text: [Themes: sci-fi, science fiction]
  
  "Okay, now here's another old chestnut from the American songbook," you say to a crowd of onlookers who've gathered in front of the crates you and Bill Tanaka have made your base of operations. "It's a beloved old standard by the name of 'Tom Dooley'." Esmeralda stands to your side with your suitcase on a crate in front of her. On the case's upturned face you've toothpasted the letters C, G, and F. She points a claw to C and then makes a strumming motion with her other claw to indicate a pattern in 4/4 time. You shape your hand on the guitar neck in an open C chord and are about to strum...
  
  "Hey," says a tall, dark man with aviator's cap and goggles on his head and East African tribal scars on his cheeks, "do you know 'Lost Lovers/Lost Times' by Karen Locust King?"
  
  You begin strumming the guitar and say: "No, sir, I'm afraid I only know the classics. Nothing contemporary, I'm afraid. Plus, I don't have an Oscilliotron to play on like she does. Just this old guitar." You go into "Tom Dooley"
  
  "Hang your head, Tom Dooley
  
  Hang your head and"
  
  stumbling a bit when Esmeralda points to the G chord on the suitcase. Bill smiles at your flub but pats you on the shoulder as you continue playing
  
  "Cry.
  
  Killed poor Laura Foster
  
  And you know you're bound to die."
  
  The crowd seems impressed with the song's morbid details. You feel tempted to stop singing and explain to them that Appalachian hillbillies have been warbling these lyrics for over a century now. With all I've been through, you think as you strum the guitar, a song of dark justice is about the only thing that still makes any sense to me. You continue singing, not realizing you've skipped an entire stanza:
  
  "Took her on the hillside.
  
  Stabbed her with a knife.
  
  Took her on the hillside
  
  And then you took her life."
  
  You've been at this busking business for about an hour now and are slowly gaining confidence in yourself. If only your mother had encouraged you all those years ago. You've already collected a sizable amount of funds from the people on the street. Esmeralda had come back not long after Bill had handed you his guitar, and she explained that the one person she was told would exchange your father's gold coins for money is currently off-world right now. But now that fact doesn't seem to bother you anymore. Maybe if Mother could have seen how successful you've become as a musician, she'd actually be proud of you. She used to be an in-demand Classical musician in her home-country of Mexico, until your father saw her perform in New York and swept her off her feet and made her his trophy wife. Perhaps she was just bitter he'd insisted she stop touring and become a housewife. Or perhaps she'd expected her only child to be a musical prodigy like she had been when she was a child. Sorry, Mom, I can't be perfect like you, you think as you round out "Tom Dooley" and the audience applauds and places bills and coins into Bill Tanaka's outstretched cap.
  
  "For my next song, I'm going to do something a bit more Old South. Here's 'Camp Town Races'." You look to Esmeralda to see which Chord letter she's pointing at, but you notice beyond her is Andrea Laughlin walking with a tall space jockey with strawberry blond hair. They're moving down the street when they are stopped by a middle-aged red-haired man with a mustache and a black flack jacket. They briefly talk with him and then all three head down the street together till they're out of view. You're pretty sure the man they met was Jay.
  
  > Now's Not a Good Time to Be Brash, so Keep Playing
  You mindlessly strum the same chord for several minutes on the guitar, until the audience gets restless and people angrily call out for you to start singing already. A cold, wet sensation spills down the central shaft of your torso. You break into a sweat. After a while of more repetitive strumming, your fingers start feeling numb and you stop playing.
  
  Bill Tanaka looks at you, leans over from where he's sitting on a crate, and reaches for his guitar, which you shakily hand back to him. "Hey, Sandra, would you like me to do a set for about half an hour? You look like you could use a break."
  
  You reply with a barely-noticeable nod. You stand up and walk in small alcove made of several wooden crates, close your eyes, and take in a few deep breaths. Cold metal touches your shoulder and you spin around, ready to face your assailant.
  
  Esmeralda stands before you, her eyes glowing with a soft, ruby light. "Are you feeling well, Sandra?"
  
  "Esse, I think I saw him. Jay. You know...the man from Lozano's Island...the one that got away. He met up with Andrea Laughlin and some space jockey. Is she involved with this too?"
  
  "I can't say, dear."
  
  You sit on a crate and sigh. "It makes sense, when you think about it. She would know about any of my father's business dealings, not to mention any of his secrets. But she stopped working for him before I was kicked out of the Ursuline Academy. That's probably why the men who killed my parents didn't realize I was there too." Your eyes water and wipe them with the back of your hand. You laugh, nervously. "I guess it wouldn't do for me to go gunning them down in broad daylight on the streets of a port city?"
  
  "No, dear. You've showed a healthy dose of restraint. I only wish you'd done that several weeks ago."
  
  You don't know how long you sit among the cluster of crates with Esmeralda, but it seems like an hour at least.
  
  There's a loud cracking sound, like the peal of nearby thunder. You look around and stand up. "What was that, Esse?"
  
  Esmeralda scans the area before stopping her head in a raised position and pointing. "There."
  
  You follow the path of her claw and see black plumes of smoke rising behind several metal buildings.
  
  "It's coming from the area of the landing field," she continues. "But it sounded like concrete. The only structure like that in this city that I can recall would be the Port Authority building."
  
  "Oh, my God! What do we do?"
  
  "The best suggestion I can make is for us to stay right where we are. I'd noticed the sound of a steeply banking rocket ship not long before. There may have been some sort of accident."
  
  You and Esmeralda later find out that a rocket ship indeed crashed into the Port Authority building. You feel bad for the people inside, but you also realize you won't be able to check the ship manifests to find out about the witch ship that came to Lozano's Island. Broken by the day's events, you put your hand on Esmeralda's shoulder. "Esse, maybe you were right. Maybe we should go to the authorities about all that's happened."
  
  Esmeralda touches a claw to your hand. "Quite right, Mistress Sandra. Let us go and ask around about where we might find a radio."
  
  The End