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Although Ken Pratt had asked me to call before coming to Washington so that he could make arrangements to pick me up at the airport, I decided just to go, unannounced. This would save him the trouble of disrupting his schedule even more than already would be the case once I showed up; driving to, and from, the airport; trying to find a parking space at a busy facility; being held hostage by the fees of the airport parking authority; waiting around through the delays often associated with air travel, and so on.

They knew I was coming. Therefore, my arrival at their front doorstep would not be like I was dropping in without advanced notice.

Ken might be slightly annoyed, but he would soon forget it. On the other hand, he knew me well enough to be able to anticipate this kind of possibility.

On the way to the airport, I stopped off at a local flower shop. I selected a floral arrangement that I hoped would be to Jennifer's liking.

Before giving instructions for delivery, I decided to write something to accompany the flowers. On one side of the store, a small counter had been provided for such a contingency.

I emptied my mind and waited for my creative muse to appear. Hopefully, he, she or it was not having breakfast, on vacation, or otherwise unavailable.

In a few minutes, some ideas and feelings began to bubble to the surface of consciousness. Slowly, at first, they began to blend themselves into a set of organized possibilities.

As a direction for proceeding became clearer, I started to write, editing my thoughts, somewhat, as I went along. From time to time, I would stop in order to await further subsidies of inspiration.

When I had finished, I went back over my, and the muse's, collaborative efforts. If it turned out well, I would accept the accolades with calculated humility. If it turned out poorly, I would blame the muse for being away without leave. In either event, I had run out of the time that I had allotted to 'Project Romance' before setting out for the airport.

Upon completing my critical review, I decided that the Pulitzer committee would be unlikely to be calling on me anytime soon, unless, perhaps, it did so with a writ ordering me to cease and desist in such activities. Possibly, Jennifer would be a more sympathetic audience.

The poem, for want of a better word, read as follows:

I miss you like waves without an ocean;

I miss you like eyes without light;

I miss you like mosques without devotion;

I miss you like bats without night.

I miss you like needles without thread;

I miss you like lips without a kiss;

I miss you like hermits without bread;

I miss you like gnosis without bliss.

I miss you like a race without a start;

I miss you like bodies without a soul;

I miss you like lovers without a heart;

I miss you like beggars without a bowl.

I miss you like letters without a stamp;

I miss you like bees without pollen;

I miss you like a mold without the damp;

I miss you like a dike without Holland.

I miss you like a bird without the sky;

I miss you like babies without milk;

I miss you like addicts without a high;

I miss you like China without silk.

I miss you like seeds without earth;

I miss you like leaves without a breeze;

I miss you like life without birth;

I miss you like pain without ease.

I miss you like thirst without water;

I miss you like patients without care;

I miss you like cows without fodder;

I miss you like a lung without air.

I miss you like flowers without the rain;

I miss you like laughter without ears;

I miss you like mirrors without a tain;

I miss you like prayers without tears.

I miss you like ships without the sea;

I miss you like planets without the sun;

I miss you like locks without a key;

I miss you, when all is said and done.

David

I folded the "literary" effort and asked the clerk if I could have an envelope. Upon receipt of the requested material, I placed the folded paper inside and sealed the envelope. On the front side, I wrote: 'For Jennifer'.

After handing the envelope to the clerk, I wrote out Jennifer's name and address on the required order form. Then, taking out a little more than the indicated amount from my wallet, I paid the clerk, received some change, and departed from the store.

The trip to the airport and the flight to Washington were both uneventful. When I had disembarked from the plane and found my way to the surface transport area, I corralled a taxi and its driver.

Traveling to Ken's and Pam's house, took less time than I had imagined. I was quite pleased that I didn't have to sell any stocks and bonds to cover the cost of the taxi ride.

I paid the cabby, grabbed my bag and walked up the driveway. As I approached the porch area, the front door opened.

Ken's lanky form appeared in the doorway. His physique was trim and athletic, as if he were still in the military, and his chiseled, angular facial features, together with his black, short-cropped hair, looked like they had made no concessions to the weathering processes of time.

His face had a scowl on it, and his finger was moving in a reproving manner.

"Just like a draft-dodger," he charged, "not to keep his word. You promised to call us."

"Actually," I corrected, "as I recall the situation, no promise had been made, only a customary, verbal response of politeness to an offer of questionable sincerity. Furthermore, since there were neither services rendered, nor any financial consideration exchanged, I believe none of the requirements for a valid contract existed at the time of our conversation."

"Who's the lawyer here," Ken admonished, "you or me? Besides, smart-guy, I'm going to go after you under the laws of tort, not the laws of contract."

I dropped my bag in surrender and took Ken's proffered hand, pulling him toward me so that I might embrace him. "It's great to see you again, Kenny," I whispered.

While still engaged in our clinch of reunited friendship, I saw Pam's smiling countenance near the door. Disentangling myself from Ken, I said: "Don't get offended, old buddy, but I see someone a lot prettier than you."

I went to Pam, kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug. As I briefly gazed at her trim, five foot-ten inch frame, auburn hair, and dimpled cheeks, I said: "Pam, you're like a vintage wine. You just keep getting better and better with age."

"How nice to be properly appreciated," she beamed. "Some people around here, whose identity I cannot divulge for reasons of national security, are inclined to liken me only to sour grapes."

"Some people? ... some people?" Ken repeated, with growing interest. "So, Pam, are you going to tell me who the others are around here that share my insights, or do I have to place an unofficial request with my friends at the National Security Agency to devise an algorithm capable of breaking your encrypted secrets?"

"Knowing the caliber of your friends over there," she replied, "I feel my secrets are quite safe.

Turning to me, she said: "You are welcome to come in, David, but tell the other guy he'll have to go."

"Do you mind," I asked, "if this fellow brings my bag into the house? He seems to be a decent sort of person."

"I suppose so," said Pam, "but don't tip him. His kind only gets encouraged to hang around if you show them any consideration."

Picking up my bag, Ken confided to me: "Just remember, Dave, here, but for the Grace of God, go you."

"I heard that, Ken Pratt," Pam announced.

"With ears like that," Ken countered, "you ought to be working for the National Security Agency rather than my friends. You probably could replace one or two of their most sensitive, international listening posts."

"Where are the kids?" I inquired.

"They are spending the weekend with some of their friends," Pam informed me. "We told them you were coming," she added, "but I'm afraid you lost out to a rather Machiavellian conspiracy which had been carefully engineered over several weeks by them and their friends.

"I should have videotaped the whole affair," Ken said with a tone of chagrin. "It would have had considerable potential as a training tape for Washington bureaucrats."

Ken motioned for me to follow him. He, my bag and I went off in the direction of, what I presumed would be, the guest room, or, at least, the room in which this guest and his bag were going to stay.

After washing up, I rejoined Pam and Ken. Across a late lunch, cleaning up, and most of the afternoon, I filled them in on what had transpired over the last several weeks - from Beth's first appearance, to the visit with Brian at the Federal prison, to lunch with the Bettinger Foundation's Timothy Jameson, to the speaker Rachel Donaldson, to the visit from the FBI's Hardy boys, to the hypnosis session with Beth, to the discussion with Jennifer concerning the abduction phenomenon, to last night's date with Jennifer.

Although both Ken and Pam were suitably intrigued by, and responsive to, all of the recent happenings in my life, they became especially animated when I mentioned "date". Each of them began peppering me with inquiries.

I felt like I had wandered into the latest Washington scandal. Maybe, in their spare time, they were either stringers for the Post or researchers working on some sub-committee investigation desperate for the minutiae of some poor wretch's life - in this case, mine.

By the time my interview or testimony had finished, we were faced with the decision of what to do about dinner. After some discussion, we opted for eating out and reminiscing about the old days.

Subsequently, we enjoyed a long, leisurely meal at one of the Pratt's favorite dining places. There was much laughter, and there also were some difficult moments as we remembered friends who were no longer with us ... some of whom had succumbed to the illness of Vietnam; some of whom had passed away due to other kinds of tragedy.

When we finally arrived back at the Pratt residence, the clock was registering into the early hours of the morning. While our spirits were willing to carry on with our version of 'This is Your Life', our collective flesh was weak, and we decided, reluctantly, to take some rest.

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