Kopekne aimlessly turned on his computer. He cleared away a week's collection of debris that included a small mountain of SPAM, which had invaded his privacy. He had instructed his secretary on numerous occasions to delete the junk and save what might be important. The result was her printing out everything and deleting nothing. He never ceased to be amazed at how e-mail worked in the first place. Sure the concept had originated as an outgrowth of a bunch of nerd scientists trying to develop a sophisticated information system that became the Internet. That much he knew but little more. But e-mail remained a mystery. It somehow knew enough to correct a wrong address and provide detailed instructions for recommended re-routings. It seemed omnipresent and deliberate, always ready to contact the party at the other end once you selected an e-mail address. But who actually did the work? How did the endless transmissions happen? Was it the result of an army of typists diligently working in all languages at all hours stationed throughout the world? And, if so, who paid them and how did one apply for a job processing e-mails? He shook his head as he had done countless times before and scanned the printouts. Garbage, all garbage! Kopekne stared at the blank screen. He called up the menu and went straight for the e-mail. Thank God there were no additional messages! He went back and called up a search engine, mindful that he had promised to contact his old friend's widow after receiving her terse note, sans a return address, that he had died. Bill Parsons had been through hell with him in Vietnam and they had kept in touch less and less as the years rolled by. The blank spaces called out, interrogating him. For several minutes he hesitated before typing in his friend's name: "William G. Parsons." The machines did its little flicks and flashes and suddenly provided him with additional instructions: PLEASE PROVIDE DATE OF BIRTH AND COUNTRY OF ORIGIN He complied and awaited a response, which seemed to come back immediately. PERSON DECEASED. TRY DECEASED PERSON'S E-MAIL He was dumbfounded. The smile slowly dissipated from his face as Kopekne clicked on the recommended hyperlink and another page filled his computer screen. WHAT CENTURY? He stared incredulously at the message and, as if in a trance, typed in: "1900" A few additional flashes and suddenly an alphabetical list appeared on the screen. The summary page number stated: PAGE ONE OF SIXTEEN-BILLION, TWENTY-THREE MILLION, FIVE-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN THOUSAND, NINE- HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN PAGES. He sat with his eyes transfixed on the screen, afraid of what to type in. He stood up and walked into the kitchenette. He opened the refrigerator door and took out a Bud. What the hell is going on, he thought. This has to be some sort of practical joke or a damned good advertising stunt, he reasoned. He took several pulls at the bottle and walked back to the computer and sat down. He typed in the search box: Herbert Hoover, U.S. President. A few flashes and flicks and the address: H.HOOVER@ DECEASED.U.S.1900.004.16. Now he began to smile. Surely this was some form of advertising gimmick. He searched the top of the page for the URL. It was blank. Puzzled, he typed in a message: Dear Mr. Hoover: Why didn't you impose the same banking regulations in a timely manner that Franklin Roosevelt did? Wouldn't this have saved the country a lot of grief? Regards, Jim Kopekne. He stared at the screen and smiled again. He must be cracking up for sure. The phone suddenly rang. He took another swig of beer before answering it: "Kopeckne here." "Mr. Kopekne, this is Gail." He glanced at the clock realizing that his secretary should have been here by now. "I'm having a little car trouble. The man from the automobile club says I need a new battery. I'll be another hour." "That's okay, Gail. It'll be a slow day." He took another pull at the Bud. "By the way, we have to talk about this e-mail situation when you get here." "I printed out everything that looked important. I didn't miss anything, did I?" "No. Looks like you got just about everything," he added sarcastically. He put down the receiver and went back to the computer. The screen was blank. He shut it off and ambled back into the small office. He had told Gail that it would be a light day. What an understatement! His business had been falling off in the past few months and he was considering folding his tent and trying something else. Appraising houses had been a good choice for the past seven years but the housing market had begun to retrench and he had been forced to lay off three of his six appraisers. He knew it would be a matter of time before he would have to let Gail go too. Besides, his alimony payments to Donna had drained whatever profit he had managed to wring out of the business. He checked the inventory and was not surprised by the dearth of accounts receivables. It had certainly not been a good spring and to make matters worse, summer looked no better. He checked the e-mail anticipating at least several referrals from Andy Coppleman , his friend at the loan appraisal office at the bank. He scanned the screen. Nothing from Andy. There was an e-mail response, however and he clicked on it: The blood seemed to drain from his head as he read: Subject: Your inquiry re: Banking regulations circa 1930. Dear Mr. Kopecne: As President, during the first two months of my inauguration, I strongly urged the Federal Reserve; Congress and the then Governor of New York, Franklin Delano Roosevelt to take appropriate action designed to curb speculation by banks with their depositor's funds. My appeals went unheeded by everyone I contacted. I suggest that you pose the same question to Franklin Delano Roosevelt when he was governor of New York before I took office. Unfortunately it was he who profited politically by the delay at the expense of the people of the United States. Regards, Herbert Hoover. Kopeckne sat back and stared at the screen. Someone has gone to a helluva lot of trouble to play games with him. Still, he was mighty impressed. He had a sudden thought. He searched the e-mail for any sign of a URL but could find nothing. How had he contacted "Herbert Hoover" in the first place? He remembered the first e-mail response and the mysterious hyperlink. Slowly, he retraced his e-mail messages, hoping that he had not deleted them. He was in luck. It was still there. He immediately clicked of the hyperlink and the form filled the screen. WHAT CENTURY? He typed in 1900. The computer clicked and flickered. In answer to the second query, he typed in his father's name: Roman Thaddeus Anthony Kopekne. He had died in 1979. The machine sputtered and revealed a new e-mail address: R.T.A.KOPEKNE@PO.1900.007.45. Kopekne sat back and took several deep breaths. His eyes began to water as he looked at the address. His father had been born in Poland but had lived out his life in the United States. He began to wonder who on earth would go to all this trouble to play a prank on him. Well, whoever it was had to know a lot about him and his family. I suppose Poland was just a lucky guess he thought. Yet, the weird thought still had him in its hold. He remembered how strict his parents had been with him and his brother and two sisters. But it had been his mother who had been the strict disciplinarian, not his dad. He recalled a time when, at eight or nine years old, he had broken a window during a horseplay session with his brother. He had been petrified over the consequences and had begun to weep. His father, seeing the fear taking over his son, told him that he would tell mama that it had been his fault, absolving both boys. He had never forgotten such an act of kindness by his loving father. He turned back to the keyboard and began to type: Papa: What was the most important act of kindness you showed your two sons when we were growing up. Also, do you remember what you used to call me when I was little? Love always, your son, Jimmy. He clicked on the send key as the computer sputtered on at the speed of light and went blank. The doorbell rang. He walked into the reception room and opened the door for Gail. Feeling a little foolish, he smiled and said, "Hi, Gail. You didn't have to rush over. I said that it would be a slow day," "They put in the battery right away. So here I am, ready for work." She smiled and took off her coat. "You wanted to show me something about the e-mail, didn't you?" "Yes. Make yourself a cup of coffee and we'll get started." The three-hour session with his secretary had taken something out of him. He began with an attempt to define the term SPAM as essentially the same article posted an unacceptably high number of times as opposed to the popular meat product from Hormel. They had gone over an exhaustive review of her printouts and he was certain that she finally knew the difference between SPAM and important material. "Let's break for lunch now, Gail. You can do the rest of your work after." "Okay, Mr. Kopekne." She smiled her usual warm smile, put on her coat and left. The rest of the day passed quickly. Gail had finished her work and he had let her go home an hour early. He was looking forward to locking up and spending a quiet night watching the Yankees and the Red Sox on T.V. He walked back to his office and sat down at the computer to query his e-mail. One message stood out from the other three: Subject: Your inquiry re: Act of kindness, etc. Dear Jimmy: You are probably thinking of the window you and John broke which I told your mother I broke. She knew about it anyway so I never fooled her. Mama loved you both too remember. Also, when you were very young, I used to call you "Boobalah." Love, Papa. A chill ran down his back. If this was some sort of hoax, it was certainly an elaborate one. His brother, John, had died in a plane crash twenty years ago and his two younger sisters, hadn't been born at the time of the incident. How then could anyone possibly know about it? After several minutes, he clicked on "return" and typed this message: Papa: I don't know how but I really believe that this message came from you. If so, does this mean that I'll actually be able to communicate with those who have gone on before me? Please let me know the situation before I go mad. Love, Boobulah He sent the return message and switched off the computer. He closed the door behind him and left the building. It was a warm, autumn evening, and he decided to walk instead of taking the bus. He could not stop thinking about his father as a warm feeling began to comfort him. The ball game suddenly lost its significance. It was raining heavily the next morning. Kopekne fumbled for the office key, opened the door and took off his soaked raincoat. He put the coffee pot on and started up his computer. Minutes later he began to search his e-mail. One message was present: Subject: Your inquiry re: contacting those who have passed. Dear Jimmy: I didn't mean to upset you. This side actually represents the future in spite of the fact we came from the past. Those who have passed on have always found ways to communicate with the living: e.g. psychics; savants; ouija boards; séances and other means available in the electromagnetic spectrum. E-mail is just the latest means. But its use is strictly limited. Therefore I'll only be able to contact you one more time. If you are still interested, I will send you detailed instructions on inter-life communication as it is called. Be well, Papa Jim Kopekne's hands were trembling. If the message was sincere and not part of an elaborate scheme to humiliate him, he would have the ability to communicate with the non-living. He hesitated to refer to them as dead. This would prove beyond a shadow of doubt that life was eternal and existed on many planes. He clicked on "return" and typed: Papa: Yes! Please send me what you described, as I am extremely anxious to have that knowledge. Love, Jimmy The return message disappeared into the ether and was on its way. He heard the bubbling of the coffee pot and poured himself a large mug. Wouldn't it be wonderful, he thought, to communicate with any of your predecessors? This would be a good day. Andy Coppleman had come through with three appraisals that brought the total to seven for the week. At that rate, business would hold its own and perhaps it could survive. He entered the new invoices into the system as he enjoyed sipping the hot coffee. Life was beginning to look a little better. Gail came in shortly before nine and he told her the good news. She made herself a cup of coffee and began to type. Maybe now the boss would be a little happier. She had hated to see him so deeply mired in the doldrums. She had listened intently as he cautioned her about accepting SPAM. She felt encouraged and knew that she would not let him down any more. As her own personal crusade, she would not allow another piece of SPAM to contaminate the e-mail. Kopekne put on his wet raincoat and announced that he would be going over to the bank to thank Andy Coppleman. "I should be about an hour. You hold down the fort. See ya." He left as she returned to her typing. After several letters, she stood up and walked over to the computer to check the e-mail. A strange missile appeared on the screen, which seemed to babble something about communicating with the non-living. Will the SPAM ever stop, she asked herself under her breath? Annoyed, she hit the delete key immediately. There were no other messages. She returned to her desk and continued her typing. She smiled, knowing that her boss would be proud of her and she could not wait to tell him what she had done.