Return of the Phantoms

By Deb Riley

I have had it right up to the eyebrows with this ship! Lieutenant Commander Chip Morton snapped to himself.

He staggered into his cabin and sat down in front of his desk. Brightly colored Christmas cards were stacked neatly in the letter holder, but the green substance draped over his khaki uniform was definitely not tinsel or garland. The goo smelled suspiciously of seawater and fish -- extremely dead fish, at that. It was a far cry from freshly cut pine boughs and bayberry candles, and Morton sighed heavily for perhaps the fifth time in as many minutes.

Bet Mom's got the hot buttered rum fixed, and she's listening to Bing Crosby, the Exec thought. I could be headed home to join her right about now. Instead, where am I? Fifteen nautical miles from nowhere on Christmas Eve, covered in. . .in fish guts! Or whatever that thing had been before Admiral Nelson splattered it with a laser beam all over the deck. . .and all over any innocent bystanders within splattering range, as well. Morton had seen more than his fair share of peculiar flora and fauna (most of them with a decided streak of megalomania) aboard the Seaview over the years. But tonight's entry into the Bug-Eyed-Monster-of-the-Month sweepstakes had definitely taken the cake.

Uh -- make that fish cake. Charlie the Tuna with an attitude, Morton grumbled. The green, gilled humanoid had materialized less than two feet from the Chart Table where a certain luckless Executive Officer had been happily plotting a course.

A course that would have taken the Seaview back to Santa Barbara for Christmas

Day -- just in time for connecting flights to somewhere that a person might actually want to be for the holidays. Now the submarine was halted for repairs, and the Estimated Time of Arrival back at home port was somewhere between three days and forever.

Whichever one comes first, Morton thought. . .and sighed again.

Along with the odor of "Eau de Tuna," his clothing was saturated with the smell of smoke from that same burnt wiring: the over-all effect was not unlike eating Cajun-style blackened swordfish in a burning laundromat. And it was certainly a far cry from the Old Spice aftershave and the crisply pressed uniform that he'd been wearing when he left for watch entirely too many hours ago.

No, the smell of scorched khaki was nothing at all like the scent of maple logs burning merrily in the fireplace. Just exactly the way that they're probably doing at home right at this very moment, Morton thought wistfully.

Try as he might, Morton had never entirely adapted to the California version of Christmas: ersatz snow from a spray can; artificial pine trees decorated with little figures of Santa wearing sunglasses and a string bikini; holly wreaths around the necks of the pink plastic flamingoes in the front yard of his apartment complex.

The Chicagoan who still lurked covertly in the Exec's soul longed for real snow, drifts and mountains of it -- to say nothing of a fresh-cut pine tree laden with all the wonderful old ornaments from Christmases long past. And at no time did pink plastic flamingoes enter into Morton's Christmas equation, holly wreaths or no holly wreaths.

No, Christmas in California -- let alone aboard the Seaview -- would never have the same sights or smells as it did back in Illinois. To begin with, there was the smell of Christmas at his parents' home: the sharp tang of bayberry candles, the spicy fragrance of the pfeffernuse cookies that his mom always baked. . .but most of all, that elusive fragrance of love and warmth that was unique to every home at Christmas.

And that's one scent that'll never be duplicated, let alone come in a spray can, the Exec stared at the tiny, bedraggled plastic tree sitting on his desk. But you made your career choice a long time ago, Morton, despite what people tried to tell you -- so live with it.

You just had to fall in love with the ocean that summer that you visited relatives down in Florida, didn't you? he thought sourly, as he gingerly picked something out of his shirt pocket. . .and hoped that it really wasn't an eyeball.

One envelope had not been tossed into the letter holder, and Morton stared down at the expensive cream-colored paper with its gold-embossed label. The contents of that letter were anything but well-wishes for the holiday season, he knew.

More like Dad's yearly harangue on me joining the Navy. . .not to mention the usual "suggestion" that I resign my commission and go to work for him. Not 'with' him -- 'for' him. Funny thing, though. . . this is the first year that I'd almost consider it, the Exec looked down sadly at the ruins of his uniform and shook his head.

Morton rubbed the back of his neck: without warning, his head had begun to ache, and his stomach was twisted in a queasy knot. Terrific -- now I'm coming down with a flu bug or something, he gulped hard against the nausea. Can anything else possibly go wrong today?

As he stood up, the cabin around him suddenly took on the look of a kaleidoscope: the furnishings and his few personal possessions seemed to split into rainbow-colored fragments that whirled around him in a dizzy arcs. The air was full of a high-pitched buzz, and he gritted his teeth -- the noise was enough to drive a man insane in only a matter of moments.

Morton staggered forward, grabbing onto the edge of his desk for support. He made a dizzy lunge for the microphone hanging from its bracket on the wall, but as he reached for it, the microphone shattered into hundreds of red and violet and indigo fragments.

"What. . .is. . .happening. . .to. . . me?" he gasped aloud.

But before he could answer his own desperate question or make contact with someone who could answer it for him, his legs buckled underneath him. As he fell, his arm swept across his desk, dragging several objects with him.

Christmas cards drifted down over the Executive Officer like a flurry of cardboard snow as he stared up at the ceiling of his cabin. He had time for one last thought before he felt his mind being swallowed up by the darkness that now took the place of the kaleidoscope effect:

Christmas aboard the Seaview, bah humbug. . .in spades!

If I'm in Sick Bay, Morton thought, then why is there a periscope in the middle of it?

The incongruity of the situation was enough to bring the Exec wide-awake, and he jumped to his feet. He was in the Control Room -- there was no question of that, bathrobe or no bathrobe. He stood up cautiously and stared straight ahead at the Observation Nose until the room stopped spinning on an impossible axis.

But the Control Room was shadowy in the dim light of the emergency generators, and the duty stations were unmanned. He felt a little shiver go up his neck as he turned around cautiously. True to his intuition, he was not alone. . .a figure not much larger than a chimpanzee sat on the Chart Table -- except that this particular 'monkey' clutched a long-stemmed white clay pipe between its teeth.

"I should have known it'd be someone like you that's behind all this!" Morton snapped. "And aren't you a little early. . .or else a whole lot late? It is Christmas Eve, you know."

"Sorry, boyo," the little man shook his head with a laugh. "We pookas keep our own calendar -- one that you mortal lot liberally borrowed from to create your own holidays, I'd thank you to remember."

"Is that what you're calling yourself now-- a pooka?" Morton asked derisively. Call himself whatever he might like, Patrick and his evil brother Mickey had caused no end of trouble aboard the Seaview on their last visit -- and the Exec was developing a long memory for such occasions. "What's next . . your six foot tall invisible rabbit cousin?"

"Mind your tongue, boyo, or I'll wave me pipe and put you into a sleep that'll last for a hundred years and a day!" the pooka -- also known by its generic name of 'leprechaun' -- hopped down from the Chart Table. "But that's not why I've come here tonight, I'll have you to know."

"So just why have you come back to Seaview then, Patrick. . .if this isn't just an hallucination brought on by too long a shift and not enough sleep, that is?" Morton asked.

"You still don't believe in us pookas, then?" Patrick's wizened face was full of indignation.

"Oh, I believe in you, all right. You're made out of the same stuff as poltergeists and ghosts and all the rest of that bunch -- some left-over racial memory or just a momentary glitch in the old neural circuits," Morton shrugged sardonically. "All you are is the Irish equivalent of a bad heirloom."

"A bad heirloom, is it? A racial memory. . .a momentary glitch!" Patrick screeched in fury. "Well, boyo --bad heirloom this, will you now!"

The pooka raised his pipe and gestured wildly at Morton: with a resigned sigh, the Exec braced himself for whatever might come next. A few sparks of light and a small puff of smoke surrounded his knees for a second or two, then fizzled out completely.

"I've seen sparklers on the Fourth of July that put on a better show. Wet sparklers, at that," he folded his arms over his chest and raised one eyebrow sarcastically. "Still haven't quite managed to get the hang of that thing, eh, Patrick? But you still haven't told me why you're here or what you've done with the rest of the crew."

The pooka glared first at his pipe, then up at Morton towering over him. "The rest of the crew is none of your concern or mine. I've come this night for you."

Morton looked down at Patrick with the same expression that he usually reserved for his subordinates -- the infamous raised eyebrow and curled lip look that few people were foolish enough to challenge. But like everything else that day, nothing seemed to be working in quite the fashion that the Exec had hoped it would, and the pooka was clearly unimpressed by it all.

"For your welfare, then, you great oumethaune!" the little man snapped in exasperation. Morton had no idea of what the Irish term actually meant, but in all probability, it was not intended as a compliment. "You've come to a turning in the road, boyo -- unless you choose the right path, you'll end up in County Sligo when you meant to be in County Limerick all along."

"A turning in the road?" in spite of his earlier sarcasm, Morton suddenly found himself strangely interested in what the little man had to say. "What's that supposed to mean, Patrick?"

"That's for others than me to teach you, laddie -- mind you that you don't give them the same lot of cheek that you've give me," Patrick admonished. "Learn well. . .or live to regret your own foolishness!"

Morton shivered involuntarily. The pooka's words seemed to hang in the air like smoke after cannon fire, but before the Executive Officer could ask a single question, Patrick smiled. "It's time, boyo. . .the finest of blessings be upon you this night. And the good Saint who took me own name knows well that you're apt to need them -- that's why he asked me to come here!"

This time, the pipe in Patrick's hand seemed to glow with its own inner light. The pooka pointed it at Morton: no weapon made by man had ever been as frightening to the Exec as that simple piece of white clay was at the moment.

The light surrounded Morton now and swallowed up all his thoughts, hopes and fears in a single moment, leaving him feeling strangely sad and empty. No mortal eye was meant to look upon that magic light: indeed, no mortal eye could. The Executive Officer felt himself slipping back into the darkness from which he had only emerged moments before.

But this time, his descent to the deck was slow and easy, as though he weighed no more than a single feather floating on the soft breeze of an Irish summer evening. Just before he lost consciousness again altogether, Morton heard a voice that seemed to come from a long distance away.

". . .bad heirloom. . .indeed!"

Morton came awake slowly, and he was vaguely aware of someone hovering near him. He smiled, then took a deep breath of air that seemed to hold the fragrance of a thousand exotic tropical flowers.

". . .nice perfume, Deirdre," he murmured, too relaxed to open his eyes at the moment. "Sorry about falling asleep during the game like that. . ."

Several things occurred to him all at once. Even if he had been curled up beside his girl friend back in Santa Barbara, watching a football game, his living room sofa was definitely not upholstered in steel.

That was also assuming that Deirdre was in Santa Barbara in the first place -- instead of back at home in Chicago, visiting with her family for the holidays. Then there was the little matter of Deirdre's notorious allergy to everything that even hinted of perfume. . .and this scent was Perfume with a capital P and several exclamation points thrown in for good measure.

Morton's eyes flew open. . . and he promptly wished that he had left them closed. He was propped up against the wall down in his cabin, and the wearer of the exotic perfume stood in front of him. Or more accurately, floated in front of him: the phantom's long, flowing white gown cleared the deck by almost a foot.

The woman's face was delicate under masses of flowing black hair, and her skin had a soft olive sheen in the dim light of the emergency generators. There could be only one such person, and even though Morton had never actually seen her, he remembered Lee Crane's description too vividly not to recognize her.

"Are you. . . ?" Morton stood up quickly, pulling his bathrobe around him a little tighter for modesty's sake.

"You know who I am," Lani's ghost smiled gently. "We must go quickly now. . .my time here grows short."

"Go where?" Morton asked with a little gesture of confusion. "I'm not exactly dressed for travelling, even assuming for a minute that we weren't dead in the water."

Lani shook her head. "This journey is of the heart and spirit -- not of the body. Here, take my hand."

Before Morton could voice another protest, the spirit reached out and grasped his hand. The same brilliant light that had surrounded him earlier now poured down on him in a blinding flash, leaving him as sightless as he had been on the planet Venus a few years ago.

When the dazzle cleared, Morton was no longer aboard Seaview. Instead, the Exec now stood beside a fireplace in the living room of a high-ceiling old house. And if this was a hallucination, it was an amazingly lifelike one: he could feel the warmth of the burning logs and smell their unmistakable fragrance as he stood there.

In one corner of the room, a magnificent pine tree stretched nearly to the ceiling. Its branches were covered with shimmering spun-glass ornaments and tinsel, while ropes of candy-colored lights twinkled softly. A handsome blond man and a beautiful, fair-haired woman sat on a sofa facing the doorway -- their faces full of delight as they watched and waited in great anticipation.

"Mom, Dad!" The Exec started to call out, but the phantom beside him shook her head.

"They cannot hear you -- they are but images of what has been," she said softly, then pointed at the doorway into the living room. "Look. . .and remember."

A small blond boy tumbled into the living room at that moment. He could have been no more than five years old, and his face was alight with the expectation that only Christmas morning could produce.

"Mommy, Daddy, look. . .Santa Claus ate the cookies I left for him!" the child beamed at the empty plate sitting on the end table. "Did you see him when he. . .?"

The little boy stopped in mid-sentence at the sight of something so wonderful under the Christmas tree that it eclipsed all the other treasures piled around it. "My boat. . . Santa left me my boat, just like I wanted!" he cried, running over to the tree. He sat down beside the magnificent replica of a clipper ship and gently touched its furled sails with one small forefinger, delighting in the elaborately detailed deck and rigging. "When I grow up, I want to be a sailor and have my own ship and. . ."

The adult Morton moved a little closer to the child that he had once been. He dropped down to one knee beside the enraptured little boy who still poured out his plans for the future.

"Well, one out of fifty isn't too bad, I guess," the Exec shook his head at Lani. "Sailor -- yes. My own ship. . .no."

The spirit beside him seemed to waver like a candle flame for a second or two, then nodded as though listening to something that only she could hear. "We must go now. There is still another Christmas you must see, and my time grows short," she said softly.

"Hey. . .wait a minute! We just got here!" Morton protested, but there was wistfulness in his eyes that had not been there a moment before.

He watched as his father sat cross-legged on the floor and gathered his only child onto his lap. The senior Morton clutched his little boy to him as though afraid that something might snatch Chip away from him forever.

"Do we have to go just yet?" the Exec asked quietly as he looked down into the faces of the two before him and saw -- really saw -- the similarities between them for the first time in his life.

The phantom nodded firmly but gently as she reached out once more and grasped Morton's sleeve. "Let look at another Christmas -- one where you understood that life might not always be as a child had dreamed of."

Morton nodded reluctantly, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was no longer standing in the living room of his parents' home: instead, he found himself aboard the Seaview once again, down in his cabin. A tiny artificial pine tree sat on his desk beside a letter holder full of Christmas cards, and again, he looked into the face of the person he had once been.

But this Chip Morton still held a crumpled letter whose envelope bore his father's familiar handwriting. The Exec watched as his younger self angrily tossed the message into the wastebasket, then retrieved it and smoothed out its badly crinkled surface.

A knock on the door interrupted the younger Morton's angry muttering. "Come on in, it's open," he grumbled without looking up. When he saw who his visitor was, he started to stand up, military discipline over-riding all else. "Sorry, Lee. . .uh, Captain. I didn't know it was you, sir."

"As you were, Chip." Crane said sadly, hearing the slight inflection that Morton placed on the courtesy titles. "Have things really changed this much? You and I are. . .were never this formal around each other."

The Exec saw the look of discomfort in his friend's face, and he tried to manage a smile and a friendly word or two -- anything to bridge the unspoken gap that had grown between them since Lee had been promoted to Captain of the Seaview. But for once, Morton was unable to bat away his own pain and unhappiness, especially when he saw Crane looking down at the envelope with its expensive gold address label.

"Permission to speak frankly, sir?" Morton asked, waiting until he saw Crane nod. "I think I know why you came down here tonight and what you want to say to me. I don't resent your promotion, Lee. You've always been the kind of guy who's headed straight for the top -- brilliant, charismatic, a real leader. I'm not that kind of person and never will be. If I was, I'd be sitting behind a big mahogany desk right this minute with a secretary bringing me coffee and handing me the morning's mail. You know, letters addressed to the firm of 'Morton and Son.'"

He gestured at the once-elegant envelope on the scarred metal surface of his desk, and now Crane could sense the pain that hovered just below the surface of the Exec's impassive expression. "I. . .see," Crane said slowly, knowing altogether too well from Academy days that a letter from Morton's father was not apt to contain a 'Season's Greetings' message and a substantial Christmas check.

More like the yearly diatribe about how Chip's not living up to the old man's plans and expectations, Crane thought sadly.

Those plans had definitely not included Chip joining the Navy, Crane knew. And no doubt this particular letter contained more than one jibe about Morton's failure to be promoted to Captain of the Seaview -- even though he had the same experience and qualifications as Crane.

Over the years, Crane had watched as Morton grew more and more withdrawn with each new hurt, hiding his real feelings under a cool veneer of professionalism. Now, only someone who knew the Exec as well as Crane did would have ever guessed what kind of pain lay beneath that impassive exterior. The Captain sighed once again, trying in vain to find the right words that would free Morton.

"Chip. . ." Crane spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. But the Executive Officer shook his head bitterly -- rejecting any offer of understanding and compassion from the man who was now his superior officer.

"Just let it go. . .please, Lee?" Morton said quietly. "I appreciate what you came down here to do, but it's no good. You can't change what you are, and I can't change what I am. Let's just leave it at that, O.K.?"

In the shadowy corner of the cabin, the present Morton smashed his fist against the wall. "No, don't be that stupid, Morton!" he yelled at the person he had once been. "Lee just wanted to help you, and you shut him out -- the way you shut out everyone."

"He cannot hear you," the beautiful ghost beside him shook her head in sorrow as the younger Crane stood up sadly and nodded at his Exec. "These are but shadows of what has already taken place."

Morton watched as Crane walked towards the door. The Captain turned and started to speak. . . but then saw the expression in the other man's eyes and thought better of whatever he had been about to say. Crane nodded sadly and stepped out into the corridor, closing the door silently behind him.

The younger Morton made a slight movement as though to stand, then sighed heavily. He sat back down again and picked up the duty roster he had been working on when Crane came in.

"No more, please -- I just want to forget that it ever happened." Morton turned to his ghostly companion, and the Exec's eyes were full of misery.

"You have already done a good job of forgetting," Lani said quietly. "That's why I am here tonight. But one more Christmas and. . ."

"No!" Morton shouted a protest, and for the first time in many years, his unemotional surface shattered into irreparable fragments -- leaving the raw pain underneath for any cold wind to blow upon. "No more memories. . ."

The ghost began to laugh, a sound as maddening as that strange buzz had been earlier. Morton felt an insane rage swelling up from the narrow space in which he normally imprisoned it, and he looked around the cabin wildly for something to silence the specter's awful mirth. He snatched up the wastebasket beside his desk and hurled it at the phantom woman.

The waste basket passed through the ghost and hit the wall with a clang of denting metal. The phantom vanished from Morton's sight immediately, but her laughter and the scent of her perfume lingered for many long seconds until Morton felt that his sanity was about to slip away. Once more, the cabin and its furnishings splintered into rainbow shards: once more, the Executive Officer fell into that black maelstrom that waited for him just beyond the light.

The unconscious Morton slowly slid down the wall. . . like the single tear that trickled down his cheek.

Morton awoke to a dozen wonderful fragrances: the rich brown warmth of roasted turkey, the sweet tang of freshly peeled tangerines, the crisp odor of marshmallows browning on a casserole of candied yams, the yeasty scent of dinner rolls baking -- and all the other cooking smells that blended into one magnificent perfume.

And whoever had decorated the Officers' Mess had done a great job, too. The entire room was decorated with ropes of bright silver and gold tinsel, and in one corner, a beautifully decorated artificial tree shimmered softly. The air was warmed by dozens of lit candles scattered throughout the area, and the Exec took in a deep, appreciative breath of the scent.

Umm, smell those bayberry candles, just like the ones Aunt Claire always sends from Maine! he smiled as he searched his slightly fuzzy memory for the rhyme that Aunt Claire always included with the package. Oh, yes -- 'A bayberry candle burned to the socket/ Brings health to the soul and wealth to the pocket.'

Except there was that troublesome periscope smack in the middle of things again -- right where it had no business being. Morton shook off the last bit of sleep and looked around him: he was back in the Control Room once more. But unless they were left-over images from some peaceful dream, the tree and the food were definitely real.

The Exec himself was slumped over the small table in the sub's nose, a lit candle beside him. He yipped as the flame singed his cheek, and he jumped to his feet. . .just as a voice from the top of the spiral staircase boomed down at him.

"So you're awake at last! And it's about time, too, young fellow!" Mr. Pem jauntily bounced down the steps, managing to miss the turkey and all the other food that had been piled up on every available surface of the Control Room.

Morton started to say something just as the spry Mr. Pem reached the bottom step. Pem looked down in the same direction as the Exec had just done. . . and he was only marginally too late to avoid stepping in the middle of a large, juicy berry pie.

Blackberry, from the looks of it, Morton thought wryly.

Ordinarily, the Exec would have approached the figure before him with the same caution that he reserved for rattlesnakes, arsenic, and anything that came with its own NATO category. But tonight it seemed that Morton had become a card-carrying citizen of Wonderland, and all bets were off.

"Don't worry, Mr. Pem -- you wear your food well," the Exec said, and the calmness in his voice was liberally laced with sarcasm. . .like a bowl of tapioca stuffed with carpet tacks. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, it's what I can do for you, my boy," Pem surreptitiously tried to shake the remaining pie from his trouser cuff. "I've come here tonight as part of a reclamation plan. . ."

". . .my reclamation, I suppose?" Morton asked. The whole conversation seemed to be an echo of something else -- something that the Exec had heard or read. . .although he couldn't exactly say where. 

"Uh, actually, no," Pem shook his head. "My reclamation, I'm afraid. It's part of the deal that I cut in the afterworld to avoid some of the more. . . unpleasant ramifications of my behavior while I was on this earth. But I have come to be of service to you tonight, lad. You're in need of help -- my help." 

"The only help I could really use is figuring out what's happened to the rest of the crew and why I'm sitting here talking to a ghost -- one with really lousy taste in clothes, I might add." Morton grumbled, looking over at Pen's gaudy red and blue hounds tooth jacket and green velvet slacks. "If that's the best haberdashery that the Hereafter has to offer, I can't say that I'm exactly thrilled by the prospects. Whatever happened to the old 'white robe and tasteful matching halo' ensemble, anyway?"  

"You're assuming that I made it to. . . ahem, the Pleasant Place, shall we say?" Pem's glare made it clear that he wanted to say more to Morton -- much more to Morton.  

Things that would have no doubt set his reclamation process back by several millennia! Morton grinned to himself.  

"Oh well, no point in wasting time," the Exec held out his hand. "Let's get this show on the road. With any luck, I ought to have just about half an hour left to get in a nap before I have to get up at O-dark hundred hours tomorrow. Well, what're you waiting for?" 

Mr. Pem nodded and took a large gold watch from his vest pocket. At that, the Control Room vanished instantly, and with no sensation other than a brief touch of dizziness, the Exec found himself standing in front of the fireplace in his parents' living room once more.  

"What's the matter, got a little brimstone in the mainspring somewhere?" Morton snorted in disgust. "You'd better check that watch of yours again, Mr. Pem. I've already been here tonight once." 

Pem shook his head and pointed as an older woman walked into the living room: her once blonde hair was now silver-gilt in the firelight, and there were deep lines around her blue eyes -- eyes that were identical in color and shape to Morton's own. She held a piece of paper tightly in one hand.  

"It's a message from Chip," Mrs. Morton said to her husband who sat in a recliner, reading a financial journal. "There's been some trouble aboard the Seaview. He probably won't be back in Santa Barbara in time to catch a flight home for. . ." 

Her voice broke a little, and she was unable to finish her sentence. "Does that come as any real surprise, dear?" her husband answered without bothering to look up from his magazine. "It's all part of the glamorous life of a sailor. You should know that by now." 

Mrs. Morton nodded sadly. "I know, dear. . . I know. But I thought that this year might be different. He hasn't been home for Christmas in the past seven years, and I'd gotten my hopes up. I suppose that was just foolishness on my part." 

Morton's father laid the journal aside for a moment. "I've said it a thousand times before, but I'll say it again: you knew things like this were going to happen when you encouraged him to join the Navy. A boy his age had no business jumping into a career without thinking about what he was doing or where he'd end up in a few years. If you'd listened to me, our boy might be here with us tonight for Christmas. But as usual, neither one of you ever paid attention to what I told you." 

"Our son was a man when he made his choice. I was proud of his decision then, and I've never regretted telling him to follow his heart when he came to me and asked me what I thought he should do," Mrs. Morton sat down wearily on the sofa.  

There was a small tape recorder on the end table beside her, and she pushed the Play button. Bing Crosby's voice filled the silence with the lilting notes of "Christmas in Killarney," effectively cutting off any rebuttal.  

Chip winced at the sight of his mother's face as she stared at the twinkling lights on the tree, her eyes full of unshed tears. The senior Morton grumbled under his breath for a second, then picked up the magazine and started to read again -- playing out what was evidently a commonplace scene in the Morton home. 

Morton started to take a step closer to his mother, but Pem shook his head. "They can't hear or see you, young fellow. But let's leave all this doom and gloom and take a look at a little more lively Christmas, shall we?" 

The Exec nodded without protest, and Pem's watch gleamed brightly in the firelight for a second or two. Without warning, Morton found himself standing in one corner of the Enlisted Men's Mess.  

Chief Sharkey, Patterson, and a dozen or so crewmen were all gathered around a small artificial pine tree whose sparse branches were weighted down with every kind of homemade ornament imaginable. Morton recognized the intricately woven " Ojo-de-Dios" ornaments as the work of Rodriguez, and only Patterson could have carved the tiny crèche figures out of soap with such masterful strokes that they appeared to be made from ivory, instead of Ivory.  

Most of the men had received lovingly packed boxes from wives or mothers before the voyage began: now one table was loaded down with candy and cookies of every possible description. A punch bowl improvised from a large plastic food container sat in the middle of the fudge and brownies and scones: the punch itself was a dubious purple-green mixture of Kool-Aid, grape juice, and things that Morton would have preferred not to think about. Nevertheless, everyone was clearly enjoying the beverage and the treats. 

"Hey, Kowalski, quit stuffing your face with fudge and get over here. You're falling down on the job!" Sharkey called out, and the young crewman reluctantly complied with the order. 

Morton sighed as Kowalski picked up a battered guitar and returned to the center of the room. "That's it, I've seen enough," the Exec turned towards Pem with an expression of disgust. "I don't think I can handle 'Joy to the World' with a back beat." 

"Shh, listen. You might be surprised," Pem touched his index finger to his lips for silence, and the Exec reluctantly did as he was told. 

"Ah, I think I'll dedicate this one to Mr. Morton. . .in absentia," Kowalski winked at Chief Sharkey. 

"Yeah, we wouldn't want the Exec to spend Christmas in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, now, would we, guys?" the Chief grinned, and a ripple of laughter went around the room. Morton's opinions on the subject of rock music in general -- and Kowalski's music in specific -- were well known to everyone aboard the Seaview. 

Morton gritted his teeth as Kowalski strummed the first chord and began to sing softly. But in a few seconds, the Exec's expression softened as the words of the glorious old carol filled the room.  

"Silent night, holy night/All is calm, all is bright. . ." Kowalski sang softly, and his voice was strong and true -- each note touching Morton's wounded spirit like a healing drop of ointment. 

"What's this?" Pem scoffed gently as the Exec surreptitiously wiped his eyes. "I thought you couldn't stand Kowalski's music. I thought it sounded like a cow breaking wind over a beer barrel. I thought. . ." 

". . .oh, muzzle it, will you?" Morton snapped, but his eyes were full of a laughter that he hadn't felt in weeks. 

Pem chuckled and then, like Lani, appeared to be listening to something that was inaudible to Morton. "It's time for me to leave you, young fellow," Pem pulled out the watch once more before the Exec could protest: once again, Morton found himself in his cabin along with the bemused Pem. "One more of my companions will accompany you on the final leg of your journey tonight. A devilishly hard fellow to talk to, but one whose silence is well worth hearing. Farewell, lad -- Godspeed!" 

Pem disappeared before Morton could speak a single word, and once more, the crystalline light poured down over the Executive Officer, robbing him of all awareness. Again, he felt himself floating down into the darkness, but he wore a smile this time -- a real smile, one born of enjoyment and appreciation instead of sarcasm or bitterness. 

. . .say good night, Morton, the Exec grinned with one last yawn. And good night wherever you are, Mr. Pem -- I hope the Board of Appeals reduces your sentence for this! 

A voice muttered from a distance that seemed to be millions of miles away, although it might as easily have been a few inches: 

". . .lousy clothes . . .indeed!"

This time, Morton awoke to no pleasant fragrances, no perfumed breeze. The acrid smell of rotting fabric filled his nostrils. . .an odor that he remembered well from cleaning out his grandmother's attic after her death. His grandmother had been a quilt maker and a compulsive hoarder of fabric scraps, including old garments that had passed into and out of fashion at least three or four times since their creation. Morton remembered carrying out box after box of musty, disintegrating cloth and smelling this same odor until it seemed that he would never scrub it from his hair and skin. 

His cabin was filled with that same pungent odor now, as he sat up quickly on his bunk. He was fully clothed once again, and he was a little surprised to see that he now wore his best dress uniform, the one he reserved for funerals and weddings. And as the blurriness faded from his mind, he was aware that someone else was in the cabin with him -- an unmistakable and all-but overwhelming presence. 

Gerhardt Kreuger's specter floated above the deck, facing away from Morton slightly, and the figure wore a transparent black leather jacket and dark-colored clothing. But the Exec involuntarily cried out as Kreuger turned to face him. . .the greenish-gray color of the phantom's skin would have been terrible enough, but the sight of blackened holes where eyes had once been was almost more than Morton could endure. 

Morton tried to force a few words out of his mouth, but they emerged as an unintelligible gurgle. Mutely, he held out a shaking hand towards Krueger: he didn't know if the apparition could see him, and he was more than a little sure that he didn't really want to find out, either.  

Krueger silently stretched out a claw-like hand and touched Morton. The Exec tried desperately to overcome his revulsion -- but with little success. A sweet stench like a sackful of rotting potatoes enveloped Morton, and he retched violently as he felt the deck slipping away under his feet. He seemed to be travelling through some long black tunnel, but there was no welcoming light at the end of it. . . only a dreary, lead-colored expanse like a winter sky.  

He had closed his eyes to reduce the vertigo and nausea that he felt, but when he opened them again, Morton found himself standing in the middle of a room that he had never seen before. The carpet was thick, and the chair behind the mahogany desk was upholstered in the finest grade of leather. Indeed, everything about the office exuded an oily richness, from the expensive oil paintings on the wall to the sterling silver picture frames neatly arranged on the desktop.  

In the subdued light of a bronze floor lamp, Krueger's apparition took on a sickly yellow hue as he pointed first to the pictures and then at Morton. The Exec nodded and reached down to pick up the nearest photograph.  

That's Dad! he thought as he studied the lined face with its restless, greedy smile and bitter eyes. But this isn't his office, and besides which, who's that woman and little boy with him, anyway? Whoever she is, she must be a real prize. . .and that poor kid looks like he's scared to death. 

As if he could read Morton's mind, Kreuger shook his head and then gestured at the photograph once more. If that's not Dad, then who. . . ? Morton began, but before he could finish the thought, the office door swung open and a woman stepped timidly inside. 

Deirdre! the Exec smiled. At least there's one thing familiar about this expensive Alcatraz...! 

But even Deirdre had undergone some strange transformation: her face was lined from years of pain, and her eyes were full of sadness as she walked over to the desk. She neatly arranged the morning's mail on the desk, pausing as she did so to look down at the photographs. She picked up the family portrait and studied it carefully. . .clearly, this was a scene that had been played out many times before.  

"Oh, love -- why did you do it?" she whispered sorrowfully to the man's image. "If you'd never come back here, you would have never met. . .her. And he would never have been able to talk you into following your head instead of your heart." 

Deirdre's face was momentarily filled with loathing as she stared down at the woman in the picture. . .but even so, Deirdre's expression was twice as pleasant as the other woman's tight, thin-lipped smile of triumph. The blonde woman's face was vulpine in its sharpness as she stared into the camera , and she was clearly posing to achieve the best view of her expensive diamond necklace and earrings. The dark-haired little secretary sighed heavily and replaced the photograph at the precise angle it had been, then tiptoed out of the office. 

"I don't understand. . ." Morton said to the ghost beside him. Kreuger said nothing, and there was no way to read an expression in the specter's ruined face. But for a second, the Exec could have sworn that Kreuger was taking pity on him. 

Kreuger held out one hand, and at that, the office, its expensive furnishings, and its pale gold light all disappeared. Morton and the phantom seemed to be swallowed up by that dead gray expanse again: this time, when Morton could control his dizziness enough to open his eyes again, he found himself standing at the back of a crowd in an open field. 

I don't know this place. . . he thought and started to voice his protest to the phantom beside him.  

Kreuger shook his head implacably and pointed at the ground. Morton looked down and saw that he was standing beside a flat slab of marble with a bronze plaque attached: in fact, he was surrounded by the new style tombstones.  

A cemetery? he frowned. But I don't know who. . .

At that moment, a sonorous voice rolled above the crowd -- a voice that Morton knew well. But what was the Admiral saying?  

". . . have come here to pay our final respects to a man whose courage and honor were well known to us all. Captain Lee Crane was. . ." 

"Lee? No, it's not possible -- not Lee!" Morton cried out wildly, but no one seemed to hear him. "Tell me this is some kind of sick joke, Kreuger. You hated Lee. . .this is your way of getting back at his friends, right?" 

Again, the apparition bowed its head a little as though expressing its sorrow -- even if it no longer could share in mortal speech. Angrily, Morton pushed his way past a cluster of junior officers, but to the Exec's surprise, none of them acted as though they saw him at all.  

Morton could still hear the Admiral as he delivered the eulogy, and in a moment or two, the Exec had effortlessly passed through the crowd to the front, where he had a clear view of everything. Nelson was standing under a blue canvas awning, and Morton had never seen the Admiral's face so heavy with grief and bitterness before. A pale silver casket with a United States flag draped over it rested in front of an open grave, and the Exec's face drained of all color.  

Then it's true, and Lee really is gone, Morton cried out silently to the phantom at his side. No. . dammit all, no! I never got to say good-bye -- to tell him how much our friendship meant to me. 

Kreuger bowed his head again as though acknowledging Morton's grief. The ghostly figure gestured at a cluster of enlisted men who stood at a distance from the rest of the crowd. Sharkey was there, as well, along with Kowalski, Patterson, and most of the Seaview's crew. The Chief Petty Officer's face was raw-edged with sorrow, but there was anger in his eyes, too, as he listened to Nelson's description of Crane's final moments. 

"This should never have happened," Sharkey muttered through clenched teeth to no one in particular. "The Skipper shouldn't be there in that casket. . .it ought to be that idiot, Commander Bailey, instead. Mr. Morton would have seen that the Skipper was in trouble on that last dive right off." 

"Yeah, but Mr. Morton isn't here, Chief," Kowalski hissed back under his breath. "Mr. Morton's back in Chicago, tearing up the stock market and living the high life now, remember? And if Commander Bailey's not quite as good an Exec as Mr. Morton was and the Skipper just happens to get killed because of it -- well, hey, what the heck, right? Just as long as the Dow-Jones doesn't fall apart without Mr. Morton, I guess that's just life. . .and death."

 "Oh, no. . .no!" Morton's voice was little more than a tightly controlled scream as he turned to face the specter beside him. "Whatever happened to Lee is my fault. I could have prevented it if I'd been there. That man in the picture -- that was me, wasn't it? Or at least the man that I'll become if I resign my commission and go back to Chicago, right?" 

Once again, Kreuger bowed his head a little, but the gesture was neither denial nor confirmation. "Tell me that it doesn't have to be this way," Morton pleaded, gesturing at the casket and the grieving crewmen. "Tell me that Lee doesn't have to die. . .that it's not too late to change what I'm becoming. It's not too late -- it can't be!" 

Kreuger turned away from the Exec slightly, just as he had first appeared down in Morton's cabin. "No, I don't believe it!" Morton cried out, making a frantic lunge for the phantom's arm as if to shake the truth from him. "If it's too late, then why are you showing me all this? Why?" 

The apparition said nothing as Morton's hand closed around. . .nothing at all. The Exec cried out as he over-balanced and fell heavily at Krueger's feet, and his head struck the edge of a marble grave marker with a dull thud.  

As he felt himself losing consciousness once more, Morton clutched at the phantom's feet in desperate supplication.

Feet that were suddenly much more solid and no longer wearing high black boots. Morton looked up with a fuzzy little grin at the owner of those spit-polished regulation shoes, and even though the realization was slow in coming, he finally deciphered his whereabouts. The cabin was Morton's: the stinking uniform was Morton's -- the desk and the bunk and the rest of the furnishings were Morton's, too. And as for the person in the gleaming shoes. . .  

"See, Admiral, I told you we'd find him passed out on the deck, just like everyone else that got hit with, uh. . ." Crane fumbled for the right adjective.

". . .fish effluvia," the Exec finished up Crane's sentence with a grin that was downright unmilitary in its inebriation. "Alien innards. . .extra-terrestrial ick. . ." 

"I think we've got the idea, Commander," Nelson grumbled. With considerable effort and the appropriate sound effects, he and Crane managed to lift Morton's dead weight onto the bunk where the Exec wobbled happily for a second. . .and started to slide off the edge once more.  

Nelson made a lunge for Morton's arm and gave a slight push backward. But even that small alteration in his equilibrium was enough to topple the Exec again.  

"Oh, no you don't! One round of that is exercise enough for today of all days!" Nelson snapped as he grabbed the Exec's arm. He managed to keep Morton upright, then turned to Crane. "You know, if I didn't know that everyone else that came in contact with the alien tissue was having these same symptoms, Lee, I'd swear that your Executive Officer was as drunk as the proverbial skunk." 

Morton's mouth seemed to have taken on a life of its own -- one that was totally independent of his thought processes, such as they were at the moment. He gave his superiors another of those lop-sided little grins as he teetered on the edge of his bunk, gazing pensively at nothing in particular. 

"I've seen possums and raccoons and squirrels and cute little bunny rabbits, Admiral, but I've never seen a proverbial skunk," Morton traced vague animal shapes in the air with an index finger as he sat up again. "Hey, why the long faces, everybody? 'Tis the season to be jolly, you know, the whole falalalala bit. . ." 

Happily, he began to bellow the Christmas carol, and what his voice lacked in technical merit, it more than made up for in sheer volume. Nelson and Crane looked at each other and exchanged pained grimaces. 

"Doc says it'll probably take twenty-four to forty-eight hours for the neurotoxins to wear off," Crane groaned. "All this from coming in contact with the extra-terrestrial equivalent of bad sushi. I don't know if we're going to be able to make it that long without throwing him and the others overboard, Admiral." 

The mention of time momentarily sobered Morton -- or as sober as things got, given the circumstances. "Uh. . .what day is it, Lee?" he asked. "I must have left my sundial in my other jacket." 

"It's Christmas morning, Chip. Not that you could tell the difference between Christmas and a kick in the pants right now," Crane snorted in 'disgust'. . . but his eyes were full of laughter. 

Morton gave the thought considerable attention for a moment, tilting his head to the side in concentration. Unfortunately, even that slight motion was enough to throw his balance off again, and he began the inevitable descent towards the deck. This time, Nelson applied the palm of his hand to the Exec's forehead in a backward shove: the result was a popping sound that was satisfyingly loud, even if it did no actual damage. 

"The difference between Christmas and a kick in the pants is that Christmas is when you tell people how much they mean to you," Morton stared up at the ceiling with a delighted grin at his own cleverness. "Of course, I guess you could say the same thing about the kick in the pants -- only not quite as much so." 

"Not quite as much as. . .? Oh, never mind," Nelson started to ask, then thought better

of it. "From all that Doc and I have been able to figure out, Chip, the only cure for this is to sleep it off. And rather than dragging you down to Sick Bay and making Doc's life even more difficult than it already is, I think we'll take care of you down here in your own quarters. Let's get you decontaminated, shall we? And after we get the, uh, 'fish effluvia' rinsed off, I think we'll let a sleeping Exec lie and just check on you from time to time."  

"I don't lie, Admiral," Morton's face was full of wounded indignation. "I don't even fib, sir." 

Decontaminating Morton was definitely easier at the tactical stage than it is at the actual operations level! Crane gritted his teeth a few minutes later.  

Morton sat in the shower -- still fully clothed -- and blissfully howled Christmas carols through mouthfuls of water. The trick, Crane knew, was to keep the Exec from drowning before decontamination was complete . . . no matter how much I might want to let him! he thought with a wry smile. 

After what seemed like fifteen of the longest minutes of Lee Crane's entire life, Admiral Nelson nodded at last and gave the thumbs-up sign. Crane and Nelson half-carried, half-dragged a dripping Morton across the cabin and in a few moments they had peeled off his soaked uniform and managed to stuff him into a pair of pajamas -- a feat not unlike squeezing a sausage back into its casing, given Morton's current condition, and unceremoniously tossed the Exec onto his bunk.  

"Just get some sleep, and when you're up to it, I'll bring you down a dinner tray," Crane grinned wickedly at a slightly more subdued Morton. "From the looks and smell of things, I think Cookie's outdone himself on Christmas dinner this year. And just for you, we'll omit the fish course." 

"Thanks, Lee. . .thanks, Admiral," the Exec mumbled drowsily, pulling the covers up around him with a little help from Nelson.  

So it was all just a hallucination. . . Morton thought as he drifted off to sleep. But that doesn't matter, not really. As soon as I can think straight, there's a letter that I need to answer once and for all, not to mention a couple of people that I need to tell a few things. And thank You, Lord. . .thank You that I still have time to make some course corrections!

Nelson and Crane had tiptoed towards the door, and now the two men stood surveying the wreckage of Morton's cabin. "Just what in the world was he doing before he passed out, Admiral?" Crane asked. "Christmas cards all over the deck, and the place smells like a perfume factory at high noon. Boy, is Deirdre going to be sore at him if that was supposed to be her Christmas present. Not only did Chip forget that she's allergic to perfume, but then he spilled it everywhere." 

"Not to mention whatever it was that he was eating," Nelson muttered. He moved out of the gooey purple puddle in which he was standing, then bent down to inspect the deck. "Here, smell this, Lee." 

The Admiral touched the substance with the tips of his fingers, then stood up. He held out his hand, and Crane took a whiff of the gloop. "Smells like berry juice to me -- blackberry pie, maybe." 

Before Morton could say anything, Nelson and Crane had stepped outside the cabin and closed the door behind them. The Exec had time for one last murmured comment before sleep overtook him completely, and he made a little thumbs-up gesture.  

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Pem," he smiled. "I hope they make choir robes in hounds tooth check with matching upholstered haloes, sir." 

Morton was too far lost in a deep, dreamless sleep to hear the little noise like a chuckle that came from the other end of the cabin. It might just have been the hull creaking. . .and then again, it might not.