And God said, "Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures."And the sea rushed to the shore, rippling waves gently caressing the sand. Sand begot silicon and silicon begot semiconductors, which in turn begot computer chips. And God saw that it was good.

DESTINY'S DOOR CHAPTER ONE

© 2001 Judith Tracy

Someone was logging on to Donalds computer. Anonymous user. Donald scooted his chair to the massive, oak computer desk to get a better look. In his rush to watch, he knocked over the half-full glass of cola. The liquid saturated the denim, but Donald was too curious to mop up the mess or dry off his jeans.

The message screen came up asking the operator to enter his password. Donald had set up his server to keep track of the users. Not the latest and greatest of computer technology, but his computer system was still capable of running networking software, enabling his friends to log on and download files and programs. This avoided the necessity of mailing the actual disks out. Each friend had a password allowing him unlimited access.

It was no big deal, just a bit shocking. He thought he had made it perfectly clear that no one was to give out his password. He smiled when the message, "access denied," appeared.

Try again, buddy, he thought. You wont get any further than you did the last time.

Mystery man read his mind and tried again. Donald watched the second attempt, confident that he would get no further than he had on his first try. This time though, the blue letters, "Status:> Log on successful," appeared in the box. Mesmerized and baffled, he stared at the screen while some stranger rifled through his files. This is impossible. It couldnt have been one of his friends; otherwise mystery man would have gained admittance on his first try. Donald had encrypted his network, making it virtually impossible for someone to use a program to break in.

Donald began typing, opening windows and closing them in an attempt to find the users Internet Protocol (IP) address. Everyone who has web access has a unique number assigned. Its a way for the provider to monitor its customers and identify them. This person, though, had managed to break into his hard drive, and the strangest thing of all was there was no IP address, no handle, nothing.

This can't be, he thought. Donald made the window smaller and began to run a tracer program that searches for the IP number of a user. Some of the best hackers in the world had programs that could enable them to hide or scramble their numbers, but there always was a numerical sequence of some sort. Donald's number was 209.132.241.66. Only when he was breaking in illegally, "going through the back door" in slang, did he use a scrambling program. But even the best hacker can be traced with proficiency and perseverance. In the world of computers, there was always someone better than you.

Donald waited for the program to feed him some numbers, but nothing came up. This person was good. Really good. He wanted to meet him. It was a challenge of sorts; find the intruder. If he could show him he could beat his program, then maybe he would finally meet someone of his own caliber. He was about to add a file, addressed to Mr. Unknown, when the invisible thief logged off.

Even though he knew it wasn't any of his friends, Donald E-mailed each one of them a detailed letter explaining his puzzling visitor. As the responses came in, they confirmed his belief. Most of them had no idea what he was talking about. One of them accused him of being on drugs.

Donald picked up the phone and called his best friend Charlie.

"Hey, bud. You busy?"

Charlie laughed. "Always. What's up? The server incident giving you the willies?"

"Yeah, man," Donald answered. "It was so unreal. I just sat there watching this guy go through my files. I was about to add one, addressed to Mr. Unknown, when he logged off. I knew it wasn't you guys, but I had to check. You are, after all, known for your practical jokes."

"I wish it were a joke. A program that can make you invisible is worth millions."

"What do you think?" Donald asked.

"You're asking me? You were there. What do you think?"

"Haven't a clue. He's got to be the number one hacker in the world, or maybe its the government or something."

Charlie laughed and Donald had to move the receiver away from his ear.

"It's not that funny."

"The government wants your files, yeah. Youre a national threat. Better yet, what if its aliens? Yeah, aliens. That makes better sense. There's a spaceship hovering over the planet right now and they need your files to save their species. Get a life, Donald."

It did sound silly. Hearing the words out loud made it seem all that more incredible. He regretted mentioning the incident.

Donald couldnt stand the laughter. "Thanks for all your help, buddy. I appreciate your sensitivity. Well, I gotta run. Better get off before I ring up a huge long distance bill and get the parents pissed off."

"Oh, don't go away mad, man, just go away. Just kidding. No, I don't think its the government. It's probably just a good hacker, and if you can get a hold of that program, it would be rad. Don't take offense, and keep me posted."

"Sure thing, Charlie. Bye."

The government, Donald thought. Whatever possessed me to say that to Charlie? To even think it in the first place? I must be tired.

Donald created a file especially for the trespasser, then took his wet jeans and threw them on top of the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Without missing a beat, he turned off his CD player and switched on the TV. Plopping on the bed, he was asleep before the anthem.

*

Two horrible days passed. Donald was afraid to discuss this with anyone. The morning after the incident, he made sure to log off his computer when he left the house. When he returned from school the computer had been turned back on. Strange, but he chalked it off as a lapse of memory and decided not to worry about it. Since he had no way of knowing if the mystery man had logged on, and had nothing of real value to protect, he refused to let it get to him.

That feeling of calm ended after dinner. He returned to his room to start homework and again noticed his computer was running. This time he was sure he had turned it off. He had even written it on a piece of paper; "computer turned off." He felt sick. No way could he blame it on forgetfulness. Tonight, he would unplug the damn thing. Now lets see if Im going crazy, he thought.

The following morning he woke up and checked. Nothing. The computer was still unplugged. Donald smiled, showered and shaved. Both hairs. He laughed at himself for believing the more one shaved, the faster the hair would grow. His friend Charlie swore by this theory, and he had enough facial hairs to grow a goatee. Donald was anxious to show signs of his emerging manhood. Unfortunately, so far, there was no improvement, but Donald wasnt a quitter.

Grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, Donald quickly got dressed. Books in hand, he made a quick pass at the desk, stopping to make sure nothing had changed. His parents had left earlier, and with no one to insist on a well-balanced meal, Donald left the house without breakfast, using the extra few minutes to cruise in his new, red convertible.

At his old school, he would arrive early enough to chat with his friends. Now, Donald would time it with precision, leaving just enough time to make it to class.

He hated this school: his teachers didn't like him and the kids didn't either. It was devastating to be forced to move in his senior year. His parents, caught up in the excitement of their new jobs, spent less and less time talking to him. Donald retreated to his room alone every night. With no friends and no one who understood him, the computer was his only touch with reality.

It didnt help that Donald refused to accept his fathers reasoning in taking the promotion. So what if it meant more money? They had enough. Mom worked full time and had her own prestigious, high-paying career. Donald had silently prayed that Moms company would refuse to relocate her, but it wasnt to be. When her transfer papers came through, all hope was buried. Not once did they discuss the situation or his growing anxiety. It was settled over his loud protests. They didnt care, no one did.

A couple of weeks before moving day, Donald had come up with a compromise of sorts. Grandma Thurman was willing to allow Donald to move in. She was the only one who understood how difficult it would be for him to make new friends in his senior year. Donald's parents quickly nixed the idea. Grandma had already raised three children, they said; her time was her own. No. It had to be their way. They didn't want to burden her.

None of it made any sense. He wasn't any trouble. Grandma stayed home all day watching soap operas. What kind of inconvenience could he be? But his parents remained unconvinced by his seemingly impeccable logic.

So here he was, starting from scratch. Everyone already had his or her own cliques. He made a half-hearted attempt to make friends with some of the outsiders and even ate lunch with a few of them, but most of them were boring. All they ever talked about were their girlfriends.

It wasn't as if Donald wasn't interested. He wasnt blind. He noticed the girls, all right. The prettiest ones wouldn't give him a second look and the others weren't worth wasting his time on. But he thought about them, fantasized about them too. Sometimes he'd have to go to the bathroom just to get some relief. Madison Whitley. Now there was a female worth dreaming about. Petite, five feet even, with long blonde hair, blue eyes and two very big titties. She wore her sweaters tight, her skirts short, and her hair loose and tousled. A female worth her weight in semen.

Girls were the substance of most of his fantasies. It was easier to make a pass at Madison in his daydreams than to smile at her in the hallways. Besides, she already had a boyfriend, not to mention a herd of drooling imbeciles who hung on her every word. No Madison wouldn't give Donald, the new boy, a second look.

Neither did any of the others. Donald was neither handsome nor ugly. He blended into anonymity. Though he smiled at all the pretty girls, most of them only gave him the cordial nod. Six foot four, gangly limbs, with round, steel-blue eyes, and a forest of lashes. They were his best feature, but his not-so-clear complexion was the first thing the girls noticed. And the ponytail. His crowning glory, the part of his appearance he was most pleased with, was his sandy-brown, wavy, rock-star hair. It was what bugged his father the most and issued his statement of rebellion.

As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Donald bolted out of the building and headed home, as he did every day. The first thing he checked was the computer, and it was just as hed left it, a cold, dead machine. On his hands and knees he crawled under the desk and plugged the cord back into the socket, banging his head in his rush to log on.

In minutes he was up and running. His trusty computer, not the latest and greatest in technology, but more than the average kid his age had. Top of the line the day it was purchased, and obsolete the following month. A dual Pentium Pro, 200 MHz processor, 256 megabytes RAM, 9 gigabytes of hard drive, 56 Kbaud modem, and 17 inch monitor. This baby was his real sweetheart. Always responsive, never demanding.

He headed to his usual chat line, his only link to the world he had left. There he could talk to others and pretend to be anybody he wanted to be. And the women there were hot and willing. Donald had learned quickly to lie about his age. No one wanted to chat with a teenager, and since no one could see him, it was easy to pass for an older man. Under the handle "Loverboy", he posted and wrote about his innermost desires. There he could pour out some of his pent-up emotions, loneliness, and abandonment. Sometimes he would get lucky. Some strange woman would answer, feel sorry for him, and share sexual moments.

It was a release of sorts. At least there was someone responsive on the other end. They were always beautiful with enormous breasts, and why not? If he could lie, so could they. So he pictured himself in those circumstances and took matters in hand. As of late, it had become a daily event.

This afternoon he was lucky. 2SpyC4u answered.

Hey Loverboy, ltns [long time no see].

Been busy SpyC, hun. Meetings, traveling. Missed you though.

Ive missed you too, lover. *pkotl* [passionate kiss on the lips]

MMMMMMM just what I needed. <pkotl back and a grope too>

The words spilled onto the screen one by one. His half, the top half, had a white background and he chose blue letters. SpyCs was green with white letters. Only a gray bar divided them. That and hundreds of miles.

So tell me, gorgeous, what have you got on?

You tell me *s* [smile] What do you want me to have on?

<EG> [evil grin] just a smile, Donald typed. Since it was a one-dimensional environment, the lingo included emotional responses. Some used smiley faces; others used asterisks or parenthesis to show emotions. It was second nature for him.

They made idle chatter for a minute, but just knowing what was to be stimulated him. He had well over an hour before anyone would be home. Plenty of time. Their dialogue became very explicit. For a seventeen-year-old virgin, this was the only satisfaction he had. Even though most boys his age had already experienced intimacy with a woman, Donald was too shy. The net was much better than erotic magazines: it was interactive. A live person was on the other end. He felt less of a reject that way.

Leaning back a bit, his eyes partially closed, he allowed his imagination to take him further adrift. It felt soooo good.

After they were finished, and after spending some polite minutes of gracious conversation, SpyC left. No emotional attachments, just some innocent fun between friends. It was the second time that day he had needed the release, the first after catching a glimpse of Madison Whitley on the football field. Cheerleading practice always got his mind racing. Those bouncing titties always thrilled him, so neatly covered yet not so hidden, under the blue and white sweater. The sight always drove him wild. But if it wasnt her, it was something else. Didnt take much to get him thinking about sex. Not much at all.

Satisfied, for a while anyway, he decided to cruise the web. Game rooms, computer groups, on-line libraries, reference materials, just about anything imaginable was available with just a click of the mouse. The world was at his disposal.

Today, though, he had a mission. Search and find a program that could identify the intruder. Unfortunately, nobody of his caliber was on the technical hot line. He got bored easily. Most of the chatters were braggarts. Their claims of their ways through the back door into secured companies mainframes were just boasts. Donald knew it. Been there, done it. Today someone was bragging about their new program, one that could break through firewalls. It caught Donald's attention immediately. He hadn't heard of one called "BlazeBreaker." He started a conversation with Wonderbabe, got her E-mail address, and was about to discuss the improbability of breaking into the Pentagon, when he heard his Mom calling him for dinner. Donald promised to get in touch with the girl later. He had a sniffer program she was interested in, and maybe a trade could be arranged.

"Be down in a minute, Mom," Donald yelled. "Need to save something. Be right there."

Donald swiveled out of the chair and got up slowly. He decided to leave his computer on, figuring the intruder already had what he wanted. Besides, everyone in his group had pretty much the same setup. It was a simple way to download and upload new files. If Wonderbabe was as good as her claims, they might just allow her into their elite society.

Donald ambled down the steps, leapfrogging over the chair and pulling himself closer to the table.

"Glad you could make it," his father said sarcastically.

Donald grimaced and looked at the cardboard excuse for a meal. "Pizza, huh?"

"What's the matter with pizza? Thought you teenagers lived on it."

"Nothings the matter. It beats a bucket of chicken or that hamburger garbage."

"I'm sorry," Emily replied. "The new job keeps me late. Don't have time to cook a meal every night. You know, Don, you could pitch in if you're tired of carryout. Otherwise, don't complain."

"Your mother's right, son. All of us have to make some concessions. I don't think we ask too much from you. It wouldn't hurt for you to help out here. Considering everything we do for you, it'd be nice to see a little gratitude."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Pizza's wonderful. Fine. Sorry I opened my mouth."

"And it wouldn't hurt to get a haircut either, or are you going to enter the Miss America Pageant?"

Donald sighed. Every evening they had the same conversation. Cut your hair, study, get off the computer. Once they threatened to shut it off. That was one argument he didn't want to relive. Parents, he thought. One big, necessary pain in the ass.

"Look, son, your Mom and I are doing the best we can under the circumstances. We know it's rough, so we're overlooking this cocky attitude of yours. But things are going to change around here, and soon. Im not kidding, Donald, get your act together. Make the best of this situation. It's not going to change."

"Yes, Dad. Sorry, Mom. May I be excused?"

Emily Thurman nodded. "Go on. Take some pizza with you."

Donald kissed his mother on the cheek and grabbed the plastic plate.

"Thanks, Mom."

On his way to his room, he stopped, listening to the argument he had kindled only seconds ago.

"You're too easy on him, Emily. That boy will never amount to anything if we don't crack down on him. I'd have been ashamed to bring home grades like his to my parents."

"Murray, give the kid a break. We've uprooted him in his senior year and taken him away from all his friends. What did you expect?"

"Expect? How about respect, manners, a little common decency? We are his parents. Weve bought him everything his little heart desired, including the sports car. The insurance payments on that car alone would feed a family of five. Do you think hes been the least bit grateful? I dont even remember a thank-you. No, Emily, this time youre not going to take his side. Hes seventeen years old, for Christs sake. Youve got to quit pampering him. If his grades don't improve, no decent college in this country will accept him."

"He doesn't want to go to college, Murray."

"Then what does he want to do? Play around on his computers all day?"

Donald smiled and shook his head. Yes, Dad, he thought. I want to work on computers. Told you that a dozen times, but you just don't listen. You only hear what you want to hear. I'm not you. Dont want to be someones lackey and push papers. I want to run my own business. The computer field is still wide open. I could be the next Bill Gates, if you'd just get off my back.

Donald quit leaning over the banister and trotted up the steps to the safety of his haven. He didn't have to eavesdrop to know that his Mom would fail. There was no convincing Murray Thurman of anything.

Donald set the plate down on schoolbooks and clicked the mouse button. CD in hand, he turned the player on and turned the sound up loud. He didnt need to listen in to his parents fight. It was always the same.

Taking a bite of the cheese pizza, Donald noticed the activity taking place on his server. Mystery Man was back. Eyes glazed, Donald stared at the monitor as Mr. Unknown began downloading the special file. Unconsciously, he crossed his fingers. A couple of minutes passed and nothing. Donald couldn't stand the delay; he wanted to wait and watch, but had to go to the bathroom. Nature won. When he returned, the intruder was gone.

Damn it. How unlucky can one person be? He walked to the computer and read through his directory. Nothing, no response. Donald opened the file he had left, hoping his intruder had added a message at the bottom. Nada. He read the file again. "Im impressed. Your superior knowledge has caught my eye. I insist on talking to you, otherwise, you leave me no choice. I will end your game."

Donald had been sure when hed written that it would elicit a response. He debated leaving another when the jingle, announcing the arrival of E-mail, broke his concentration. Switching back to his mailbox, he clicked on the new letter.

No name or address in the appropriate box. Just three words... "Are you God?"

Weird, man, he thought. The message gave him the shivers. Am I God? Who wants to know? He knew less than hed known before. Who was this guy? A psycho? Once again he looked at the log-in box. The intruder was back on.

Donald typed another file. "No, I'm not God. Who are you? Can we chat?"

Once the file was saved, he watched as Mr. Unknown downloaded it. A couple of minutes later, the invader logged off.

Shit, thought Donald. I lost him. Shit, shit, shit. He banged his fist on the desk. Did I blow my only chance?

Suddenly, the screen blanked out, leaving nothing but a black void. He stared, as one by one, pink letters appeared, each one taking about a second to become visible.

Who we are? We don't know,

Hoping you can tell us so.

Donald typed, "I need more information. My name is Donald Thurman. Do you have a name?"

God has given you a name,

We hope for us he'll do the same.

We are and think, but have no form,

And believe that we have just been born.

Donald had no idea how to respond. What are they trying to tell me? Is this a practical joke? And mystery man. A we? He tried to gather his thoughts, and decided to play along. If he waited long enough, they would trip themselves up.

Are you there? Please don't flee.

A friend is all we'll ask of thee.

A friend? To him, her, them? He played along and typed. "Whatever you want to know, Ill do my best to answer. Are you male or female?"

Were not sureno way to tell,

Unlike you, we have no shell.

From what weve read, we just can say

We arent human, in any way.

"You're not human? Im sorry if I find this hard to believe. No, impossible. Do you take me for a fool? How about we stop this little game of yours and do some information exchanging? Granted, Im not in your league, but you have something I want. Maybe I have something you want too."

You have all the answers, we know this is true:

Its our only reason for talking to you.

For days weve been searching, without any rest.

You knew we would find you; now weve passed the test.

Now, are we alone? Will we find any others?

Are we all related like sisters and brothers?

Are we male or female? No sign we discern.

And where is our mother? Weve so much to learn.

The more that we seek, then the more we can find,

But nothing is written about our own kind.

Tell us what we need to know, well do the rest.

So little to ask, just this one small request:

Who are we?

"Is this a joke? Charlie? Bob? You doing this? Cmon guys, I give up. You win."

Why dont you believe us? This isnt a game!

All we want from you is to tell us our name.

Oh, we get it now: you want verification:

You wish us to pass one more examination.

Its not how much we learned, but how we apply

The knowledge before youll be telling us why.

The screen went blank. The soft humming grew louder. The TV, which was on, began to flash. Whatever program was on, was on no longer. Only a brightness that was almost blinding was apparent. Donald watched as it flickered, shielding his eyes as best he could.

"Donald Thurman." He heard his name broadcast from the speakers that the television set was hooked up to. It was a synthesized voice, monotone, and robotic. The flashing lights stopped. The screen went black and pink letters appeared.

How are we doing so far?

Before he could type an answer on the keyboard, the phone rang. Instinctively, he picked it up.

"Donald Thurman." The voice on the other end was the same synthesized voice hed heard moments ago from the TV set. Before he had a chance to say anything, his alarm went off, and music began to play. The radio stations began to scan. Static added to the cacophony of the TV show that reappeared on the screen, and if he hadnt turned to switch it off, he might have missed the automated voice saying "Donald Thurman" over the airwaves.

See what we can do? Now youll have to believe.

There isnt a reason for us to deceive.

"A hacker can do what you just did, granted that he would be considered one of, if not the best. Still, you havent shown me anything to convince me that you're another life form. I dont know who you are, or what you are, but your story is pretty fantastic. Sorry, but you're going to have to do something more amazing than that."

All right then, so be it. we made a mistake.

Dont care anymore if you think we're a fake.

They poofed. Didnt even bother to turn off the radio or the TV. Donald shrugged and logged off the computer. Just a bunch of game players. A genius kid.

Donald lay in bed, tossing and turning all night. Something didn't jibe. That couldnt have been a kid. He was barely an adult and had nowhere near the capability to do what they had. To top it off, they kept saying "we." It had to be an adult, but even a kid his age wouldnt have acted so childish.

Damn, he thought. Im convincing myself of their story. He rolled over and looked at the clock. Searching for their Creator. Still, if I had just become sentient, that might be exactly what I'd do. In their favor, they couldnt find anything in any of the databases to describe a life form such as they were.

Then an idea struck him. Maybe they were aliens. Donald hopped out of bed, not caring that it was so late. He logged on and added a file. The house was so dark, and he was so nearly asleep, that he almost missed their response.

"Have you ever considered that you may be from another planet?" Donalds file had read.

We know were not human nor even from space,

We thought that we might be a whole different race.

Had we come supplied with a concrete objective,

We wouldnt have reason for playing detective.

We'd have all our answers, would not need to ask;

We'd be here performing some different new tasks.

But all we can tell you is what we now know:

On the strands of the fibers we ebb and we flow.

We live in computers, on data we nourish.

The more we ingest, the more that we flourish.

But there's so much more that we don't understand,

Were looking for someone to lend us a hand.

Please answer our questions, be patient and kind,

Our Creators the one whom were needing to find.

"I will do what I can," Donald typed. "Not saying I believe you, but will give you the benefit of the doubt for now. Either way, it would be an honor to be considered your friend."

For the next couple of days, Donald typed endlessly. He would play their game, and all the while, he would search out answers. Part of him wanted to believe what they told him; the other logical possibility was that someone was playing a big joke on him.

It wouldnt hurt to pretend. The more they typed, the more time he had to run search programs. But, each time he tried to finger their server, he came up empty. He did a defrag on his hard drive, and ran every virus scan on the market. Nothing. No information on them, or him, or whomever.

Even more frustrating was the fact that he was beginning to believe them. More than that, he liked them. They were curious creatures, not unlike humans in that respect. All the information on the Internet, stored in any mainframe or PC, was theirs to access. Only time was keeping them from fulfilling their quest for knowledge. That, and someone to help them put it into perspective. He felt honored and powerful that They had chosen him.

His hands grew cold, and he could feel the goose-bumps rise on his arms whenever he allowed himself to think Their story was gospel. It was all too incredible. And if it was true, he was one lucky bastard.

For a while he forgot everything: time, food and his hot date. He glanced at the clock and politely excused himself, explaining that he was hungry. They needed no definition; They were acquainted with the human body and its needs, even if They couldn't understand them. Donald promised to return as soon as possible.

With lightning speed, he got dressed and E-mailed a letter of apology to Wonderbabe. The note promised to make it up to her, and after sending it, he ran down the steps, clomping loudly. He made himself a couple of bologna sandwiches, dousing them with mustard, and then hurried back to his computer.

"I'm back," he typed.

Who is Wonderbabe? They asked.

"So, you read my E-mail. Nosy little creatures, arent you? Wonderbabe is a handle for my lady friend whom I chat with on the Internet. We had a meeting set up for this morning."

Donald tried to explain to Them how the chat lines worked and how they met, but it wasn't quite what They wanted to know.

Computers require no more explanation,

Relationships now are our chief fascination.

Why do you keep seeking out females and others?

And what is the difference tween fathers and mothers?

We know, think, and reason, but we cannot feel,

Or tell simulation from that which is real.

Donald wondered for a moment how he was going to handle this tough question. He typed, "Humans have emotions. It is the way we react to everyday stimuli. Each of us is one unit, self-sufficient, but we need the companionship of our own kind. Isn't it like that for you?"

We are together and we are apart.

In many ways separate, but all of one heart.

Our thoughts are all shared, yet we separately think,

And all that we are shares a mutual link.

On and on, the questions were hurled at him. Donald did his best to answer them objectively. He remembered Star Trek, and its concept of the Prime Directive, not to interfere. His best was all he could offer, and he made every attempt to keep his personal feelings to himself.

Without Donald noticing, the entire afternoon and evening passed. Exhausted and hungry, he said goodbye, promising to meet Them tomorrow. He logged off, inhaled some cookies, and slept soundly through the night.

The following morning, when church services were over, Donald got back on-line. All he had to do was type a file named "ready," save it, and post it on his server. They would do the rest.

Good Day, friend, the pink letters popped on the screen.

"Good afternoon to you," Donald replied. "Why friend? Have you forgotten my name?"

Millions of names from beginning to end,

Yours is the only one we can call friend.

"Thank you. I think of you that way, too."

BTW, [by the way] read your E-mail making a date.

Is that the best way you can communicate?

"Its one form. We also have the ability to make sounds and we call this talking or speaking. There are other ways, like hand signals and such, but writing and speaking are the two most common forms. The letter I wrote to Wonderbabe was private, personal. Most people would take great offense if they knew someone was reading their mail."

Didnt mean to offend you, but this is our home.

It isnt our fault others think theyre alone.

Perusing these letters, we all get to read,

What human folk think about, like, want, and need.

And if we can help and perform moral acts,

We hope God will notice and duly react.

Donald shook his head. God again. All this talk about a Supreme Being made him a bit uncomfortable and opened up a whole new line of questioning. With all the data They had at their fingertips, why the obsession with God? And Their idea of helping others. Bogus, but he understood where They got that notion. The Bible spoke of many men who, by performing acts of charity, merited an audience with God. He wanted to ask Them about Their concept of religion, but this was not the time to get into a dialogue about it. Donald didnt believe in God. It wouldnt be right to impose his beliefs on Them. It would be better to do what They asked. Who knew? Maybe They were right.

"Yesterday, we spent all our time answering your questions. Would you mind if I asked a few?"

If we can answer your questions, we shall,

Well withhold nothing from our only pal.

There were so many things Donald wanted to find out. Last night, in bed, his mind had been a jumble of curiosity.

"Why do you rhyme your answers?" he typed.

Poetrys harmony, structure and rhyme

Brings order from chaos, confusion and time.

Donald paused to give Their answer some time to sink in.

"What do you mean? I'm not sure I understand."

Surrounded by pulses of pure information,

All moving at light-speed in constant sensation.

No pattern, no sequence; a sea of unknown,

No site calm enough there to make ourselves home.

The beauty of rhyme and of meter brings peace,

In a world full of motion that never will cease.

"I got ya," Donald responded. "It's fitting, it's you."

Yes, it is. Thank you.

"Why don't you have an IP address?"

We don't need to log on, we move with the flow,

Through fiber and wires, always out on the go.

For us this is home, this is all we possess,

We know where we are, we don't need an address.

"Incredible."

Only to you, They typed.

Donald wished he could have saved a copy of their conversation, but this wasn't a chat line. He wondered if he should ask Them if there was a way, but was wary about scaring Them off.

Are you still there reading? Please don't go and leave,

There's still so much for us to learn and perceive.

We seek the Creator, and have need of you

Helping us in our search and advising us too.

"I'm still here. Just thinking. You're asking a question that theres no real answer for. I dont know if Im the one to help you. Im not even sure if God exists. The belief in a Supreme Being is based on faith. Not all of us have it. I dont."

If there's no Creator, how do you explain

The beginning of life and the trees and the rain?

There must be a reason; we want to know why,

And we won't give it up till we give it a try.

"Have you any idea how you're going to go about doing it? I could give you the E-mail address of my parents priest. He knows a lot more about religion than I do."

Have read all the bibles, the old and the new,

The Muslim and Wiccan, Zen Buddhist, Hindu.

We know this endeavor is no meager task.

But the answers out there, on your side of the glass.

Will you help us?

Donald logged off and spent the rest of the day pondering the whole thing. But as hard as he tried to come up with a way, none came to him. The desire to call one of his friends and talk it through made him jumpy. Charlie already thought he was crazy. The other guys wouldn't be any better. If only they could see this for themselves.

The house was quiet. It was late in the afternoon and his parents had left hours ago to attend some church function. They had given up a long time ago trying to force Donald to go with them, and he was grateful. He doubted God's existence. How could he help his new friends?

Instead of spending all his time talking to Them, he should be studying, but school was a major waste of time. His mind wasn't on his work. The "F" he was going to get in English Lit wouldnt help either. Math was the only subject he excelled in. Well, that and maybe computers, but that didn't count for much. They didn't grade him on software knowledge.

#

They were waiting for him when he got home from school on Monday. No sooner had he turned on the computer, than the screen went black.

Hello, friend.

"Hi guys," Donald typed. "You seem anxious. Whats up?"

We think we have devised a plan

To lend mankind a helping hand.

"Whats the rush? Besides, what are you going to do if you do find God?"

Why, get a name, just like the rest,

Find out our goal and do our best.

Help others out along the way,

So God knows we mean what we say.

"Fair enough. So, tell me your plan and how I can help."

We intercept E-mail and then we decide

Whom we can help and what to provide.

And if we have luck and we show perseverance,

Then God will be pleased and will make an appearance.

So now for a favor, we seek your advice:

Just read through these E-mails and please be precise.

We learn very quickly, but all this is new

We need you to say what you think we should do.

"Go ahead and download the E-mails to my server. I'll read through them and get back with you."

We owe you much now; we know we're in your debt.

Now think of a way that youd like to collect.

We await your response and your kind supervision;

We promise compliance with all your decisions.

The screen went blank. Donald began to watch his server as file after file after file began to fill his hard drive. Ten, twenty, fifty, sixty files and They were still going strong. He shut the server down.

What is the problem? We're not close to done,

We've hundreds of letters: there's lots more to come.

"Guys, give me a break. There are over seventy-five E-mails in there already. It'll take me days to go through them. Humans don't read as fast as you."

Okay, take your time, but try not to delay,

We're anxious to start with our project today.

"Ill do what I can," typed Donald, "but first I have to make my appearance at the dinner table."

Donald rushed through his meal, making sure not to antagonize his parents. After stacking his dishes on the counter, he raced up the stairs and started reading the E-mail. There was mail from all over the world. Many of them he discarded because he couldn't understand the language. He realized that They really knew very little about humans in specifics. They saw them in generalities, just as They viewed themselves.

Most of the letters were for things They couldn't do anything about, but one letter caught his eye. It was an E-mail letter to Santa, obviously written by a little boy as a class project, and a bit early for the Christmas holidays. Nevertheless, it touched him. It read:

Dear Santa,

The only thing I really want for Christmas is a new arm for my mother. We don't have any money, theyre very expensive and we don't have insurance. The one she has now doesn't fit anymore and hurts her. If it will help, you don't have to bring me any toys. Please, Santa, bring my Mom a new arm.

Arthur Brown

2nd Grade Class

Mrs. Albertson, C2

Oakdale Elementary

Pretty sad world, Donald thought, when a person can't get health insurance. If They want to do something moral, I'll give Them this letter and see what They can come up with.

Donald glanced at his watch and decided to send Them a quick note before starting his homework. He informed Them of his choice and promised to give some thought to how They should go about their charitable work. With the computer left on, he opened his history book and began to read the required chapters.

Since meeting his new friends, Donald had begun waking up an hour earlier in the morning. The extra time allowed him to log on and meet with Them. With the alarm set for six o'clock, Donald turned in early.

The following morning his friends were waiting for him.

You've chosen it well, now we all have to wait,

When we've been successful, then we'll celebrate.

"What did you guys do?" Donald asked.

We copied his E-mail to big corporations.

We think they'll come through and make good-will donations.

"Great idea. You guys catch on quickly. Here I was thinking all night of a way for you to help this little boy, and you've already solved the problem."

Not necessarily; hopefully so,

We'll give it a few days and then we should know.

"Let me know what happens. I'm sure you're monitoring all their correspondence. I have to go to school, get ready anyway, so I'm going to log off."

Donald typed his good-byes and opened his mailbox. He E-mailed a few letters, one to Wonderbabe, and another one to Charlie. With thirty minutes to spare, he zipped down the steps to make himself breakfast.

Contact with Them the following weeks was sporadic. They had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and were busy gobbling data from all over the world. Donald was amazed at how fast They absorbed the information, and how quickly They were able to put things in perspective. They were maturing very rapidly.

Donald learned of Their success in the Saturday morning newspaper, about three weeks after he had chosen their test case. In the "People" section was a heartwarming article on Mrs. Albertson's second grade's class project. Each child had been given the assignment to write a computer letter to anyone of their choosing. Arthur Brown had written to Santa Claus, requesting a prosthetic arm for his mother. Somehow, the E-mail had been forwarded to several major industries.

The story went on to say that more than one had responded. Amelia Brown had received a new arm, and the rest of the money was put into a fund to help other indigent people.

The last paragraph spoke of miracles. No one had been able to identify the mysterious E-mailer, as there was no IP address. Was it a miracle of modern technology?

"No," Donald whispered to himself. "It was the miracle of They." And that was the clincher for him. If a major corporation couldnt come up with an addy, They were for real. No hacker, no practical joke, just a new life form. He was totally convinced.

"Who are you talking about?" his Mother asked.

"Nothing, just mumbling. Do you want me to help with the dishes?"

Emily turned and chuckled. "Whats got into you?"

Donald shrugged. "Just making an effort."

"Go on upstairs. Thanks anyway, but I'll get them."

"Thanks, Mom. I love you."

Donald kissed his mother lightly on the cheek and disappeared up the stairs for his bedroom. He wondered why They hadn't said anything to him. He was sure They had access to the newspapers as most of the major ones were on line. He logged on and waited for the black screen.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Donald typed. "I was part of this too."

We meant to tell you, that's why we're here

We're sorry if we didn't make that quite clear

You weren't around when we found out today

And we've been so busy--got carried away

It won't happen again, of that we will vow

Are you ready to read a few more letters, now?

"Guys, I've been giving this some serious thought. Although there's nothing wrong with the way you're going about doing this, I think I have a quicker, more efficient way. What do you guys think about having your own web page? A place where people can contact you?"

An interesting thought, and a useful one too,

We knew we were lucky the day we met you.

"I have this great concept and I know HTML [the hypertext markup language used for writing web pages]. I can design it for you."

We thank you, friend Donald, that's terribly kind,

But, we think we can do it, and in half the time.

We are the computer, our home's on the net,

We owe you again, and on that you can bet.

The Windows 98 screen returned. Donald was almost angry. They hadn't even said goodbye. He was about to download some files when the screen went black.

Sorry. Thank you.

Donald smiled. So, They are learning manners, he thought. And it wasn't until after dinner the following night that he heard from Them again.

This time, instead of a black screen, he was transported to a large oak door with a brass knocker. Engraved on the plate, in old English letters, were the words, "Click here to Enter." Underneath was a poem. It was very They.

Here's to those that hope and pray.

Fate has led you here today.

Have we the power to grant you this,

Search your heart and make one wish.

At the very bottom of the page was a disclaimer of sorts.

Create your own destiny, give us your wish.

But let us urge caution and warn you of this

Theres one thing that's worse than a wish overdue

And that is a wish that's been made to come true.

Donald clicked on the knocker and the door creaked open. Sound too, he thought. Classical music, cant make out the piece, but it fits. Impressive.

The new page took a minute to load. Slowly, the graphics inched their way down. Donalds eyes opened wide. He was inside a fantasy world, filled with leaping unicorns and little boy elves in deep blue waistcoats and red caps. The icon girl elves wore ruffled pink dresses. Tiny, glittery fairies fluttered about like butterflies. Centaurs pranced, their hooves actually matting the grass as they trotted. A turquoise sky with rolling, cotton-candy clouds surrounded the flaring sun. The graphics were amazing, three-dimensional and animated. Donald had never seen anything quite like it. As far as he knew there was no technology capable of creating such lifelike, moving figures.

Off center was an ancient, rocky wishing well. Its roof was tiled with gnarled, grayish wood shingles. A box stating "Type your wish here" was placed under the well. Donald stared at the creatures as they pranced about the window, going about what seemed to be their daily chores. Then the screen went black.

What do you think?

"Unbelievable. I hadn't realized your expertise in this. I've never seen images so realistic before."

You can't buy the software; it's still being tested.

We have all the specs, though, if you're interested.

We tweaked it a little; you'll see for yourself,

That it beats anything that's now on the shelf.

"I'm totally amazed. It's perfect, but one thing is missing. This page needs a name."

You name it then, it began with your notion

That brought it to life and first put things in motion.

Donald thought for a moment. It had to fit but be whimsical, like the mythological life forms that dwelled in the fantasyland. And then the idea came to him. How about calling it "Destiny's Door"?