Alien interstellar travelers came to Earth in that long-ago era and recruited the Hebrew tribes to colonize a new planet in another solar system. The aliens transported them there, along with settlers from ancient Egypt (whose tongue became the lingua franca of the newly colonized world), Mesopotamia, and several other cultures.

  "This is," Huygens stressed, "a lot to absorb."

  Proponents of paleo–contact—the theory that intelligent extraterrestrial beings visited Earth and made contact with humans in antiquity—are demanding an immediate apology from a long list of academic and scientific institutions which have for decades ridiculed the belief in ancient astronauts and prehistoric space travel.

  "I am completely vindicated and all my ideas proven true," said an exultant Ludwig von Danskin, author of several bestselling books (all out-of-print) that asserted ancient societies were in contact with extraterrestrial beings. "Now we have incontrovertible proof of where the Lost Tribes went. Aliens who visited Earth helped them colonize another planet. I knew it all along!"

  Von Danskin is already negotiating a new publishing deal. The octogenarian plans to go on an interstellar speaking tour as soon as his next book is released.

  The Israeli government issued a formal statement to express national rejoicing over this extraordinary discovery.

  "We figured the Lost Tribes had to be somewhere," said the Israeli prime minister. "But another planet? Who knew?"

  The Israeli government promptly opened communications with the pilgrims, inviting them to Jerusalem. Eager to catch up on more than 2700 years of family news, so to speak, the aliens have accepted the invitation and plan to leave the U.S. tomorrow for Jerusalem.

  The Atlantis Monthly

  "Lost"

  * * *

  As the alien shuttlecraft soared toward heaven on the first leg of the visiting delegation's journey back to New Canaan (their name for Expolanet 4), their terrestrial hosts watched them go with that feeling of mingled relief and regret that so often characterizes the end of a visit from relatives.

  "They were trying to land in Jerusalem because they were making a pilgrimage to the temple," said Professor Rose Liberman. "How did they wind up in Washington? No sense of direction."

  A historian of the First Temple period, Liberman was chosen to act as guide and liaison for the visitors, due to her familiarity with their language and her knowledge of the period in which their ancestors last saw Earth.

  "I explained that all that's left of the Second Temple is Herod's Western Wall. . . . And they're like, 'Second Temple? What are you talking about?' And I realize, oh, they came to make a pilgrimage to Solomon's temple—which was destroyed a few generations after their ancestors left Earth. Oops.

  "So I break the news about the Babylonians sacking Solomon's temple, and they're upset. Really upset. There's all this wailing, gnashing of teeth, tearing of hair, rending of garments. . . . It's all very Biblical. But after a few days—and I do I mean days—of this, they pull themselves together and calm down. And I think, okay, we're over the worst bit, and it'll get better from here."

  But then the pilgrims decided—since they've come all this way, after all—they should make their pilgrimage to the Second Temple which Liberman mentioned.

  "So I had to explain about that, too."

  The Romans destroyed the Second Temple when they sacked Jerusalem in 70 A.D. All that remains is the Wailing Wall—which was a retaining wall for the platform or mount on which the temple once stood.

  Well, to lose one sacred temple may be regarded as a misfortune, but to lose two begins to look like carelessness. Or so the New Canaanites thought, despite never having read Oscar Wilde.

  "The conversation didn't go well," Liberman says on a weary sigh.

  And the visit still hadn't reached its nadir.

  "It was when they asked the prime minister where the Ark of the Covenant is kept safe these days, since the First and Second Temples were both destroyed. . . . And we had to admit we'd lost the Ark, too."

  The recriminations were noisy and prolonged. Although diplomatic relations were restored by the end of the visit, things were undeniably strained as the New Canaanites took their leave.

  "Well, what did they expect after twenty-seven hundred years?" Liberman says a little irritably.

  Still, despite some tension at the end of the visit, both parties are pleased that connection has been reestablished after so many centuries.

  Meanwhile, several NASA scientists are traveling back to New Canaan with the pilgrims, where they'll learn more about the technology that made this interstellar voyage possible. Scientists and astronomers the world over are very excited about the future of humankind, and historians are enjoying arguing over how to rewrite the past. These are extraordinary times we are privileged to live in.

  As of this writing, Congress and the president have not yet returned to Washington—and this, too, seems like a blessing.

  Laura Resnick is the author of the popular Esther Diamond urban fantasy series published by DAW Books, as well as the Silerian Trilogy, which Publisher's Weekly described as "a marvel of storytelling." The Campbell Award-winning author of many short stories, she is on the web at LauraResnick.com.

  A Crawlspace Full of Prizes

  Bill Ferris

  You're in the bathroom, brushing your teeth and dreading another ten-hour slog at work when the tickets start coming. They lurch from the faucet in a long strand like you're at Dave and Buster's and you just scored big in Skee Ball. It scares you at first, mainly because the tickets are pink and you mistake them for a giant worm.

  You aren't as surprised the next day when the dryer starts dispensing tickets after you finish the laundry. You bought the stackable machines, and the tickets poke out from the space between the washer and dryer. It looks like a place from which tickets might emerge, honestly. You try to look underneath, but those things are heavy, and you almost topple the dryer off the washing machine.

  By Wednesday, you start feeling pretty okay with getting ticket-based rewards for mowing the lawn and going jogging. It strikes you as odd when organizing the office potluck nets you a bundle of them, while working late on the Monroe account earns you neither tickets nor acknowledgment from your boss, but you tell yourself the paycheck is thanks enough. At home, you find a shoebox to store all your tickets. You wonder what you'll do with them, but your boss just fired one of your team members, so you really don't have time to dwell on it.

  Thursday, you walk around to the rear of your house to the crawlspace to put away a box of Christmas decorations for the year. You expect that behind the three-by-five crawlspace door will be the crawlspace, since it's right there in its name and everything. But instead of the musty smell of garden tools and old maple boards from that cutting board you tried to make but gave up on, you find a neon-lit room with day-glo carpet. Top-40 radio blares over loudspeakers that sound nicer than anything you've got in your den. At the center of the room is a glass display case filled with little plastic spider-rings and Pixy Stix, as well as other assorted knick-knacks, candies, baubles, and gee-gaws. You couldn't be more surprised if a bear had jumped out of the crawl space. A bear would've at least made a certain kind of sense. You mention this to Sean, the surly, skinny, pimply teen wearing a green polo shirt and nametag, standing behind the glass counter. You also ask him what the heck he's doing here, anyway?

  "Because it's my shift," Sean tells you.

  How did he even get this job? This is your house, you protest. Surely there must be a mistake. Sean will have to leave this instant. And where are you supposed to put your Christmas decorations?

  If there were competitions for such things, Sean's reply of, "I don't know what to tell you," would win gold for Least Helpful Phrase in the English Language.

  You march back to the house to get another box of Christmas stuff. You didn't even unpack this one, as it would've been silly to deck the halls when your brother Jeremy and his kids haven't visited in years. You stomp back toward the crawlspace to confront Sean.

  You open the door spoiling for a fight, but it's not Sean at the counter. It's a forty-something woman named Karen, wearing a similar green polo and nametag. She smiles and asks how she can help you. You're so surprised by this display of adequate customer service that you blurt out, "Is Sean here?" like you're best buds. Sean is not here. Karen would be happy to assist you, however. In addition to the glass display case, she draws your attention to the wall behind her. Perched there—on shelves that, based on the dimensions of your house, should reach well into the living room above—are a variety of other prizes, including but not limited to:

  A shoulder to cry on (25 tickets)

  A new ending for that book you're writing (50 tickets)

  A waking replay of last night's dreams (100 tickets)

  Perfect recall of your high school prom (200 tickets)

  Perfect forgetfulness of your high school prom (400 tickets)

  Every sock you've ever lost (500 tickets)

  Mortgage Refinance (750 tickets)

  A phone call from your old college roommate you lost track of because they aren't on Facebook for some reason (1,000 tickets)

  Forgotten passwords (2,000 tickets)

  Texts from lost loves (2,500 tickets)

  A second chance with your old flame (SOLD OUT)

  That thing where you live an entire lifetime as someone else, but only like ten minutes pass in your real life (10,000 tickets)

  And at the very top, priced at 12,000 tickets, an Xbox One.

  * * *

  "No big rush, take your time," Karen says, wiping the countertop.

  You open your mouth to ask why this is happening. What comes out is, "What are the terms on the mortgage re-fi?" You've already boarded the train, you may as well see where it's heading.

  "Seven-two-five for a thirty year."

  "That's worse than what I've got."

  Karen shrugs in the "What can you do?" fashion. "I keep telling them nobody wants it, but they don't listen to me."

  You ask Karen to identify this mysterious "they," as well as to clarify if other people are visiting your crawlspace getting terrible terms on a home refinance. You don't want to get a bad reputation.

  Karen rolls her eyes. "Oh, you know. Management."

  "Yes, but management of what?"

  "You know. The suits at corporate." She rolls her eyes again, then starts to make an obscene gesture with her hand, but catches herself. You look up, wondering if there are any security cameras.

  You scan the top shelf again, hoping she'd have something that could mend your relationship with your brother Jeremy. "Jeez, it must take forever to get the Xbox." You immediately feel foolish. You could order one on Amazon in less time than it would take to walk back into your house. The very idea was ridiculous—you've got responsibilities, and who's got time for video games anyway? Why, it's almost February and you still haven't put away all your Christmas decorations. An Xbox would be completely frivolous. You ask a dozen questions about its specs and game selection just to make sure.

  Karen points to another prize on the wall. "Maybe start out with something less expensive." She points to a shelf holding a pillow with a Batman pillowcase, labeled A waking replay of last night's dreams. "That one's popular. You don't have to use it right away. You can save it for a real good one." She winks at you in a way the suits at corporate would surely frown upon.

  "Sure, why not." You excuse yourself to run back into the house to get your tickets. When you return, she exchanges the Batman pillow for several strands of tickets.

  "Enjoy," she says.

  "Oh, I will," you say, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding really pervy.

  You stretch out on the couch and put the pillow behind your head—it's a pillow, what else would you do with it? You brace yourself for your dreams to flood your mind, letting you experience them again, alert, with your full cognitive abilities to view them, like a first-year film student analyzing Fitzcarraldo. Your dreams burst into your conscious mind with all the ceremony of a process server knocking on your door to serve you with divorce papers. You cringe as you watch your dream-self running late for work and struggling to get dressed, each shirt button like a Rubik's Cube in your sausage fingers. It goes on like this for five minutes. You wonder if it gets more interesting toward the end. It does not.

  In your next dream, you're stuck in an elevator. The good news: you're there with your brother Jeremy, all the old arguments forgotten. The bad news: you've really got to go to the bathroom, and you're very sure you're about to pee your pants in front of your brother, whom you suddenly realize is also the governor of Nebraska. The dream ends there. Immediately, you look up Jeremy on Facebook and confirm that he's doing well, though not so well as to be governor of Nebraska. For the thousandth time you start typing an email to him. For the thousandth time you save it in your drafts folder to finish later.

  You hear a beep. The smoke detector is crying out for new batteries. Usually, you'll ignore it until it wakes you up two hours before your alarm goes off in the morning so you can't get back to sleep. But this time, you rush to its aid like it's a baby crying for a bottle. As soon as you snap the plastic cover back into place, a long rope of tickets staggers out from the side. You go to your shoebox and retrieve a fistful of tickets and speed-walk back to the crawlspace.

  Karen is there again. She asks if you'd remembered your dreams. You lie and say you're saving it for your recurring dream about having a beach house in Southern California.

  "Suuuuuure you are," she says, winking again. You suspect the suits at corporate HR have a good-sized file going on Karen.

  Your eyes stray to the Xbox, but you look away before you can imagine the fun of blasting bad guys to smithereens. "I'll take the phone call from my college roommate," you say, shoving a heap of tickets toward Karen like you're going all-in on a game of Texas hold'em. You must have looked up your roommate, Mike, two-dozen times, to no avail. The first thing you plan to ask him is why he isn't on Facebook.

  Your phone buzzes. An unknown caller from your old college area code. Your adrenaline spikes as you say, "Hello?"

  "I'm so happy to speak with you today. As you know, your degree has set you up for a great career. Now is a perfect time to think about making a gift to the alumni association."

  "Mike? Is that you?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Is this Mike?"

  "No, sir. Sorry. My name is Toby."

  Toby? "Did you live in Stout Hall your freshman year?"

  "Yeah. Wait—oh my God! I didn't even recognize your name! How you doing? Wow!"

  You'd lived with Toby in the freshman dorm, back when you were pimply teenagers. The two of you had combined to create the messiest room on the second floor, after which you mutually decided it was best you both find different living arrangements the next year. Toby was a decent guy and you wished him well, but you were pretty okay with never hearing from, speaking to, or thinking of him again. You're glad to find out, however, that he'd married and thrice impregnated his then-girlfriend, who'd spent about as much time in your room as you did. You're about to hang up when you realize Toby probably works on commission, and you'd be a real jerk if you let him invest that much time without coughing up a donation. You pledge an annual gift of a hundred dollars, making a mental note to go to the alumni association website and cancel next year's donation as soon as you hang up.

  You put your phone away, and see Karen's smiling face. "Nice to catch up, isn't it?"

  You lament you'll have to harvest the donation money from your Florida vacation budget, not that you have time to take one given how your recent performance review went. "Good times, good times," you say.

  "See anything else you like?"

  "Oh, that's enough fun for one evening." You head back inside the house dwelling on the fact that you're a thousand tickets further away from the Xbox, not that you want one, of course.

  You forget about canceling the donation, instead adding up all the tickets in your shoebox. A paltry 308. You vow to not visit the crawlspace again until you've saved up enough for something really great.

  Naturally, you get up early the next morning and blow half your tickets on new endings to the book you've been writing. Karen and Sean are both working, and you're astonished how thoroughly they know every character, every theme, every plot point you've written. You are equally amazed at their horrible suggestions. Now, you like evil twin stories as much as the next person, but who ever heard of an evil octuplet? Who was also a reverse vampire? After Sean suggests a surprise witness in a murder trial you're pretty sure he cribbed from Perry Mason, you thank them for their time, spend fifty tickets on Smarties and a licorice rope, and head to the office ninety minutes late. You and your boss agree it's your least productive day in years. The endings were that bad.

  You don't visit the crawlspace for two weeks as you sweep, scrub, and scour every inch of your house. You start each day with push-ups, sit-ups, and a two-mile jog, then head to the store to get donuts for your coworkers. You change your A/C filter. You rotate the tires on your car. You rent a carpet cleaner and almost get crushed by it as you drag it back to the first floor. The shoebox can no longer contain all your winnings. Your tickets now live in a laundry basket, which wasn't getting used anyway because you've washed every piece of clothing in the house, even the summer clothes you boxed up a month ago. You remind yourself you wouldn't be getting this much done if you'd bought the Xbox, would you? You put it out of your mind. You still earn zero tickets for doing your actual job at the office, but your boss's reaction to your work tells you that's just as well. You do score several tickets for finally emailing Jeremy a Russian novel's worth of grief, anger, pleading, and forgiveness. You earn a few more for reading his reply, which states, in its entirety, "Letting you know I got your letter. This is all I have to say."