Stepping Out

In their cheap office chairs, Melnikova, Maunov and Raven watched the video monitor closely, beneath the sterile white fluorescent lights of the underground laboratory.

“I believe our opportunity has arrived,” Maunov muttered .

Raven studied the couple on the monitor, viewed from a hidden web-cam. The camera, installed the day Megan and John Harris were lured from their home by a gas explosion in the next block, gave a perspective from close to the top of the wall in the high-ceilinged living room under surveillance.

Raven watched as the man, strongly built, in his early forties, sat on the sofa behind a glass coffee table. The images from the monitor reflected, tiny, in Raven’s black eyes.

“You see something, Maunov,” black-haired Raven said to the old man, “that I do not.” He turned to look at the other monitor, this one receiving a feed from a bedroom. A small, trim brunette woman stood before a large mirror over an ornate white dresser, carefully applying a pale lipstick.

Melnikova watched closely as the woman smoothed down the sides of her soft, form-fitting gray Merino wool v-necked sweater dress, her hands pressing fabric against hips and thighs.

Melnikova bit her lower lip softly at the sight of the fine clothing. “They are dressing to go out,” Raven said. “Why is this opportune?”

“Anniversary,” Maunov said. “When they return from their evening out ...”

“Ah,” said Raven. “I see. The night of passion.”

“Yes,” Maunov said. “If the man does his job, then her guard will be down. She will be temporarily vulnerable, emotionally and mentally.”

“To me,” Melnikova said.

“Your profile of the woman suggested that children are on her mind of late,” Maunov said to Raven. “Varya has already visited her out of the body, in guise of a small child.”

“As I once appeared when I was young,” Melnikova said. “And beautiful.”

“The Harris woman accepts these visits as dreams,” Maunov said, “and believes on some level that she may one day give birth to this ‘child’. So she will be as receptive to Melnikova as an unwilling host can be.

“Liebchen, we must now prepare for out-of-body,” Maunov told her. “You know what to do. I will control from here.”

Melnikova rose from her chair. She entered the next room, shut the door, and turned down the warm indirect lighting to a relaxing semi-darkness. Walking to an expensive black leather recliner, she stepped out of her worn brown shoes.

In an unconscious imitation of Megan Harris, Melnikova smoothed down the sides of her loose-fitting black nylon slacks. She sat on the recliner and stretched out, eyes shut, breathing regularly, relaxing.

“Now,” Maunov said to Raven, “You must leave us to our work.”

“Of course,” said Raven, rising to leave, his dark business suit impeccable. “Good luck.”

On the other side of the planet, in the living room under surveillance, John Harris checked

his watch for the third time in 10 minutes.

“Megan, we’re going to be late for our reservation,” he called.

“Coming, coming,” she called, stepping out of the bedroom door into the living room. Harris looked his wife and smiled. “You look gorgeous honey,” he said. “I guess that’s what 15 years of marriage to me will do for a gal.”

Megan goosed him telekinetically, and laughed as he suddenly straightened up with a surprised “hey!”

“Sorry!” she said with a grin, holding both hands up. “Best behavior tonight, I promise. You too, though.”

“I’m always on my best behavior,” Harris said.

Megan floated up to face-level with her much-taller husband, wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, and kissed him briefly. “We’ll save your worst behavior for later,” she said, looking straight into his eyes, from inches away.

She dropped gently to the floor. “We’d better get going,” she said. “We’ll miss our dinner reservation.”

“Uh, yeah,” Harris said, trying to get his breathing back under control.

Her breaths slow, regular and steady, Melnikova drifted into a half-sleep, light-trance state as she had so often during tests as a young girl, and now again, as she had practiced with Maunov.

It was actually easier now. Her heavy, tired old body embraced relaxation much more eagerly than when she had been a young, excitable girl. And now, she wasn’t hooked up to countless devices for measuring everything from brain waves to blood pressure. All those sensors and more, improved by decades of technological advance, were imbedded in the recliner. They busily sent their data to the computers watched by Maunov in the other room.

Lazily, Melnikova visualized herself a passenger on an airliner. She felt the vibrations as the aircraft rolled down the runway for take-off. It wasn’t a shaking, but more like an electric current running through her body, without the pain of shock.

Melnikova stayed calm as a roaring sound like jet engines filled her ears. She felt acceleration and lift-off. Then, the airline cabin she’d visualized faded away into darkness, suddenly split by a great ring of sparks arcing over her.

This too faded away, and Melnikova felt herself aloft, the semi-dark room about her again filling her vision as she opened her eyes. She willed herself to rise upward. The roaring in her ears increased in intensity briefly, then it too was gone.

She had achieved separation.

Melnikova raised a hand to softly touch the smooth surface of the gray PVC tile of the suspended ceiling just inches from her face.

She felt the cool surface, and reached through, seeing her hand disappear up to the wrist in the PVC, suddenly no more solid-seeming than air.

She floated, out of her physical body.

A flashing red light on the computer console in the other room alerted Maunov that Melnikova’s vital signs were at the precise point that they’d reached when she’d achieved verifiable out-of-body conditions previously.

He glanced up and around the room, smiling. He couldn’t see Melnikova, but he knew she was there. He gestured at the computer monitor, at the man and woman shown there, clasped in loving embrace.

“Go to them, my angel,” Maunov said.

He imagined he heard the swish of invisible wings.