The air conditioning in the clubhouse was, as usual, churning at full blast as Vincent Huckaby strode stiffly through the dining area and up to the bar. He slid atop one of the black-leather stools that circled the oak counter. The bartender, a wiry man in a white, long-sleeved shift and black vest, put down the glass he was cleaning and approached his customer.

"Warm day already, eh, colonel?"

"Yes." Huckaby picked up a cocktail napkin and dabbed the sweat on his forehead. "Hard to believe it's only 10 o'clock-" His voice trailed off. The bartender picked up the cue that this was going to be one of the colonel's quiet mornings, and kept the communication to a minimum.

"The usual, sir?"

"Yes. Thank you, Ed."

Huckaby knew the bartender was keeping his distance. On other Thursdays, when he entered the clubhouse in a sprightlier mood, Ed would talk him up one side and down the other, asking about his round, about his club choices, about the weather. And sometimes ' sometimes ' the talk would turn to personal things. When you're a retired military officer with an 8 handicap, the guy pouring the drinks at Adobe Springs Country Club easily assumes the role of father confessor.

"Heard anything?" Ed would ask.

"No. Not a damn word," he would say.

There would be no words today, though. A crisp 18 holes on a cloudless morning in northern New Mexico had done nothing to lift the dark cloud that had followed him since he rolled out of bed and looked at the tired old man in the mirror.

More than three months now, he thought, spinning a napkin on the polished counter. How can those bastards continue to hide the truth from me?

Ed placed a tall glass in front of Huckaby. "There you go, colonel. Cheers."

"Cheers."

Huckaby picked up the glass, held it at eye level for a heartbeat, then gulped down a third of the whiskey sour. He watched Ed add the drink to his tab with one hand and reach for a ringing phone with the other.

Why can't they just tell me? I lose my only child, and they can't tell me what happened, why there was no body? "It's classified, sir." What a pantload of bull-.

"Colonel?" Huckaby surfaced from his reverie to see Ed holding out the phone receiver toward him. "It's for you."

Huckaby allowed a shade of puzzlement of pass over his face as he hesitated for two beats, then accepted the phone from Ed's hand. He hadn't been called at the country club for years. The last time it happened, he was in active service - 1996. There had been a chemical fire at the base -

He pressed the receiver to his ear.

6 6 6 6

A few minutes earlier and several hundred miles away, Sammy Stearns is fully disengaged from reality. Outside the cashier's booth of Fast Eddie's Gas & Dash, a thermometer is marching past 85 degrees. Zephyrs pushing through the southern Utah desert tango through the pump islands.

Inside the booth, Sammy is lost in a book. He's on the final chapter of "Life, the Universe and Everything," and at this moment nothing could pull him away from Douglas Adams' space romp. And for the last three hours, nothing has. Located on Highway 191 between Blanding and the Arizona border, the Gas & Dash doesn't experience much activity. Sammy Stearns has had one customer since his shift began at 7 a.m. Yesterday, his entire shift ' and his reading ' was interrupted by five drivers. All of this was fine with Sammy, a 21-year-old who had enough brain power to stay out of trouble but wasn't motivated enough to take a stab at college. So he lost himself in the Playstation catalog and comic books and star-spanning novels. The gas station job paid for more games and more books.

The sharp knock on the cashier window almost made Sammy topple out of his chair. The book fell to the floor as his body twisted and fought gravity, struggling for equilibrium. He grabbed the table in front of him, steadied himself and settled back into the chair. With a deep sigh of relief, he looked down and located the book ' then looked up.

There, on the other side of the tempered glass, was a belly button. He blinked. It was a very nice belly button. He blinked again. The belly button was at his eye level, and torso it belonged to stretched the height and half the width of the booth's window. It was a woman ' a woman with attributes he had never seen in real life, only in the comics stacked under his bed.

Her stomach was taut and hard, rolling with delicious muscles in just the right places. The sides of her body swept in to a narrow waist, then flared smoothly into long, wide hips. He could see the tops of faded jeans riding low. Sammy gaped. It was all so stunningly beautiful and -

"Green?" The voice rolled through the intercom, low and sultry. "Yes. It's a rare skin condition. Not enough sunscreen."

Sammy looked up. He couldn't see his customer's head. The view was blocked by the undersides of breasts that flowed from a wide, muscled chest to within a couple inches of the glass. Curving emerald flesh was exposed beneath a red bathing suit top barely large enough to hold it all in. The woman shifted her weight and her magnificent abdomen swam in response and her emerald globes rose and fell.

"Excuse me, but could I use your phone?"

Sammy leaned forward and to his left, then looked up. There, through the glass, was the woman's face, framed by the largest expanse of hair ' purple hair ' he had ever seen. Her full lips were pulled into a bemused smile, pressing against high cheekbones. Her eyes were hidden by wraparound shades, but Sammy would swear a bright green, dancing glow was coming from behind the lenses. Her dark eyebrows were arched with growing impatience.

"Shuh-sure," Sammy squeaked, stumbling out of his chair. He went to the booth's door and fumbled with the lock. He pushed on the door handle and was greeted by a blast of heat and the sight of a woman whose physique blew away the pint-size, pixilated heroines or villainesses in his video games. She was very much a woman and very much a powerhouse, with thick, curving shoulders and full, ferocious biceps and thick, interweaving sinew across her forearms.

Sammy was frozen in place. It took supreme will to make his lips move. "Yuh-you're-um-you're-."

"Real? Oh, yeah, that I am," she said, hands resting easily on the sweep of her hips. "And I really need to make that phone call. So - may I?"

"Uhhhhh - yuh."

"Thank you!" Emerald sparks flew from behind the glasses as she unleashed a shimmering smile. Ducking her head inside the booth, she reached over to a side table and picked up the phone. She put a slender finger on the keypad, then hesitated.

"I could use some privacy, um -"

"Suh-Sammy." He was goggle-eyed, swaying back and forth, lost in this living vision like no book had ever done.

"Sammy. If you don't mind?"

"Oh-oh-OK. OK!" He backed away toward the farthest pump island, never taking his eyes off her.

She smiled, then began to punch out a number.

6 6 6 6

"Hello?"

"Col. Huckaby?"

The colonel's face, already flushed from the day's round, grew redder. "Who is this?" he growled.

"I'm - I mean, I can't tell you that." The voice, obviously that of a mature woman, seemed to the struggling for words. "Colonel, there's no delicate way to put this, so - your daughter is alive."

The receiver nearly slipped out of Huckaby's hand. In a heartbeat, though, the old soldier regained his composure ' and his impatience. "Who - is - this?" he hissed.

"Be at the old bridge off Yucca Avenue at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. I can tell you everything then. And colonel ' make sure you're not followed, because if you don't take precautions, you will be."

Huckaby closed his eyes and hunched over on the barstool, cradling the receiver in both hands. "Let me talk to my daughter. I can't believe you until I do, you know that."

A silence on the other end of the line stretched for several seconds. When the woman's voice returned, it was strained with emotion. "You - you can't talk to her, colonel. I'm very sorry. But - but she misses you. And - she hopes you're still passing the open windows."

Ed the bartender, who had discreetly turned away from the colonel and moved to the other side of the bar, nearly dropped a shot glass as the phone receiver clattered against the oak counter. He spun around and saw Huckaby, pale as a ghost, eyes glazed, mouth moving silently.

"Colonel?" said Ed, moving toward him. "You OK?"

Huckaby turned to the bartender, looking at him but right through him. "Passing the open - my god." He slid off the barstool, pulled $10 out of his wallet and dropped it on the counter, turned and strode out of the clubhouse.

6 6 6 6

At 8:04 a.m. the next morning, Vincent Huckaby drove his Lincoln Continental to the local Ralph's supermarket, just four blocks from his home. During the drive to the store, he had noted the black Ford in the rear-view mirror. He was being followed. The Ford stopped in the east corner of the lot. Huckaby, making sure never to look in that car's direction, strode into the store.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Huckaby didn't emerge from the supermarket. After a half-hour, a man in a navy-blue blazer and dark glasses got out of the Ford and walked toward the entrance. His subsequent search of the aisles were fruitless. Huckaby had left Ralph's 15 minutes earlier, through a back door and into the alley. He had got into the Buick owned by his golfing buddy, Lt. Diamond, pulled around the back of the store and turned onto the street.

He was long gone.

6 6 6 6

The old bridge stood about 300 yards off Yucca Avenue. It was a railroad crossing over what was usually a dry wash, except on those rare winters and springs when heavy rain would drag flood water under its steel and concrete body. It had been more than 20 years since a train passed over it; a meat-rendering plant, the only reason for the rail spur's existence, closed in 1979.

Huckaby stopped the Buick about 20 yards from the bridge. As he shut down the engine, he scanned the area for people or for other cars. There was nothing he could see. Huckaby took a deep breath, opened the glove compartment and removed the service pistol the lieutenant had left there for him. A long career in the service of your country can forge some powerful friendships, and he had called in a favor the night before, calling Brent Diamond and asking him to leave his car ' and the gun ' behind the supermarket. Diamond didn't ask questions; to him, the colonel was still his superior officer.

Pocketing the pistol, Huckaby stepped out of the car, strode to a spot in front of it, and waited.

Within seconds, he spotted someone coming toward him from the other side of the bridge. He put a hand in his pocket and rested a finger against the gun's safety. The person ' a woman -- was about 80 yards away. She was tall - very tall. And she seemed to be in a costume: a green leotard of some sort, a purple wig. A green mask. This was a bit disconcerting; the outfit didn't fit any military issue of which he was aware. He came here convinced he would be making contact with someone from the base. Now he didn't know what to think.

The woman came closer. About 40 yards away now.

It wasn't a mask. Or a leotard. It was her skin. The only clothes she was wearing were cutoff jeans and a gray halter top. Huckaby's eyes grew wide. She was smiling. He put a finger around the trigger. She was at least 7 feet tall with a powerful build. She was damn big - everywhere. His mouth fell open. She stopped, about 10 yards away. He tried to make words. Failed.

The low morning sun threw a backlight on the woman, cutting a sharp edge along every curve of her body. Her dark violet mane undulated in the breezeless air. Her thickly muscled arms were at her sides.

Huckaby tried to think. Couldn't. Everything in the old man was short-circuited in the presence of the unfathomable. Nothing in decades of step-smartly-and-salute training prepared him for this. He took a sharp, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Tight. And then -

"Daddy?"

What?

"Daddy? Please, open your eyes."

WHAT!?

"It's me."

The voice, he thought, sounded like the woman on the phone. He opened his eyes. The anatomically impossible female before him was raising her right hand to her face. She removed wraparound sunglasses, revealing two emerald embers where her eyes should be. Light puffs of steam rose from the corners of those green globes. The woman's face was taut with emotion. She reached out her left hand to him.

"D-daddy?" Her voice was higher now, more brittle. Her lower lip shook. "It's really me."

Huckaby fought off a pounding roar in his head, set his jaw and stood his ground. He had been through too much in the last three months to make a snap judgment now. He trusted nothing, no one. The bastards he once commanded were capable of damn near anything. Even - this?

He made his lips move: "My daughter - is dead."

"No," moaned the woman, who, despite her incredulously powerful physique, looked less intimidating now. She appeared desperate. "Remember what I told you on the phone? "Keep passing the open windows'? Who else but you and I know about that?"

Huckaby was silent. Sheila and I would say that every time she left after a visit to my home. It started after we both read "The World According to Garp," which is where the phrase came from. We never said it to each other over the phone, where a tap would have picked it up. Still-

"Daddy? Please, I know this doesn't look like me, but - it is. You have to believe me." Huckaby stared, steely-eyed. He refused to give in. This couldn't be his daughter- could it?

The woman held out her hands to him, open-palmed, but she came no closer. Her tightly wound muscles twitched and bulged as her body shook. She was crying or, to be more precise, steaming, as the roiling energy in her eyes vaporized her tears. Something like sheet lightning began dancing under her flesh. Small, glowing arcs were rising and falling around her skin.

Huckaby didn't move.

"September 26 - five years ago." Her voice was now reed-thin and breaking. The arcs increased in intensity. "I had juh-just lost my job at the bookstore. I had stopped g-going to church, because I didn't see the point of it. The pain - the arthritis - was eating me alive. And I went home, and I locked the door - and I g-got the gun out of the bureau's top drawer. And I was s-so damn tired of everything -"

Huckaby's mouth twitched. He took his hand off the pistol.

"And then you showed up at the apartment. Rang the bell, banged on the door, used your key to get in. Why were you so insistent out there? How were you so sure I was inside? And, Daddy?"

Huckaby stared into her volcanic eyes.

"Why were you there at all? We both know there was no reason for you to drop by, other than that nagging feeling you said starting pulling at you that afternoon. No rational explanation. But that wasn't the important thing, was it? The important thing was you saved my life. I needed you. I wasn't admitting it, but I did. And you came."

The colonel was crying now, but his legs couldn't move. He was in shock.

The green neon arcs began to recede. The fire in the woman's eyes seemed to grow, and her voice became stronger, more insistent. "Daddy, something has happened to me that I still don't fully understand. And because of it, I'm probably the most powerful thing on the planet. It - still feels strange putting that into words, but it must be true. I mean, you can't believe the things I can do now. And I feel - strong. I just love this body. And I think my confidence is growing every day. But -

"Sometimes it feels like it's too much, and a voice in my head says I can't handle this, that I don't deserve it, that I would be safer if I was normal. But - for me, normal was day after day of stabbing aches and pain and of feeling I didn't deserve good things and belonged in the shadows.

"I don't want to go back to that, Daddy. I couldn't. Not after what I've done, what I feel in this body." She squeezed her hands into fists, and her forearms surged and biceps bulged. "I want to stay like this. But - there are drawbacks. I'm having a hard time connecting with other people; they don't see me, they see a 7-foot-tall woman with green skin. And, well, I've made some enemies at the base, and they're not going to leave me alone. They think I'm - property.

"I can't do this alone." Sheila Huckaby stepped forward, closing the gap between her and her father. "I need you again, Daddy. More than ever."

The Amazon dropped to her knees and laid her head against her father's chest. The old man reached out and embraced his little girl.

6 6 6 6

It took Sheila nearly a half-hour to describe the unexplainable, to tell him about what had happened to her. They leaned against the Buick's hood, sometimes looking at other other, sometimes trying to sort out their scrambled relationship in the wispy clouds above. Her father didn't say a word; the only sound he made was a derisive grunt when Sheila first mentioned Dr. Emil Blonsky, the head of the research lab at McNail Air Force Base.

At the end of her monologue, Sheila turned to her father. It was, for her, a strangely comfortable moment. She had lost track of how many times she had sat with him, unleashed a torrent of concerns and insecurities, then waited for him to lay down his advice in measured, confident tones.

"Sheila," he said now, looking straight into her shimmering eyes. "I glad to see you're happy. That's the one thing I want you to remember. No matter how incredible all this is, you are obviously filled with a joy I didn't think you were capable of feeling." Sheila beamed.

The colonel frowned. "I knew about the gamma experiment. I heard how destructive the weapon could be. I actually played no small part in bringing in Blonsky to head the project. Despite his spotty record, he was the only man brilliant enough to figure out how to harness the radiation.

"I want to say I'm sorry for arranging to get you that janitorial job, since it put you in harm's way. But things turned out - well, I have no idea why things turned out like this. I mean, honey, you should be dead."

Sheila gave him a crooked smile. "The first few seconds after the gamma cannon fired at me, I wanted to die. The pain was excruciating. But then - then the hurting was replaced with something else. I told you Blonsky showed me the security video, right? Well, between what I saw and what I felt, I'm guessing that the gamma radiation, um, bonded to me somehow. I absorbed it, and as the radiation pumped into me it, well, it pumped me up!"

Sheila wanted to say more, but didn't feel comfortable telling her father about the erotic sensations the transformation brought, how the change was accompanied by a chain of orgasms that seemed to bump up her growth each time she shuddered in ecstasy. She also didn't tell him that her statuesque body also was easily aroused and finely tuned to pleasure. For the first time, she was dismayed that her nipples were in a consistent state of attention, pressing out against the halter's thin fabric.

"So," the colonel said, "what's the story about all that light that was dancing around you a few minutes ago?"

"Dancing light? - Oh, that arcing effect? I honestly don't know. I've only noticed it a couple times. It seems to get stronger when I'm stressed out or worried. It's one of those things Blonsky might be able to explain to me, but," she grinned, "I don't plan to drop by and ask him."

"Speaking of the base, you said you took a gamma weapon with you when you escaped?"

"Yes, I have it hidden nearby. It worked once, giving me my body back." She shivered visibly as memories of the incredible re-transformation washed over her. "It's my insurance policy."

"So, you don't need it to stay like this?"

"No, only if I change back into the old me. And I don't know why I lost my powers the first time, so I'm not taking any chances."

"Makes sense," her father said. "Smart girl." Sheila's smile kicked up another megawatt.

"And what about these powers," he said. "How do they work?"

"Well, I have no idea how they work, Daddy, just that they're there. You, uh, want a demonstration?"

Col. Huckaby smiled. He felt as if he was back on the base's testing range. "Sure."

"'Kay. Follow me." Sheila walked about 20 yards to a boulder resting along the dry wash. "Watch."

She bent over and placed her right hand on the boulder, which appeared to be about 4 feet in diameter. The colonel's eyes grew wide as his daughter's fingers dug into the rock like a child's into Play-Doh. She turned to him, grinned, and nonchalantly lifted the boulder above her head.

"Ready?" she said. Her father was stone still.

She bent back at the waist, holding the massive rock behind her head. Then her arm shot forward and the boulder soared, arcing into the sky. Sheila raised her left arm. A boiling mass of green plasma seeped out of her hand and forearm, then a bolt of blinding emerald light rocketed toward the flying rock. With a barely audible "poomf," the gamma energy turned the rock into a falling cloud of dust.

Sheila turned to her father with a "how "bout them apples?" look in her face. The color had drained from the colonel's ruddy cheeks. "That's - impressive, honey," he croaked. "Does that just - happen, or do you need to -"

"That's one of the stranger things in this whole deal, Dad. I don't remember stumbling onto this power. From the beginning, from the moment I became what I am now, I just - knew. I could point a hand, focus and boom. Weird, eh?"

"Honey, all things considered, I think the word "weird' doesn't hold much weight here. And speaking of weight, just the lifting of that rock was rather impressive. It must have weighed at least 500 pounds."

Sheila's eyes crackled. "Oh, probably. But I wouldn't call lifting that an impressive feat. Before you got here, I set up - something. Consider it a demonstration for you and a test for me. Stay right there." And she spun on her heel and walked down into the wash.

"What are you going to do - oh, my god." He watched his daughter step underneath the bridge. Rocks and heavy silt from occasional flooding had left only five feet of clearance between the wash's surface and the lowest steel trusses. Her flowing hair brushed against the girders as she turned to face her father.

Quietly, with her eyes clenched shut, she placed her palms against the bottom of the bridge. Every inch of her magnificent body went taut. Her quadriceps writhed and grew, and her biceps peaked like an erupting volcano. She gritted her teeth. Green fire burned around her eyes.

She rose.

A primordial scream of stressed metal filled the air as Sheila Huckaby slowly straightened her shapely legs. Asphalt cracked and burst. The bridge bowed precariously as the section directly over Sheila went up, up. Sheila's finely carved face was knit with concentration, but not with strain. The curves in her arms and shoulders bulged as the center of the bending bridge ascended, 65 tons resting on two hands, fingers digging into steel.

"Daddy?" she said through clenched teeth.

He opened his mouth to reply, but could manage little more than a choked gurgle. His world was spinning again. He had just started to get comfortable with having a green giantess for daughter, and now -

"Before you arrived, I broke the anchor bolts and railroad ties on each end." She smiled. "Didn't want to break it when I did - this!"

With a graceful thrust of her legs and arms, Sheila shoved the structure up another four feet. The ends of the bridge rose, groaning and snapping in protest. The motion kicked up balls of dust as soiled long undisturbed was propelled upward. And beneath the massive, swaying bridge stood its conqueror, pressing it straight over her head, grinning like a child who had just showed her dad a gold-star report card, which, in a fashion, is exactly what she had done.

Slowly, gently, she returned the bridge to earth, parking it within an inch or two of its original location. Then she inched out from under the structure and strode toward her father, who was working hard to paint an approving look on his pale face. She put an arm around his shoulders, and together they walked silently back to the Buick.

"So, Daddy," she said, "what do we do now?"

Col. Huckaby shored up his resolve. His daughter needed him. This was no time to appear weak. He set his jaw, and spoke. "Honey, I think you're right: You are the strongest, most powerful person on Earth. Imagine - However, that doesn't change Blonsky's determination. As long as you keep moving, and keep as low a profile as that body can muster, you should be OK. There's nothing in the Air Force's arsenal, that I know of, that could disable you. So all Blonsky can do is wait."

"Wait?" she said. "For what?"

"For you to return to normal again. In that vulnerable state, they could get their hands on you, but not before. So keep that gamma rifle nearby at all times. Don't let them catch you with your guard down."

"OK, Daddy."

The colonel was feeling more confident. Giving orders was, to him, like breathing. "Clearly, you have already concluded that calling me at home would be a mistake. My phone is certainly tapped. So, call me again five days from today, at 0900 hours at the corner market four blocks from my house. You remember the one?"

"Yes." Sheila felt so relaxed, so at ease. Daddy was in charge again. Daddy would take care of everything.

"Meanwhile, I'm going to make some phone calls and try to find out who's in Blonsky's inner circle these days. I imagine some of them know about you. There must be some way we can get these dunderheads off your back."

6 6 6 6

"-dunderheads off your back."

"Bless your ancient heart, colonel. Few people have "dunderhead' in their vocabulary." Dr. Blonsky adjusted his earpiece and gave his associate a stern look. "Check all calls coming in to the research wing. If he tries to contact anyone here, I want to know who, when and what they said."

"Yes, sir," the man said, adjusting the surveillance equipment.

Blonsky stared at the glowing displays. "You couldn't hide from me for long, Sheila. I knew you'd try to connect with your beloved father. That's why we miked the colonel's vehicles ' and those of his close friends.

"Tracking you has been a challenge, young lady. You're getting stealthier by the day. But now that you've reconnected with dear old dad -

"Well," Blonsky breathed, his eyes gleaming, "my job just got a little easier."