With a Hey Ho, the Wind and the Rain

(With additional Dialogue by William Shakespeare)

Atherton, Wisconsin

December 1959

Prologue:

Enwrapped in a silvered sheath of displaced time, Sam Beckett arrives somewhen; a utilitarian corridor painted in pale blue, where serried ranks of matching doors parade beside a river of youth and enthusiasm - and where the sound of a sudden shriek cuts through the overwhelming hubbub of general conversation. Sam turns; startled both by his arrival and the sound, which draws the attention of others in the throng. A short step behind where he stands is a bank of lockers and pressed up against that is a pert young lady wearing a red and white sweater, a short frilled skirt and white ankle socks. She’s the one screaming - a high pitched hysterical sound of panic and distress. Lying in front of her is a red and white pom-pom, which appears to be moving in a fitful, uncoordinated manner. And - further down the corridor - a group of young men in smart red and white jumpers stand laughing with almost equal hysteria. Sam frowns, moving forward through the crowd - which makes way for him with almost magical response - and the young men take to their heels, leaving the hysterical girl, along with several others of the same age and in a similar state of dress, still staring at the moving object. The time traveller’s frown deepens; he dips his hand to scoop up the offending pom-pom and by doing so reveals the mechanical crawl of the huge and hairy model spider that lies beneath.

Several more of the girls scream. Sam simply sighs.

"Oh boy ..."

Act 1. Scene 1: And what should I do in Illyria?

"These practical jokes are getting beyond a joke," the school principal observed testily, staring out of his office window as he did so. Sam nodded a suspect agreement; he’d confiscated the spider, comforted the cheerleader and dispatched the gawking hordes to their classrooms - having figured out that he was a teacher and not one of the students and that he was also a she. It might have been the dangle of earrings that had dropped the the immediate hint, but the fact that he was clad in a dark blue wool dress and a matching waisted jacket rather gave the game away ...

This discovery was not as disconcerting as it once had been, particularly as his host was wearing a pair of low heeled and sensible shoes.

Thank god for that.

It’s the late fifties, I think. There wasn’t a pair of jeans in sight out there - and some of the girls looked like they’d just stepped out of a production of Grease ...

"I don’t need to ask who’s responsible," the man at the window continued, turning to smile comfortingly at the still teary victim of the joke. "Rowdy Lynch and his associates. Am I right, Miss Allister?"

Sam didn’t know if this was right or not, but he nodded anyway. According to the name plate on the door the man’s name was Parkinson. His appeared to be Miss Alister.

Or is that Allister with two ‘l’s? Damnit, Al. Why aren’t you here yet?

"I thought so. Well, don’t you worry, Holly. I will deal with this. You just run along to class."

"Thanks, Mr Parkinson," the girl acknowledged meekly. "I’m sorry I made such a scene, Miss Allister, but - "

"That’s all right, Holly," Sam interrupted warmly. "I was a little taken aback myself."

Holly managed a shaky smile, and turned to leave - just as an intangible figure in a cream suit and a gold and blue flecked shirt stepped straight though the principal’s door.

"Whoa," Al Calavicci remarked with admiration, his head turning as Holly reached past him for the doorhandle, totally oblivious to his presence. "That’s one cute patootie." He half followed her out, his image bisected by the closing door, only to be drawn back by an impatient growl.

"Al ..."

Sam managed to turn the growl into a cough, since Parkinson gave him a concerned glance. The hologram grinned.

"Make that two cute patootie’s," he remarked flippantly, strolling across to stand at his friend’s shoulder and look him up and down approvingly. Sam risked a brief grimace of irritation in his direction, well aware that he was being teased.

Don’t stand there and admire me Al. Give me some help here ...

"You’d better let me talk to Lynch," the principal decided, frowning at the grotesque arachnid that sat on his desk. He was a lean faced patrician, one of those meticulously neat characters who somehow always manage to look as if they’ve just stepped out of a shop window. Or in his case, a tailor’s fitting room. His office reflected the look, everything in it polished to perfection and not a paper placed out of line. The spider clearly did not belong. "Aren’t you supposed to be at the rehearsal?"

Am I?

The hologram had tugged the handlink from his pocket and was studying it with his usual attentiveness. "He’s right, Sam." Al announced blithely. "You’re supposed to be in the school hall right now."

"Of course, Mr Parkinson." Sam climbed hastily to his feet. "I’m sorry, I just - "

"That’s all right," Parkinson dismissed both the approaching apology and its volunteer with a wave of his hand. "I quite understand."

Outside the office the school corridor was now an empty artery. Murmured voices were its only occupant; the soft background noise of classes in progress. Sam paused for a moment to look at his company expectantly. "So?" he questioned. "Where am I?"

"This is Illyria, lady," was the instant comeback, delivered with dramatic emphasis and a decided twinkle lurking in intangible eyes.

What?

"Aal - " The traveller’s growl was impatient, but not without a hint of affection in it; the hologram grinned.

"It’s December 1959, Sam, and your name is - Elizabeth May Allister," he announced, waving Sam on down the corridor. "You’re twenty six, and you’re the substitute assistant English teacher at Eleanor Roosevelt High, in Atherton, Wisconsin. You’re also now fifteen minutes late for the next rehearsal of the school’s production of Twelfth Night that you’re supposed to be helping to direct."

Twelfth Night? Shakespeare ...?

"But I hate English Literature," was the instant - and heart sinking - realisation.

"Well - maybe," his friend agreed a little reluctantly, "but - this is theatre, kid. You know - the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd ..."

Sam threw him an oh come on look as the two of the turned the corner. "So what am I here to do?"

Al was momentarily lost in reminiscence; he jumped a little at the question. "Mmm? Oh - ah - " He checked the handlink, which immediately squealed in protest. "Well, that’s simple enough."

"What?" Sam was conscious of approaching the doors to the hall. If he didn’t get his answer soon he was going to have to conduct this conversation around other people, which was never easy at the best of times. In front of a class of High School students it was going to be downright impossible.

"Well, according to this, there was some kind of accident the day of the dress rehearsal. One of the kids was badly hurt and lost his football scholarship as a result. Vega thinks that all you have to do is prevent the accident from happening in the first place."

"That all?"

"Odds of ninety percent." The hologram demonstrated the fact by flashing the handlink’s screen in Sam’s direction. "Of course," he added immediately afterwards, "we don’t have any details on the accident yet ..."

"Oh great." The reaction was heartfelt. "So just how long do I have until the dress rehearsal?"

Al checked. His face fell a little. "Well," he admitted reluctantly. "Today’s Tuesday - and the first performance is scheduled for Saturday - so the dress rehearsal’s Friday. Which gives you three days to go ... But you can cope with Shakespeare for that long, Sam. Stick to the text - but give the kids a little room for free expression and all that other stuff. I’ll help."

"You?" Sam queried, pausing outside the hall doors to eye his companion with amused suspicion. "Help direct Shakespeare?" Al looked vaguely hurt.

"Just because - " he began to say, but was interrupted by the opening of the nearest door, which swung right though his non-existent frame. A young face appeared around the edge of the door, complete with freckles and pigtails; a girl of thirteen or fourteen at first guess - just old enough to know she was growing up, but not yet old enough to make anything of it.

"Oh - Miss Allister." She looked relieved. "There you are. We’ve already started." Her expression creased down into a thirteen year old’s pout of disgust. "And Helen’s hamming it up dreadfully. As usual."

"This is Mindy - Bailey," Al discovered, consulting the handlink. "It’s her brother that gets counted out by the accident. Cute kid."

Sam allowed himself an inner grin. Yeah. Real cute. I bet she practices in the mirror back home ...

He smiled encouragingly at Mindy, whose own smile resurfaced in response. Sure enough, the action produced dimples. The inner grin got wider too.

I’m gonna have to watch her.

He was beginning to think that this might be going to be an easy Leap for once. Nothing too athletic, no one shooting at him - and a nice simple job to do. Just keep an eye on a few kids ...

He waved the youngster back through the open door and followed her into the hall. Al walked in beside him - straight through the doorjamb and its supporting pillar

"Whence came you, sir?"

The first voice was full of deliberated emphasis, implying fluttered eyelashes and sweet flattery.

"I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech."

The second voice was even more angelic, but the words were delivered with hesitant effect, and carried no interpretation at all. They came out practically in a monotone.

"No. No. No." The interruption was pained "Sarah, please. I know you can do this. You gave me such a good audition. Take it from your entrance again."

The hall was much as Sam had expected it to be; bare polished board floors and an excuse for a stage at one end. High windows paraded around the walls, revealing the grey light of a winter’s day. But the rehearsal wasn’t taking place on the stage. The group of would be actors were gathered in a circle in the centre of the hall, their focus a barely defined patch of floor. Two girls occupied the centre of it; one was seated, her blond hair brushed out in a neat bob, her pale blue skirt billowing out around her and her matching jumper clinging to every line of her torso. The other was standing self-consciously beside her, her hair a tangle of dark curls above the distinctive red and white of the school’s cheerleader uniform and the inevitable pair of short white socks. Both girls were pretty, the first in a carefully cultivated manner, the second with more natural effect. Sam grinned and glanced sideways, expecting his hologram to be eyeing them both up with appreciation - but for once Al didn’t even appear to have noticed them. He was staring though. Straight at the owner of the third voice - the man who was standing right at the edge of the makeshift area.

"Oh my - god," the Commodore breathed, sounding decidedly taken aback. "Mr Kinnison?"

"Now think about this," the teacher was saying, crossing over to the two girls and tapping at the text in his hand. "You’ve practically barged your way in here, on nothing but cheek and determination. You’re not taking no for an answer. Let’s put a little sauce into this, shall we? And - Helen - tone it down just a little. This is the first time you’ve met."

Both girls smiled and nodded; Sarah a little shyly and Helen a little too enthusiastically for simple obedience. Sam could see why, too. Put simply, Mr Kinnison was a classic. Not tall, or even notably well built; just ruggedly handsome in the style of the time. His dark blonde hair carried just enough of a hint of wave to impart interest, and his features had a lived in look that hinted at experience and character. A man in his late thirties perhaps, sufficiently relaxed to wear his suit without the encumbrance of waistcoat or tie. He fitted it comfortably, although he gave the impression of being much better suited to uniform ...

"You know who this is, Sam?" Al had recovered from his initial shock and was walking over to take a closer look. "This is James Kinnison. Lt Commander James Kinnison." There was a note of clear admiration in his use of the man’s name, and Sam threw him a questioning look. It was enough to spur a whole slew of enthusiastic information. "He was a pilot - back in W.W.II? He was credited with one of the highest kill rates in the entire Navy before he got shot down in the Marianas Turkey shoot. Spent six days in a open liferaft before being picked up by a destroyer. Won the Navy Cross for gallantry."

That’s impressive, Sam considered, following Mindy as she re-joined the group of actors. Kinnison favoured his right leg as he retreated from the stage; not a theatrical limp but more like an awkward pause that underlay each step.

"He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five when it happened," Al was saying with more than a hint of admiration. He hadn’t, Sam realised with a vague frown, even looked at the handlink since he’d uncovered Mindy’s identity. "Sam, believe me, this is one amazing guy. And you get to work with him. Wow ..."

The frown got a little deeper. This didn’t sound like a judgement based on a brief reading of a man’s record. It was more personal than that.

"From ‘Whence came you’ please Helen," Kinnison requested, perching himself on a chair to study the action. He’d clearly caught sight of Sam’s arrival because he beckoned him over with a wearied gesture.

"I’m sorry I’m late, Mr Kinnison," the time traveller apologised sotto voce as he arrived at the man’s side. "Only - "

"I heard," was the instant interruption, backed by a small sigh. "Rowdy was boasting about it."

Rowdy was a broad built young man with square features, an equally square neck and a bored look on his face. Sam recognised several others in the hall as being in the bunch of youngsters who’d fled from the scene of the crime. One or two of them were giving him sheepish smiles.

"Mr Parkinson said he’d deal with it."

Kinnison’s smile was shaded with irony. "I’m sure he did," he growled. "Pace about a little, Sarah. Give the audience something to watch. No, no, no," he pleaded almost immediately afterwards. "Helen - this is Shakespeare. Not a laundry list. Think about what you’re saying. "

"But I don’t really understand what I’m saying," the girl protested. "And Mindy missed her cue. You’re supposed to be in this scene, brat."

Mindy stuck out her tongue in defiance. "If you stuck to the script - " she taunted. Kinnison looked pained.

"Girls, please. We have less than a week to get this right. You have to understand -"

"Go on, milord," Al encouraged from the sidelines. "You tell ‘em. Give ‘em the speech. The noble words, the poetry of life - all that richly gloried stuff."

Sam’s sideways glance was puzzled.

All that what?

Kinnison hadn’t heard him, but he looked oddly disturbed. For a moment a fire had sparked in his eyes - only to fade and leave tired resignation behind it. "Forget it," he decided, sinking back into his chair. "It’s not that important. Just give it your best shot, okay?"

"Okay," Helen and Sarah chorused, returning to their starting places. Mindy scurried across to take up a pose at Helen’s shoulder.

And Al Calavicci was staring at the play’s director with a look of total devastation written on his face. "Not important?" he echoed disbeleivingly. "But - " Disbelief folded down into a frown of utter disquiet. "Sam," the hologram demanded, "I gotta talk to you. Now."

Sam risked a shrug. He had no idea of what was going on, or even what he was supposed to be doing. Al glanced around impatiently, and his frown got deeper still. "This is important, kid."

"Oh - could you fetch out the prop box please, Miss Allister?" Kinnison suddenly asked. "You help her, Eugene."

"Aye, aye, Mr Kinnison, sir!"

Eugene was a lanky character in drainpipe trousers who owned one of those naturally lugubrious faces; one that looked utterly absurd wreathed in his enthusiastic smile. He bounded out of the crowd and waited for Sam to follow him, his broad grin signalling eagerness and the rest of his body poised for instant action. He looked a little like a misplaced marionette, about to be jerked back to its box.

Someone in the gathering giggled, but Eugene was either used to it or didn’t realise it was directed at him. Sam settled on a small frown of disapproval in the giggler’s direction before waving at the young man to lead the way. He hoped Eugene knew where the prop box was, otherwise this was going to be embarrassing for both of them.

Al hesitated at Kinnison’s shoulder, then thrust the handlink in his pocket and stalked after his friend, catching up with him in time to see Eugene vanishing into a crawl space under the stage.

"I’ll lug it out, Miss Allister," the youth was saying brightly. "Say, do you think there might be spiders under here? Big spiders?"

"Probably," Sam observed dryly, wondering if the large and hairy arachnid he’d left on Parkinson’s desk had actually been a prop - and if it’s use had been Eugene’s idea in the first place. "Take your time."

He perched himself on the edge of the stage with what he hoped was suitable decorum and tried to pretend he was watching the group gathered at the centre of the hall.

"Okay, Al," he murmured, looking straight past the man as he did so. "Talk to me."

Now that he had the chance to speak, the Commodore seemed more reluctant to do so. He groped in his pockets for the inevitable cigar and spent several seconds coaxing it into life, clearly not sure how to approach whatever was disturbing him.

"I don’t get it," he said at last, staring, like Sam, at the gathering of youngsters and the older man in their midst. "They’ve been rehearsing for weeks. And they stink."

"So?" Sam didn’t think that was so surprising. His own fuzzy recollections of High School presentations were ones of uniform awfulness - with the exceptions of concert days, where he had been star of the show ...

"So they shouldn’t. Not with Kinnison in charge. Damnit, Sam, that guy could get an Oscar winning performance out of a peach pit - at least, that’s what I used to think, anyway."

"Used to?" Again there was the implication of personal knowledge underlying the assessment. "Al? Do you know this guy?"

The hologram sighed, studying the length of his cigar before jamming it back into his mouth and chomping down on it. Hard. "Know him?" he growled a little belligerently. He tugged the cigar loose again, using it to emphasis the jab he made in Kinnison’s direction. "That’s the guy whose recommendation got me my place at Annapolis."

Oh my god ...

Sam’s reaction echoed the one Al had expressed earlier; one of startled astonishment. "You - sure?"

The hologram frowned at him. "‘Course I’m sure. I spent two damn years hanging on every word the guy said. I hated school when I was a kid, Sam. The only reason I didn’t play hooky the entire time was because I got to sit next to Susanna Varavich in Geography class. And because I could kick ass in math’s - and science. But I got the rest of my grades by doing the least I could get away with and cramming the rest. Until he came along."

He turned to consider Kinnison’s slumped shoulders and his frown went back to being one of disquiet.

"I wanted out. I wanted out real bad. But I’d no idea where I could go, or how I could get there. I was heading for the end of the runway with no lift under my wings and every chance of spending the rest of my life ploughed into the deck. Kinnison was the one who convinced me I could fly.

"I owe the guy. He taught me a hell of a lot. Including the fact I might be worth my own self-respect. And that words were wonderful things, and poetry was where you found it, and that heroes have compassion as well as guts ..."

His hand went out in a gesture of bewilderment. "So where’s the fire, Sam? Where’s the glory? He used to sweep into class trailing it like - like - a celestial comet, trailing vagrant stardust."

Sam blinked at the metaphor, not expecting such an evocative phrase from a man he usually associated with earthy humour and a colourful vocabulary gleaned from a life spent on the streets and between decks.

"The Kinnison I knew would have had this lot ready to hit Broadway by now. And look at them. Look at them. They’re as bored as hell with the whole damn thing. How can anyone be bored with the bard?"

Very easily, Sam considered wryly, but refrained saying so out loud. He didn’t really remember his days in English class, but he knew they’d left him with a very poor opinion of the whole process. History on the other hand ...

"Here we are," Eugene announced, re-emerging from the depths, a battered wicker hamper trailing behind him. "Gosh, does this mean we get to do the sword fight today?"

"I don’t know," the scientist answered, half of his mind on Al’s disquieted expression and the rest desperately trying to remember if there was a sword fight in Twelfth Night. There had to be, hadn’t there? Wasn’t there a sword fight in every piece of Shakespeare? "Eugene, do you think Mr Kinnison is feeling all right today?"

Eugene’s eyes widened at the question. "Gee wilkers, Miss Allister, I dunno. He seems okay to me." His doleful face dropped into worried lines. "He’s not sick is he?," he asked, then - a little more anxiously added: "You wouldn’t cancel the play if he was, would you?"

"No," Sam assured him abstractedly. "No, he’s not sick. I just wondered - "

Because Al’s right. That’s a man who’s just going through the motions.

There was no question as the the teacher’s competance; he was working through the text with barely a reference to the printed word, and he was directing his players with systematic skill. But that was all it was. The resultant performances were wooden and uninspiring, the youngsters struggling through their parts and looking almost as wearied by the process as the man in charge.

Eugene gave his teacher a doubtful look. "You don’t think he’s worried about what the school board said, do you, Miss Allister? That was yonks ago. Anyway, I heard Mr Kinnison say he didn’t care what anyone thought. Overheard," he added hastily.

The comment earned him a slightly perplexed glance; the young man coloured a little and bent to unstrap the box with hurried fingers. He clearly thought he’d let slip something he shouldn’t and just as clearly regretted the admission. The attentive hologram’s reaction to it was one of instant efficiency; the handlink protested at its ungentle treatment.

"Oh-oh," the Commodore registered. "This doesn’t look good, kid. Seems the school board is out to cashier their best asset. Kinnison’s been accused of unprofessional conduct and he’s been given until the end of this term to prove himself. Prove himself? Don’t they know what they’ve got? They can’t sack him," the hologram protested, glancing up at the man concerned. The interface beeped for its operator’s attention and his frown had distress added to its bewilderment. "Ah, geez! They do. In eight days time. He doesn’t defend himself - even takes full responsibility for the accident ... Sam, you gotta do something about this!"

Sam was beginning to think the same thing. The Commodore’s enthusiasm for the man was intriguing - not least because the scientist was curious to actually meet someone who had had such a positive influence on his friend. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he could do. Sam had seen that look in a man’s eyes before. Eugene had probably hit it right on the nail; Kinnison just didn’t care anymore. He figured a quick calculation in his head. It was - 59, right? So how had Kinnison gone from the sure fire hotshot Al was talking about to a burned out shell in less than nine years? And why?

"Hey, wow. Get this." Eugene had burrowed into the hamper and produced a bundle of pretend weaponry - a mix of obviously wooden scimitars and far more realistic metal bladed rapiers.

Nasty, a part of the scientist’s mind registered, despite his preoccupation. But then, I guess, plastic ones would be hard to get hold of ...

"I think we ought to start practising right away. What do you think, Miss Allister?"

"Sam?" Al’s expression was hopeful. The rules said no interference in the lives of those connected to the Project, but Kinnison had already had his affect on the Project Observer. The man just wanted to return the favour. Surely there was no harm in that?

"I think," Sam announced, climbing to his feet and jabbing his finger in the relevant direction, "that it’s time we went to help Mr Kinnison." Eugene stood up, his arms full of metalwork, and grinned; the hologram looked decidedly relieved.

"Thanks, kid," he growled softly. "I owe you one ..."

Act 1. Scene 2: Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

The trouble with Quantum Leaping, Alonzo decided with a sense of utter vexation, was that - just as you thought you’d got the thing figured out - it always had one more curve to throw you. He’d not thought of James Kinnison for years - not specifically, anyway, even if the man’s influence had a habit of surfacing when he least expected it. And to see him like that ...

I never had him figured back then. I was just a punk kid full of attitude, hooked on dime novels and B movies - and he must’ve seen something in me. Something he was willing to take a chance on ...

He sighed, stepping through the door to his office and dropping himself onto the rumpled support of his couch; while it might be late afternoon in 1959, it was actually ten after six in the morning where he was, and he hadn’t had much sleep the night before. Sam had headed back to Miss Ema’s home, intending to change and bone up on lesson plans and literature for the following day - which at least gave his weary Observer a chance to kick back and relax for a while.

As if I could ...

Al was never sure which was more unsettling. Enduring those times when Sam was in transition and therefore unreachable, unaccounted for - or facing these moments, when he knew exactly where and when the man was.

Still unreachable. And still swiss cheesed, goddamnit ...

It hurt. After all these months, after all the rationalisation, after all Beeks’s careful words and Tina’s puzzled sympathies, it still hurt. To look into his former lover’s eyes and know the man did not really remember him. There was warmth, and friendship - and decided affection, these days - a confirmation of the easy rapport they had always shared. There was some comfort in that. But it wasn’t much. It was hard to know how to react to him sometimes. Sam had always maintained a certain level of innocence, but this was different. Some of the fire that was Samwise Beckett’s soul was missing; shattered and scattered into a hesitant naiveté ... And then there was having to watch him stumble through another’s life like a trusting child, having to deal with his petulant frustrations or stubborn minded determinations, having to be his guide and his guardian, and the wall against which he could dash his angers and his fears ...

This ain’t easy for me, kid. I love ya, and I miss ya, and there are times I need the strength you always gave me - times when I just want to crawl into your arms and forget the world ever existed. But you’re not here. You’re back there, lost in your own past, where I can’t reach you.

Where I can’t even touch you ...

Al slammed down hard on the thought, knowing only too well that that line of thinking was both futile and self destructive. He couldn’t afford the luxury of despondency; he had neither the time nor the need to indulge in it. Not now. Sam had arrived - a Leap was in progress - and all those things that haunted his abandoned lover during the days when they just didn’t know could be safely packed away for later.

For the times when there was nothing he could do but wait ...

Sam must think I’m a total goofball sometimes, Al considered wryly, easing his way out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes. There are times I’m so pleased to see him I act like I’m on something ...

Which he always was in a way - high on adrenaline, lifted by the opportunity to share the man’s company, anticipating the plunge into the deep and dangerous sea of emotion and involvement that Sam assailed in every Leap.

At least this one seemed simple enough for once. Or had - until the sight of his old teacher had brought the memories flooding back, had triggered the recollections of a defensive and wary childhood that he hadn’t really thought about for a long time ...

James Kinnison.

He’d been sixteen; the edges of cynicism had begun to close steel jaws around his life, reducing his expectations, walling him in. But a man called Magic Walters had once shown him that there were good folk lurking amidst the general dross - and that lesson had served him well when a man with fire in his eyes had, quite literally, hauled him to his feet and demanded that he listen.

Kinnison had been like a whirlwind, dragging with him the scents and sounds and images of a wider world. He’d filled his student’s heads with tales of glory and courage, with inspiration and magic enough to rekindle the fire in a young man’s dreams .

It was a sense of magic that Alonzo Calavicci had never quite lost, even in his darkest days; it had helped lift him from dead end streets and given impetus to his dreams. It had walked beside him in Selma, opened his heart to Kerouac’s music of the road, strengthened his resolve in the bitter days of ‘Nam, and taken him to the very edge of the stars.

And the echo of it had been there, on that fateful day when Sam Beckett had reached out his hand and hauled him back from the brink ...

So, if I could hold on to Kinnison’s visions of glory, why the hell couldn’t he?

"You busy, Al?" Vernon Beeks’ dulcet tones interrupted the Commodore’s anxious reverie. He looked up, to find the psychiatrist framed in the doorway, a thoughtful frown painted across his handsome features.

"Nah," Al denied, beckoning the man into the room. "Just - thinking."

"Dangerous occupation," Beeks noted, draping his weight on the edge of the desk. "How’s Sam?"

And that could be a dangerous question ...

It was almost always the first thing Beeks asked, though. Casually and delivered with friendly interest. Al grinned, demonstrating that he’d spotted the man’s tactics; he knew perfectly well that the predictable opening shot was designed to elicit - not just the hoped for answer - but also the state of mind of the man it was directed at.

"Sam’s fine," he answered, non-committally. "How’s Miss Allister?"

"Fine," Beeks shot back. "A little confused, but that’s only to be expected." He smiled, a little wryly. "She thinks I’m some kind of orderly. Keeps asking when the Doctor will come and see her."

Al chuckled at that, acknowledging the irony. "To her it’s ‘59, Beeks. Back then they were still bussing kids down in Alabama."

"Yeah," the man acknowledged softly. "I know. Easy Leap?"

"Looks like it. Just a matter of keeping a few kids outta trouble. Forewarned is forearmed - you know the sort of thing."

"Uh-huh." Beeks leant back a little and considered his company with perceptive eyes. "So where’s the problem?"

"No problem," the Commodore denied, probably that little bit quicker than he should. The psychiatrist’s reaction was arch.

"There’s always a problem," he declared firmly. "So you want to talk to me about it now, or wait until after the shit hits the fan?"

Al found a second chuckle for the question, one just as ironic as the first. "You’re a bastard, Beeks. You know that?"

"M-mhuh. But at least I’m a qualified bastard, Commodore. I know you - you don’t sneak back here like this unless you’ve something on your mind. And if we really had a Leap with no problems you’d have waltzed out of the Imaging Chamber and treated Tina to a celebration breakfast. Right?"

The Commodore thought about how to react to that, favouring the man with a narrow eyed frown of suspicion. He liked Beeks, but he never forgot that the guy was a shrink, and he was never entirely sure of the man’s motives.

Was that a friendly observation or a professional one?

He didn’t like the idea of being predictable - well, that predictable, anyway. And he didn’t like the way the psychiatrist could get inside his head sometimes. It disturbed him, made him feel vulnerable. And vulnerable was not a state of mind he was comfortable with.

So he countered the sympathetic accusation with defensive logic, aware that the man was probably right - that the man probably knew he was right - but not willing to concede a tactical victory in their constant game of verbal chess.

"Tina is probably still fast asleep where I left her at four o’clock this morning," he growled. "And there’s a Leap in progress, remember? Which puts me on Sam’s time, and back then it’s close on eighteen hundred hours, which would make it dinner, and not breakfast. I’ve had breakfast."

Beeks raised an eyebrow. "Two cups of coffee and a Danish count as breakfast? No wonder you’re acting ratty. Come on," he slid off the edge of the desk, and jerked his head in the direction of the corridor, "I’ll treat you to dinner - and you can tell me all about this problem we haven’t got."

Al considered the offer - then sighed, and scrambled for his discarded shoes. "It’s not a problem," he protested quietly. "More a - complication."

"Uh-huh," Beeks agreed. "Well, I’m sure Sam’ll handle it. He always does."

The Project Observer threw the man a look, and it’s recipient grinned unrepentantly. It was a glib remark, intended as such, but it also carried a weight of implied reassurance. After all, the signs were that this Leap would be both straightforward and uneventful. The unexpected apparition from his past was just - as he’d said - a complication, not a problem.

He wanted Sam to help Kinnison, didn’t he? So why was there a tight knot settling in his stomach and a sense of foreboding lurking just out of his reach?

Was it just seeing his teacher again, after all these years? Or was it something else?

Yeah, well - I guess Sam’ll cope okay.

I just wish I could be so sure about me ...

Act2. Scene 1: By the very fangs of malice, I swear, I am not that I play.

Elizabeth May Allister was - Sam decided thoughtfully - a young woman who could do a lot better for herself than she was currently doing. The reflection that stared back at him from the teacher’s bathroom mirror the night before had been that of a timid, mousy soul; her hair pulled back into a plain bun, her face practically devoid of make-up, her clothes a uniform dull. She clearly dressed so as not to be noticed, and conducted her life according to the same principal. Stay low, make no waves.

And all that was about to change - courtesy of one Sam Beckett, scientist, time traveller, and occasional beauty queen ...

He had no intention of trying to turn her into a femme fatale, of course. That would never be a role he would feel comfortable in, or one that would suit either Miss Allister or the task he wanted her to pursue. But provided he could avoid the worst nightmares of womanhood - the high heels were definitely out for a start - he felt he could probably manage a reasonable improvement. Enough perhaps, to draw Kinnison’s eye and thereby allow the soul that wore the mask to get past the man’s defensive despair.

I hope he’s worth all this effort, Al, Sam thought wryly to himself as he wrestled with phantom hair and the crimping tool he’d unearthed from somewhere in Miss Ema’s wardrobe. After that came the makeup - an art he was becoming all too familiar with - and then the clothes; a bundle of petticoats topped by the softest skirt he could find, along with a smart blouse and an even smarter jacket.

I wish this was nine or ten years later ...

The late fifties might have been the start of freedom for the young, but for a sensible small town school teacher it had to be strictly decorum all the way. So Sam was limited to restrictive fashion and the understated jewellery that his host appeared to have accumulated. Even so, when he’d finished, he found himself face to face with a far more attractive woman than he’d expected.

Miss Allister - you are one cute patootie ...

Which made him feel a little less self-conscious about the whole business. The minutes of the school board that he’d sneaked from the office the night before had been perfectly clear. Kinnison had been accused of a number of things, which ranged from frequenting the wrong parts of town with the wrong people, to inviting students back to his house for personal tuition. Nothing had been proven but Sam had read moral outrage in every line - the reaction of small town mentality to a man fresh from the city and used to living on the edge. Which rather begged the question of exactly why Kinnison had left New York in the first place.

But didn’t excuse the move to crucify him when Sam suspected his only sin was to want to live that little bit more than most people ever realised was possible. He sincerely hoped that was the case. He didn’t like the idea of having to tell his best friend that his childhood idol might not the hero he’d always thought him to be.

But then - if Kinnison was Al’s role model back then ...

The thought painted a wry smile on Sam’s face as he breezed into the school. Maybe James Kinnison was a wolf and a skirt chaser. Maybe it was de rigeur for all ex-navy pilots to live up to that particular image; perhaps they all had to snatch at life with both hands, seeking the same adrenaline that they’d once found in the heat of battle, in the freedom of the sky.

And maybe they all crash and burn when they think they have nowhere left to fly ...

He wasn’t sure where that thought came from. But it was there - the lurking memory of some inner crisis which had left its mark on the man he called his friend. The recollection was beyond his reach, lost in the maze of swiss cheese that was his perception of his own past, but - while the tantalising non-memory disturbed him - it was oddly encouraging too.

If Al could conquer his demons, then surely Kinnison can ...

Miss Allister had two classes that morning; Sam dealt with the first group by setting a pop quiz on the book they were supposed to be reading, and then he spent a hilarious time hunting the Snark with a bunch of thirteen year olds. Mindy Bailey was one of them, and she joined in with great vivacity. As did Al, who’d arrived to find the class staring at their teacher in total astonishment because she’d asked who’d like to be a Beaver for the day. Once the hologram had realised Sam’s intentions he’d been enthusiastic, ‘volunteering’ several of the children for parts and making helpful suggestions, some of which turned out to be pretty good ideas.

Most of the kids had had no idea poetry could be such fun. Neither had Sam, who’d picked the piece out of desperation the night before. Mindy - as the Bellman - was decidedly inspired. The entire class actually let out a sigh of disappointment when the bell rang to signal recess.

So Sam was feeling pretty pleased with himself as he made his way to lunch.

If the rest of the week goes as well as this, he considered happily, this is going to be a fun Leap ...

Al had spent some time talking to Miss Allister back in the waiting room; he conveyed the information he’d gleaned as they walked the short distance to the canteen. Most of it concerned the cast of the school play - how Helen and Sarah were both rivals for Jo-Jo Bailey’s affections, and how Moe Lawson spent too much effort in pleasing his teachers and not enough on himself, and how Eugene was sweet on Holly but hadn’t found the courage to say so ...

Sam nodded through most of this, paused to frown sternly at a pair of youngsters tussling in front of the lockers, and tried not to grin too widely when they passed a gaggle of cheerleaders heading in the other direction and Al turned round and walked backwards for a while because he found the resultant view more entertaining.

I can’t take you anywhere ...

The thought was affectionate rather than irritated. He half turned to throw a reproachful look in the man’s direction - and in doing so bumped straight into the figure coming out of the next classroom.

"Oh," he reacted, grabbing for the pile of books that slid inevitably from the other person’s grasp. "I’m sorry. I just didn’t - "

"No harm done, Miss Allister."

They’d both bent in pursuit of the wayward texts; their hands met on a single volume. Sam looked up to find himself face to face with James Kinnison, the warmth of strong fingers impacting on his hand, a tantalisingly familiar scent of clean skin and sweet tabacco impossibly close -

- and for one brief and utterly confusing moment, he found himself lost in the depths of a pair of dark and intense eyes that had focused on his ...

It was almost as if an electric shock had passed between them.

"No harm at all," Kinnison concluded in a slightly dazed tone.

"Sam?" Al’s concern seemed oddly distant. "You okay, kid?"

"I - I should look where I’m going," Sam managed to formulate, scrabbling for the other books and trying to suppress growing embarrassment. Kinnison smiled, catching at the silk clad arm to calm its owner’s flustered reaction.

"Entirely my fault," he offered with warm assurance. "I’m the one who should have been looking. A long time ago ..." he added, half under his breath. "Here - " He recovered his books, tucked them under one arm and helped Sam back to his feet. "Trip no further, pretty sweeting. Unless - you’d accept a cup of coffee by way of recompense?"

The scientist felt a blush of colour sweep to his cheeks, embarrassed both by his clumsiness and the situation. This was crazy, right? He’d only wanted to talk to the man. Not throw himself at his feet ...

"Coffee would be fine. I - I was on my way to lunch."

"So was I. Let us fare together." Kinnison swept out his arm in a dramatic gesture, then brought it back to offer his hand in escort. Sam was only too aware of an audience; not just the one containing those few students who had witnessed the collision, but also that of his intangible Observer, who was staring at the interaction as if he didn’t know quite how to react to it.

Which was exactly the way Sam felt.

I know this is ridiculous, Al, but ...

He’d been trying all morning to think of a way he might engage Kinnison in conversation, some way to break the ice and broach the problems he faced. Hadn’t he dressed up, in order to catch the man’s eye?

He just hadn’t expected it to have such a dramatic effect ...

His heart seemed to be pounding at a nonsensical pace.

What do I do if he - ?

If he - ?

The teacher’s smile was expectant, revealing a layer of gentle charm beneath his world weary facade. And Sam found himself smiling back, almost without realising it.

Don’t be ridiculous. This is 1959, and he’s just asked you to join him for lunch. Not to join him in bed.

Although that seemed to be exactly what the man’s eyes were implying ...

"Sam?" The scientist was too distracted hear the warning note behind the question, but the sound of his friend’s voice did remind him of what he’d promised. To help Kinnison. And to do that ...

"I’d love too," he said, widening his smile and taking the offered arm. They strolled away down the corridor, leaving behind a gaggle of gossiping students - and a decidedly dumbstruck hologram who for once in his life clearly just did not know what to say ...

Act 2. Scene 2: Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

"I suppose you think this is funny," Al observed somewhat sourly. Sam - who was currently the only person in the female teacher’s washroom - glanced across from his concentration on his reflection and nodded a happy agreement. He was perfectly well aware that one of his little boy grins was settled on his face, and he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Come on, Al. Anyone would think you were jealous ...

That thought was pretty funny too, and it widened his grin a little further.

"Well, it isn’t," the hologram informed him with clear irritation. "Damnit, Sam, I asked you to help the guy, not flirt with him."

"I wasn’t flirting," Sam denied with amusement. "Was I?"

Al’s grimace spoke volumes; an what am I supposed to do with him kind of look backed by martyred patience. "You throw yourself at his feet, you let him buy you lunch, and then you sit there, flashing your baby blues, and hanging on his every word as if - as if - ah, geez kid. If I didn’t know you better I’d think - "

"What?" Sam asked with intentional innocence. The question elicited the expected glare of vexation and the scientist went back to the repair of his make-up with a quiet grin. There had been Leaps when Al’s smug certainties had proved extremely irritating company, and it was a pleasing experience to be able to turn the tables on him for once. Besides - he was so teasable on these occasions, so quick to rise to the bait ...

You don’t have to worry about me, Al. I know what I’m doing.

He’d learnt a number of very important things over lunch: that Jim Kinnison hadn’t really paid much attention to Miss Allister up until now, that he regretted the fact, and that he really was a man in need of help, in need of a sympathetic ear and a supportive smile.

And that - underneath the man’s somewhat jaded exterior and its reflex coating of smooth seductiveness - there could lurk a really terrific guy.

I’m sure he has intensity and passion; he’s just lost the inspiration to make use of them. The reason to make use of them ...

Al was still glaring at him, and Sam suppressed a quiet smirk. Maybe his friend was jealous. How much of a role model had Kinnison been for the young Calavicci? A charismatic ex-navy pilot, with a heroic past and reputation for walking on the wild side of life ... The description could fit either man.

And even if the pupil outstretched the teacher in the end, he would never have lost that sense of admiration.

Which was a perfectly good reason for the Commodore’s reaction, having to watch his best friend spend time with a man he admired so much. Even if he had been the one who’d asked him to do so ...

Sam had decided very quickly that he liked Kinnison. He liked his company - and he’d make a darn good friend for Miss Allister, who needed someone to drag her out of her comfortable rut and give her a reason to try.

"Just be careful, willya, kid?" Al’s request was weary. "You’re not Elizabeth May Allister, you’re Sam Beckett, and you don’t want to go giving him the wrong idea. You might find yourself in a very tricky situation."

"Al," Sam said patiently. "I know all that. You were the one who wanted me to help him and I can’t do that until I know what the problem is. Trust me, okay? He’s not going to suddenly fall in love with me - with Miss Allister - just like that, now is he?"

The look he got in answer was sceptical, and he laughed.

"Now come on," he grinned. "You just said it yourself. I’m Sam Beckett, right? I’m hardly going to fall for him."

He snatched up Miss Allister’s handbag and headed out for her next class, not seeing the horrified expression that flashed - albeit briefly - across his Observer’s face  ...

Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of Quantum Leap trademarks or copyrights.
© 1999 by AAA Press. Written and reproduced by Penelope Hill. Artwork by Joan Jobson