More or less on schedule, Grant Marlowe came into my office, arm in arm with Carol Daniels as they seemed to have reached that stage in their relationship where they can't stand to be apart for more than three seconds. To my surprise, Grant almost looked like an alert human being. I noticed he wasn't wearing that gaudy metal bracelet he had on when he read his story. Unfortunately, that bracelet had been replaced by a wampum wristband, Native American style.

"Have you continued with your story yet?" I asked him. Not that I really wanted to know how his cosmic myth turned out.

Grant shrugged his shoulders.

"I haven't been inspired with the next part of the story," Grant replied.

"I hope You realize that there is more to literary production than waiting on inspiration from Plato's Heaven," I admonished Grant.

Grant looked at me as if I were some freakish straight-laced moralist who had stumbled into his universe by a mistake.

"I'll see what I can do," Grant mumbled.

Carol rolled her eyes like an indulgent mother who doesn't know how to talk to her son.

"Well, I hope you come up with something, or the only thing I'll be able to come up with will be an 'F' for the course."

"You can give me anything you want," Grant drawled, "I'm not in this for the grades."

"How noble of you!" I replied. "however, does your renunciation of grades require the concomitant renunciation of accomplishing anything at all?"

"You don't understand," said Grant.

"That's true. I don't understand the value of accomplishing nothing, which is all that you have accomplished in the course thus far."

Grant straightened up to show that he was affronted by what I had just said.

"It doesn't look like it, but I am trying to accomplish something."

"Then can you please explain what it is that I can't see that illustrates your efforts?" I asked.

"Yea, I see things I want to write down, but they're kind of far out, and I hear things--things like music--but I don't know how to write them down because I don't know how to write music."

"Grant sings interesting music when he's at the computer," said Carol.

I was getting the clammy feeling that my son's flirtation with insanity was playing itself out again with this irresponsible student of mine. However, seeing an opportunity to glean some information about this human disorder, I pulled myself together to go on the offensive as a private investigator.

"You don't say," I replied, unable to control my sarcastic nature. "However, You are not enrolled in a music composition course. If you want to be graded for your musical acumen, you will have to apply to Dr. Hoffman."

Grant reverted to his slumped over posture.

"Yea, Dr. Hoffman! I'd like to find out what she makes of the music. She played nothing like it in two whole semesters of music literature."

"And when did you first start hearing this wondrous music?" I asked.

"Since getting this new computer. My mother gave it to me for my birthday. That's the good news about divorced parents. They give you everything you want to make up for what they've done."

"Did your new computer inspire the story-fragment you handed in yesterday?" I asked.

"Yea, it sure did," Grant replied, his voice floating off into some kind of dreamland. When I sit down and turn on the computer, I get visions of rolling green seas that sing the most beautiful music you ever heard. The waves dance, and silver fountains spring up out of the water! Then suddenly, it all freezes. The waves get frozen, like at the North Pole during the Ice Age. And the music stops, frozen like the waves."

Grant's face was glowing while he spoke until he came to the end, at which point his face fell.

"Do you hear this wondrous music or see these visions at any time when you are away from you computer?" I asked.

Grant gave Carol a questioning look and Carol nodded in reply.

"Yea," said Grant, that faraway look creeping back into his eyes, "Last night. Carol and I were studying in the library. We've found a nice cubbyhole in the Russian Lit. section. I was reading Dostoevsky and Carol was reading Balzac in French. I started to hear this music, like the music I hear when I'm at the computer. Maybe it was too much Dostoevsky. This music got to sounding inside of me and I thought I heard it coming from inside the books right above me. Carol says I got to singing in my funny way, like what she hears me sing at my computer. Suddenly, some green thing appeared right above my head. Carol saw it, too. It looked like a blob--a green blob--a blob made of snakes or tree roots or something. It kind of floated in the air and threaded in among the books and then drilled itself right into the wall. That got me real scared in a hurry. Carol, too. We grabbed our books and got out of the library so fast the guy at the check out desk probably thought we were running from a herd of vipers. We--we got outside the library and we felt a lot safer, only I was still hearing that music, but not as loud as up in the library. Somehow, the music gave me the feeling that I had rejected somebody. Well, we went to our apartment and I felt a lot better. It helped that Carol was with me."

"I take it you didn't turn on your computer?" I asked.

"No, not last night."

"What about this morning?" Carol asked.

Grant visibly shuddered.

"Yea, this morning. I turned on my computer this morning and tried to work, but I couldn't. I heard music and saw green and silver waves and then they froze like they always do. So I shut it off and we decided to go out for breakfast. We walked by the library. I got to hearing this music again. I looked up at the window near that cubby hold I told you about. That green thing had gotten through the window and the wall and was kind of floating right beside the library."

"Did anybody else seem to notice?" I asked with what voice I could muster.

"That's the funny thing," said Grant. "Carol saw it, too, but a couple of guys walking by didn't seem to see it at all."

"You realize," I explained, purposely changing the subject and walling off my fear as best I could, "that the most intensely human experiences are the ones that are the most difficult to put into words. Poets don't write poetry because the words come easily. They write poetry because their visions spur them on to a quest for the elusive words that make the visions come alive."

"Wow!" Grant exclaimed. "Like my story can make the green and silver waves roll again?"

"Something like that," I replied, with no conviction whatever.

Grant sat still for a moment, making me suspected him of thinking for once in his life.

"By the shores of shoreless shores so surely shoreless and shoeless," he muttered with his eyes half closed.

"Want me to get you back to your computer?" Carol asked Grant.

Grant nodded and Carol relieved me of the rest of my allotted time with this uncreative writer turned shaman. The minute they were gone, I ran out of my office and dashed over to the library. I circumambulated the structure, looking up at the second story in search of mysterious floating objects. The first time round I saw nothing unusual, but on a second try, I saw what appeared to be the greenish roots of a tree growing out of the wall just below a window, as if the wall were the ground itself. I was tempted to ask a couple of students passing by if they saw it, too, but I was afraid of what their answer might be. I ran back to my office and holed up there as if it were my mother's womb that would protect me from all noxious reality.

While waiting for my next appointment, I worked hard to convince myself that Grant Marlowe has succeeded in imposing his mental notion of the green blob on to me. Likewise, I worked at convincing myself that Kevin has also imposed his mental notion of the green vine with the strange flower on me. It was my experience with Sarah all over again. Until we broke up, she was always trying to make me see the universe her way. Now Kevin was acting the role of his mother. However, I did not have to believe that personal interplanetary visitors had come to my house just because Kevin believed that. I could impose my own ideas of what was real, ideas that were surely more sound than those of two crazy young people. If it was going to be a contest of wills, then a contest of wills it would be. I continued to work at convincing myself that I was seeing nothing more than mundane reality that had no personal significance until I heard a knock on the door from the next student who had an appointment with me.

Back in the car and on our way to visit that critic, Clara Dickinson, we listened to the first tracks of the CD of The Child Jesus in the Temple that Maestro gave us. I was amazed at how beautiful that first part is, just like Maestro said it was. And the boy's singing was beautiful, too. That got me thinking that the choir school was stifling their best singer until Rolland came along and discovered him. Now that we knew that Rolland and the singer got to be good friends, Kevin and I were already thinking he might be a big help in finding Rolland Fletcher before it was too late.

Kevin and I also did some thinking about Dr. Schmidt's warning: "Watch out for science fiction planets spawned by man's warring tendencies." Tim Hawkins said the warning was probably about a business man who was making money off the slave labor that Dr. Frankenstein was giving him.

"Man's warring tendencies," I repeated again, letting my mind play with the words.

"Think of a business chain," Kevin repeated. "Man's war--I know!"

"Man-o'-War!" we cried out together.

"Do you know the name of the man who owns that chain?" Ms. Hoffman asked.

"No," said Kevin.

"It's Gerald Manwaring."

"That's the guy Maestro said owned the agency that Rolland's agent worked for," I cried.

"He owns everything, it seems," said Ms. Hoffman.

"Even other planets," said Kevin.

"So, we have to watch out for Man-o'-War stores and we have to watch out for Mr. Manwaring," said Lilly.

"I'm afraid he's not the best enemy to have," said Ms. Hoffman.

"I wouldn't want to be friends with him," said Kevin.

Finding Clara Dickinson's house wasn't easy. She lives in Marlborough and that's one of those suburbs where streets go in circles and end up in cul-de-sacs. Since Kevin isn't very good at navigating, I read the instructions Ms. Hoffman had gotten off the Internet and tried to help her find the right turns. We got mixed up a few times before we finally got to the house we wanted. After all that trouble, it was about as ordinary a house as you can get, just like the other houses in the neighborhood. I guess the newer the suburb, the more ordinary the house.

Ms. Hoffman rang the doorbell and we waited quite a while for an answer. When Ms. Hoffman rang a second time and we still didn't get an answer, I started to think we'd gotten to the wrong house. But just before we gave up, a tall thin woman with big eye glasses opened the door.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said the woman who I assumed was Clara Dickinson, "but I was right in the middle of a paragraph and I didn't dare interrupt my train of thought. I suppose you might be Linda Hoffman,"

"Yes, and I have with me my young friends who are doing their school report on Rolland Fletcher."

"Right, Rolland Fletcher. I hope our children are less impudent than the subject of their investigations."

Ms. Hoffman looked at Kevin and me, giving us the chance to answer that question for ourselves. I could see that Kevin was feeling like being twice as impudent as Rolland Fletcher.

"We're trying to get all the information we can," I answered, putting on my nice-little-girl act. "If we treat you the way Rolland did, we won't get the information we want."

"That seems a logical enough answer," said Ms. Dickinson. "Come in, please."

Ms. Dickinson took us straight to a den that had enough stacks of papers to damn up the Mississippi River. Ms. Hoffman got a seat only because one pile of magazines got put on top of another pile. Finding enough floor to sit on was quite a challenge for Kevin and me, but we managed it.

"You have written some interesting articles on Rolland Fletcher," said Ms. Hoffman.

"Thank you," said Ms. Dickinson. "I have noted your articles over the years as well."

Ms. Hoffman and Ms. Dickinson talked a little more about how interesting they thought each others' writing was. Then Ms. Hoffman got quiet and looked at Kevin and me to give us a chance to start asking questions if we wanted to.

"What do you think of Rolland Fletcher's music?" Kevin asked.

"Well, that is quite the question, isn't it?" Ms. Dickinson answered.

"Do you mean you still don't know what you think of it?" Kevin asked, not realizing how rude his tone of voice sounded.

"I have to say that discerning the merit of music that flows over the edge of reality is a delicate task," said the music critic.

"I get the idea you didn't find it easy to talk to Rolland for your interviews," I said, purposely changing the subject.

Ms. Dickinson stiffened a little. She looked both amused and exasperated at the thought of Rolland.

"He was quite an escape artist," she replied. "I also think he was an artist at handling the media in his own way."

"Where do you think he escaped to the last time he disappeared?" asked Kevin.

"I wish I knew the answer to that one," said Ms. Dickinson.

"Is that just so you can write more articles about Rolland?" asked Kevin.

I could see Ms. Hoffman wanted to crown him for asking that, and so did I.

"Yes, I would like the opportunity to write another article about so fascinating a musician," said the critic, apparently thinking the rude question was justified.

"Do you think you could survive another interview with Rolland?" Kevin asked.

"Well, that is another question of vast implications, isn't it?"

"Can you tell us what it was like, trying to talk to Rolland and get information about him?" I asked.

"Yes," Ms. Dickinson replied. "I believe I am an authority on that particular subject."

As a journalist, I must forge the right contacts and maintain them. The best contacts are not necessarily the most prominent figures in the field you are working in. Rather, the people to seek out most assiduously are those who are in what you could call a "clearing house position." That is, those people who work at the crossroads where established celebrities fall and new talent rises. it is contacts such as these who give a journalist a scoop a step or two ahead of the others. One of my most valuable contacts of this variety for several years was Benjamin Vander Velder. It might surprise you to hear that name in connection with Rolland Fletcher. My guess is that if you have just visited with Kevin McIntyre, you have heard an unfavorable comment or two about him. Well, it is not for me to judge the merits of this man, but to tell you of his role in my becoming the journalist who first brought the name of Rolland Fletcher into print. I will tell you how it happened.

It had become customary for me to meet with Benjamin Vander Velder over lunch at the Palmer House roughly once a month. This habit had nothing to do with any personal like or dislike of each other. The reason for the custom was simple: the composer-in-residence of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra was the one who examined scores by emerging composers hopeful of becoming a sensational "discovery" of that orchestra. If by any chance, a genius had turned up, then the journalist who had lunch with the composer-in-residence would be the first to know.

At this particular meeting with Benjamin, however, there was nothing about the man's demeanor to suggest that he had made a sensational discovery. On the contrary, he looked out of sorts to a much greater extent than I had ever observed of him before. My first guess as to the cause of his disgruntled disposition was that Kevin McIntyre had just explained why his newest symphonic work was not, in spite of his position, of the caliber desired for a world premiere. Although I kept my opinions to myself as long as his music was on the drawing board, the Maestro had all my sympathy on that one. I suspected that some element of his private life had eroded his musical imagination.

Well, the reason for Benjamin's frowning countenance came out quickly enough. Kevin McIntyre had just foisted a score on him and all but named this composer to be the featured young performer at the next summer Festival at Lake Winnebago before he, the composer-in-residence had seen a note that this young man had written! Benjamin went on to explain that the great conductor showed every symptom of having gone totally bonkers. Benjamin even wondered out loud to me if the Maestro, married man that he was, had allowed himself to be besotted by an adolescent male. Either that, or Kevin McIntyre was so enamored of his friend Darrell Stewart, teacher of the perpetrator of this score, that he was instantly won over by anybody that Darrell Stewart himself had a crush on. I realize that these suggestions must sound offensive to you, but a journalist does not get through more than a day or two at best without hearing such things from and about the best people. In any case, Benjamin could only explain his perplexity over the Maestro's approbation of a score that was patent nonsense. Benjamin then proceeded to inform me that Marguerite Toland had just scheduled a private debut recital for this young performer at her conservatory. Perhaps it would be wise of me to go. I would have the opportunity to hear the charlatan for myself and I could then expose Kevin McIntyre's perfidy to the music public.

So it was that I was among those seated in a plush chair in the living room of the Toland mansion which Marguerite had inherited and converted for her musical purposes. Benjamin Vander Velder winked at me as I sat down, looking every inch of a man who has just set a trap he knows will not fail. I mentally sharpened by journalistic knives as Marguerite briefly introduced the musicians. When this slender boy with atrocious posture and dressed in an outfit a gypsy wouldn't have stolen came out, I almost felt as if a sacrificial victim had been placed in my lap. It had to remind myself that it was the folly of Kevin McIntyre that I was called upon to expose, not the shortcomings of a boy who had been made a front by his elders. When two children even smaller than Rolland came in after him, I began to wonder if Marguerite had stooped to the level of a children's amateur hour. Rolland immediately demonstrated his trait of insolent bravado by announcing that the three of them were about to play a sextet. He went on to explain his novel concepts of music in such a way that I had not the least idea of what to expect of it. Already, I was beginning to sense that I was in for an uncommon experience.

As soon as the music started, I knew that what I was hearing was sure to prove newsworthy in the near future, but newsworthy in what way? This cocky child was showing none of the flaws typical of an overwrought adolescent spreading his growing pains over music manuscript paper. There was much teasing with melodies that could have been stolen from Tchaikovsky and bits of ragtime mixed in with atonal episodes and topped off with passages that obviously shipped in from some other galaxy. I looked about the room, noting carefully the reactions of those present. Nobody seemed indifferent to the music. Some were perplexed, a few such as Benjamin Vander Velder showed contempt, but others, not least the patron of the fine arts Lydia Barlow, seemed intrigued or even moved by the strange musical brew cooked up by this young man. When strong feelings are roused, as they are roused by Fletcher's music, then interest in what is written about that music is sure to be high. Critical reviews of it were sure to be read and talked about. Therefore, I noted, as best I could, the stylistic mannerisms so that I could describe them when the time came.

After the concert, I received quick confirmation about my surmises concerning the audience's reaction. Lydia Barlow expressed her appreciation of Fletcher's composition so effusively that you could have heard her back in Chicago. Although Ms. Barlow is more emotional than articulate with her opinions, an emotional response counts for much when a new composer is being presented to the world. When Benjamin Vander Velder spouted off about the score's total lack of focus, I could see the storms of controversy brewing! He talked to me as if he had me in his bag, so to speak, but he was quite wrong about that. Now that I had followed up his tip, I knew I would not need him again and that I could safely alienate him if it served my purposes to do so. Moreover, if this child prodigy proved successful, Vander Velder's career in Chicago was over.

I tried several times to get Rolland Fletcher's attention that evening but failed every time. I began to get the feeling that he could conjure somebody at will to take him by an arm and steer him towards another well-wisher every time I got near him. Meanwhile, seeing Matthew Taylor sitting by himself, violin in hand and a pastry in the other, I decided to coax a word or two out of him that might enrich a story down the line. I began by telling the boy how much I enjoyed his playing. He nodded slightly, but otherwise, did not react to me. Wondering if he had heard me, I repeated myself. Matthew interrupted me with a gentle, but firm hold of my wrist. I could see that the look in his eyes was alive with gratitude, but still he spoke not a word.

"Do you understand English?" I asked him.

The little violinist smiled and nodded vigorously.

"Well, can you speak?"

In answer, Matthew plucked an odd-sounding chord on the violin with his free hand. Just then, Cynthia Harwood sat down next to Matthew and so I went through the same routine with her, but with the same results.

"Do you mean to say that neither of you can talk?" I asked.

Both musicians burst out laughing at what they perceived as my stupidity. It was at that moment that Rolland Fletcher came within my grasp for the one and only time that evening.

"Mr. Fletcher," I greeted him, "do you have the gift of speech?"

"I am endowed with words stirred together from the primordial vibrations of the Cosmic Lyre," he replied, helpfully.

"I am so glad that it is possible to talk to one of you," I replied.

Fletcher frowned rather fiercely and neither Matthew nor Cynthia appeared pleased with me, either.

"Are you implying that my partners in crime as well as music lack communication skills?" he asked me.

"Not really, it's just that--"

"It's just that they communicate, but not in ways that people like you can understand."

With that, the entire Orphic Trio was instantly relocated and Herbert Schoffenhauer, agent for many musicians, was at my side.

"Some performance, eh?" he asked me.

Talking to a man like Herbert Schoffenhauer is like discussing the time of day to a reptile, but I was prepared to be polite in the off chance that he would be important to me.

"That was some performance, all right," I agreed. "However, if you have signed them up already, your opinion might be compromised."

"I haven't signed them yet," he replied, "but we have an appointment. My opinion might be compromised but yours isn't. Perhaps you and I can agree that we have three young people who can cater to those who need a dose of novelty in their musical diet."

"Yes, I suppose we can agree on that."

Since you have read my article, you know all about the Lake Winnebago Fine Arts Festival where Fletcher, Taylor and Harwood made their debuts. To this day, I think Fletcher staged that series of chaotic events, first for his non-arrival and then for his dramatic entry just to add interesting material for any news article about him and the festival. Once again, audience reactions made it clear that opinions were strong enough to generate much energy for my own write-up of the festival. I got quite an earful after every concert and could have filled volumes with quotable quotes from audience members in addition to the ones I included in my article.

When I tried to get a hold of Fletcher long enough to get some semblance of an interview out of him, I quickly found out how elusive this young celebrity and his accomplices could be. I was not the only victim of this talent. It seems that if anybody tried to grab a hold of Fletcher to socialize with him when he wasn't up to it, he would pull off a Houdini act. I particularly remember seeing Benjamin Vander Vender giving Fletcher a rundown on what was wrong with his music one minute, and then seeing him juggling four punch glasses the next with no one to talk to. If curious would-be groupies tried to ambush Fletcher before rehearsals, he and his friends would just happen to appear from an unexpected direction. One time I could have sworn they climbed through the trap door of the concert stage to get away from somebody who was lying in wait for him at the door. As for me, the time I thought I had Fletcher cornered for sure, I opened my mouth to ask my first question only to see Fletcher waving at me from the cab of a pick-up truck while his that young woman who served as his chauffeur drove away at a breakneck speed. I really don't know what there was between that young woman and Rolland. I don't see how she could have stopped at being a race car driver manque serving as a chauffeur and the business manager she was rumored to be. She seemed to feel called upon to run interference for Rolland at the drop of a hat, and the two of us never developed a liking one for the other.

In my vain pursuit of Rolland Fletcher, I noticed that not only did he find creative ways of disappearing before the eyes of people who thought they were talking to him, but that he and his two colleagues would pop out of nowhere to sit and spend time with elderly women, serious adolescents or whomever they seemed interested in talking to. I consoled myself for my failure to get an interview with Fletcher by interviewing some of these people who had been graced with a conversation with the budding genius. It seems that in contrast with his rude behavior towards so many, he found a way to come across as understanding and sympathetic to some of these people who opened themselves up to him. Far from running away from Lydia Barlow, Fletcher was constantly sliding up to the rich old lady with clever remarks about music, which shows he knew which side his toast was buttered on.

It was only well after this festival, and after Fletcher and his companions had begun to achieve some notoriety, that I secured my one and only full interview with Fletcher and I owe that to his agent threatening to cut him off without a farthing if he didn't do it. Even then, Fletcher used his imagination to torment an interviewer in a unique way. On the morning of this great day, I received an e-mail from that woman, informing me that Rolland Fletcher had a most important appointment with the porpoises at the Brookfield Zoo, but that due to the multi-track minds of the porpoises, he could field questions while he interviewed them. When I reached the abode of these wondrous water mammals, I still had to look all over for him as it did not occur to me that Rolland Fletcher and his companions would be in the under section, meditating on the underwater swimming of the dolphins. That woman was sitting on the next bench down from the three members of the Orphic Trio, sitting straight and tense, her hands in the pockets of her leather motorcycle jacket. She gave me one huffy look and turned back to the porpoises. Fletcher did not allow me to ask any questions until I had seen the porpoises make an infinity of underwater laps while Fletcher commented on the musical rhythm of the porpoises' motion through the water, culminating in their rise to the surface for a breath of air. Meanwhile, Harwood and Taylor kept their eyes on the porpoises, totally mesmerized by the spectacle. I then was forced to sit through an entire show where the porpoises were put their stunts before Fletcher would deign to receive my questions. As he gave me what answers it suited him to make, not once did Fletcher look away from the porpoises and face me as he spoke. To look at him, you would never know he was in the process of giving an interview for a major music magazine.

As you know, the strange career of Rolland Fletcher and the Orphic Trio came to an end with the infamous Chicago premiere of The Child Jesus in the Temple. I followed the little troupe from city to city, taking in each performance and struggling to understand the work itself and the audience reaction to it. Both my puzzlement and my speculations have been expressed in print and I believe you have seen them for yourself. Granted entrance to the dress rehearsal, I felt that I was sitting at the knot tying all strands of the universe into one at its center as the last notes sung to "my Father's business" died away. But I think this feeling of unity was achieved by singing to the choir. When it came to the public performances, it was quite apparent that Rolland Fletcher had found most of the buttons that send peoples' religious convictions or lack thereof into high gear. Hymns such as Rock of Ages, are as sacred as the Bible itself and anything that can be construed as a mockery of these hymns is taken as an affront on the Almighty Himself. The chorus of the temple elders rendered absurd the whole liturgical tradition of the Church. The parody of contemporary church music in the caravan chorus was unmistakable to many, and the inadequacies of Jesus and Mary showed up traditional family values. Usually, such challenges to the religious establishment come to pass and they pass unnoticed. Somehow, Rolland Fletcher managed to catch the attention of many.

After the dress rehearsal of The Child Jesus in the Temple, everybody was struck dumb. So strong was the shield of adoring silence around Rolland Fletcher that it was not possible to come near him, let alone ask him any questions. After the performance at Wabash Methodist Church in Chicago, there was much too much noise and confusion to get near the composer. However, after the world premiere in Boston, there was a window of opportunity to catch Rolland Fletcher for a fleeting moment and I took advantage of it to ask him: "Were you out to rattle some cages at any cost?" Fletcher gave me a stern look as if he were the Lord himself before he answered: "Thou has said it."

At the time that the court system of Cook County veiled the truth of the malady afflicting a certain group of children, it seemed possible that the this truth might be revealed plainly in some other medium. It would be important, however, for the truth to be given a context that would guarantee its further concealment. For such a purpose, what better medium could one find than a tabloid paper. First of all: who else would be willing to print a story of such a monstrosity and present it as true? Second of all: readers do not believe anything that is printed in these tabloids. What better way could one find for keeping the secret?

Right on target, one finds the following headline in the Oct. 18, 1999 issue of the National Telescope:

Accompanying the large type of this headline is a black-and-white photo of a tearful mother holding a baby whose skin has been tinted green in the photograph.

"I thought it was a baby from another planet!" "Where is my real baby?" were among the call outs on the front page.

The article goes on to recount the tragedy with the melodrama typical of such papers. All during the mother's pregnancy, the doctors said everything was fine. Everything was happening on schedule. The DNA checks showed no signs of any birth defect. All indications pointed to the imminent birth of a healthy baby girl. But when the day of delivery came, the result was not what was expected.

Doreen Monaghan expected the nurse to bring the baby to her. Her doctor came into the room instead, his arms empty of the baby he was supposed to have delivered..

"Where's my baby?" Doreen cried.

"You may not want to see your baby," said Dr. Tavistock.

"What do you mean?" cried Doreen.

"If you see the baby for yourself, you will see what I mean."

Doreen demanded to see the baby for herself. Finally, the nurse gave in to the mother's importunate pleas and brought the baby into her room. Confronted with the sight the doctor and nurse wished to spare her, Doreen screamed until they took the baby away.

The doctor who delivered the baby told us, under the condition of anonymity that: "the laws of nature have been broken. We no longer know which end is up in the fields of biology and genetics. Nothing in the chemistry of the skin accounts for the color never before seen in humanity. Nothing in the DNA accounts for it, either. Nothing in all the facts of nature known to us today accounts for it." When asked if there might be a law of nature or two not yet discovered by the scientific community, the doctor answered: "I suppose there might be an unknown law at work here in the sense that there are flying saucers that haven't been reported to the Air Force."

THREE DOZEN GREEN BABIES ARE HIDDEN ONE HUNDRED MILES FROM CHICAGO!

The old Merivale School for the Blind on the edge of Greville, IL, an empty building for ten years, is once again hopping with activity. What this activity might be, however, is hidden from the general public as a high wall has been built to surround the schoolyard. A pedestrian passing by can hear the sound of children playing in the schoolyard, but nobody is given as much as a glimpse of the children themselves. Who are these children, and who takes care of them?

The dramatic answer to that question was given by a young woman who informed us that she had tried her vocation as a nun in a religious order and was then assigned to this enclosed school in Greville. In her exclusive interview she spoke of the emotional trauma of stepping through the gates and being met by a swarm of toddlers, all of whom had green skin. She explained that: "although I have worked with black children and Hispanic children and I am as free from racial prejudice as a white woman can be, I just can't stand holding green babies in my arms. There has to be something wrong with them that the doctors aren't telling us. I don't know what is going to happen to me because I have worked with them as long as I have." When asked if the green babies have caused a crisis of faith for her, Ms. Merritt replied: "Yes, it is a crisis of faith. I haven't been able to go to Mass for weeks now. When I go to Mass, I spend the whole asking God why He made those babies green, and God doesn't answer me."

After reading the two articles quoted above, I traveled to Greville where the State School for the Blind converted into a convent\orphanage was alleged to be. The building and its surrounding tall wooden fence are where the National Telescope said they were. There were no signs, however, of any children living there. In fact, there were no indications that anybody lives there anymore. No delivery trucks come to the door of this building. The people in town all say that the school has long been abandoned and that no further use of it is foreseen.

I visited the chancellor's office for the Archdiocese of Chicago and asked them about the convent out in Greville. Fr. Wilkerson said he was new at his job but he was willing to make inquiries. Two or three days later, Fr. Wilkerson called me up and politely told me that diocesan records have no trace of a convent in Greville under the authority of the Roman Catholic Church. He suggested that the convent might have been part of a schismatic group that had broken away from the church, or that it might have been part of another church that has religious orders, such as the Episcopal Church.

At the other extreme from tabloid newspapers, there is one other type of periodical that offers evidence of the condition that resulted in the court ruling I am investigating. I mean, of course, the highly specialized type of journal whose readership consists of the more academically inclined doctors and geneticists. Not being well-versed in the field myself, I found these periodicals daunting, but if you know what you are looking for, you can find it.

Particularly curious is the following boxed note printed in a prominent place at the back of the Nov. 25, 1999 issue of the Gynecology Review:

Three instances of a new birth defect have been recorded in Chicago area hospitals within the past month. Causes of this defect are unknown. Pre-birth DNA analyses gave no indication of this defect. Dr. Nolan Tavistock of Malone Memorial Hospital in Chicago is heading research into this phenomenon. Any doctor, nurse, or midwife who encounters a birth defect not previously registered in the Manual of Birth Defects, is strongly advised to contact Dr. Tavistock immediately, and Dr. Tavistock will make all arrangements for the care of the child and research into the condition.

I think it worth pointing out at this point that Dr. Nolan Tavistock, resident gynecologist at Malone Memorial Hospital in Chicago, is also listed as a trustee for the Mutant Children's Foundation.

I made every effort to have an interview with Dr. Tavistock, but with no success. The first two times I contacted Dr. Tavistock's office, I was politely told that the doctor was out of town. In my third phone call, I was pointedly asked what my business with Dr. Tavistock was. If he wasn't a gynecologist, I might have been able to worm my way in as a patient, but of course I could not do that for obvious reasons. Therefore, I stooped to a different ruse. I introduced myself as Dr. Nedgar Sherman and said I had just delivered a baby born with a birth defect the like of which I had never seen before. The receptionist asked me several cautious questions, none of which asked me to say outright what the difficulty was. Unfortunately, I was not as well prepared to make this call as I should have been. One of my answers must have betrayed my ignorance and the receptionist hung up on me.

Proceed to Portion the 14th

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