By Dianne Elliott (okapicat72701)

This is a crossover story using Doctor Syndey Freedman from M*A*S*H. I do not own any of these characters. M*A*S*H is owned by 20 th Century Fox, and Fantastic Voyage was done by Filmation studios.

Also since this is in plain text, I must explain my puntuation a bit.

Super indented paragraphs are writing.
( ) Braces are deep thoughts and concerns.
' ' Single quotes are for telepathy and surface thoughts.
* * Stars are for emphasis, such as *They*.

Who *They* are in the CMDF universe, I left up in the air. *They* are likely the people who order the Chief around.

Webmaster of Drew's Fanfictions Notes:

Okay. I hopefully have a good translation of this author's fanfic, and hopes the person who wrote this, and sees this, finds this to their approval, due to different styles inherent in the fanfic.

Part 1

        Dear Sigmund;

                      I realize it has been awhile, but I have finally waded through the Pentagon's Black Waters! My whirlwind tour of top secret organizations is nearly finished, for this year. When I signed up for the Army Medical Corps back during the Korean War, I never suspected I would end up, doing this! Flying from project to project, to briefly interview critical individuals and then doing psychological reports on them! What a sham!

                      I must add, that most of these people are dangerous, neurotic and simply nuts! What they need is a good psychiatrist, who is willing to put in --- years of therapy, not another so called ---

        A soft four beat knock sounded on the door. "Come in," I invite, dropping the legal sheets over my 'letter'. "My door's always open." (I say that automatically. I don't think, I really mean it any more. Working with these organizations, makes me nervous. I have been shot at, too recently. My stomach clutches as he enters.)

        "Doctor Freedman?" he drawls in a slight Southern accent, raising his hand.

        I smile and stand, accepting his welcoming handshake. "You must be Professor Carter." (He is my first psychological profile of the day. I'm already in observation mood. Carter appears to be in his mid sixties, neatly attired in a brown business suit. His carriage is slightly forward, with an undercurrent of tenseness. He is rather pale, even haggard about the face, however, there is a intense glint in his hazel eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Carter was putting in way too many hours at the office...)

        "May I see your security papers, please?"

        (Standard question at these places, I smile reassuringly, as I reach into my jacket pocket. Professor Carter is one of the more polite ones in this business. The damn wallet is thick, with all of its stamps and clearances!) "You've been around," Carter comments, as he takes the packet, opening it. He compares me to my photograph, before his eyes widened, and blinked. "Impressive security level," he says.

        (I've heard that one before, many times.) "It's necessary," I reply.

        "I can see why," Carter continues. "Being the head psychiatrist over at the Pentagon. Going from place to place to see if anyone's cracked his coconut, yet."

        (I relax slightly. At least he understands the reason for such a high rating. Most of the time, I'm held in higher suspicion, than a captured spy. People in my position are simply not trusted.) "Fortunately, all of the nuts are in the right places," I toss out. (Easy Sidney! Carter's eyes snap up into mine. He grunts, finding my slip funny!)

        "Thank goodness for that!" after signing, he hands me back my papers. Then he reaches into the left trouser pocket, producing a desk key, with an oversized plastic grip. "This key opens the drawer beside your right knee. If your fingerprint matches that on record, the drawer should open."

        (Inside the cellophane wrapper is one of the latest gadgets, a thumbprint activated key. If only the key fits into the electronic slot right. The key catches short in the lock. I keep from cursing, as I fiddle with the tight fit. Just as Professor Carter leans over the desk, the key slips in, there is a hollow click and viola --- a set of folders!)

        "Those are the personal files of each member of the team," Carter explains.

        'Team?' I want to ask, but I keep silent instead.

        "Now with that security rating you can go anywhere in the CMDF, but I would prefer you stay on this level."

        I nod. "In my job, I work only on a need to know basis, Professor. Everything is kept in the strictest confidentiality." (I have to say that often, and it is very true. I *DON'T* need or even *WANT* to know if the CMDF is researching a new corn blight, hoarding Civil War gold or have alien bodies in the closets. I love my wife and daughter! I happen to like my life!)

        Carter sighs, slumping a little bit more, in relief. "You'll find that we're pretty easy going around here. You won't have to flash your ID's to go to the bathroom or buy lunch at the cafeteria. Oh, and it's meatloaf today."

        (Without meaning too, I grimace. What is it with these top secret projects and their serving of meatloaf? Are they eating their own shredded documents? It certainly tastes like it!)

        Carter chuckles, "I agree. I'll send each member down, about an hour apart."

        "Some sessions, may take more than an hour," I point out, even though most take less.

        "That shouldn't be a problem, except for Bus --- Mister Birdwell."

        "Difficult?"

        Carter rolls his eyes. "Among other things. Let's say, he's impatient, particularly when he's working."

        "Oh," my eyes drop to the slipping stack of folders now on the blotter. 'A character,' I mentally note. (Many people who work for these organizations are, if only to keep their sanity.)

        "There is a vending machine down the corridor," Carter tells me as he steps toward the door. "If you use it, you may lose your money. There's free coffee in the cafeteria, but it's pretty stale ---"

        I glance up. "Would you like to talk?" I offer.

        Carter hesitates, running his lower lip against his teeth. "No --- thanks. I'll give you a hour or so before I send up Mister Kidd."

                      Sigmund, if I'm not slipping, I swear Professor Carter would have actually sat down
to a session. He was sorely tempted, however, he turned me down. Perhaps he is uncomfortable, or suspicious. Or simply busy. He looks severely overworked and stressed. I don't have his medical records with the 'Team's' folders, but I should be able to access his records easily enough.

                      I suspect Professor Carter has high blood pressure, at least.

                      These folders are stacked in order of command. Standard forms, medical and educational histories. Other psychological workups...

        A firm knock rings out this time. "The door's always open," I reply, dropping back the sheets. (I need clean paper for this.)

        Commander Kidd strides through and stands at attention. (I am used to this behavior, even to the point of expecting a salute. If I had my eagles on, the former Navy Seal would have. I've seen my share of uniforms on this tour, but his sky blue shirt and trousers with white boots would be more appropriate for starship duty, than in the corridors of a top secret organization. Perhaps the CMDF quartermaster is a Star Trek fan.)

        (I consider requesting to Professor Carter that he send the quartermaster down to see me as well.) "At ease, Commander," I say.

        (Hands behind, legs slightly apart. Just like in basic training, but then those muscular shoulders bow slightly. Kidd's built like a fullback!) "Why don't you sit down and relax, Commander," I suggest.

        He eyes the vinyl couch, suspiciously. (Why do they always assign me offices with couches? Visiting an unfamiliar psychiatrist is unnerving enough for most. Why complicate matters more, by having an old clich� parked in the room?)

        I lean against my desk, half sitting on it, actually. Away from his files and my note pad. Finally, Kidd gets the hint and sits down. His posture is a little tense, still. "Professor Carter sent me up here to talk to you Doctor," he began.

        I nod, waiting. Kidd presses his lips, clears his throat, and asks, "What do you want to talk about?"

        He was not briefed on my visit. I shrug, make a face. Then return, "What do you want to talk about Commander?"

        He ponders this. "You'll likely deny any knowledge of this, or really don't know, if it's true or not."

        I steel myself, already aware of his question. "The local scuttlebutt has it that, *They* are going to divide up the 'Team', sending us off into different projects, before shutting down the CMDF."

        (That ghost has been following me throughout this tour. For all I know, those are simply rumors. Top secret projects open and shut all the time, their people are shuttled in and out of the network.)

        (I also know that psychological profiles have been used for placements.) "I'm not aware of any project shut downs," I answer honestly. "Sorry, Commander."

        He thinks, bringing up his folded hands to his cleft chin. "We are a Team," he softly insists. "We work --- very well together."

        "How does the possibility of being separated from your teammates, make you feel?" I prompt.

        He blows out, hands flying in a shrug. "It's a fact of life in the projects. But that doesn't mean I like it. Nobody cares for it. Rumors like this can destroy morale..."

        Kidd's drifting into the military mindset. I'm not going to allow him that comfort. "You accept being divided up and shipped off to heaven knows where and you simply don't like it?"

        Kidd's single eye blazed in anger. "Doctor, it's stronger, than I don't like. I've been with these people for almost three years. They are the finest people I have ever had the privilege to work with. Okay, we've had our share of problems. Everybody does!"

        "Three years?" I poise. (That is a long time for a project to run, these days. I'm also interested in his word choice of work, instead of command.)

        He pouts, sinking his jaw into his hands. "You're right, it has been a good long run, Doctor." Shaking his head no, "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this - --"

        (Time for the Truth!) I raise my eyebrows, expectantly. "Erika, Busby and Guru are my best friends. Damn it, you don't risk your neck week in and week out, cooped up together for twelve hour missions, without either becoming the worse of enemies or best of friends."

        (Brothers-In-Arms-Under-Fire, yes I know very, very well.) "This is a secret organization, in the middle of the United States, but we might just as well be buried in under a mountain! We have only each other!"

        (No Tokyo, Hong Kong, or even family back home. This is maybe deeper than I suspect.) "I can understand the lack of social opportunities. Your sense of loyalty to your people seems stronger than normal."

        "Is that a crime?" Kidd counters.

        "No," I answer, wondering if it was reciprocated. Either way, if the Team is to be dissolved, some one is going to be very busy. More likely, however, the issue will be buried under paperwork, and the real emotional problem erupting later on as depression. "I'll have to interview the rest---"

        "You suspect a problem?"

        "No," I cross my arms in front of my chest. This session is getting to the Commander, too much. He is holding in, still afraid. "Loyalty is the glue in all of these projects."

        Kidd thumbs his lips, accepting what I said, I hope. "Commander, you need not worry about what we discuss," I begin. "Despite all of the rumors, the patient/doctor relationship is still sacred at the Pentagon. More importantly, with me."

        He glares at me. He does not believe me. I scratch the back of my neck. I'm getting a headache. "Why don't we call it a session?" I suggest.

        Kidd perks up. "I need to talk with the others," I explain. "However, I should be here for another day or so ---"

        Kidd shakes his head yes. "Thank you Doctor," he stood, offering to shake my hand. "I'll --- consider it."

        The headache began to lift, as Kidd grasps the doorknob. "Erika!" he snaps as an attractive woman stumbles into my office. Now she makes that uniform a lot more attractive!

        "Er," her blue eyes swung from him to me, widened, before she regained her composure. "How did it go, Jon- er- Commander Kidd?"

        My mustache tickled, so I had to turn away. To keep from laughing out loud.

"Erika ---" Kidd winces. "It went, ok-ay."

Part 2

        "All right," she tenses, seeking me out. "Doctor Freedman, I'm Doctor Lane. If you need anything on us---"

        "I'll let you know," I cut in, still privately delighted.

        "Doctor Freedman'll want to see you," Kidd bluntly states, bundling her out.

        "After he visits with Guru." I nod in agreement. The uniformed couple left so quickly, that the door was not closed.

        "Did you, tell him about---?" Erika poised in a heated whisper.

        "About our engagement?" Kidd hissed. "No, I did not! That's fraternization! They'll separate us for sure then!" "Jon," she saw me, as I closed the door. Kidd was right, the Pentagon frowned on fraternization worse than the regular Army ever did. Those two are obviously in love.

        Maybe, I could help, if they would ever trust me.

                      Sigmund, Professor Carter must be joking over this!

NAME: GURU; aka MASTER TAMACEI; aka MASTER OF THE UNKNOWN.	CMDF ID # 2.	AGE UNKNOWN.
WEIGHT 135 pounds, 6 ounces.	HEIGHT 7 feet.	SEX male.
EYECOLOR brown/gold.	BLOODTYPE apparently O-.
RACE other/Brahmin.	PSY. PROFILE HIGH INTELLIGENCE, COUPLED WITH VERY HIGH, INCALCULATABLE ESPER RATING. INDEPENDENT. DISREGARDS AUTHORITY. CAN BE DANGEROUS!

        I jump when someone does a fast tattoo on my door. "Come in, Guru," I get out. Professor Carter leans in instead. (Why do I feel so relieved? I slam the thin folder shut.)

        "Guru just called to say he was going to be delayed until this evening."

        "About his file," I begin, holding up the slim folder.

        "Er, Guru claimed that the doctor became confused," the professor answered almost apologetically, "I heard that the psychiatrist simply got very insulting. You've got to understand Doctor Freedman, Guru is a Hindu priest. He is a teacher, so he tends to talks in riddles, proverbs and even stories. Also, Guru does not suffer fools at all. So, you've got to listen to him."

        "And the special powers?" I ask, folding my arms. "Very real, Doctor," Carter tapped himself on the forehead. "You need evidence?"

        "It would be nice, Professor." His beardless Santa Claus face suddenly flushed. I really don't like the symptom. "I could pull the mission logs, and have them edited for you, but that will take a couple of weeks. Only if you need them."

        "Humm ---" I back peddle, I don't want the Professor to have a heart attack over this. Suddenly meatloaf, or any kind of food sounds good. "I should test him, if Guru allows it."

        "You should, but, some --- most of Guru's powers, *They* haven't even come up with tests for. I don't think *They* even know what he can do."

        (My empty stomach turns over. Espers, is the current slang used among the projects, covers all 'psi' telepaths, remote viewers, precognitants and the rest. If I have a phobia, it's psi based. The Pentagon has become too interested in those people, recently. In fact, even I'm under orders to keep my eyes open for espers, under the claim that they are desperately needed. That goes against my psychiatry oath! I've personally worked with the few confirms, that we do have. That doesn't mean I know all of the espers in the Black Programs. Things are often hidden, and so can people. That concerns me greatly. It has been my experience, that having telepathy or telekinesis can not only be the root cause of, but also sharpen mental disorders to a corresponding heightened degree. On top of the "normal" alienation of being different from most everyone else, make even the weakest of espers a challenge to successfully treat. If I could have only one wish, it would be to reach out on their level!)

        (Guru could be an interesting study, if he would only allow me to!)

        "Why don't you break for lunch, Doctor Freedman?" Carter suggests. "Miss Lane will be by afterwards..."

        "I thought she's a doctor," I point out.

        "She is," Professor Carter confirms, leaving me a bit confused.

                      Actually, the meatloaf was very good, Sigmund. Although I intend to skip tonight's offering, tuna casserole. I've been through Doctor Lane's files. She is a flight surgeon, having served with honors in the Top Secret Eagle Flight Corps, in the early sixties. She also logged over a hundred hours piloting jet fighters and even once flew a space capsule! Everything she has accomplished was done below board, largely because of her top secret work.

                      When she left Eagle Flight, Lane was a major. So personally, I have trouble calling her Miss...

        "Doctor Freedman?" Lane knocks and opens the door. "You wanted to see me?"

                      Sigmund, this is one impressive lady!

        She sees and hears the pages fall back into place. "Personal notes," I explain.

        "Oh," Lane continues to look at my pad, a little suspicious.

        "Why don't you make yourself comfortable, Doctor?"

        "Thank," she began absently, as she began to sit down. Then she straightens her petite frame, with a smile. "Why thank *you* Doctor Freedman!"

        "The proper use of you title makes you that happy?"

        "Oh, yes it does, Doctor!" she declares folding her arms across her. "I worked hard to become a surgeon!"

        "Touch�! I've noticed in your files, that Professor Carter refers to you as 'Miss' Lane."

        "He isn't the only one here," she frowns. "Oh, with Guru, it's his way. To him, everyone is either Mister or Mrs. or Miss. It's Professor Carter and the Chief ---!" she actually growls. "Just once, to have one of them call me Doctor! It wouldn't hurt them! And that would be the happiest day since I was launched into space for the first time!"

        I raise my eyebrows. "Being strapped onto the very top of a rocket heading out to an experimental and highly secret space station was your happiest day?"

        "Oh yes it was! The power when those engines kick on, the bone rattling you go through when you clear the tower. Even the nausea that hits you in the pit of your stomach, when you go snap from accelerated gees into near weightlessness. Once you are up there --- the sheer clarity, and peace, more than make up for all of the pain and sacrifices you had to bare though in order to get into space. Walking down the aisle can't beat that."

        (I've heard this a lot from astronauts. Of course, they say it's better than sex!) "I wish I could go," I admit. "But so many things can and do go wrong in up there."

        She hoods her eyes. "Yes they have, Doctor. I've seen it. Injuries are uglier up there. You add in rocket fuel and/or radiation, and a million miles from home, you learn to improvise very quickly."

        "From your records, I see that you've saved several men up there. You were also instrumental in stopping an alien plague."

        She smiles wanly. "If I wasn't in surgery, or studying stool samples, I was in the bio-lab. It was dumb luck that I found those mutated fungal spores in those suits."

        "Humm---(I pause. It was her insistence on following stricter sterile procedures that kept that plague from coming back to Earth. Thank goodness for those protocols. I'd rather not have my Athlete's Foot not dissolve my legs!)

        "In a different time and place, I guess, I would have been sent off to some MASH unit, where they really had to work. I hate to tell you this, Doctor, it was actually my small size that got me into Eagle Flight."

        "Ah, but it must have been your accomplishments that got you into the CMDF."

        "True, to us, size doesn't matter!" she jokes. In a reflective tone she asks, "You're really not here to --- divide up the team?"

        "No, I'm not. What are your feelings about leaving your friends."

        She sighs, even her pony tail droops. "It's bound to happen to us eventually. In fact, Senator UpJohn nearly closed us down last year! Anyway, I think I know where *They* want me. I don't want to spend the next five or so years buried under the New Mexico desert injecting monkeys with various nasty germs, from heaven knows where!"

        "Should the CMDF shut down, what do you want to do?"

        "This is just between us?" she counters.

        "Yes."

        She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "I really want to go into private practice, maybe pediatrics. After all, most agents, pilots, and astronauts I've treated over the years are just big babies!"

        I chuckle. She is right. Lane becomes more somber. "Once you've bitten into that adventure pie, you always want more, but --- I want a quieter life."

        "Family?"

        "Yes! And you did overhear that this morning didn't you?"

        "I couldn't help it."

        "Look, Jon isn't wound so tight, that he doesn't think of anything else," she defends. "Even though, he's still bit of a boy scout! If it was not for, we would have --- months ago! It's those damn rules!"

        I nod. "I agree, they can be troublesome."

        "Troublesome? Try automatic reassignment! And it's to a far worse place. Doctor Freedman, these people here are my friends, and the CMDF is at least part of the civilized world!"

        "You do love Commander Kidd?" She giggles. "You sound just like Guru, when you asked me that. Yes, I know Jon and I are in love. Maybe it's the novelty to me, or the time of month, but I can't think about my life without him."

        "If you can trust me, I can help you and Commander Kidd to marry."

        "You can?" her baby blues light up.

        "I am the head shrink at the Pentagon. I think I can pull a few strings."

        "Oh thank you!" she gushes, stopping just short of hugging me. "If you can do this, for us, I'll save my second dance at my wedding, for you Doctor Freedman!"

        "That's a date, Doctor Lane!"

                      Sometimes, I really like this job, Sigmund. I've just gotten off the phone with Jonathan Kidd. He has accepted my proposal, and set up for another session. The man sounded just as excited and relieved as his bride to be!

        (I laid aside my pen, reaching for Guru's folder, to reread that card, when Professor Carter knocks on my door. Only he does that shave and a haircut rhythm, here.)

        "Door's always open," I call out.

        "Have you seen Busby?" he asks.

        "No, I thought Guru was next."

        "He's still not here!" Carter sighs in exasperation. "And I told Busby to get up here, two hours ago!"

        "Doctor Lane's interview took longer than usual."

        Carter looks blank. "Oh, by the way, that is a nice thing you're going to do for Commander Kidd and Miss Lane, but I don't know about the Chief..."

        "The Chief's already married," I say. "You should refer to her as Doctor Lane."

        "Well, we all have doctorates around here." (Very weak defense. Carter also fidgets, as if he's embarrassed.) "This women's lib thing..."

        "It's almost 1970, Professor," I've been through this little war twenty or so years ago, with my own professional title. "It's the proper thing to call any medically certified physician a Doctor!"

        Carter fidgets with his suit jacket and the ream of paper under his right arm. "All right," he finally gets out. "Doctor Freedman, I will try to call her Doctor Lane from now on."

        "She will appreciate that," I comment.

        "Humm, I'll pass the name change along to the Chief and Guru, but no promises on either one of them," Carter scribbles a note on the computer paper. "And you better come with me."

        "Oh? I thought ---"

        "It's either escort you down to the Process lab, or have Busby dragged up here. He'd be more amiable if you went to him."

        "Let me---"

        "Doctor Freedman, those files are to stay in this office," the Professor reminds me.

        I'm about to protest. I haven't even touched Birdwell's file. It is the thickest one of the four, which could mean health problems or mental problems or both. The fact that his medical write up is over six pages long, is not encouraging. Mister Birdwell has suffered a number of mild to moderate concussions in recent months. As much as I don't like to stake much in them, I grab and scan the identity card

NAME: BIRDWELL, BUSBY.	CMDF ID # 4.	AGE 29 years, 3 months.
WEIGHT 133 pounds.	HEIGHT 5 feet, 2 1/4 inches.	SEX male.
EYECOLOR brown.	BLOODTYPE B+.
RACE Caucasian.	PSY. PROFILE -----------------

        "It's been left blank," I observe aloud, flipping the card over.

        Carter coughs in his fist, a sign, that somehow he has something to do with this. I dismiss the mild conspiracy. "Shall we go?" Carter asks quietly.

                      Sigmund, I know I'm not here as a tourist, but recent experience has taught me to observe my surroundings, closely. The CMDF follows a similar floor plan to the critical facilities in New Mexico and Colorado. Generally, huge corridors, that are connected with a rabbit warren of smaller hallways. Everything sloops downward, the better to survive a direct hit, or so *They* would like to believe. What impresses and concerns me is that we have to go through six large blast doors. The last facility, I visited, where the slightest mistake could get you killed, wasn't constructed this tight!

                      The last set, etched with six foot high letters of CMDF, must weigh several tons! Doors that big are only used to close off nukes. If I'm not careful, my curiosity will get away with me, but I'm wondering about just what they're doing here!

                      This Process Lab, is disappointing in many ways. Okay, it's bigger with more shadows than all of the great cathedrals of Europe put together, but I have seen larger underground structures. Building sized computers line the walls, printers and other equipment form a maze on the floor.

                      Technicians and engineers pause in their work to look at the new kid. That is rather unusual, Sigmund, but Carter did tell me they were easy going. But easy going, onto ---?

        "Busby!" Carter barks, the high walls not only carry his voice, but there is a distinctive echo.

        "COMING!" came a shrill voice. I follow it to its source. A small experimental, aircraft? sub? Whatever it was, the vessel was under a gossamer tarp, resting on a raised pink colored platform. The man in question jumps off of the vessel, lands on the platform, running toward us. His fists are balled, and even at this distance, I can tell he is quite upset.

        Busby Birdwell. I now wish I had taken the time to carefully review his file. "What is it, now Professor?" he snaps.

        "Busby, this is Doctor Freedman," Carter introduces. "I want you to talk to him."

        "I don't have time," he stresses. "Secondly, I do not talk to psychologists!"

        "Busby!" Carter yells. "The Voyager can wait!! You talk to him and that's an order!"

        I flinch, at the threat in the Professor's voice. I really don't like to see people treated in that manner. Birdwell is suddenly caught in a torrent of emotions, anger, and embarrassment being the strongest. He flexes his open mouth, glares at Carter and me, speechless, before swinging for the exit. "All right, let's get this over with!" he declares in a huff.

Part 3: End

        Mister Birdwell said nothing to me all the way back to my temporary office. Once I open the door, the man throws himself onto my couch, laying his head on the pillowed back, slouching fully into the stiff vinyl. As he closed his magnified eyes, I realize that they are very red, and his pale face puffy. "Mister Birdwell, when was the last time you slept?"

        His mouth ticks, but he doesn't answer. He is already asleep. I gather my blood pressure cuff and pen light from my bag. He is snoring by the time I sit down beside him.

        When I pick up his wrist to take a pulse, Birdwell jumps like a wild rabbit. "What'ya doin'!" he charges.

        "Checking to see if you're still alive!" I don't mean the snap. This man has problems.

        "I thought psychologists didn't practice medicine."

        "I'm a psychiatrist," I correct. "And I do, when I must. Now, Mister Birdwell, when was the last time you slept?"

        His head sags back, as he smacks his lips. "Humm --- lettme think, thirty-two -- no --"

        He's severely sleep deprived. I first saw this among the doctors in Korea. In these organizations, I always find one or two people in this same condition, usually for not so noble reasons as saving lives.

        "Thirty--six, yes thirty six hours ago! A twelve hour mission means that you've got to calibrate the machine. Fueling. Then meetings, then systems checks. The Voyager was dinged up this time..." Bridwell is rambling. "Reports. Re- calibrate the machine..."

        "When did you last eat?" "The pastries in th' vending machines 'round here are stale," he complains. "This morning before the meeting, nine or so, Doc."

        I sigh, going back for my bag. I've got an apple and some peanuts left over from the flight in. I press them into Birdwell's hands. "I want you to eat that," I command. "Then I want you to go to your quarters and sleep for at least eight hours."

        "What if there's an emergency?" his speech is slurring.

        "If you don't get some sleep, Mister Birdwell, you'll be the next emergency around here!"

        He shoots me a suspicious glance, before tucking into the apple. "This is pretty good, Doc," he uses his sleeve as a napkin. "Thanks."

        "You're welcome," I return. (I've got to review his file!) Judging that Birdwell would eat his apple, and leave, I remind him, "Now, I want to see you tomorrow. Say, ten o'clock?"

        "What, no sage advice?" he sounds disappointed. "No ink blots?"

        "You couldn't see straight enough to see the centerfold in Playboy!" I quip.

        He sputters into a tired laugh. "Okeh, Doc, you win this one. But Carter's expecting me to ---"

        "You don't want to ding up the Voyager, now do you?"

        "Nope! Ya want me to sleep whole eight hours, Doc?"

        "The whole eight hours, mister," I firmly correct, aware that it would be far too easy to treat him like a child. His school boyish appearance and childish demeanor does not help. I suspect the others tend to do that.

        "Well ---" he gives a long pause. "Okay! Ten thirty?"

        "Ten o'clock," I reaffirm, knowing that he is fishing for any delay. "I'm looking forward to it," I toss.

        Birdwell smirks, "See ya!" He smacks his hand hard on the door frame, as he left. Concerned that he hurt his wrist, I leave my desk. By the time I reach the door, Mister Birdwell has disappeared.

                      Sigmund, I've got a new patient --- Busby Birdwell. Oh, the forms have not been written up, and I have yet to do a proper session with him. What is in his files is of great concern to me. He is highly intelligent, with equally high - --

        I stop writing, in mid thought, dropping the Bic Banana on the shag carpet. The short hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The office is empty. As I pick up my pen, I see that it's past six, according to my watch. I've spent the entire afternoon going through Birdwell's file! 'Looks like the Speedway Diner tonight,' I grimly conclude.

        Gazing at my open door, I just manage a startle --- okay panicked flight. 'Guru has entered the building,' my mind clicks, as I stand up. "Come, in sir. Make yourself comfortable."

        He arches an eyebrow upon his high dark brow, like Mister Spock from Star Trek, but --- Spock, hell! I've seen Greys that were easier to read!! Guru shifts the basket onto his hip, as he silently moves for the couch. With a gentle thump, that basket lands on my desk.

        The Lads are with him, and they are in fine voice, mewing with fear.

        His gleaming gold eyes shift to my face. 'Guru is in my mind! My heart is in my mouth! Suddenly, there is an explosion in my brain! Colors, textures, sounds --- are flooding out into my consciousness and back!'

        One of the kittens squawk, as he lands clumsily on my desk. "Oh," Guru croons, releasing me, to gather up the crying kitten.

        My knees are shaking, as I drop back into my chair.

        "I must apologize," Guru's voice is a low baritone, hypnotic in its tempo and tone. "For my tardiness, Mister Freedman."

        I begin to bristle. 'How like a grade four --- or is it even higher? telepath! Leave prints all over my consciousness, without ---'

        'I only wish to test your true intentions, Mister Freedman,' his voice is now in my skull.

        'And they are?' I focus on each word, not aware that my mouth isn't moving.

        'They are noble, kind Healer. I mean you no harm. This is not an invasion of your mind, as you so believe.'

        'Then, why are you doing this?'

        'There is more honesty between us, this way.' Guru answers. 'You are frightened of me, my friend. You are frightened by, but even more so for the 'Espers' well being. That is why I gave you the Gift.'

        'Good call,' I try to come up with a joke, but I can't. Guru closes his eyes. Just as suddenly as he touched my mind, he was gone, I hope.

        "You are a physician who wishes solely to heal," he said aloud, his skinny fingers still entwined in wet kitten fur. "Those maladies of mind and spirit, which can afflict all men."

        (What Gift??) "Yes," I can stand now, but I don't know if I want to perch on my desk as I did with the others. I really don't want to be even this close. I feel as if I was locked in a cage with a tiger! To edge away from my mounting uncomfort, I weigh his words. (What Gift??)

        Before I can speak, Guru does. "I have spoken with your guardians, a Mister Freud and a Corporal____."

        Okay, he might have seen my rambling letter. I right those things for therapy. And we were in brief telepathic communication. But the Corporal, I hadn't touched that painful memory in nearly twenty years! He was just a kid, with a repeating nightmare of getting shot. I *had* to send back to the front lines! He was killed, not an hour after returning to his unit!! Nearly twenty years ago!! How in the world?

        I look up, to find his hand on my arm! Guru is shaking his head no. "I do not understand, Doctor. You carry on the work of Mister Freud, while you healed the soul of Corporal _______."

        "HOW?!" I shout.

        He is gently holding me, guiding me to the couch. And I'm letting him do this! "By witnessing all of the other healings you have done. Corporal ______ is truly at peace, however, he is content to stay at your side, as a guardian." As he speaks, Guru is taking over my perch!

        I nervously laugh at this. It can't be true. I don't even believe in ghosts!

        "Tarta Hill Project," Guru said simply, crossing both his arms and ankles.

        My heart sinks into my socks, trying to escape through my toes. Just saying that project's name aloud, could get him killed. "The Corporal took you by the hand, making your body roll into the ditch."

        "Getting into that ditch, saved my life," I whisper, trembling like the damp kitten which climbs into my lap.

        "Now you understand, my friend," Guru announces. "What we 'Espers' must face. Worlds, senses and feelings that are not only beyond you, but what few that you are privy to, you feel that you must deny, to ---" He inflects. "Keep your marbles straight."

        I chuckle, wiping the tears away. It isn't as easy as that, but I think I am beginning to understand. Somehow, Guru gave me the ability to telepath. Lord, I wanted this most of all, but what a way to get it!

        "Enlightenment is never easy," Guru invokes.

        "Oh man, I now think that I'm in the wrong business!" I slide back.

        Guru chuckles, as he glides back onto the couch, at my side. I'm no longer afraid of him. "I how have no desire for your job, my friend. In spite of my knowledge, and powers, I have failed another friend."

        "You mean --- Mister Birdwell?"

        "Yes," Guru sighs. "The Little One is noble, with so much he can and wishes to contribute to this world. But, his soul cries, and cries. I try to reach for him, and he always pulls away."

        "Perhaps he's afraid of you." "It is not that. Of all the people here at the CMDF, he is my closest friend. Our trust in one another is complete."

        "Why do you say that?"

        "Mister Birdwell, even when I deny him, keeps coming back to me. It can be annoying, but he needs help, so desperately. It has become a game between us. One that I sense that Busby will lose, unless he accepts help, and quickly."

        "You can't force him," I said. "You've tried that, haven't you?"

        Guru starts at the wiggling basket. Three more heads pop up, gazing wonderingly at him. "Yes. Only because he is my friend."

        "Maybe, you're working too closely with him," I suggest.

        Guru gives me a puzzled glance.

        "Mister Birdwell knows all your tricks, but --- he doesn't know mine."

        Guru laughs loud, clapping his hands together, as he rocks back. "Or so the Little One believes!" His long face grows both wistful, and serious. "Yes, I am now certain, you can help him!"

        "It'll take the both of us, working together," I say. "Mister Birdwell impresses me as someone who doesn't like change."

        "True. Then it is agreed," Guru purrs, offering his hand. "We work together to save Mister Birdwell's soul."

        I'm not quite comfortable with putting it that way, yet that is what we have to do.

        As our hands part, Guru looks again at his basket, thinking. Finally, he asks, "Would you like a kitty?"

                      Dear Sigmund, and a much belated welcome to you Corporal ______. Thanks for saving my life! It's Thursday morning, and I'm packing up to go home. Commander Kidd is a competent leader, and a gentleman! How's that for labels, eh? Jon and Erika are already making honeymoon plans. I even got the wedding invitation this morning. I'm confident that they will have a happy life together.

                      I'm not so certain about Busby Birdwell, the CMDF's answer to Einstein, Scotty from Star Trek and Jeff Yeager the test pilot. He loves his jobs, so much so, that he prefers to keep busy, constantly. When he doesn't get what he wants, Birdwell can become surly, defensive, rude, immature, and loud.

                      You get the picture Sigmund. Didn't you have a case like this once in Vienna? I suspect that at least he has one very deep, old hurt that is trying to come through his id. And Busby is fighting that tooth and nail.

                      I hope Guru and I can pick up the pieces, when he loses that fight.

                      On a brighter note, last night I got roped into the weekly poker game here. I got cleaned out, by Guru no less! I feel a bit lighter this morning, and it's not because I dropped a couple hundred dollars. It's not the little heightened extras that come with acquiring telepathy. I might have found another sanctuary, where an extraordinary group of people have been gathered. Extraordinary in the sense that no matter, where they came from, what they do and what they face, they truly love and care about each other.

        "Mewow?"

        "I'm still mad at you!" I playfully scold. The grey and white ball bats my snapping index finger. "You scattered the chips all over the floor!"

        "Mewow!" Okay, it was funny, I admit to myself as I give him a cuddle. Of course, he's not really my kitten. I'm going to give him to my daughter. I gaze into those wide yellow eyes, and the odd mustache, beard and mutton chop combination of fur and color, wondering what name she's going to give him.

        I think of names that I would give him. Hawkeye, Radar or even Sigmund. That is not going to be my privilege. Diane is such a big Beatles fan, so of course there are only four names. John. Paul. George ---

        The kitten squirms, wanting to get down on the ground. I catch that profile. There is only one name this kitten can have...

        Ringo!

Finis