Consternation was brewing in the office of Vice Principle Victoria Bryant. The ambitious young African-American administrator was seeing her dreams crumble before her eyes. Always upbeat Student Activities Director Ernie Penn Pierson, for whom “school spirit” was an unofficial middle name, was doing his best to cheer her up.

“I just got off with another visiting artist,” complained Victoria, “who won’t be visiting after all; they’re off to Lucerne for a jazz festival. I’ve lost count of how many cancellations that makes.”

“Relax,” said Ernie. “Your summer music and arts camp is still going to be a hit. You’ve got dozens of students signed up for it, and they’re going to get a lot of practice in and waste a lot of art supplies, if nothing else. It’s better than nothing over the long summer break, and next year will be even bigger and better. You’ve got to start somewhere.”

“But I wanted to make a splash,” said Victoria. “We had a jazz bassist and his trio lined up, a contemporary installation artist, a rock guitar player, a roadhouse saxophonist—all canceled at the last minute. I should be on a Carribbean cruise myself, not at Robert Louis Stevenson High School trying to bring culture to white kids in the cookie-cutter suburbs.”

“Look, if the marching band gets a few moves worked out of the football field, and the stage band rehearses a few numbers, we’ll be way ahead of the game come fall. I can throw paint as well as those so-called modern artists, if need be, and if our Thespians learn something about emotional memory, the all-school musical will be even better next spring.”

“I forgot about the dance-and-drama couch!” cried Victoria. “She went off to New York for an off-Broadway production … oh, drat. My camp is a bust.”

“Don’t worry, the regular faculty will handle things just fine,” said Ernie.

“You mean our drunken band director we can’t fire? And the forty-year-old art teacher who’s always getting makeovers and dresses like she’s a teenager, and throws herself at the male students?”

“Robert Louis Stevenson isn’t perfect, but it’s a good school. It has its share of entrenched faculty—dead wood, as you call it—particularly in the arts. But how many artists and musicians do you really expect to turn out? Master classes with professionals who work in those fields was a great idea …”

Victoria waved a sheaf of invoices. “Look at how much we spent on upgrading our amplification system, on instruments, on a new ceramics kiln, paint and canvas, makeup … with no one to show the students how to use them …”

“They’ll figure it out. Besides, I still have a few calls out to friends of friends who are artsy. Maybe we’ll have a few master classes come together at the last minute. Look on the bright side: You got a modest budget out of the Avondale school district, and that’s more than your predecessor can say. As long as we don’t have too many mishaps or teen pregnancies in the next two weeks, it will be deemed a success, and next year you can be even more lavish. The main thing is our students should have a fun, creative time. Relax.”

***

Larry Barton stood straddling his bike in front of Stevenson Senior High School, reading the sign on the front lawn announcing the “Summer Arts and Music Camp” beginning that morning. On a long leash was a large dog of indeterminate breed, but a pleasant caramel color. Larry often biked miles from his house along the sidewalks of Six Mile Road with his dog, Ferdinand, out past Farmington Road, just to gaze at the high school.

“Boy, it’s times like these I wish I played a musical instrument, Ferd,” he said. “Or had some creative side—just so I could watch the cheerleaders and pom-pom girls practice, even though their bras are most filled with tissue paper. They’re still breasts!”

The dog relieved himself against a nearby fire hydrant.

“This camp is open to junior high school students, too,” Larry continued. “Even though I’m still in elementary school. Since this is going to be my high school someday, Mom said she would have lied to get me in. But then I’d have to practice the ukulele for the rest of the summer, and that’s quite a commitment, just to see girl boobs …”

Larry looked up and noticed a small aircraft descending toward the school. Gold and lizard-green, it’s pearlescent paint glistened in the summer sun.

“Looks like it’s landing in the field behind the school,” said Larry. “Between the football field and the junior high school on the other side of the open field. C’mon, Ferdie.”

Larry biked the long way around the high school building along the sidewalks and paved parking lot, past the parents who were still dropping their kids off to the camp and unloading instrument cases from trunks, rather than cut through the grassy field. The procedure was fraught enough with a big dog on a leash, causing Larry to appear rather spastic and erratic as he pedaled. He rounded past the portions of the sprawling building housing the gymnasium and swimming pool to the walkway leading up to the outdoor athletic fields. Across the track-and-field tracks, beyond the visiting bleachers, he caught a glimpse of the vehicle, parked on the grass, before it slowly faded away.

“Isn’t it ironic,” said Larry. “I don’t even believe in UFOs—not like Dad. And here I’ve seen two in broad daylight, within a matter of days. That, or Mom needs to get me a new vision check-up soon.”

Larry’s father, in fact, was rather nutty on the subject. An amateur photographer with a darkroom in the basement, Mortimer Barton had two obsessions: Unidentified Flying Objects and boudoir photography. He set up an elaborate studio set for young models that would never materialize for him and spent countless evenings in the countryside and around the airport trying to spot extraterrestrial vehicles in the night sky. Larry often accompanied his father on these sojourns; he’d also learned how to gain access to Mort’s sizeable collection of girly magazines.

“Wish I’d had a camera just now,” said Larry. “Dad’s not going to believe this.”

***

In the open field, a stout man with a reddish crewcut and a clipboard tablet paced in front of five crewmen of the D.F.S. Bogdanove who stood at attention. All wore the high-collared uniforms of the Domain fleet with the twins disks over the left breast, insignia of the Arcameon wing.

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“Nice to breathe the fresh air of an actual planet again, idn’t it?” said the man in a lower-class British accent. “Couldn’t wait to get off that bloody starship. Right then; here are your marching orders. There not orders, really; you’re on shore leave. You know the drill. Stay out of trouble, don’t interfere with the locals, don’t get lost or lose your communicators. You have two weeks or until we leave orbit, whichever comes first. Try not to mess things up too badly so that the others can enjoy the privilege after you.”

“Commander, why were we selected first for shore leave?” asked a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair. “Among us, none of us are historians, let alone specialists in Ancient Earth cultures, or even social scientists at all.”

“We’re mostly well-trained technicians and engineers,” added a shorter woman with dark hair and glasses. “What Munro is trying to say is, couldn’t the captain have made better of use of this historic opportunity with personnel who could gather information?”

“It’s called shore leave, you over-achievers,” said the Commander. “It means you’re on vacation. I know you’re among the Domain fleet’s best and brightest, but Lord have mercy, this new generation doesn’t know how to let their hair down. In my day, when we pulled into a planet, by God, we knew how to let off steam ….”

“But you just got through saying you didn’t want us getting into trouble,” said a tall, lean woman with curly red hair that neatly fell to her shoulders. “How are we supposed to interact with the local culture and still honor the non-interference directive?”

“You have your trans-boxes and atomic converters, don’t you, Dallas? Hoskins? Jamaica? You have enough of the lingo to get by, and you can make all the currency you’ll need. Just stay out of the way of the investigation.”

“What is the investigation, anyway?” asked an Asian woman. “Why did the Bogdanove travel back this far in time, anyway? This is an incredibly primitive time in Ancient Earth history, from what I remember being taught.”

“And what do we do if we run into the investigators?” asked a slender black man. “Why did we set down so close to them, if there’s a risk of messing up their mission?”

“We can’t track you if you’re all over the bloody globe, Merino,” said the Commander. “If you see anyone you recognize, just pretend you don’t.” He eyed the Asian woman. “And Lieutenant Pinsen’s mission is classified, Hatori—I couldn’t tell you if I knew.”

The commander heard a dog barking and saw Ferdinand with his owner biking toward them.

“Here come the locals, right on cue,” said the Commander. He took another long, deep breath of sweet terrestrial air. “I wish I could stay and hold your hands, but I’m due back at the mothercraft. You have two weeks to explore, after which you’d better be refreshed and rejuvenated. That’s an order.”

The Commander’s boots clanked as he stepped up a ladder to an invisible aircraft and disappeared.

***

“Hey, where’d that guy go you were just talking to?” Larry Barton called out.

“At least we can understand him,” said Merino. “Without the translation boxes.”

“Are you extraterrestrials from the other side of the galaxy?” asked Larry.

Ferdinand barked.

“We are … lawn inspectors with your terrestrial government,” said Hatori. “The turf here is quite … satisfactory.”

Jamaica, the slender, redheaded woman, rolled her eyes. “We are so going to inconspicuously fit in.”

“What is this large, sprawling building, local inhabitant?” asked Dallas.

“What, Stevenson High School?” replied Larry. “You’re definitely not from around here.”

“A high school,” said the short woman named Dallas. “A place for aviation training. That large oval with stripes must be the landing strip.”

Ferdinand barked again.

“Don’t worry, they’re just putting us on, Ferdie,” said Larry, who wiped his pop-bottle-bottom-thick glasses on his T-shirt. “They couldn’t talk that good of English if they were from the other side of the galaxy. They remind me of an avant-garde performance piece my mom once took me too in Ann Arbor.” He put the glasses back on and studied the identically-clad crewmen. “You must be some kind of performing troop or something; that must have been a your helicopter that dropped you off and left. You’re here for the arts and music camp, aren’t you?”

“You’re a very perceptive young man,” said Hatori, smiling.

***

Ferd’s long-nailed paws scurried on the polished floors of the long hallways inside Stevenson High School. Larry, still straddling his bike, paced along, his feet on the floor. The five crewmembers on shore leave from the D.F.S. Bogdanove marched dutifully behind.

“Here’s the band room on the right,” said Larry. “Sounds like class has already begun. Well, don’t just stand there; they’re probably waiting for you.”

Inside, a rumpled man in a leisure suit was fumbling with an electric guitar. On the turntable, a vinyl LP was playing “Twenty-five or Six to Four.” The man was attempting to play along but only managing to twang every fifth note on the speedy solo. The students their wind instruments on their knees, were growing a bit restless.

The man turned off the record player. “You get the idea,” he said. He looked helplessly at Vice Principal Bryant, who stood in the back of the band room, her face in her hands. “Of course, if our clinician were able to make it, I’m sure they would have been able to show you some appropriate licks …”

The man caught sight of the five crewmen who shuffled in through the side door. Victoria happened to look up at the same time.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Richards, these must be our visiting artists—Ernie’s friends.”

“Yes, said Neal H. Richards, the rumpled man, eager to remove the guitar strap from around his neck. “I was just auditioning some Chicago Transit Authority for our students. But before we proceed to marching band, one of you would like to demonstrate a few riffs…?” He looked with pleading eyes, hoping that one of the five would rescue him.

“Do you know anything about Ancient Earth stringed musical instruments?” whispered Dallas to Munro.

“Is that what that was—music?” said Munro.

Richards proffered the instrument hopefully.

“Oh, what the hell,” said Munro. “I’m in the Doman—I’ll give it a try.”

Munro stepped down to the well of the concentric room, toward a podium where Richards stood with a guitar, and amplifier, and the record player. Munro took the instrument and placed the shoulder strap over his neck. Richards handed him a plastic pick, bowed, and stepped back.

“Now we’re really going to hear some musicianship,” he said to the students. He smiled at the vice principal.

Munro grabbed the neck of the guitar and strummed with the pick. The amplifier made a ghastly groan. Student’s covered their ears; from the hallway, Ferdinand could be heard barking.

“Perhaps you know this tune,” said Richard, placing the needle back down on the record player.

Munro listened intently to the guitar solo on the record.

“Fascinating,” he said. “A mathematical sequence of varying pitch and tempo, with anomalous progression and development.”

“Improvisation,” said Richards.

“Play it again,” said Munro.

Richards moved the arm of the record player back on the track.

This time, Munro placed his fingers on the frets. Tentatively picking at first, he found the key and a few of the correct notes. “I see,” he said. His fingers moved faster and faster.

Ernie came in through the side door and stood next to Victoria. “How’s it going so far?”

Victoria was going to explain how the morning had gotten off to a rocky start, but she along with everyone else was in rapt attention to Munro’s performance.

His fingers were now moving like lightning; not only was he mimicking the record precisely, he was expanding on phrases and themes and improvising his own solo.

Richards turned off the record player; Munro kept playing. Richards adjusted the amp so that it was loud but not deafening. The Domain crewmember, lost in the progression of his fingers over the strings, was unaware of his audience.

Finally, he stopped, muttering, “Fascinating. A fascinating device indeed. What do you call it?”

“A Stratocaster,” said Neal Richards.

The band room erupted in applause.

“Now that’s what I call a master class,” said Victoria. “Ernie, where on Earth did you find these artists at the last minute?”