by John Cooper

Flying's easy. At least if you have a decent instructor, and Pete's one of the best. He insists on being called by his nickname, which kind of makes me feel special, him being so famous and all. My name's Frank. No, I'm not so famous. Looks can be deceiving, you know.

Pete has made me feel so comfortable during training that now, at the end of only three months I am completely confident that my upcoming solo flight will come off without a glitch. "As long as you remember to keep the landing gear down when you make your final approach," Pete says, grinning like he's made that joke so many times that it should be funny by now, "you should do just fine." Reminds me of that old piece of motorcycle advice: Keep the rubber side down.

Some of my friends aren't so sure that I'm taking up the right hobby -- they think I might be too old to learn, or something. But what do they know about the joys, the pure childish fun of flying? It's certainly more worthwhile than some of the more trendy activities they've been getting hooked on lately, ever since the Season hit us.

Shoot, it seems half the population is preparing for a hurricane, even though no storms have been predicted. Nothing like going out for a walk to the store and hearing the random hammering all down the street, both sides, as scads of your neighbors get "plywood happy". As if boarding up your house is going to keep out the Season.

Let me ask you this -- what would you rather be doing on a warm sunny day with high visibility and moderate wind speed? Learning the Fine Art of Flying, or hiding in a dark musty basement, like my friend Michelle does, spending all day dozing in a dirt-filled box and plastering her windows with duct tape? Or how about Isaac? He's running a Tarot fortune reading hut. Sits there all day -- and night -- staring at the cards. It's not like the TV doesn't work. Sheeze. Or you could join one of the many religious cults that are springing up everywhere, like Jack did. He's probably on his hands and knees in some field right now, eyes glued to the ground, looking for some precious sign that his big white furry God is going to show up and save us all. As if we need saving!

I chose to not panic from the start, and my house remains unboarded. I also chose not to waste my time mowing the lawn anymore, as long as the neighborhood committee had too much other stuff to look after. And then I decided that as long as I was out of work (while the economy's doing its long-anticipated doggy paddle), as long as I had a little time and money left, I'd learn to fly. I've always dreamed of it, always envied pilots and balloonists and even birds since I was a kid; I just never got around to finding out where the classes were. Not any more. I quickly found the best instructor I could and started flight training along with a class of 57 other students. Now I'm top of the class. Well, OK, in the top three.

And I'm not so fanatical about flying that I can't do anything else. Take Isaac with his Tarot, for instance. Fanatical. (I don't think he's getting much sleep these days-- any sleep, really.) I have plenty of spare time left after lessons, to take hikes in the woods, ride my motorbike, read books (nobody's doing much of that these days), or play computer games.

Amazing how advanced these computer games have become in the past few months. There are new games coming out every day, good ones with exceptionally programmed opponents and teammates. Most people blame the Season for the apparent rapid increase in computers' AIQs. Makes sense to me. The times they are a-changing, as the bard told us long ago. The times are changing almost everything.

That's the simplest explanation for the artificial IQ jump, that the Season is modifying the Internet, and the computers are evolving to cope. Some people think it's the other way around-- some agree with Dr. Fuller, the QM guy who was on all the TV news magazines last month. The one who says that the Internet brought us the Season, via some weird complicated coupling of 'Net AI properties and macro-effects of Schrodinger's equations. Something like: computers don't know what reality is or how it works, so they make some of it up. Sort of a reality feedback thing. Some wacko groups have turned to mainframe vandalism in efforts to "put an end to the Season." They won't get far. Most people like their computers too much to let the Web go down.

Personally, I think Dr. Fuller is full of it, he's just making a name for himself while he can, and who can blame him. After all, there are very few chances in the life of a Quantum Mechanic for fame or fortune. I don't see how the computers could start something as real as the Season. Computers are just machines that hold data, follow instructions, and think a little, right? And the last great Internet advances -- the developments of the NeuralWeb, self-modifying chips, and desktop holographic IO adapters -- happened over ten years ago, so if computers were causing the Season, it would've happened back then, not a year and a half ago. But I don't know much about computers; I use mine for games, mostly.

So: I don't fear the Season, the world isn't falling apart, it's just changing, and most important-- I'm in a flight class. I'm excited, I'm happy, and some of my family and close friends think I'm nuts. But at least I'm not afraid to go outside, and at least I haven't been sucked dry by some upstart religion. Yuck. Not that the door-to-door folks haven't tried, of course.

Take last Saturday morning, for instance. I was sitting at my computer, playing that new swashbuckling pirate game called Booty. Don't ask me how they got away with that one -- it's supposed to be a kid's game, but it's bound to get an R rating soon, due to some of the scantily clad "booty".

There was a knock at the door, for the first time in about a week. I paused the game, and told the computer to disguise itself as a lamp. No sense in getting my computer vandalized. Computers are expensive.

I walked toward the door mumbling, "yeah, yeah, go into my yard all you want." Last time it was the neighbor kids -- said they saw a pixie in my yard, and asked if it was mine. I said no, go ahead and catch it. Kids in my neighborhood are so polite these days. Probably because of those Goat Man rumors that are going around. Got them so scared they're actually going in when the streetlights come on. Silly.

When I opened the door, it wasn't the band of kids after all, just two fat salesmen. At least I thought they were salesmen, at first.

"Good Morning, could we talk to you about the upcoming Holidays?" said the shorter one as soon as I opened the door, while the taller one, squinting up and down through the screen door, appeared to be making sure I wasn't naked or something.

They looked sixty years old or so, and wore tight-fitting three piece suits of a painful color combination: white shirts, green vests (buttoned), red bow ties, black slacks, and red jackets. Odd, but what isn't these days, and besides, they looked friendly enough so I didn't shut the door. They looked like car salesmen, here to sell me a car and then valet park it in front of my house. Both were gray bearded (with big moustaches), bald, and had blue eyes and sunburned fatty cheeks. The cheeks and eyes look permanently happy, and my immediate reaction to seeing them was to smile, which I suddenly felt self-conscious about. The taller one (I say taller but he was shorter than I am by several inches) wore wire rimmed round spectacles, the old fashioned kind.

"What's that?" I said, "The holidays? You mean Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years? That's not for another three months." Sheeze, these guys start selling early, I thought, as I edged closer to the screen to get a better look. The taller one carried a pile of pamphlets.

"Exactly!" smiled the short one, "And it's important that we get everyone in on the spirit of the Holidays. It's important that every one has Faith, and does Good, in preparation for our Lord's coming." He said the words "Holidays", "Faith", and "Good" as if they were titles of revered books.

I contemplated rolling my eyes, decided against it, and instead said, "OK, that sounds... good I guess." I was already thinking about where I left off in Booty. My shipmates and I were planning mutiny, and I was angling to become captain. And to cap it all off -- I knew where some booty was.

The taller one was now smiling, his eyes turning to creases behind his lenses. He said, "will you be ready when our Savior comes?"

"Ready for what?" I was kicking myself mentally. It's so easy to just leave the door closed, but I had to answer it. It's so easy to come up with wisecracks, but all I was able to do so far was go along with their programmed conversation. Very annoying.

"Why, ready to receive our Lord, of course," said the short one, "into your heart. To have Faith and trust in Him," still smiling, and really looking happy I might add. His right index finger was casually pointing up at the sky.

The tall one nodded. "The Season is a sign from the heavens, bringing miraculous gifts from our Lord, and soon this year's Holidays will bless us with His coming. If we have Faith, if we are Good, then our Lord will descend from the heavens, to touch our very homes, our lives, and bring us Joy and wonderful things! The Book says: 'Then He will rise and He will come again.'" He looked like he was going to laugh or cry, I couldn't tell which.

Oboy, I thought, another god-squad gone loopy, just because reality has shifted a little to the fun side. These guys reminded me of the people you see in cartoons and movies that walk around with placards that say THE END IS NIGH. Only you don't see those folks in cartoons any more do you? There are probably ten of them picketing the White House right now. Time to bring up the steam a little.

"So you're saying that the Second Coming is at the end of this year?" I paused a little, as they looked momentarily confused. Before either opened his mouth, however, I continued, "What if nothing happens? What if the end of the year passes us by, and your god doesn't show up?"

Tall's elated squint appeared to falter a bit, but Shorty took up the slack. "It would just mean that we weren't Good enough," he said. "That's OK, though, because our Lord is generous beyond words. He will come. We have Faith. And if we miss Him, then there's always next year, and the year after that. And when He appears, we will rejoice and be jolly, for the Book says: 'Our Savior shall reward the Good with gold and presents, and punish the wicked with Nothing.'"

I suddenly got an alarming picture in my head: my poor friend Jack, crawling around a wet field for weeks through Spring, clothes ragged and dirty, sure that he would find a large colorful egg if he just persevered. I'm glad the religion bug never bit me. I just don't understand it when people get this way. Have a conversation with one talking rabbit, and whoops, you're acting like one yourself. That'll never happen with Pete and me. I narrowed my eyes at the two fat old guys, "Wait a second, you're not talking about Jesus. Are you?"

They looked at each other, and then let out a barrage of HO HO HO! HO HO! type laughter, that sounded like real laughing, I kid you not.

"Ho! Hee hee, ho," Shorty ended his fit. "No sir, we're talking about our Savior. Lord Nicholas!" They still looked quite friendly and harmless, for religious freaks.

"You mean Santa Claus?" I felt kind of stupid asking.

"Yes! Our Savior Santa! Will you help us spread the gifts?" said Tall.

"I don't think so. I'm pretty busy." Yeah, right. Busy with flying lessons and Booty. Time to wrap it up. "But if you have any literature, I'd be glad to read it." (That usually does the trick; they'd be leaving soon.)

"Sure," said Tall, "take one of our pamphlets..."

But as I opened the screen door they finally got a good look at me, and their mouths dropped open and lost their smiles as Tall slowly, unconsciously, handed me a pamphlet.

"Thanks," I said.

"A pansy," said Shorty, quietly, and then realized he had said it out loud. They both suddenly put their smiles back on, as if jolted by some smile prod. "Excuse me," Tall said, "we don't mean to seem rude. Thanks for talking and Happy Holidays."

They then turned in unison and headed down the walk, single file with Tall in front. The short one was whispering something about naughty boys getting lumps of coal, and I'm sure he knew I could hear him. After all, he had seen my slightly pointed ears. Side effects of learning to fly, for some of the students: your ears grow pointed, your hearing improves, and everyone starts calling you pansy. In general I haven't experienced any nasty acts of prejudice, though. Some people even look at me with envy sometimes.

It would probably have been better if I had opened the screen door earlier, but I had forgotten about my ears for the moment. The Santa guys would have left just as politely, no time wasted for either of us. As it was, by the time they saw me they knew they weren't going to get any more help from me-- I am already bound to my own enchantments, and I'm not going to change my mind and start preparing for the return of the great and powerful Kris Kringle. Pansies aren't that interested in other people's characters. We're having too much fun with ourselves to actually worship anybody else.

Still, my meeting with the Santa freaks started me thinking about the various ways the world approaches real, honest-to-gosh paradigm shifts. Since over a year ago when our concepts of reality began to twist, people have found themselves encountering -- and even glorifying -- the creatures that intrigue them most. Reactions run the spectrum from fanaticism to paranoia.

Sometimes I don't know which type of reaction is worse: embracing change too much, or fighting change and hiding from it. I suppose if I had to choose between the two, I'd pick extreme elation over extreme fear. Both types of insanity have their baggage, though. Fanatics ignore their mundane world, while paranoids fear their fantasies.

I guess that's why so many people are boarding up their houses. They're afraid of what their thoughts might attract. They've seen what the Season does to some people. My friend Michelle for instance, used to be pretty outgoing; a lot of fun to be around. She liked parties and horror movies. Now she's lying in her darkened basement waiting for the fangs to grow in. Paranoids dread that. They live in fear of the monster they can't stop thinking about, the monster that might eat them, and the monster they might become. That's why they're going inside when the streetlights come on. And that's why it's called the Season; there's a general hope that it will end someday.

I'm not hoping, though. I'm having too much fun watching the movie. I'm not going to fear my fascinations, or start worshipping my storybook characters as gods just because they really exist. I'll keep to the middle and enjoy the Season while it's here. I have no place for the paranoids and religious freaks, save for a small part in the Humor section of my mind, which is OK, I guess, because you need humor to be happy, and my flight instructor says you can fly on happiness.

I know he's right, because I've flown so many times already, holding his hand, skimming the treetops and laughing out my happiness and singing in my heart. And today Peter Pan is letting me fly solo. I don't intend to come down from the sky for a long, long time.