Charles: How did you get here?

Logan: I'm not sure. I mean, I know that I was "caused" to be here, and I know by whom this was brought about, more or less, but the details - I suspect I may have been "born" in that biological compost heap in your storm cellar. In any event -

Andra: That abortion?

Logan: Not far from the mark. More like afterbirth. I woke up floating near it. Nearly made me toss my cookies.

Max: Born in it? In your clothes?

Logan: I am what I am, Buster, and I didn't come out half-baked. I travel light, but I'm glad they afforded me a little dignity. They even provided a crossword puzzle for entertainment while I waited for you to wake up. I looked in on you and decided to leave you alone. Must've been a Lulu of a party you had.

Charles: Wait a minute, wait a minute - you say you were born in that thing? How can you be Logan Styles then?

Logan: I was put together exactly as I existed the first time. DNA is the same. Same body structure, same experiences. Same personality, emotions, chemistry, ad infinitum. Hence -

Max: That's not possible. You don't get all that from DNA anyhow.

Logan: I didn't say it all came from DNA. They somehow got my - essence, my personality. Said they tapped my subconscious before I died, while I slept. I don't remember that, but all my other memories are there, my childhood experiences, my marriage, my daughter, my campaigns for congress, my -

Charles: Where are they? How did they do it?

Logan: I don't know where they are. All around us, maybe. Ubiquitous. They're very advanced. Very. Their culture - their civilization, if you can call it that - is over a billion years old. We've been around a few seconds in comparison.

Charles: I don't believe any of this.

Logan: I'm here, so it doesn't matter what you believe. How about the logistics? A few days ago, my friend, you were about to die. The nearest help was months away. You were delivered from the valley of death. By a rescue team? Where's my ship? Look out the window. There's no way I can be here, I grant that, but I am, and that can't be explained away. I challenge you to find a better answer. Meanwhile, if you'd accept proof by miracle, I'd be happy to turn your water to wine if I could. Or better, gin.

Max: You say they made you? They put you together? If that's so, then you're just a copy, a construct.

Logan: Here's the question you want: Is there any detectable difference between the man before you and the man who was Logan Styles? Any observable difference whatever? If not, then a distinction need not be made. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, talks like a duck, then, by God, it must be a duck. Physicists are fond of saying that if there's no observable difference between two phenomena, then it's -

Charles: There's no way we can compare you to the real Logan Styles. He's dead. Nothing can bring him back, no matter how much philosophical blather you spout. The fact is, you're an impostor by definition.

Andra: Did you fix our powercan?

Logan: Not me, no, I wouldn't know how, but I presume they -

Myself: And the poison. Why didn't we die? What did they do to us?

Logan: I don't know, little girl, I have to assume -

Charles: And where are they? Are they little green men, hiding out in a spaceship nearby?

Logan: Not exactly, they don't do spaceships anymore; I mean they're here and not here at the same -

Andra: And what's the point? Why did they put you here in -

Logan: Just a goddamn minute. I can't finish one question before you're spitting another -

Max: We're not getting anywhere. This question and answer format isn't -

Logan: Shut up, Junior. I'm gonna tell the story MY way.

"The last thing I remember is my vision closing in."

We're in the playroom, sprawled out over the volume of the cabin, the lights low at Logan's request. He's on his third bourbon - I counted. He doesn't seem drunk, but certainly mellow, and the words flow out like smooth, polished gravel.

In the dim illumination he appears ten to twenty years younger. He's not tall - around a hundred and seventy-five centimeters I'd guess - but compact, except that he has a large upper body, a rib cage that makes him look barrel chested and physically substantial.

"It wasn't terribly uncomfortable. Just losing consciousness - fading away slowly without knowing it. I'd set up a moderate leak so the pressure didn't go all at once. I just got hypoxic around twenty thousand feet pressure altitude or so, and passed out at thirty or forty. It was in the bay of the shuttle, with the doors closed.

"Almost wish I'd let Micki stay, but it wouldn't have been fair. She was a great woman - I think she loved me. Well, hmmm, I probably outlasted her, didn't I. Rotten timing, the way things work out. First I'm too old, and now I'm too young. I suppose she's long gone?" Logan looks at me quizzically. I shake my head, I've never heard of her.

"You know, we had only met for this shuttle flight. I was the first President in space and she just happened to be on the crew. Although, heh, I suppose they did pick a pretty one for the Prez." He smiles wistfully. "She had your eyes, Andra, bright green, almost dayglow, but the hair was red.

"We got along from the beginning. She was ... we ... might have gotten married eventually. In fact ..." There's a slight catch in his voice. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly side to side.

"At least we had a few hours by ourselves. But I sent her back. Locked her out. The rest of the crew had already transferred, along with that traitorous Hatchcombe. I hope the history books have tarred that bastard.

"Micki and I were in our suits in the air lock; I got her there on a pretext. She'd just opened the outer door, and I gave her a little shove. Before she could do anything, I unhooked her tether from the inside anchor and clipped it to one outside the door. Last thing I heard her say over the radio as she was drifting out toward the end of that fifty foot line was, 'You rotten fucking son of a bitch. You bastard. You won't get away with this.' She was twisting and turning as she drifted away, like a diver trying to save a spoiled dive by flailing her arms, trying to jerk herself around to grab the line and pull back in. She was pissed. That was the first time I'd seen her red-headed temper, and it was spectacular. I closed the door, went back inside, and watched them pick her up. She had pulled in, and was hanging on to a handhold with one hand while she pounded the shit out of the door with the other. Two of the crew from the other shuttle came over and had to pry her away from it. She was really pissed." Logan chuckles. "That's my girl. By God, she did love me.

"Well, then, there was a dilemma on my hands. Or rather, they had the dilemma - my course was clear-cut. They had to decide whether to get out of there before I filled them with holes, or to stay and try some fool end run to get me. I had Hatchcombe's revolver - a nice, hefty S & W 38 - and I told them I'd use it to punch holes all over their shuttle if they gave me any problem. They'd look like a sponge. Well, I didn't know if that would work or not, and I didn't intend to try anyhow - I wouldn't hurt Micki or the rest of my people.

"One of them had plugged into my intercom from outside, so they wouldn't have to use the radio. Tried to talk me into giving up. Told me they'd be lenient if I came peacefully. Lenient to the President of the United States. Lenient! Do you get that? They were going to forgive my ass.

"I told 'em no thanks. There's nothing more embarrassing to an illegitimate regime after a coup than a live legitimate President. They'd find a way for me to have an accident, either aboard the shuttle or soon after. I told 'em to piss themselves. I'd do it my way. There's nothing that takes the sting out of death like self righteousness."

Logan pauses for a sip; then continues with a faint, sarcastically angelic smile. "Not that there was a big rush. There might have been a turnaround. Then I'd be welcomed back with open arms. Headlines: 'TRIUMPHANT PRESIDENT RETURNS FROM SPACE. WORLD REJOICES. PEACE ON EARTH.'

"Well, it didn't happen. I listened to commercial radio; BBC and Canadian news since I didn't trust the blather coming from our own stations. I listened for three days, long after the other shuttle had departed, with Micki and all of them, until the life support was almost gone. It sounded like they were going to make it stick. The bastards were getting away with their coup.

"Peace on Earth? I thought. No. Well then, Piss on Earth. If they can do without me, I can do without them. I think my state of mind was - yes - bitter. I know that's not becoming, especially for a President, but the mind goes through an awful turmoil when it knows it will soon cease to exist. By damn, it is terrible, as I guess you full well know.

"I thought about using Hatchcombe's revolver. It would've been quick and painless but too messy. You have to imagine the splatter, all that blood free-floating everywhere. Everything would be covered. Not to mention the indignity of having a big hole in your head.

"I thought about various other ways, but finally decided to depart like a true spaceman. I got into the suit, closed the bay doors, and went out into the un pressurized bay, behind the lab module. I fumbled with the suit, trying to find a valve to let air out. I don't remember that the instructors ever said anything about letting the air out. It was always in that concerned them. I tried to take off one of the gloves, but the pressure at the joint made that impossible. Hmm. The designers had done a number on that suit.

"Finally, I used a knife on an elbow joint. Even that was hard. It must have taken five minutes to get the point through before I heard the first little hiss. Then it got louder while I worked the point around until the hole was big enough.

"It's not too bad, being dead. Been to parties that were worse. It's like sleeping, except that you're not supposed to wake up and there aren't any dreams. Actually, if you're being re-cycled, the 'being dead' part is like the fade-out between scenes. There's no sense of time. For instance, I've been gone now for - how many years? - nearly sixty? Tempus fugit. But it was instantaneous. Just a few days ago I was in the Kennedy. Just a few moments after my exeunt, I was - someplace else - sixty years later.

"Death ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's certainly not floating around in the clouds with harp and halo. Anyhow, I don't know what it's like if you're not being recycled.

"All I can say is that I have the experiences and memories of Logan Styles. I had his childhood, I lived his romances, read his books, married his wife, raised his child, and worked his career. Heh, heh, and drank his liquor, too. If the soul is the sum of experiences, and most people except religious fanatics would agree with that - if the soul is molded by your experiences and memories, by what you saw from your unique perspective, what you felt, what you smelled and tasted and heard and were injured by, and moved by - well ..." he shakes his head. "These are not the same molecules that belonged to Logan Styles, I'll grant that," he turns the fingers of both hands in towards his chest. "The original body is moldering somewhere, in some grave. Did they at least mark it, or is the poor bastard anonymous?" He laughs.

"I don't have the identical physical stuff in here; the same atoms or molecules, or cells, or - hell - maybe not even the same physical structure. Maybe they made some changes.

"But I know what I DO have," he sweeps his eyes across us in challenge. "What I have is the soul of Logan Styles." He glares. "I lived his life. I had his dreams and successes and failures. I died his death." He puts his fingertips slowly to the sides of his head, patting gently. "He's in here. I am him. He is me." The eyes flash. "I ain't going to grovel like some nervous candidate trying out for a goddamned part that's already mine. If that's what you expect, you can take your doubts and shove them sideways up your ass."

His anger, punctuated with chopping hand motions, is directed at my husband; and to Charles's everlasting credit - I've never known him to refuse such bait - he doesn't reply. Nor do I think it would be safe to do so. Even though Logan is an older man, he projects a sense of physical intimidation. We are being read the riot act.

The anger recedes as quickly as it built, and he flashes a gregarious smile first at Charles and then the rest of us. "So there's my story. At least part of it. But there's a little more to tell."