Andie lay in an ice cavern on the moon. She shivered and probed around her, searching for something warm. A blanket would be nice. A warm body, even better. But there was nothing but ice and rock and utter darkness. No oxygen. She tried to suck in some air, but it was doing her as much good as breathing water. Her temple throbbed as if a horde of drunken hooligans got ahold of some fireworks and put on a pyrotechnic extravaganza in her skull.

A blue light shone at the end of the cavern. It had to be Oliver. She tried to call his name, but no sound came from her dry throat. Maybe he knew she was there. But the light hung in place like a warning beacon, and Andie knew it would not come to her. She had to get there on her own. The light crackled and hissed and moved toward her at last. But instead of Oliver, Talia's horrible, beautiful face materialized and hung bodiless in the blue light, cackling like a cartoon crone.

Just as Andie's lungs were about to burst, she woke in the dark, her head buried under a king-sized pillow.

She threw it off and gasped. Sweet oxygen filled her lungs. She calmed as she realized, with great relief, the whole moon thing had been a dream. She was still on terra firma. And speaking of firm, Andie reached for him but found only an Oliver-sized depression in the mattress. The duvet lay on the floor, a rumpled pile of encapsulated down. Andie found a folded piece of paper on his pillow with her name written in beautiful curved script. She unfolded the paper.

Dear Andromeda, I will return shortly. I had to take care of Talia. Please wait for me in bed. There are a few things I need to explain, and I'd like to give you the house tour in person. Oliver.

What? No. He'd made the most amazing inhumanly awesome love to Andie half the night, and the moment she'd fallen asleep, he left to "take care" of his "fiancé."

Okay, you're being irrational, Andie reminded herself. He has no interest in Talia. He only wants to make sure she is properly punished and confined. He wants to keep me safe.

But she could not reason away her jealousy, especially with Talia's cackle so fresh in her subconscious. As long as Oliver was in Talia's clutches, he might choose her. The woman had trained her entire life only to please Oliver. Maybe he would realize Talia would make him happier than Andie ever could. He might come to his senses and leave Andie cold and alone. Wait, that's exactly what he has done. And where was Bad Andie? Probably doing the cerebral equivalent of smoking cigarettes and casting smug glances. An image of Andie in a black bra, lying in bed smoking a cigarette (yuk) came to mind.

"Stop that," Andie said.

"I know you love it. I watched you last night," Bad Andie said.

"Go away. I need to think."

"Obsess, you mean. About stupid things, like Talia. Can you honestly believe after last night that she is anything to him?"

Bad Andie played images of the previous night like a porn movie in Andie's head. Oliver's taut, muscled body sliding over hers. The cinnamon scent of him. His mouth demanding, stroking, igniting her into throes of ecstasy.

"All right," said Andie, all of this making Oliver's absence even more upsetting. Even though her long-neglected nether regions were sore from the sudden onslaught of activity, they were more than ready for more 'activity.' "You have a point."

"Thank you. I don't know why I put up with this. Someday you'll appreciate me."

"Doubtful."

An excruciating pain pierced her temple, putting an end to her internal squabble. Andie pressed on the spot and jerked away from an electric shock. Her fingertips tingled and sparked with the same blue light that had enveloped them during their cosmic lovemaking.

Holy Toledo.

What was going on? Was the electric blue light contagious? Maybe she was still asleep. She needed the light of day to chase the dream back to its subconscious lair. Where was the light switch? Oh, right. Aliens don't have normal switches—too prosaic. They had thought control stuff. Damn. But she needed light. The room brightened. The pain in her temple eased.

She sat, her brain protesting this move by thrashing around inside her skull. She noticed a tiny metal object, like a single square of glitter, stuck to her fingertip atop a droplet of blood. The microchip. It had to be. She could barely contain her joy.

She was free. But didn't Oliver say if it came out she would turn into a mental vegetable? Her brain felt the same as before. She quickly solved her favorite polynomial using the quadratic equation. Fully functional brain. She flicked the microchip off her finger, and it landed in a forest of shag carpeting. She sucked the blood off her finger. It tasted normal—like iron, copper, and salt, but it smelled like cinnamon.

This meant the end to her Wormholing career. No spur-of-the-moment sojourns to Egyptian pyramids or the African savannah or the Antarctic. Okay, so Andie hated the cold, but still—Kayaking with seals. Gawking at penguins. Seeing the glaciers before they melted. Maybe she could put the thing back in when she wanted to travel. Andie poked around the shag and found it. She wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper from Oliver's cavernous bathroom, which, by the way, was still humid from a recent shower.

Donning the Planet B t-shirt along with Oliver's sweatpants, she placed the microchip in the pocket. Time to explore Oliver's house.

She blundered her way out of the bedroom. The air smelled like a cabin in the woods where kids might come in from the snow to bury their tiny button noses in hot mugs of apple cider. It was a combination of pine and cinnamon, wood smoke, and wet boots. She swept her hands along the wall, searching for a light switch. Nothing. Damn it.

Her fingertips buzzed and sparked, and the mysterious orbs on a Christmas tree about thirty feet ahead illuminated. Andie gasped as she almost tripped over a tiny babbling stream that separated the hallway from the next "room."

The mere scale of the place was enough to send a mentally healthy human being for a good long stay in padded accommodations with daily psychotropic cocktails. Okay, maybe this was why he wanted to give her the tour himself. It was a veritable forest, replete with the same orange shag carpet that was in the bedroom, and blurred boundaries between flora and furniture.

In the pale light, it resembled a magical land like Oz or Narnia or somewhere Oompah Loompahs might go on a summer holiday. Miniature hammerhead sharks darted around the stream in about-face maneuvers like well-drilled soldiers. Boulders were scattered here and there in little conversational groupings. Christmas trees, like the one in the bedroom, dotted the interior landscape—a hammock strung between the two in the far corner next to the French doors. Each tree held at least thirty of those strange balls of light. Fireflies darted in the forest, flashing and flirting with their bioluminescence.

She heard a noise. Oh, no. Was Oliver back? Why should she feel guilty? He left her here alone. Andie followed the sound to its source—a waterfall in what must have been the kitchen. Of course, there was a waterfall in the kitchen. All the posh aliens had waterfalls, right?

The refrigerator looked like an igloo. But there was a pretty normal counter with a flat-screen television and, best of all, a Nespresso coffee maker, which, in a matter of moments she had rumbling into action.

She sipped her espresso and switched on the TV.

Oliver must have some sort of weird cable or satellite connection because it was tuned to a show she'd never heard of called As the Earth Turns.

After rolling the introductory screen credits to a bubbly musical opening reminiscent of The Brady Bunch theme song, the camera moved in from outer space to a silvery moon, to a vast ocean, sandy beach, and settled on a hot tub the size of a small lake where Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley played tug-o-war with a gleaming gold crown. The strains of a haunting violin provided a dramatic touch. The superstars were idealized versions of the flawed humans they had become when they died. Both were in excellent physical condition: Michael—handsome with smooth, robust skin and features, absent the ravages of plastic surgery and skin disorders. Elvis—slim and tanned, a loose lock of dark hair falling into his eye, looking every bit the fifties' heartthrob. While the camera remained in a tight shot of the two singing legends, the voices of the others in the hot tub off-camera hooted and hollered and egged on the embroiled duo.

"No. I'm The King," said Elvis.

"Why can't we both be kings?" whispered Michael.

"There can only be one king. You know that. Give me the crown. You can be Prince."

The camera shifted to a spot across the hot tub where Prince sat on the salmon flagstone coping, dangling his feet in the water, while two gorgeous soap opera actresses soaped his back and tunelessly sang Italian arias. Prince frowned.

"There already is a Prince," said Michael. "Why can't you let it go, man?"

"You know why," said Elvis, who had almost wrested the crown from his short-lived son-in-law.

"I don't," insisted Michael, who gave the crown a good tug of his own.

"You married my daughter to try to take my crown. That's why."

"I loved her."

"You loved the media attention," said Elvis. "I despise you. You will never wear my crown."

"Dad, Michael," Lisa Marie stood next to the hot tub, hands planted on her hips, her famous blue eyes flaming with anger. "Can you two just stop? Look what I have." Lisa Marie snapped her fingers and a gaggle of gorgeous human specimens came up behind her carrying an identical crown on a red satin gold-tasseled pillow. "You're both kings to me."

Elvis snagged the original, and Lisa Marie handed the other to Michael. Both men donned their crowns and slipped happily into the warm water, toasting one another with pink cocktails adorned with tiny umbrellas.

The action moved to an open-aired cabana with a long wooden trestle table loaded with every fattening food known to man. There were fried sticks of butter, fried chicken, French fries, onion rings, burgers the size of truck tires, rounds of hot fresh baked bread, slabs of butter, mountains of macaroni and cheese, and an entire side table devoted to sin—jelly-filled doughnuts, French crullers, chocolate cake, and deep-fried Twinkies and more. Andie's stomach grumbled. A bevy of famous stick-thin supermodels assembled around the table, gossiping about whichever skinny supermodels were not there and tucking into the food with wild abandon.

"Pass the mayo," Kate Moss said, mouth full.

"Here you go," said Naomi Campbell with a smile.

What? Kate Moss eating? Naomi Campbell smiling? What kind of abomination was this?

Janice Dickinson walked up to the group and squeezed herself between Twiggy and Cindy Crawford. The chatter ended abruptly, and everyone glared venomously at Janice. "Oh, come on, guys. I was the first supermodel." One woman threw a steaming plate of macaroni and cheese at Janice, who fired back a volley of a half dozen jelly doughnuts in rapid succession. Food flew everywhere, and soon the beauties wore their feast.

Andie gulped her espresso and peered around the counter for something stronger, like scotch or rubbing alcohol. Whatever was going on, Andie knew instinctively that she wasn't meant to see any of this. What did it mean? Were these real celebrities or actors playing them? How could they be real? They were all young and healthy and sexy as hell, and live(d) in different decades. What would Oliver do if he knew she knew about the show? This had to be the secret they were all keeping from her.

The final credits rolled, followed by a promo for an upcoming episode. A photo of Sterling from the "Sterling Champagne Tarnished at 26" Star Enquirer cover stared back at her on the flat-screen. Andie's cup slipped through her fingers and crashed to the floor. Footsteps hurried from the next room. Andie froze. Oh, no, she thought, please not now. Not Him.

"Andromeda, are you all right?" said Him.