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bars. “Hey, officer,” he yelled to the uniformed man down the hall who was leaning his chair against the wall reading a newspaper. “What’s today’s date?”
    The man put down his paper. “Oh, you’re coming out of your drunk, huh? Want to know what day it is? Well, it’s Wednesday.”
    “Wednesday what?”
    The cop laughed. “That drunk, huh? Wednesday, September sixth.” He lifted up his paper. “Go back to sleep, citizen.”
    “One more thing,” Rockson asked. “Could I have a look at the paper when you’re done?”
    “Sure . . ." But the officer kept reading. He wasn’t done.
    Rockson sat on the cot for another twenty minutes before he heard the wooden chair creak. The cop sauntered up to the cell and passed the large paper through the bars. “Gulls swatted the Locusts, eleven to five,” he said.
    “Wow,” said Rockson, not knowing what the hell that meant. He tried to contain himself. He waited till the cop went back down the hall before he started looking over the paper. Sports section—it was turned to the sports section. He folded it back to page one. It was the Salt Lake Herald, price forty cents. Headline, LUMBINI PEACE TALKS ON. Date. Date! Oh, my God! September 6, 1989. A hundred and three years before Rockson had been swept up in the Kala-Ka, storm of storms.
    And the headline—Lumbini? Why, that’s the big conference center, set up in Nepal in the late 1980s. The place the nuclear powers tried to work out their differences—before the nuke war. The nuke war started on September 11, 1989. Five days from today. Rockson gasped. Unless he got the hell out of this city, he’d be dead meat in five days.
    He pounded on the cell bars, scraped his metal cup against them. He made a lot of noise but no one was in the corridor. Soon the lights dimmed. He was there for the night, and they expected him to sleep.
    But, how can you sleep when you expect to be vaporized in days?
    The music, rather than dying down, increased in volume. He tried to find some control that would turn it down, but to no avail. The sound seemed to vibrate his teeth; he could feel his ribs shaking. It was getting so loud that he couldn’t stand it. The music resonated, bouncing from the bare concrete walls. The bass was so deep that the cot started shaking on every drumbeat. The highs were distorted to an ear-piercing screech.
    “Stop!” Rockson yelled. “Stop the music!” He held his hands against his tortured ears, but the music penetrated. His eyes hurt, his head throbbed. And he slumped to the floor unconscious.
    “Had a good night’s rest, citizen?” Rockson looked up from the floor. His eyes focused upon a red uniform—a rookie was shaking him awake. “Bet you feel better now, citizen. Everything is back in its place.”
    Rockson sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What a dream,” he said. “I—thought I was out on the desert, fighting—soldiers—and then a storm came and—and—something. I can’t remember. Wow, I’ve got a splitting headache. Where am I?”
    “In the drunk tank, citizen. You really tied one on. You looked so bad that we thought you were a homeless. From Sadtown. But Murphy remembered you. He lives on your block. We ran your prints and pic through the records. And we called your wife. She’s bailed you out. Stand up, it’s time to go home, Rock.”
    Rockson stood up, aided by the rookie. He was unsteady on his feet. The pleasant music coming out of the ceiling speakers soothed him; it made him feel pleasantly comfortable. He liked it.
    “Do you know your name, citizen?”
    Rock said, “Sure, Ted Rockson.”
    The rookie laughed. “You mean Rockman—right?”
    Rockson rubbed his matted hair again. “Rockman? Yeah, Rockman. Sorry.”
    “Okay, I guess you’re presentable enough. Your wife will be in in a moment.” The rookie went out, leaving the cell door open.
    Wife? In a few minutes his question was answered when he heard a familiar voice say, “. . . and I’ll take good care