It has been stated many times that "Home is where the heart is." In this fresh, stirring novel, Hillyer Ives translates that to also mean "where the excitement is" or perhaps "where there is more responsibility than I care for."

Thomas Marshe is a little-known man in Lubbock, Texas, a busy man with a new job, settling in a new apartment, and occasionally dating his only friend, Jean. But at a symphony concert, Thomas is suddenly bothered by two young teens who insist on calling him "Kazim." They tell him his dying mother wishes to see him, that his "ship" is orbiting high above the city at "seven kils." Convinced the two are pulling off a hoax or simply have the wrong person, Thomas dismisses the whole thing until he discovers very surprisingly he can speak in an unusual language! Things grow steadily worse and more frightening after that, until it reaches the point where his very life is threatened. Who is he? Thomas Marshe or this Kazim character? He would swear without hesitation he was Thomas. Wasn’t he?

Hillyer Ives is no slacker when it comes to writing fresh, new and exciting fiction. With a wealth of new ideas and plot twists, he never runs out of action and story lines. Born a Texan, Ives called Dallas-Forth area home until he moved to Abilene, where he spent almost 35 years with an electric utility company. Holding both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree, he has been involved in a number of outdoor activities: mountain climbing, backpacking, world travel, and cave exploration. At present he works each summer as a National Park Service seasonal ranger in Utah.

As we rode along Gilliland Boulevard, we were quiet, probably thinking of the same crazy things. The heater was becoming a little too warm, so I reached to lower the thermostat. As I drew my right hand back up to the steering wheel, I struck the ‘caller’ on the shift handle very lightly. Just as I settled back, I heard a distinct female voice. "L’etl ku lazik un?" It sounded like a question.

"What?" asked Jean.

"Sounded like the radio," I said, but the radio was not on, and we knew it.

"Thomas, that came from the thing on your wrist," Jean was somewhat excited.

"L’etl ku lazik un?" came the voice once again, somewhat louder. "Lazik un?"

"I don’t recognize the language," said Jean.

"Nor I."

A few seconds later came the same voice, but with words we could understand! "Could I be of service, sir? I have taken your silence as a cue to speak English."

"Who . . .?"

"I am Sys. At your service, sir," said the very polite voice. It seemed a mechanical voice, like a radio, an electronic approximation.

"You’re Sis?"

"Certainly, sir. Ship Information System. You refer to me as Sys."

"Um . . ."
"Yes?" the voice prompted.

"Do . . . " I was trying to think as quickly as I could. Perhaps whoever-it-was could clear up a few things I had been wondering about. "You know anyone by the name of Kazim?" I asked.

"That is you, sir. Kazim Maras, oldest son of His Majesty, Zair Bodyl Maras."

"H-how do you know?" I asked quickly. I heard Jean clear her throat.

"I am attuned to your voice only, sir. I can respond to no one else without your express permission."

"I . . ."

"Thomas, cut it off. This is ridiculous." Jean sounded a little gruff.

I felt the same way. It was indeed ridiculous. But how could a machine be tuned to my voice? There had been no opportunity! I had never seen Logil nor Roder in my life!

"Where are you?" I was wondering. Perhaps the so-called "Sys" was someone in Lubbock. I was trying to drive the car and think at the same time. I had just turned left on 34th near the Post Office.

"I am above you, sir, parked in orbit at seven kils. I am your ship Lorella, sir. Are you in need of some assistance?"

"Then . . . what is my name?"

She repeated, "You are Kazim Maras, sir, son of your late father, Bodyl Maras, the late zair of Kormel."

I could say nothing else. I wanted to throttle someone – whoever was pulling this fantastic hoax! I had never wanted to kill anyone before in my life.

"Thomas," Jean said in a voice that sharply reminded me this had all gone far enough.

I agreed, and said, "How do I cut you off . . . Sys?"

"Transmission closed,’ said the voice, and we heard it no more!

I turned the corner on South 48th Street and a minute later pulled into Jean’s drive.

Who was Kazim?