Love Story: In The Web of Life

Love Story:

In The Web Of Life

By Ken Renshaw

****

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011, Ken Renshaw

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You
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This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, or locales or persons , living or dead is entirely
coincidental.

****

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my
appreciation to Dr. J.K. Parker for her reviews, editing and
encouragement. I am indebted to Dr. R. Targ and Dr. E. Rauscher
developed the 8-space theory that provided the scientific basis for
this book. Darlene Bowe's extensive and patient additions to story
style were welcomed. David Strom contributions to the story
structure were valued. Gayle Oksen's gave me encouragement with her
review when needed most. I thank my fellow writers, and
Paula
Cizmar
at
Rough Writers for their support and comments. Kelly Wade's careful
final editing gave me the confidence to publish.

DEDICATION

To

Joycee

my

Muse

****

Earlier Explorations By

Ken Renshaw

Science,
Remote Viewing and ESP

The
Secret Of Your Life Script

Penelope Bat: Her Odyssey With the Spirits of
Nature

Some Of Ken's Essays

Why
Quantum Entanglement Works

Describing
Acupuncture Energy Flows With Electromagnetics

****

Table of Contents

Quotation

Chapter One
WANDERING IN THE
DESERT

Chapter Two
BEING A LAWYER

Chapter Three
A NEW BEGINNING

Chapter
Four
THE WAVE

Chapter Five
ROCKY BUTTE

Chapter Six
BACK IN LA

Chapter Seven
DAVID UNDERSTANDS

Chapter Eight
THE TRIAL

Chapter Nine
THE QUIET TIME

Appendix:
CANDICE'S EIGHT-DIMENSIONAL
MOVIE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

****

Quotation

Act 1, Scene 5

****

Things were not going according to plan. On
this fine, spring soaring day, I had planned a simple
sailplane-flying task. I would fly forty miles across the Mojave
Desert from CrystalAire airport and return. Now, I was struggling
on my return trip. I was over Rosamond Dry Lake, and all the
thermals had vanished. I was down to a thousand feet, flying in two
hundred foot circles in weak lift. The gravity force from flying in
a forty-five degree bank pushed me down in my seat. I was sweating.
The control stick was wet in my hand. I opened the cabin vent. The
lift petered out. I widened my circles to hunt for other lift. I
felt my right wing nudged up. I turned in that direction to search
for a weak thermal. No such luck.

I slowly lost altitude. My attention turned to
landing on Rosamond Dry Lake, an expanse of dry silt about five
miles wide and five miles long. I would land near the western
shore, within a couple of miles, walking distance, of a highway,
near scrub brush, which I could tie my sailplane to if I had to
abandon it and walk.

I had landed away from the airport before. A
sailplane pilot always has a potential landing spot in mind,
another airport, a dry lake, or, sometimes, a farmer's field where
you might be greeted with a pitcher of lemonade, a beer, or a
shotgun depending on who lived there. Today, there would be only
dry silt greeting me.

I put down my landing gear, set the flaps,
glided down to about ten feet above the lake, and stretched my
glide until I approached the shore. I opened the drive brakes and
landed, stopping about a hundred feet from the border of lake. I
opened the canopy, took a big breath of the eighty-degree desert
and sat, disgusted with my planning. I worried the desert heat or
dryness had done something to my vision. I had seen intense lashes
of light, appearing first in my instruments dials, then on the
canopy and along the wings. I was alarmed. Pilots can't have their
eyes playing tricks on them.

There are only two real moving parts in a
sailplane, the mind of the pilot and his eyes. The mind finds
thermals and feels the joy of climbing at five hundred or,
sometimes, a thousand feet per minute and then flying at a hundred
miles per hour to the next thermal, ten or twenty miles away. The
eyes have to see where to find that thermal.

I picked up my radio microphone and called,
"CrystalAire this is King Romeo."

No answer! Out of radio range! Shit!

I undid my shoulder harness and parachute,
climbed out of the sailplane, took a big swig out of my water
bottle, and started the hot, sweaty labor of pushing the sailplane
over the dry silt of the lake to a clear area at the shore. I sat
in the shade of the wing, panted and drank more water. As my tongue
passed over my lips, I tasted the salt from the sweat of the
day.

I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and
tried again.

"CrystalAire this is King Romeo."

No answer!

"Any pilot, requesting a relay."

No answer. Damn!

I would have to walk to where there is cell
phone coverage. Shit!

If it had been the middle of summer, with a
temperature of over a hundred degrees, walking would wait until the
cool of the evening. Today, with the temperature in the eighties,
it would be ok to walk if I drank lots of water.

I reached behind into the compartment behind
the cockpit, grabbed my land–out pack, and pulled out an energy bar
and a can of Gatorade. I picked up the microphone from the cockpit
and tried again.

"CrystalAire this is King Romeo."

Disappointing silence.

"Any pilot, requesting a relay."

Damnable quiet.

Feeling desperate, I took out my cell phone. It
read, "No service."

While cursing my luck, I shouldered the pack
and began walking toward the highway to find cell phone
coverage.

It hadn't been a good day. I had left this
morning with an unspoken disagreement with my new lady friend,
Tina.

I was getting ready to leave my mobile home,
next to the end CrystalAire airport runway, a short walk from where
I kept my sailplane. I was saying goodbye to Tina, who is about
twenty-five years old, five feet four, with olive skin, reddish
brown hair, and a modestly proportioned figure. She is four inches
shorter than me. She doesn't make me feel short. I really like her,
except for her irritating lapses into airy-fairy New Age
thinking.

"I should be back in early afternoon, about
four at the latest. I have planned an easy practice flight." I told
her.

She studied me with that strange stare in her
big light blue eyes and said, "Maybe not. I'll fix a dinner that we
can eat any time if you get back late. We will need beer. There are
only two cans in the fridge. Is there a store at the country club
center?"

Becoming irritated, I replied, "My mobile is on
the undesirable periphery of the country club, next to the airport,
considered 'the other side if the tracks,' too close to the runway,
by those stuffy, mostly retired membership that live in condos on
the golf course. They are not my kind of people; I have never
joined the club. Use my Porsche to go to that gas station down on
the main highway."

"OK," she beamed. "Have fun flying."

I noticed I was stiff as she gave me a kiss
goodbye.

After about a quarter mile trek across the
desert, I saw a hill topped by a big boulder. After climbing to the
top of the boulder, I took out my cell phone and looked. ‘Two bars!
Hooray!'

I dialed CrystalAire airport operations. Celia,
the high school girl who worked at the airport,
answered.

"Hi Celia. This is Dave Willard. I need a
retrieve from Rosamond Dry Lake."

"Hi Dave. Are you flying the plane with King
Romeo on the tail?"

"Yes, can you send a tow plane over
here?"

"The last student pilot has just started his
lesson. He will probably make four short flights. Dan can come over
to tow you back. He will be there in an hour or hour and a half.
Exactly where are you?"

I read her the GPS coordinates I had written
down before I left my sailplane.

"West end of Rosamond Dry Lake, I got it,"
acknowledged Celia.

"Since you won't be back until after five
thirty, I won't see you. The office will be closed. See you
tomorrow."

"Thanks, goodbye."

I texted Tina, "I won't be back until about
5:30. :("

I texted Tina instead of talking to her and
admitting she was right in her intuition about me getting back late
and needing beer. I didn't want to encourage her in making
prognostications about my flying ability.

As I climbed down from the boulder, I noticed
another flash of light under the boulder. ‘I'd better see my eye
doctor and get that checked out.’ I mused and started to walk back
toward the lake.

‘
The weekend had started very
well,' I thought. Tina and I were at a Black Tie reception at the
Getty Villa antiquity museum in Malibu. She looked fantastic in her
black evening dress, wearing just the right amount of make-up and
her hair in a fashionable uplift bum.

"I really want to look at the Cycladic and
Greek vase display," she had said as we had cocktails and
ate
hors d'oeuvres
in the
atrium of the Villa. She steered me to one of the side galleries,
filled with large, well lit display cases containing clay–fired
jugs, bowls and other containers. She pointed to a large jar and
said, "This is from the Cycladic civilization, about 3,000 BCE, in
the Aegean Sea. Notice the geometric carving on the jug. No figures
are carved here."