Saturday had started off overcast and dreary. I had given up hope that the cloud cover would burn off by midday. I checked my watch. It was ten minutes after twelve. I twisted around on the bench, scanning the pavilion across from the Alamo. No sign of Nora. Odd. She seemed the sort of person to take a scheduled appointment very seriously.

I avoided eye contact with the young black man in wireframe rose-tinted glasses and sporting a fez—the man who was operating the falafel stand over beside the gazebo. I met him Wednesday night at a secret meeting Fran had taken me to. The All-Seeing Eye Society. A group which, it seemed, I too now belonged to. It was a group devoted to uncovering the meaning behind the Changes, be they mystical, scientific, or something beyond the “mind of mere mortals”—which is how many of them spoke. Each member I met seemed to have his or her own theory. The falafel vendor was no exception. What was his name? Napoleon? Nebuchadnezzar? Something grand and historical. No doubt an alias. Anyway, he had postulated that the Changes was connected to the terraforming technology of an alien race to make Earth more favorable to their needs. The human race—the man with the fez had ominously intoned—was now living on borrowed time, as the alien colonizing ships were obviously on their way.

“They’ll be here soon enough,” he had told me last night while I was helping myself to butter cookies and fruit punch at the back of the auditorium. “That’s why we need to hone our ninja skills!” I had politely given him a donation after he pressed into my hands his self-published pamphlet, The Role of Nunchaku and the Tiger Pit in Earth’s Final Skirmish!

When I rounded the gazebo earlier today, I noticed him. But before I could utter a greeting, Napoleon—or was it Leopold?—had subtly touched his lips with a finger and winked. Of course. We were members of a secret society. I nodded and smiled, and I continued further down to select a bench as I waited on Nora.

###

Fran was one of those types who collected people, and usually interesting ones at that. He curated his circle of associates and friends. This made him well-suited as the head of the All Seeing Eye Society—though he was quick to correct me that the ASES was guided by a rotating advisory committee comprised of members.

“These days I prefer to maintain a low profile,” he explained. “You can get more done through surreptitiousness and subtlety. Mostly I work on outreach. Finding like-minded individuals, such as yourself.”

That was not only how he increased the ranks of ASES membership, but also how he filled the rooms at the Omega Hotel. When a vacancy came up—presumably because one of his “sad bachelors” had regained the trust of a formerly dubious spouse—Fran would scour the city, in search of a newly jilted and dejected gent wandering with socks, underwear, and a toothbrush clutched in a wrinkled paper sack. “I’m a quick study on the mettle of a man’s character,” Fran insisted. “Even with a hanged head and a tucked tail. If he meets my criteria, I steer him to the Omega.”

That was what he told me on my first night in town. I did my best to explain that I had not been tossed to the curb by an angry woman.

He shrugged.

“It is of no importance,” he said as we rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the two story building on a seedy street. The building ran the entire block. The brick had been painted, but decades of filth obscured the color.

“Fifteen rooms,” Fran said. “Small, but serviceable.”

Something glinting caught my eye. Something that I took to be a telecommunication satellite was in the middle of the street. I wasn’t sure if it was modern art or some remnant of the Changes. Because Fran made no mention of it, neither did I.

We walked to a recessed entranceway. Overhead hung a small white sign with black lettering. The symbol for the Greek letter, Omega, followed by Hotel. Beside it, slow pulsing neon tubes read: No Vacancies.

“Don’t let the sign fool you,” Fran said as we stepped inside. “We’re very selective here.”

“Low profile.”

“Yep,” Fran said with a grin. “You get it.”

A series of flickering fluorescent tubes the color of those yellow bug lights lit our way up the stairs. The stale air held an assertive though not quite overwhelming aroma of roach bait.

We emerged into a dim and dingy—but in a cozy way—lobby with several sofas and easy chairs facing a TV set. At the far end of the room was a wooden counter with an adding machine, thick ledger book, and a gleaming and curved nickel-plated call bell.

A man with worn jeans, bedroom slippers, and a dark paisley dressing gown released a long delicate snore from where he lounged in a vinyl upholstered chair. His head listed to the side. His bushy eyebrows reached up to the edge of a knit cap.

Fran pointed to the corridor past the check-in desk. We made no sound on the deep carpet, but still the man in the chair ceased his snoring. His eyes fluttered open.

“What’s this?” he asked in a rasping voice.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” Fran said quietly, pulling me along down the corridor.

Halfway to the end, we stopped at a door marked with the brass number eight.

Fran opened the door and turned on the light.

I walked into a cramped room with a narrow bed near a window. A plywood table and a chair with tarnished metal legs were the only other pieces of furniture. A TV was bolted to the wall. Fran opened the door to the bathroom for me to inspect. Toilet and sink.

“New guest?” the man with the wild eyebrows asked from the hallway. He leaned into the room eyeing me with curiosity.

“That’s the hope, Brad,” Fran told him,

Idly I picked the TV remote off the table where it sat beside a scorched hotplate. I aimed the remote at the television set and pushed a button.

As the set glowed to life, I began pushing a button labeled with an up arrow. I cycled through dead channel after dead channel. Nothing but white snow and white noise.

“What’s he doing?” Brad asked Fran.

Fran ignored Brad and watched me with amusement.

A door across the hallway opened and a large, solid man wearing blue pajamas patterned with hundreds of teddy bears walked in to join us.

“I believe tonight’s broadcast has come and gone,” he said in a strong yet jovial voice.

I clicked once more and the sound of static ceased. There was an image on the screen. A simple slate. No logo, no station ID, just text that explained the time and days of the week when Serpientes y Escaleras aired.

“So, you folks only have one channel?” I asked. “A single channel that broadcasts only one show? Two and a half hours of programming per week?”

Sounded like such a waste. Another product of the Changes, no doubt.

“Makes us appreciate it all the more,” the large man said. “I’m Tomás Castillo.”

He reached out to shake my hand.

“Morris Fisher,” I said.

He took a seat on the bed. Fran sat in the chair.

I turned off the TV and returned the remote to the table. I leaned against the wall near the window.

“I saw a bit of it earlier,” I said. “Some sort of game show, right?”

Tomás’ eyes widen with excitement.

“You’ve not seen it before? It’s so much more than a game show.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, still standing in the doorway. “They also have commercials. Aunt Ginny’s Delicately Caustic Laundry Soap. And that Mongolian barbacoa place on Zarzamora.”

Tomás did not take his eyes off me as he stood, placed firm hands on Brad’s shoulders, and maneuvered the man into the hall as if putting the cat out. He closed the door and sat back on the bed.

“Serpientes y Escaleras,” Tomás said with a wry smile, “is an unflinching examination of morality. Followed by a final judgment. Destiny made manifest, one might say.”

“Well, I did see earlier how seriously people take it,” I said. “But it’s just a game show. I mean, I used to work in the industry. Those shows, they’re all scripted.”

“Ah, but this one is different,” Tomás said. “The basic conceit. It’s serious business, don’t you agree? The weighing of the human soul? And if you squirm at that word soul, we can say character.”

“You’ll scare him off,” Fran said to Tomás. Fran turned to look at me. “Somewhere between Tomás’ uncritical acceptance and your pragmatic skepticism, there is something that needs closer examination.”

“Closer examination? Of a game show?” I wasn’t sure if they were setting me up for a joke. I looked at Tomás. “So, you believe the winner is sent off to Paradise?”

“I don’t know about that,” Tomás said. “But the contestants are sent somewhere.”

I saw no point in arguing. Besides, I was getting tired.

“Well, I won’t deny that the Changes left some puzzling things behind when the wold finally decided to settle down. Who’s to say the world of crass TV entertain hasn’t changed as well. I’ve been away from such things for a few years.”

Tomás nodded.

“I thought as much,” he said. “And you’ve seen some of those puzzling things?” He held up his hand and gestured vaguely. “Out there? In the world beyond our city?”

I shrugged.

“He’s come to us from a long journey,” Fran told Tomás. “An adventurer.”

I felt a need to clarify things. Adventurer sometimes had negative connotations. But before I could speak, Tomás leaned forward.

“A journey? Do you have a car? Hardly anyone I know has one of those anymore.”

“I came here on the train,” I told him.

Tomás sat back and crossed his legs. He regarded me with an expression of displeasure. One of his toes poked out from an argyle sock.

“They only let the crème de la crème on their precious train,” he said as an accusation.

Fran seemed somewhat suspicious as well, and I was beginning to fear I might lose my bed for the night.

“You didn’t tell me you came here on that train,” Fran said. “Just that you passed by the train station.”

“I stowed away in the engine compartment,” I explained.

“You what?” Tomás asked.

He blinked his eyes and looked over at Fran.

Both men began laughing so loudly that someone in the next room banged on the wall.

“I like you,” Tomás said, his voice booming with warmth. He turned to Fran. “Have you signed this man up yet for membership?”

“My intention all along,” Fran said. He removed a small metal case that look appropriate for holding mints. “And getting him a room, of course.”

Fran removed a slip of pasteboard the size of a business card from the case and walked over to me. He placed it on the bedside table. He handed me a fountain pen.

“Just sign your name on the back,” he said. “You’ll be a full-fledged member.”

The white card had a picture of a disembodied eyeball from which sprouted what looked like the wings of a goose, opened in flight. It hung in the air surrounded by clouds. Above were the letters A S E S. And below, in further explanation: The All Seeing Eye Society.

I turned it over. Beneath where it read Member in Good Standing was a line for me to sign my name. I did so and returned Fran’s pen.

“We meet once a week,” Tomás said standing. He slapping me on the back. “You’re one of us, now. I hope to see you Wednesday night. Fran will tell you the location.” And he left the room.

“A hundred and fifty a week,” Fran said. When he saw my confusion, he added, “Not for this,” as he tapped at my membership card I still held in my hand. “No dues, ever, for the Society. I meant the rent for the room. That is, if you’re interested.”

I was. I paid him for a month.

“I’ll go fetch you your key,” Fran said with a wide grin. He stood and patted me on the back. “Welcome home!”

When he left the room, I looked around. I would unplug that hotplate before I went to sleep—I didn’t trust the wiring. But it would do.

###

“Oh, goodness, I am so so sorry,” Nora said, plopping down on the bench beside me. “I absolutely hate to run late.”

“That’s fine.”

“Hey, that’s it, isn’t it?” She pointed to the Alamo. “It’s so small!”

“I guess you’ve not been exploring the city much, have you?”

“You’re not going to believe it, but I got a job!”

“That was fast.”

I wondered what sort of job she was doing where she was allowed to wear those coveralls of hers. Then he realized they weren’t the same dingy gray coveralls I’d seen when we met in Great Falls. These were olive in color, with sharp creases along the sleeves.

“Tuesday I was talking to this guy in a coffee shop. When he learned I was the chief technician for the MagLev train depot in Great Falls, he offered me the job. On the spot! To be his assistant. He’s the superintendent of elevator services of the La Vida Tower. It’s that big building right behind you. See it?”

I nodded. That was a very odd coincidence. Everything in my life lately seemed to revolve around that building.

“Chief technician?” I asked.

“What?”

“You were Chief Technician back home?”

“Sure. Why not? Ice chopper and hose monkey doesn’t sound so glamorous. A girl’s gotta embellish the CV at times.”

“So, do you have elevator experience?”

“What’s to know?” She shrugged. “They’re elevators. They go up, they go down. Besides, I’m getting on-the-job-training for the other stuff.”

“Other stuff? Other than up and down? You mean, like sideways?”

“You’re a riot. I’m talking serious stuff. The backup generators. Emergency call buttons. Climate control modules. I was being humble. There’s a lot to learn when you’re assistant to the superintendent of elevator services of the La Vida Tower.”

“I guess so.”

“And I have an apartment in the basement.”

“Good for you.”

“Probably I shouldn’t have told you all that.” She paused to glance around the plaza. “I did have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Some sensitive stuff going on in that building. Don’t know what all. Not yet. There is some TV show up at the top. Celebrities like their privacy, I guess. How about you?”

“Me?”

“Your adventures in the big city.”

“Oh, well, I have a hotel room over near the courthouse. Met a group of freethinkers—“

“A what?”

“A bunch of cranks. You know, crackpots. Fruitcakes.”

“Oh, I do. They’re the best.”

“And I also learned an old friend of mine lives here in town.” I turned to catch sight of La Vida Tower. “I think I’ll look him up.”

“Look at us!” Nora said, beaming. “Landing on our feet in a strange city. Just like in Of Mice and Men.”

“What?”

“The Steinbeck novel.”

“I know Of Mice and Men.” I looked at her to see if she was pulling my leg. “But I’m not seeing any similarities.”

“You remember. When Jorge and Jenny escape the Dust Bowl by traveling to Bermuda? They meet those pirates at the dog track? Just like us. Here. In front of the Alamo.”

“Did you by chance read that book after the Changes?”

Nora ignored me as she dug through her pockets. She pulled out a wad of crumpled dollar bills.

“Look! I got an advance on my first week. Let me buy you lunch.”

I allowed her to lead me to the falafel stand by the gazebo.

“How’s the day treating you, strangers?” the vendor asked. He repeated his knowing wink at me. “You folks new to town?”

“My goodness, no,” Nora said with a titter. “Alamo City born and bred, my colleague and I. We’re arborists over at the botanical gardens.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or roll my eyes. But I did like her playful side.

“Well, you’re new to me,” the vendor said, again with that wink to me. “My name’s Charlemagne DeWinter, purveyor of the choicest street grub this side of the Aegean, wherever that might be these days.”

Of course. That was it. Not Napoleon. Charlemagne.