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indeed happen. And if the truth turns out to be so unbelievable that I am labeled a heretic, then so be it.
    After all, I am in good company: Darwin was a heretic; and Galileo before him; 400 years ago, Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake because he insisted that other worlds besides our own existed.
    Like Bruno, I will be dead long before humanity’s bitter end arrives. Here lies Julius Gabriel, the victim of a diseased heart. My physician urges me to his care, warning me the organ is but a ticking time bomb set to detonate at any moment. Let it explode, I say. The worthless organ has only given me grief since it broke eleven years ago after the departure of my dearly beloved.
     
    These are my memoirs, an accounting of a journey that began some 32 years ago. My purpose in summarizing this information is twofold. First, the nature of the research is so controversial and its ramifications so terrifying that I realize now that the scientific community will do everything in its power to suffocate, stifle, and deny the truth about man’s destiny. Last, I know there are individuals among the populace who, like my own son, would prefer to fight rather than sit idly by as the end approaches. To you, my “warriors of salvation,” I leave this journal, thereby passing the baton of hope. Decades of toil and misery are hidden within these pages—this slice of man’s history, extracted from eons of limestone. The fate of our species now rests in my son’s hands—and perhaps yours. At the very least, you’ll no longer be part of the majority Michael calls the “innocent ignorant.” Pray that men like my son can resolve the ancient Mayan riddle.
    Then pray for yourselves.
    It is said that fear of death is worse than death itself. I believe that witnessing the death of a loved one is worse still. To have experienced my soulmate’s life slip away before my eyes, to have felt her body turn cold in my arms—this is too much despair for one heart to handle. At times, I am actually grateful to be dying for I cannot begin to imagine the anguish of witnessing an entire population suffer amidst the planetary holocaust to come.
    For those of you who scoff at my words, be forewarned: The day of reckoning is fast approaching, and ignorance of the event will do nothing to change the outcome.
     
    Today, I sit backstage at Harvard, organizing these excerpts as I await my turn at the dais. So much rides on my speech, so many lives. My greatest concern is that the egos of my colleagues may be too large to allow them to listen to my findings with an open mind. If given a chance to present the facts, I know that I can appeal to them as scientists. If ridiculed, then I fear all is lost.
    Fear. I have no doubt as to the motivational effect the emotion has on me now, yet it was not fear that started me on my journey on that fateful day in May of 1969, but the desire to seek fame and fortune. I was young and immortal back then, still full of piss and vinegar, having just received my doctorate degree with honors from Cambridge University. While the rest of my peers were busy protesting the war in Vietnam, making love, and fighting for equality, I set out with my father’s inheritance, accompanied by two fellow archaeologists and companions, my (former) best friend, Pierre Borgia, and the ravishing Maria Rosen. Our goal—to unravel the great mystery surrounding the Mayan calendar and its 2,500-year-old prophecy of doom.
    Never heard of the Mayan calendar’s prophecy? I’m not surprised. These days, who has time to concern themselves with an oracle of death originating from some ancient Central American civilization?
    Eleven years from now, when you and your loved ones are writhing on the ground, gasping for your last breath, your lives flashing before your eyes—you may well wish you had made the time.
    I’ll even give you the date of your death: December 21, of the year 2012.
    There—you’ve been officially warned. Now you can act, or