sam, where's my gun? I'm gonna kill you and then blow my brains out to make this headache go away. Are we square on this?"

»»»

Al Calavicci pulled up to the door of the Capitol Hill town house. He'd been in ones like it before; members of Congress and other politicos rented them or bought them regularly. He'd suffered through a hundred hangovers after parties in houses just like this one, woken up beside a hundred bed partners he'd encountered from similar invitations, written a hundred thank-yous to elected nozzles who'd never done a useful day's work in their lives, who wanted to throw parties on taxpayer-paid salaries, and who thought throwing him into the party mix would do something for their reputations back home. They either wanted the vets to vote for them, or they were playing to the space and science crowd back home; it just depended who you got the damned invite from.

He and Sam got out of the car and he reluctantly turned the wheel over to the rented parking guy who was going to jockey the car to a nearby space, probably in a lot over a couple of blocks, Al guessed. There didn't seem to be a throng of people there, or any reporters hanging out on the corner; at least that meant that this was a small dinner. Fewer people to deal with, that was a relief. But it also meant more exposure to Lebowitz, and that meant scrutiny Al didn't relish. Lebowitz knew Weitzman, so a good word from Lebowitz would help, but Al was getting sick and tired of being part of the world's favorite non-couple. And Sam seemed willing to play right along with the schtick right now just because he knew it was getting on Al's nerves. Or maybe now that it was paying off.

And wasn't that a kick in the butt? He'd come up with this idea just to wheedle Deborah Kramer's money so Sam wouldn't have to put out; now everyone had them married off to each other and was behaving accordingly. He might never get a date again at that rate, and thanks to all of Elliott Stern's so-called assistance, he couldn't even get kicked out of the Navy now to try getting out from under all of it. If he and Sam did have something going, he supposed, he'd be thankful. But how long could you look at this mess that way?

To top it off, the party was much smaller than expected. Much smaller. "Private dinner" would have summed it up nicely. Lebowitz and his stockbroker partner were there, of course. So was the executive director of something called The Civil Rights Project, which didn't sound like, but which Al knew from reading the Washington Post, was a gay rights lobbying group, and her partner.

So, to make things worse yet, was Colonel Jerry Masters, an Army officer, a former PR jockey at the Pentagon who'd been all over the papers the previous year for coming out at a press conference that was supposed to be on the military budget. He was out of the military now and on every talk show that would listen or that needed a fill-in guest, and he'd written a lurid autobiography that Al had made sure not to read. He didn't look well and had mentioned something about a new disease that seemed to be going around the gay community; they didn't have a cure for it yet, but he figured there might be one soon. Delma Garcia, the woman from The Civil Rights Project, seemed to know something about the illness, but not much.

All told, there might have been a dozen people; Al wasn't really counting. The food was catered; it was the usual kind of DC dinner, salmon this time. Garcia asked him a question about Martin Luther King; she'd come to the gay rights movement out of civil rights law, and some of her mentors had worked with King. That relieved Al; it meant that at least part of the evening wasn't going to be all about how he was going to wreck his career on behalf of a cause he hadn't signed up for. His main objective, he supposed, was steering a wide berth from Masters. Sam was getting turned on by Masters, though—intellectually, anyway. He was grilling Masters about his medical symptoms and obviously contemplating something. Terrific; all they needed was for Sam to dump the Project now that they had funding and decide to run off to NIH to research contagious diseases.

Mercifully, they made it through dinner without Al's having to talk to Masters. He was sorry the guy was sick, sure. And whatever this thing going around was, it sure sounded weird. But straight, gay, or whatever, Al didn't like him. Masters had had a job to do and he'd blown it big time. Al's joining in at Selma had been on his own time. His stump speeches about wetlands preservation—well, it was water, that was a Navy kind of subject, really…and he'd always done it on weekends. But going into a Pentagon press conference on an important topic and turning it into a major speech about you—that ground Al the wrong way. And Masters' sex life might or might not have been more interesting than Al's—secretly, Al thought the guy had to be exaggerating—but broadcasting it in a book and telling everyone on call-in radio just how many people you'd done? Masters had no class. Talk about being an embarrassment to your job; Masters was that, all right.

But there was no way to say that at this dinner. Al concentrated on the history of the civil rights movement with Garcia and tried not to think about how a caterer could make a chocolate torte out of plastics, as these guys apparently had.

»»»

"Shit," Al sighed as he stood in Commander Nora Bradley's office, helping himself to some of the coffee in her coffeepot. "I'm getting tired of all this." Getting tired? Hell, he'd been tired of it. For weeks he'd been tired of a stupid ploy to get rid of Sam's would-be pickup turning into an escalating series of confrontations with players on both sides of the issue about his and Sam's supposed revelations. Didn't anyone remember that Al Calavicci was a born liar anymore?

"Of all what?" Bradley, Al's aide-de-camp on the Project, asked as she reviewed a stack of authorizations that had come in from the previous week.

Al threw himself into one of the chairs across from her at her desk. "Nora, do you have any idea of what Sam Beckett and I have been through in the past couple of months? Elliott Stern from Westron tells us we're a cute couple and offers us half the universe to move to Westron's R and D division as a package so we won't have to break up. Caldwell calls me over to his office and tells me if I'm gonna wave it in everyone's face I need to move the next project out of town so people won't talk. Then Lebowitz, the fag on the Armed Services Committee, asks us to dinner to try to recruit us for the next hearing on queers in the military. What gives?"

Bradley moved a file to the side, looked up, and folded her hands on top of the remaining stack. "Really, Al, you don't know?" Her face was the picture of total astonishment, as if Al had just said the silliest thing imaginable.

"If I did, would I be asking?" He began nursing at the Annapolis coffee mug he was holding.

"Um. Well. Can I be blunt here?" His aide was conspicuously edgy.

He nodded. "Shoot, Nora." Please. Preferably with a .45 at point-blank range.

"Al. Really. Do you think you and Doctor Beckett could be a little less obvious? I mean, nobody here talks about it; we all love both of you and we'd hate to see anything happen, but for God's sakes, I don't think anyone here hasn't known about you two for ages—at least since your divorce."

An eyebrow shot up. "Huh?"

"C'mon here, Al, think. For months whenever we had a night watch problem and called you at home, your wife made us call you at Doctor Beckett's. You were never home; you were living in his apartment even back then. You and Doctor Beckett drag in together in the morning sometimes and face it, neither of you's been sleeping and you both look like it. And honestly, I mean, you both kept separate places, but leaving your wife for him like that? And maybe people wouldn't have noticed all of that anyway, but you two really are all over each other, do you realize that?"

"What?" Al was apopleptic. What the in-house rumor mill was able to do to reality was beyond him.

Bradley looked scandalized herself. "Al, you and Doctor Beckett are the touchy-feeliest pair I've ever seen, straight or gay. Can you two go five minutes without getting your arms or your hands on each other in front of other people? At least you don't grope."

Al's eyes were ready to bug out of his face. What kinda nerve—hell, Sam didn't do well without the physical contact, probably never got enough of it as a kid, and he always needed the reassurance, and as for himself, well, "Nora, for crying out loud, I'm Italian! Keepin' my hands to myself ain't natural!"

"Maybe so," she told him, moving another file out of the way, "but keeping them on your boyfriend in front of your crew is a whole 'nother matter. Now I repeat, Al, nobody here cares that I know of, but you have to realize you can't keep things quiet forever when you're that conspicuous." She walked over to the coffeepot, refilled her own mug, gestured a refill offer to her boss. "You're just lucky that the Secretary thinks you're indispensable for whatever reason. Having to relocate your next project's not as bad as facing a court-martial investigation, after all. If you two aren't gonna cool it, at least don't push it, huh?"

»»»

"The thing is," Al moaned to Sam from his prone position on Sam's living room sofa, "if we were gay, no big deal. I mean, it'd be a big deal, sure, but the fuss would have a reason. Unfortunately you can't prove a negative very easily, can ya? I mean, it's hard to be a gay couple if one or both of ya's straight, right?"

"Who are you saying is the straight one?" Sam queried from his seat on the floor.

"I don't getcha," Al told him, sipping gingerly at a soda can tilted precariously to met his nearly horizontal body. Sam was thinking again, and that was always scary. Al waited to hear the explanation of Sam's latest conundrum there.

"Don't you?" Sam said. "That's a logic puzzle you just posed there. If one or both of us is straight—well, if it's only one of us, which one? Because if I say I'm straight, then you aren't."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Al yelped. "I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did," Sam stated flatly. "Because if you say you're the straight one then you're saying I must not be."

"I was being hypothetical, Sam!" Al set the can down on the coffee table and sighed. Sam was obviously having one of those days. Everything was gonna get picked apart into unintelligibility by the time Sammy was done. Maybe he should grab a pad—if he could steer Sam onto work, they might have a chance at getting a couple of programs debugged while Sam was having his mood.

Sam shrugged, grabbed some potato chips from a bag on the table, and tossed the bag to Al. "Maybe. But I'm following up on it. Like I say, it's a logic puzzle. If one's straight and one isn't, which is which?"

"You been drinking, Sam?" Al queried as he munched on the chips. "Lemme make it easier and say we're both straight." Maybe it wasn't true, but it would beat Sam's current line of thinking.

"Well," Sam observed placidly, stretching his legs out near the sofa, "then you'd be lying, wouldn't you?"

"Whatta ya mean? I dropped the hypothetical." This was getting too deep for a weekend afternoon, Al thought.

"You'd still be lying, Al, because at least one of us isn't straight."

Al propped himself up to look over at Sam. "Whatcha getting' at, kid?"

"What I'm getting at," Sam explained patiently, "is that…I'm not, anyway."

"What?" Al swung his feet down to the floor and sat bolt upright. Now, this was news. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I said it in English," Sam sighed. "Part of what you told Deborah Kramer is absolutely true. I'm gay. I never quite realized you didn't really know. You have to have noticed you've never seen me with any women."

"Hell, yeah," Al acknowledged, "but I thought it was 'cause you're a geek, Sammy. Not anything else."

Sam shook his head. "I really had thought you'd caught on to me. Especially with the Deborah Kramer business. I mean, what you said to her was exactly why I wasn't saying anything. I knew if I did, as much time as we spend together—which is pretty near all of it—someone was bound to wind up fingering you if I came out."

Al wriggled uncomfortably. "Geez, Sam, I understand why you didn't tell anybody else, but for Pete's sake, how come you never told me? We're friends, ain't we? What's with keeping a big deal secret like that from your best friend?"

A shrug, and Sam was looking down at the carpet. "God, Al, this is really gonna sound juvenile from a guy with five doctorates. Would you believe…I was afraid you'd get mad? You're my best friend, practically my only one…" He ran his fingers slowly over the carpet fiber, following the pattern. "I was afraid that if I told you, you wouldn't want me around you any more. And I don't think I could handle that."

Al slid off of the couch now, and down onto the floor beside Sam, sliding an arm around Sam's shoulder comfortingly. "You know, I think I oughta be insulted there, kid, but I'll let it slide. Why the hell would I not want you around, huh?"

"I'd think I just told you that," Sam muttered. "You really want a fag for your best friend?"

Al crossed his legs, and pulled his arm so that Sam's head was resting on Al's shoulder, exactly the way it did when they sat there to watch the Skins on television and they'd crack stupid jokes about George Allen's coaching. "Nah," Al told him, "I want Sam Beckett for my best friend." A pause as Al let Sam absorb the information. "More, if I thought he'd let me."

Sam pulled away from Al's shoulder and turned to look at his friend. "Al? What was that?"

A gesture with Al's other hand. "What it sounded like. When I cracked that one of us was straight? I wasn't thinkin' it was me, Sammy, capisce?"

Sam just stared for a moment. "Wow. Talk about having no clue…you, Al? Of all people."

Al gestured again, this time with both hands, a cross between an apology and "who knows?" "I ain't sayin' I'm queer, Sam. But I'm not exactly…um…lacking in experience with guys. Sort of an occupational hazard of my life, I guess. And like you said, and like I was—well, uh, pretending I was lyin' about, I sure as hell didn't need the brass to find out, you know?"

"I know." Softly, almost a whisper.

"And jeez, Sam, I mean it—You, me, I've thought about it before. I've thought about it a lot. Especially since we dug ourselves into this mess. But I figured, you know, you'd never have me. Hell, I wasn't even sure you knew about sex yet, kid, the way you just obsess on your work." A moment's silence. "I might not have noticed anything about you, but I'm surprised you didn't notice something."

"What's that, Al?"

"When I got divorced last time. No one around the project was sayin' to my face that I was queer, but the running rumor seems to be that I left her for you, just 'cause everyone knew that the two of us, you and me, were like that"—Al crossed two fingers in front of Sam's face—"twenty-four, seven. You musta noticed I didn't get too bent outta shape that it pissed her. I was too busy bein' happy I was with you, even if I figured it wasn't gonna get me anywhere. I just wanted to be around you whether anything happened with us or not."

Sam looked at his sneakers and thought for a moment. "God, I guess I am one of those crazy scientists who doesn't know enough to use an umbrella when it rains. There I was, I'm into guys, and I'm so busy worrying you're gonna hate me if you find out that I miss that? Oh, boy, am I stupid."

"And I've been spending all this time since the party with Deborah Kramer going nuts because I've been getting blamed to my face for doing exactly what I wanted to with you, when I was scared shitless that if innocent little you found out, you'd freak on me?" Al took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Damn."

Sam's head turned, tilted slightly. "So…what do you want to do about it?"

Al bit his lip before replying. "What do I wanna do about it, Sam? It's more like, what do you want to do about it, because I sure as hell know what I want. I just need to know if we want the same thing."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. C'mon, Al…if they're gonna talk about us, they might as well be right, huh?"

Chocolate eyes sought hazel ones, then locked on their target. "Yeah. Oh, yeah," Al breathed. His arm, still around Sam's shoulder, slid down Sam's back to his waist as Al reeled him in and brought his face close. So Sam wasn't a celibate science geek after all? Hmmm…no, he wasn't. The enthusiasm—and the evident experience—he brought to returning Al's kiss was enough to prove that much. Finally, Al had no choice but to break away for air. "Wow."

Sam looked back at him, less than inches away, eyes glazed. "Yeah, wow."

"So," Al mused, not letting go, "we've been this couple the whole time and seems we didn't even know it? We got some lost time here to make up for."

"Yeah," Sam agreed breathlessly. "Bedroom?"

"Bedroom." Al worked himself up to his feet, cursing the signs of oncoming age that made the movement less agile than he wished, and helped Sam up with him. "After you, Mrs. Calavicci."

"Anything you say, Mrs. Beckett…"

Al took a swat at Sam's perfect ass as Sam dodged him on their way into Sam's bedroom. Hey, things coulda been worse. Sure, he'd never get another date again as long as he lived. But hell, he wasn't gonna need any more dates, not in this lifetime.

As for Binky and the whole blasted US Navy…well, New Mexico might be nice. And as for Sam—well, he was in the bedroom already and his shirt had just flown on the floor…yeah, New Mexico could wait. At least till tomorrow.