Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Sat, 31 Jan 2004 23:32:41 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: "Lori" zakhad@att.net Title: Test of Focus Author: Lori (zakhad at att.net) Series: TNG (Captain and Counselor) Code: P/T Rating: PG Date: 1/31/04 Parts: 1/5 Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com Summary: After trauma, there must be a period of healing. Sequel to Girl Mad Episodes referenced: Journey to Babel (TOS), The Perfect Mate (TNG), Inner Light (TNG), All Good Things (TNG) C&C stories referenced: On the Madhouse Boards, Girl Mad as Birds (WIP) Author's note: My gratitude to Penny, for giving me permission (a long time ago) to borrow her Enterprise fic, Shaking It Off (which guest stars here as thinly-disguised twenty-fourth-century literature). Chocolate frogs and every-flavor beans to Rocky for reading early drafts and pointing out the missing bits. I've been hanging on to this forever in hopes that I could get Girl Mad as Birds done first, but it's not happening. It's time to post. If you read On the Madhouse Boards, this will make more sense. If you have not read any of the series, I should give you fair warning, it's gotten to the point at which there is a whole Captain and Counselor canon and having read this story's predecessors will help in understanding of future C&C postings. All of the stories may be found at my website listed above. My apologies if post lengths are wildly varied. I can't tell how large they are until after I post. ~^~^~^~^~ You. There, with your gazing eyes Your blazing eyes A hand or something passes across the sun. Your eyeballs slacken you are free for a moment. Then it comes back: this test of the capacity to keep in focus this unfair struggle with the forces of perception this enforced (But at that word your attention changes) this enforced loss of self in a greater thing of course, who has ever lost herself in something smaller? -- Adrienne Rich ~^~^~^~^~ He remembers the way his brother swore when he jammed a chunk of wood under Robert's bedroom door to make him late to breakfast, to hear Maman praise punctuality and see her eye Robert with disapproval. He remembers talking his roommate into leaving so he could have the room to entertain guests. One at a time. Female guests. One of them even helped him with a last minute study session to pull him through a difficult final. Graduation, revelry, shipping out. Friends he hadn't seen in years, as young, thin, graceful, starry-eyed ensigns. He rolls over in his wide captain's bed, larger than he needs. It's cold where his body hasn't been. He can identify a void. It doesn't help fill it. Now that he doesn't need to lock doors or bargain with roommates, he sees no way to find the warmth and affection he wishes might be possible. No matter. He chose this, after all. ~^~^~^~^~ He woke. This is his bed, but at his back -- "Mmm?" The mattress shifted, a hip bumped him, and Deanna studied him from inches away, her eyes bleary with sleep and worry, her hair in disarray. "Another dream?" He stared, disbelieving, blinking. In the half-light she had solid black eyes, the whites a narrow border. Her fingers brushed his temple. "Jean. It was a dream. Remember?" He exhaled, the air catching in his throat. Realization came to him, as it always did, and brought guilt with it. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." "I know." Her eye closed. She settled into the pillow, her hand curled on the bed between them. "What was this one about?" "Loneliness." It rushed back to him, reminding him it could return if she were to fall in the line of duty. "Cold sheets." Under the covers, her hand found his and drew it to her belly. The old shirt she was wearing had ridden up, and his palm rested on soft, taut skin, on her navel, at the top of what they refer to as Mount Amy. The baby was quiet, and Deanna caressed the back of his hand. "I wish the dreams would stop," he whispered. "They will. Give it time." "Two months." "That's not enough. Obviously. You're much better -- that's the first time in four days." It used to be every night, sometimes several times a night. He hated that her presence had become the only solution. Subjecting her to repeated awakenings when she needed her sleep wasn't right. But she wouldn't let him leave, wouldn't let him hate himself, wouldn't let him go. She believed he was better. He must be. While she fell asleep again, he waited, focused on being at rest. She would insist on talking if she sensed turmoil from him. Only when she finally began to snore did he allow his thoughts to wander. He would be back on the bridge in four days, and his first mission would be an important one, though diplomacy wasn't so exciting as exploration. She would be on leave at the doctor's insistence. They had decided Geordi would step up, and though it would be good to see him receive a promotion he deserved, it would also mean the last of their old senior staff would soon be leaving the *Enterprise* once Deanna returned from maternity leave. Thoughts of the children, of Deanna's welfare, of his own continuing state of unease, clamored for his attention. The knot of anxiety in his stomach re-formed. Maybe he should retire. Maybe he didn't have what it took to command a starship any more. Maybe that didn't matter either way -- he had a young boy and a soon-to-be-born daughter, and his memories of what that would be like, gleaned from his experience with Kataan, had to be weighed against his career. Perhaps they would all be happier if he weren't the captain. Perhaps Deanna wouldn't be so exhausted and on medical leave so early, if he hadn't been the captain. He watched her sleep, the faint starlight illuminating her face. Would she be happy if he stepped down? Perhaps not immediately, that was a given, but he had to think of the long-term outlook. He did know that telling her before he made the decision would be a mistake; she would only debate the issue endlessly with him if she knew he was considering it. She sighed in her sleep, frowned, and he turned his thoughts to other things. As he counted backwards from fifty, slowly, he realized Deanna was becoming more agitated. What he had felt hadn't caused it after all; she was dreaming again. "Jean," she gasped. "Cygne, I won't leave," he whispered. "We're still on board. Rest. We're home." The nightmares were getting easier to deal with, now that he knew he could divert her worries with a few spoken words. She never woke in the middle of one. Her fears varied, from his absence to his retirement to worries about Yves. As long as he could be near and counteract them, she calmed swiftly and slept soundly. It bothered him that she obviously felt she couldn't voice the fears she spoke of in her dreams, but he assumed that she kept it deeply buried to protect him. Perhaps he still needed that protection. Perhaps he needed to protect her. Either way, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. She had already been through so much, and this pregnancy was turning out to be more difficult as a result; he couldn't speak of the nightmares she had, as he was certain it would upset her. Carefully, he ran his thumb along the wrinkle over her right eyebrow. She hadn't really laughed in too long. Hadn't lit up with an honest smile. Everything she did appeared to be difficult for her. Something had to change; he had to see her happy again. "I owe you," he whispered, while he could say it without an argument. ~^~^~^~^~ Geordi, thoughts racing from responsibility to responsibility, hurried through the ship to the captain's quarters. Only a week on the job and he had to resort to this. Once at the door, he paused, switched his padd to his left hand, and reached for the annunciator. He didn't touch it. While his fingers hovered over the button, he weighed the decision once more. The door opened before he could announce himself. Feeling ridiculous for forgetting she could tell he was there, he went in. Deanna smiled but didn't get up from the couch. She wore a loose, long dress in watercolor greens and blues; her hair had been braided into a single plait. "I'm sorry to bother you," he began. The captain's quarters, though mostly decorated in standard issue gray upholstery and carpeting, were larger and more personalized than most other quarters aboard. The ability to keep shelves of books and keepsakes, a potted plant or two, and a couple of non-standard furnishings was a privilege of higher rank; junior officers didn't have as much space for it all. And why was he thinking of these rooms as the captain's quarters, when they were equally and obviously also hers? Geordi glanced around briefly, noting Deanna's latest rearrangements -- the six-foot broad-leafed plant had been put against a different wall, near the replicator, and a different replica of a painting hung over the couch. This time it was a sunset -- a sunrise? -- over the ocean, with clouds stippled red and yellow. "That's all right. It's gotten rather lonely being here by myself. Even when Yves comes home from school. I miss work." She sat up, slowly, taking one of the pile of pillows to place in the small of her back. It became obvious that she'd become larger still since the last time he'd seen her. She wasn't wearing cosmetics; her eyes seemed smaller than usual, and slight wrinkles showed around them. He smiled nervously. "You look well." She didn't laugh, though she looked as though she might. "And yet, you're nervous. It's not that bad, Geordi. I'm fine. Please help yourself if you'd like something to drink. Come and sit, and we'll talk about what's brought you here." He had the feeling she knew more about that than she should. While he replicated himself some raktajino and her some of whatever resided on the preset she indicated, he outlined his questions in his head. He handed her the glass of iced green beverage, settled on the couch one cushion away, and tested his drink. It could stand to be cooler. "About the requisitions," he said. "You've run across Lieutenant Grady, I see." Geordi grinned. "Okay, so he's not behaving unusually in requesting unusual pets?" She shook her head. "He and I have a running joke. He requests items he knows he won't get, and I decline." "I was wondering what he'd do with a sehlat." Geordi put the padd in his lap and took another sip. "Or an Andorian feklet. Didn't he notice the shipwide announcement that I would be first officer until you were back from maternity leave?" "I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't. Sometimes the crew on the lower decks fall out of touch with the upper decks, especially the ones who have more solitary natures. With a new ops officer coming in, it will probably be more of a problem. You might make an effort to counter the widening rift." "Okay," Geordi said, uncertain of whether or not to voice his discomfort about that idea. Starfleet officers should be self-sufficient in social matters, or they should see the counselor, he thought. "Will sometimes toured the lower decks in person because he knew Data wouldn't know how to make contact." Geordi flinched, spilling a little of his raktajino on his thigh. "He did?" "I'm sorry, I'm reading between the spoken and the unspoken," Deanna said softly. "And remembering your discomfort in dealing with certain socially-awkward officers in the past. Being a first officer isn't unlike being a counselor in some ways. Morale is important to you, too, you simply play a different role in it. Reminding them from time to time that the senior officers remember their existence, and that their work is appreciated, helps in keeping a cohesive and cooperative crew." "Why did you make an example of Will and not your own methods?" She smiled and tilted her head, again making an effort not to laugh aloud. "I don't have a method. I have friends." "Ah." He glanced down at his drink, then at the padd. "Thanks." "Is that all the trouble you're having? I'm glad to hear it." "Well, the biggest problem is that the captain. . . . I don't know, I think it's just that he misses you. I don't think he means anything personal." "If you mean the shortness, no, he doesn't." Her pensive look worried him. Had the captain made a habit of treating her the same way? Then she glanced at him sharply. "Geordi," she chided. "He wasn't as short with you. Not as often." He paused, gathering the courage to continue. "Is he that way now? With you, even off duty?" "Remember what he's been through. It's not uncommon for those who have suffered brain trauma to experience changes in personality." "Are you telling me that, or yourself?" She sat very still, the glass in one hand and balanced on her knee, her lap mostly filled with her distended abdomen. Leaning forward slightly, she put her other hand to her side and winced. "Deanna?" "There's not much room for movement in there and she's trying to kick." The moment passed. The pain receded from her face, and she leaned back again. "The captain is improving, I think. You'll see." "I'm sure he will." Geordi glanced into his cup. "I should get back. Is there anything I can get for you?" "No, but if you could help me up? I'm fine once I'm on my feet, but my back's hurting and trying to get up from this couch can be quite a job." He took her hand and let her use him as an anchor to haul herself upright. She hurried into the bedroom, leaving him wondering if she expected him to follow or wait for her, somewhat panicked by the former and confused by the latter. When she did return nearly ten minutes later, looking relieved, she smiled and waddled back to her spot. "Thank you. I suppose the tea was a mistake, but it did taste good. I'm glad you came, Geordi, it's good to see you. And I'm happy to see how well you've adjusted. The Babel conference will be an excellent first mission for you. First officer isn't quite the same as chief engineer." "It's a lot of responsibility. I have a new appreciation for how difficult it must have been for you to make the switch." He retrieved his padd from the couch cushion. Noting the absence of padds or books in her general vicinity, he revisited his earlier, rejected idea, and changed his mind. "Do you read fiction?" "Yes, often. Why?" "Can I get your opinion of this?" He held out the padd. She took it and read the first few lines, and raised her eyes to his, startled. "Did you write this?" "There's about seven chapters so far. I don't know how good it really is. I think it needs some work. I'd like your opinion of it." She nodded but didn't smile. "All right. I have plenty of time. Why don't you come for tea tomorrow afternoon, and we'll talk about it?" He grinned. "Sure. I'll be here." ~^~^~^~^~^~ Deanna had Yves and his dog picking up toys when Picard came home. He caught Yves when the boy charged over to greet him. "How are we doing?" he asked as he regained his balance and put Yves back on his feet. "Mama's tired," Yves announced. "Let's pway a game, Papa! Can we?" "After you finish picking up all these toys." He ran his hand over Yves' head and smiled, received a smile in return, and turned to Deanna as Yves rejoined the dog in gathering things from the floor. She was on the edge of the sofa and starting to rise. Even though she obviously needed it, he waited until she held out a hand to offer help. "You did too much today." She sidled away, letting go of his hand once on her feet. "I couldn't sit all day. I only wanted a little exercise." "You're -- " But repeating the doctor's orders and starting another argument didn't sound like a good way to spend the evening. Picard opted for reaching the replicator before she did and handing her a bowl of vegetables. She took it and picked a bright red one, waddling away and munching audibly. "I want some!" Yves danced around her until she lowered the bowl and let him pick something. She moved with slow, deliberate grace, her skirt swaying with each step. After directing Yves to return to his clean-up duties, she came back, completing a circuit of the room. "Had a good day?" she asked, offering Picard the bowl. He picked something green, uncertain of the identities of the cut pieces of Betazoid vegetables and deeming it too trivial to ask. "It went well enough." This was becoming a routine, but going into detail about his day was a mistake he had made only once. "What would you like for dinner?" "This is good enough for me." She meandered away again, eating another vegetable. Yves dodged around her to snatch up the last block and toss it at the toy bin they kept at the end of the desk in the corner. Fidele caught the block as it rebounded off the bin's edge, dropped it inside, and wagged his tail while looking at his constant companion with all the loyalty programmed into him showing in his eyes. Picard replicated something for himself and Yves; at least they could sit down to eat even if Deanna preferred to walk. She joined them after a third slow trip around the room. Yves told them about school, though he'd probably already told Deanna already, and asked if they could visit the holodeck. "I don't think tonight is a good night for the holodeck," Picard said, placing another cup of juice in front of Yves and taking the towel he'd used to wipe up the spill to the recycler. "We can watch a story on the imager if you like." "But I wan' go to Fwance," Yves exclaimed around a mouthful of food. "Why don't you take him? There's no reason we should all be forced to stay in." It sounded reasonable enough, until Deanna's tone hardened on the last few words. "How about," Picard began, settling in his chair once more, "if you go visit Guinan? It's been a long time since you visited her. I'll bet she misses you." It had been about three weeks since he'd done more than chat with Guinan in Ten Forward, actually, but by Yves' reckoning anything longer than a minute was 'a long time.' "Can I?" Yves slid off his chair and leaped to Deanna's side to tug on her sleeve. "Papa can take care of you." "Of course." Deanna attempted a smile. Yves beamed and ran for his room, Fidele close behind him. The arrangements and the transfer of boy and dog to Guinan's care took about an hour to complete, since Yves changed his mind several times on which game he wanted to take and what shoes to wear. When Picard came home again, Deanna had rearranged her cushions on the other end of the couch and settled there to stare up at the stars. Or so he thought -- she wiggled her toes and raised her foot higher, disproving his theory. "I'm huge," she moaned. "I have to hurt myself to see my toes." Picard straddled the end of the coffee table and carefully sat on it. Catching her heel, he studied her curled toes, all inclined toward the smallest one, and their unpainted nails. She had always painted them before, seemed to enjoy the trivial activity though she spent most of her day with shoes or boots covering them. "What did you want to know about your toes? They look fine." He balanced her heel on his knee and massaged her foot with his thumbs. "You're not huge." "I feel like I swallowed a planetoid. I can't stop feeling hungry, and when I eat, I get indigestion." Deanna draped both arms over her abdomen. "You don't think I'm huge?" "I think you're beautiful, and you aren't huge." He ran a hand up the contours of her foot, the slender bones against his palm, then the knobs of her ankle, then the swell of her calf -- stubble he already knew was there pricked his fingers but didn't deter him. She regarded him with questions in her wide eyes, looking down and away as she pulled her leg out of his grasp. Wincing, she leaned forward, searching for a more comfortable position. "Thank you," she murmured at last. She couldn't help but believe him; he had told her the truth, after all, and she could sense that. Picard propped his elbows on his knees. She paused, gripping the edge of the sofa cushion and on the verge of pushing herself up from it. "You're tired, Jean." "It's to be expected. We've spent a long day en route to pick up diplomats. Just the sort of work one assigns a captain one feels might still need recovery time." Even to his ears, it sounded bitter, though he'd meant to merely acknowledge the fact. Her touch on his arm surprised him. "You know you're still recovering. That you're functional doesn't mean you're completely healed." When he raised his head again, he discovered she'd scooted down the sofa and her face was now within inches of his. At this range, he couldn't miss the weariness around her eyes. Something had changed, however; reassuring him had somehow loosened her defensiveness. "I know. I'd hoped we would be exploring again soon." "You don't like being treated as if you couldn't handle it." "The Babel conference is important enough, but still, ferry duty isn't exactly the most exciting mission. Especially given that the ambassadors we are tasked to carry include no one likely to so much as argue with anyone. It's probably best not to push too hard -- still, I can't help but think about what Command might decide is better for me. I've already been offered promotions. If they pushed me to retire. . . ." "You don't have anything to prove." She inserted her hand into his. Automatically, his fingers closed around it. "You're a good captain. They need you." He met her eyes, smiling in an echo of her affection more than anything else. 'They' could, and would, eventually change their minds about how much Captain Picard was needed, likely weighing him against whatever criteria they used in ascertaining who was fit for command of a starship. "Cygne," he murmured, caressing her cheek. "Jean-Fish." She blinked, scowling. When he put a hand to her side and looked her in the eye, worried, she shook her head. "My back." "You've been doing too much, haven't you?" "It doesn't matter what I do. It's still -- " She inhaled as he probed along her spine and found knotted muscle. Working on her back became easier with his moving to the couch and finding the best position for maximizing leverage. Incidentally, it meant wrapping his arms around her and letting her lean into him while he used thumbs and the heels of his hands along her back, alternating directions and circling around the tightness before attacking it directly. His hands tired eventually. When he stopped massaging, she drooped against him, embracing him loosely and resting her cheek upon his shoulder. Not wanting to interrupt the most intimate encounter he'd had with her in more than a week, he rested, hands flat in the small of her back, the thin blue-and-green house dress she wore still warm from friction. They hadn't ignored each other, far from it, but something was wrong -- a deficiency in communication. Resentment? Could she sense his musings about retirement? Her braid had loosened. Sliding a hand up her vertebrae, he tugged at the band and combed her hair loose with his fingers. Deanna sat up then, breaking the silence with the clearing of her throat. Not wanting to lose the moment, he brushed his fingertips along her cheek, down her throat, dipped his thumb into the hollow between her collarbones, and kissed her before she could move away. "I'll be back. Sorry." She struggled up and hurried for the bedroom. When she didn't return after the usual duration of one of her bathroom trips, he went after her. She stood at the sink, crying and furiously wiping her face with a cloth. He tried to touch her; she flinched from his hand. "I'm fine. It's just hormones," she exclaimed, shoving the cloth under the faucet. Her hand trembled visibly. "Let me help." She ignored his quiet plea. While wringing excess water from the cloth, she seemed focused on the task, but he knew better than to make that assumption. "I'm sorry." "I know. I'll be all right." She turned to him, folding the cloth into a neat red square. Disagreeing with this would not result in anything good, he knew, and expressing doubt would count as disagreement. He gave her a faint smile, met her eyes with his, and was answered by her own version of the same. If all they had left to share was a denial of the obvious, he could share that. "Would you like to play a game of chess?" She smiled with more genuine emotion and left the cloth on the sink's edge. If it ended the way last week's game had, she would win, as he would spend half the time between moves wondering what to say to her, how to get his happy wife back, and how he'd allowed this to happen in the first place. She would move pieces single-mindedly, involved in her game strategy. Being busy could be a good distraction, as he knew well from his own repertoire of coping mechanisms. ~^~^~^~^~^~ When he arrived the following day, Geordi hoped he wasn't bringing too much of the disagreement he'd just had with the new chief engineer in with him. The happiness on Deanna's face reassured him. He played waiter again, making small talk in the interim, and her smile didn't fade. "So, what did you think?" he asked, once the preliminary inquiries as to each other's health were done. "It's an interesting start." He waited, but her hesitance made him impatient to hear the bad news and get it over with. "But it's bad." "I'm not sure how to comment -- I'm certainly no great authority on human literature." "It's not even really literature. More like popular fiction. And it's only a first draft. You aren't going to help me improve by not telling me what's wrong." "All right, Geordi." Deanna glanced down at the padd, used her thumb to key the display back to the first page, and read out loud. "'The *Hebrides* is a science vessel patrolling the far reaches of the Alpha Quadrant, and while en route to the next sector we were to survey, the containment field in the aft warp engine began to fail. The captain ordered the ship into orbit around an M-class planet in a quiet star system. All hands in engineering pulled a double shift that day to isolate the problem.' And then we have four paragraphs on what else goes awry, followed by a page of crew assignments and further mishaps, and then on page two I finally discovered that this was written in first person and it was from the point of view of a security officer. On the fifth page I discovered she was female." "Oh," he said, not knowing what to ask, or how to ask it. Until she'd described it, he hadn't thought about his story in those terms. "I understand the need for setting and so forth," Deanna continued. "Knowing what's going wrong is a great place to start. But, I think it needs a little more. . . accuracy. Authenticity." "In what way?" "Well. . . have you ever read 'Enterprise Rising,' by Jonathon Sato? It's set in pre-Federation Starfleet." "No, can't say that I have." "Listen to the first few paragraphs." She raised another padd and cleared her throat. "'From the personal journal of Ensign Hoshi Sato: No one else can feel the tremors from the engines. Isn't that strange? We've been in and out of warp often enough now for me to be certain -- there is a definite shimmy above warp 3.5. Apparently it's normal. It's something I can get used to, eventually. Probably. I mean, if it happens all the time it will start to feel routine and I won't even notice it any more. "'What really fries me, though, is that T'Pol assumed I was scared when I pointed it out the first time. Pointing things out is my job. I'm on this ship because of my ability to hear -- and see -- nuances, the small subtle things that others miss. That's why I'm good with languages. The difference between an apico-deltal fricative and a lamino-alveolar fricative can be the difference between welcome compliment and deadly insult, and it's my job to point that out. This ship may be state of the art, but it's still metal and bolts and unplanned shaking can be dangerous. And when it's all that's between me and the vacuum of space, well, I want to be certain everything is running the way it's supposed to run. That's not being afraid, it's just being smart.'" Geordi leaned back, mouth open. "The setting is implicit in it," Deanna said. "You can almost feel the ship around you, all new and somewhat frightening because it was the first of its kind. You know Hoshi wasn't trained very well for it, how could they teach her what to expect? She speaks with the jargon of her field, she has some conflict with her crewmates, and in the format of a log entry she sets up the reader for the story to follow, the adventures of the first Starfleet vessel. You can almost imagine being right there with her." "And mine doesn't do any of that." She put aside both padds. "I'm only suggesting that if you want an audience who aren't necessarily engineers, you might want to approach it from a closer perspective. There's a lot of Hoshi showing already in just a few paragraphs on the first page. Your character doesn't get a name, or even a gender, on the first page. You're holding her and her emotions out at arm's length and focusing so much on what the ship is doing that it's reading more like a report." "All right. I guess I can see that." He took his padd and slapped it against his palm. Deanna put a hand on his arm. "Don't feel that way, Geordi." He shrugged, shook his head, and sighed. "Maybe writing isn't my thing. I worked on that for hours." "It just takes persistence. That's all." "Yeah? What've you written?" "I don't think writing is any different than becoming a first officer, or an engineer, or a psychologist. You have to really want to do it, and you have to work at it. I know you want to. The only guaranteed way to fail is to quit, you know." He snorted. He'd heard that particular sentiment from her before. Funny how it seemed less encouraging now than when she'd said it to someone else. "If you keep trying, so will I," she said. Geordi looked up from his attempt at fiction, raising an eyebrow. "You're writing?" "I haven't had much else to do. I suppose you've inspired me." The corner of her mouth rose, and she picked up her padd to look at it disdainfully. "And frankly, I'm afraid to even look at it again myself. I'm going to start over with a new idea. So, let's meet again day after tomorrow for tea, and we'll read each other's work. Fair?" "Fair. Thanks for being honest with me." He left with the beginnings of suspicion -- had she only started writing because she understood ahead of time that he'd probably feel like giving up, and needed the challenge? But he supposed in the long run that it didn't matter. Already, his imagination had turned to the reshaping of his plot. ~^~^~^~^~ -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? Sun Feb 01 01:13:24 2004 Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n11.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.66]) by skylark (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1aNaOv2aE3NZFjw1 for ; Sat, 31 Jan 2004 22:10:35 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13108-1075615716-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.