It was an errant e-mail, that’s all, just a misplaced letter, the easiest typo in the world, a dear probably became a dare and my life took a turn that my mind still can’t grasp, much less my body. My mind and body seem to have stopped talking to each other.

I work for Microsoft, you see, and one day this e-mail came with the subject line "vacation" and I assumed it was just another one of those bogus trips to Florida. I opened it anyway, previewed it actually, and it was clearly personal to someone else. It had a starting date some time in June, a return date in July, and some specific travel plans, supplies to be picked up, flight plans to be filed, and other busy work. Definitely out of my league. At the bottom there was some cryptic new age mumbo jumbo that made references to soul traveling and dreamtime and lots of other stuff I can’t really quote exactly because I deleted that sucker right away without really reading the whole thing. None of my business. I wouldn’t be going on vacation even if it was for free. Too much code to debug. No soul traveling for me. No traveling at all.

But then there was that luncheon, a standard pep rally that Bill Gates throws once in a while for all his employees, the whole hierarchical structure of Microsoft, top to bottom. He liked different departments talking to each other, getting to know each other, bypassing standard channels of communication, letting the corporals talk to the majors. Smart guy. It was also his way of giving a little back to the employees with a magnificent spread of delicacies from around the world. We debuggers looked forward to it with as much excitement as debuggers are capable of mustering, which is more than you think. This was our regular opportunity to confront the writers in a social setting where they couldn’t get too upset with us when we called them names. 

Before we attacked the stacks of scampi, miniature goat cheese and alligator sausage pizzas, freshly made dim sum, lobster taquitos, and itsy bitsy slices of red potatoes topped with caviar and sour cream, Gates gave a speech. A pretty good one if I recall, about how the future was in front of us, big surprise. He didn’t really get my attention until he suddenly mentioned he would be incommunicado for two months, and nobody, not even his wife or secretary, knew where he was going. It was a "vacation" for the months of "June and July," he would do a little "traveling," good for the "soul," his first private "time" in decades, a "dream" come true. Where had I heard those words together before? I couldn’t help it. I debugged his speech.

So there I was, right in line behind Chairman Bill, waiting for our flaming Drambouie and fresh raspberry crepes with sour cream when I blurted out "So, doing a little soul traveling this summer?"

His face went white. Whiter than normal. Almost green, which made him seem a lot more like Kermit the frog than normal.

"What was that?" he said.

"Yeah, I figure a guy like you could use some dreamtime," I said, burning my tongue on a flaming pancake. 

He didn’t like it one little bit. What the hell was I doing? For a brief second it looked like my job was on the line, but that legendary Gates temper never rose to the surface. He simply looked at me for way too long. Was there goat cheese in my beard? Surely it shouldn’t take this long for the world’s richest man to formulate a question.

"Michael Dare, right?" he finally said. God, he was just trying to remember my name, that’s all. No reason to be paranoid. I said yeah and he told me to be at his office at five. I had a choice?

I didn’t get much work done that afternoon. Once word got out where I would be going when the whistle rang, everybody had to drop by with a little joke or piece of advice. They all wanted to know what I had said to pique Bill’s interest, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. Good thing too.
At five I put on my coat, straightened my tie, buffed my shoes on the back of my pants, and headed for the big office. I’d never been in there before but I sure knew where it was. His secretary took me straight in.

Gates was behind a desk the size of Bolivia. The rest of the office was techie heaven. I’ve never seen so many monitors displaying so much data in my life. The world of information at his fingertips was beyond comprehension.

There was no idle chit chat. "So you know about the travelers." he said. "How did you find out?" 

I had decided if the question came up, I’d cut the crap and tell the truth. "Errant e-mail," I said, "accidentally blind CCed to me."

"Look, it’ll ruin the whole thing if I leave anyone behind who knows."

Was I supposed to say something? I didn’t. I let it sink in. Maybe he was going to kill me with one of those TRAPDOOR buttons under his desk.

"You can come along if you want," Gates finally said.

I had a choice?

His one condition was absolute secrecy, so the only problem was coming up with a plausible explanation to give all my cohorts. I simply explained that I had done Gates a personal favor and he was paying me back with a vacation. In Florida.

For the last two weeks of May, I put on a show, wearing Hawaiian shirts, putting up tacky postcards of palm trees near my desk, rubbing it in that the next time anyone from the office saw me, I would be tan. "And laid," someone joked. We all laughed. Little did they know. I bid everyone farewell on that fateful Friday and headed to the airport for my flight to Miami.

Actually Australia. It was all just a ruse. I boarded Gate’s private Lear jet. Next stop, Ayers Rock, the giant mystical red rock growing smack dab in the middle of Australia.

Other than the flight crew, just the two of us were aboard. It was a long trip, long enough for Gates to tell me the whole story. He told me he knew I’d be skeptical as he was the first time he heard, but the more he investigated, the more intrigued he became until he decided he’d just have to check it out himself. Though we were indeed traveling together, his vacation was to be quite different from mine. What the hell was he talking about?

He started with a history lesson. Ayers Rock was a prehistoric formation covering 3.33 square kilometers of solid sandstone and feldspar. It was originally called Mount Uluru by the natives, so that was what Gates called it. Never mind the white men who renamed it after Sir Henry Ayers, the Premier of South Australia, in 1873. Where did they get the nerve?

Then it became a culinary history lesson. Apparently there was this 3,000 year old bowl of soup created by an Aboriginal tribe in a cave deep in Uluru. This soup was in a large stone kettle that had been carbon dated by Gates. It was at least 3,000 years old. According to legend, it had never been cleaned out and never completely emptied. The soup, so the story went, had been started at least 3,000 years earlier, then served to the tribe. It was declared so delicious, such a portal to heaven and the stars, that they would never devour the whole thing. A little soup was always left at the bottom as a starter for the new batch of secret ingredients, a recipe kept by the tribe through generation after generation, diluted with the freshest spring water, local herbs, mushrooms, and probably a sprig of parsley. God knows how many bowls of soup had come out of that kettle, or how many ingredients used. Probably everything on earth, including the earth itself, bits of Uluru drifting down from the cave ceiling, precious 550 million year old sediment from the Precambrian era.

It sounded like a hoax to me, but Gates assured me that his extensive research had failed to find the slightest sign of deception. Since the kettle had never been allowed to go dry over several millennium, the bowl of soup that the current gourmet would get from the kettle would, at the very least, contain a few molecules from every recipe that had ever been concocted in the kettle, including the original cosmic brew.

Needless to say, this soup was not being served in a garish diner with a neon sign proclaiming "Come try our 3,000 year old soup." This wasn’t America. Quite the opposite. It was one of the most well kept secrets on earth, still residing in the same hidden cave in Uluru.

The only way for an outsider to drink the soup was to participate in a sacred ceremony performed once a year by members of Anangu, the Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara people of Central Australia, the keepers of the ancient wisdom. The ceremony would open the portal to Tjukurpa, or dreamtime, which in turn would reveal the answers to all questions concerning existence and the meaning of life. According to the rules of the traditional ceremony, twelve men divest themselves of all garments and decoration, put on robes, and sit in a circle. Six would always be repeat travelers, while six were allowed to be novice Piranypa, or non-Aborigines. Their designated caretaker, the Gupti, would serve them each a helping from the mystical kettle of ongoing soup, then retire to the corner to play a didgeridoo.

Fifteen minutes later he would return to the dozen to find them all in a trance. He would gather their bowls and wait for the trance to end. It usually took a month to six weeks, during which time he would take care of the bodies, setting them straight if they fell over, and making sure no wild animals approached the cave to eat them while they were traveling.

Where did they go? Wherever they wanted. According to various versions of the soul traveler saga, the dozen would have immediately left their bodies behind and found themselves floating near the ceiling of the cave in a non-physical state above the center of the ring. The ringleaders would gather the novices and calm their spirits. The dozen would somehow bind together, their souls creating one single supercharged non-corporeal entity with the ability to travel at many times the speed of light. They would travel around the universe, witness the birth of stars, investigate other life forms, and generally behave like a gang of teenagers out for their first night on the town, only their town was the entire universe.

No wonder they all had smiles on the their faces when they got back. No wonder they kept coming back year after year. What better way to put your own life into perspective than to leave your body and go exploring unseen galaxies.

I was shaking my head in disbelief but Gates explained that it was indeed possible. He said that Einstein’s theory of relativity only applied to the physical world, that true space travel could only be achieved by leaving the physical behind. He had to give it a try.

It wasn’t easy. Like many ancient customs, the rituals of the soul travelers had adapted to modern times. Their services were available to a very select group of outsiders who were willing to pay any price for the opportunity to investigate the universe without anything as droll as a spaceship. Participation was auctioned off once a year to the highest bidders. Think anyone could outbid Bill Gates?

He apologized that I wasn’t going with him but the other five new seats were already filled by other multi-millionaires. I said "That’s okay, you can do it without me," and it was true. My body wasn’t perfect but I liked it and had no desire to leave it. I would use the opportunity to explore Australia.

There were a half dozen other private Lear jets parked in the desert near Uluru, and I recognized most of the passengers who emerged. They were magazine cover people, business celebrities on top of the world, a jolly crew to leave your body with. From the distance, distorted by the heat like Omar Sharif’s entrance in Laurence of Arabia, came a group of Anangu in a Jeep. They looked us over and smiled. The designated Gupti, a wizened old Indian in beads and feathers, emerged from the backseat, along with four other Aboriginal tribesmen. Five of them plus seven of us plus me. The newbies all left their entourages behind as we followed the natives on an arduous hike up Uluru to Mala Ngura, a cave halfway up the side in the shape of a giant brain.

Inside, the walls of the cave were covered with paintings and etchings depicting human figures and heroic journeys made by distant forefathers of the Anangu. Very spooky.

One by one, the travelers entered a side chamber where they left their clothes and all other belongings behind, putting on the ancient hooded robes hidden behind the wall. They gathered in a circle, bid each other a safe journey, sat cross legged on meditation pillows, and casually sipped their portion of primeval soup served by the Gupti. They closed their eyes and listened to the wind blowing through the cave, and within five minutes, a shudder ran through them simultaneously, as though they had all been given a small electric shock at the same time.

Then silence. No wind. No sound. No movement. They were gone. I looked towards the ceiling of the cave for some evidence of their souls traveling but there was nothing but dust. The Gupti gathered the utensils, nodded my way, smiled that Mona Lisa smile, then sat in the corner playing his didgeridoo. I took this opportunity to split.

For the next month I explored the surrounding territory, occasionally reporting back to Gate’s plane which was well stocked with goodies. It was a great vacation. I had learned a great respect for Australia but a month was enough. I backpacked up to the cave to see what was going on.

The travelers were still in a circle, the Gupti still sitting in the corner blowing away at the didgeridoo. Nothing had changed whatsoever. I smiled at the Gupti, he smiled back, and I sat down for a rest.

He smiled, looked at me as though we shared some subterranean secret, then stood up and walked to the cave exit. He waved his hand at me, said "Gupti," then walked out of the cave.

I jumped up and ran after him but he was nowhere to be seen. Great. Now I had to wait till he got back. I couldn’t leave the travelers alone. How long he’d be gone, I had no idea. All I knew what that for the moment, I was the Gupti, with no way of knowing how to properly wake up the travelers.

Luckily I had brought my laptop with the satellite feed and I spent the evening downloading and reading the latest Stephen King.

It didn’t get very cold at night. The few blankets and a pillow left behind by the tribesman were all I needed to drift into my own little dreamland. 

I awoke the middle of the night and knew there was someone else in the cave. Or some thing. There was a scuffling near the cave opening. Either the original Gupti had returned, one of the soul travelers had come home from Venus to take a piss, or something else was moving around the cavern. I lit my flashlight and there it was. A kangaroo, frozen still, gazing at me with intense red eyes from the flashlight, which I promptly dropped in amazement. 

When I found the flashlight and turned it back on, the kangaroo was gone, if it had ever been there at all. How the hell could a kangaroo climb to the heights of this cave? It was clearly too big to be one of the rock wallabies who lived in the southern desert. No, this was a full grown red kangaroo, the kind that lived in the outback among the red rock, bulldust and spinifex. Maybe some of the scent of the soup got to me and I was hallucinating. I fell right back into a troubled sleep.

The next day was uneventful and actually rather pleasant. The twelve just sat there as I read, did some light exercise, feasted on trail mix and instant noodles, and napped in the sun for that pseudo-Floridean tan. 

That night I had one of those dreams, you know, the kind that men get when they’ve been sleeping alone too long. This dream involved a certain external organ and its quest for a moist warm home. I reached down to relieve myself when I discovered something furry between my legs. Startled, I threw back the covers and gasped in horror. My member HAD found a moist new home in the mouth of the kangaroo, who was fellating me like there was no tomorrow.

I froze. The last thing you want to do is startle a marsupial who has your penis in their mouth. This had to end before I got too carried away, so I said the first word that popped into my head.

"Shoo." 

Hmm, maybe "shoo" didn’t mean the same thing in Australia. I motioned with my hands that perhaps it was time for the kangaroo to leave, repeating again, "Shoo, shoo."

The kangaroo sat up and gave me a look that said "What, you don’t like it? I’m not good enough for you?" I didn’t want to hurt the kangaroo’s feelings, but I had never participated in trans-species sex and had no intention of getting into the habit now. Despite my desire to climax, I desperately shoved my tumescent member back into my underwear, stood up, pointed out of the cave, and brusquely told the kangaroo that it was time for it to leave. It sadly hopped away, but not before giving me a look that said "I’ll be back." I fell into a furtive sleep.

The next morning the kangaroo was still there, watching me with her large ears, small head, forepaws ten times the size of her muscular hind legs, silhouetted against the morning sun. She hopped in and looked at me. Her eyes were sad but she had that kind of smile women give that drives you crazy with anticipation. Did I say she? Yes, I assumed it was a female since the idea of homosexual trans-species oral sex was too difficult to contemplate. I nicknamed her Samantha and offered her some of my trail mix.

She wasn’t a bad companion. Kangaroos are not known for their ability to be domesticated, but Samantha was as tame as a kitten, allowing me to scratch her behind the ears while I downloaded the New York Times and devoured a freeze-fried omelet.

As the sun went down, I remembered her amorous activities from the night before and felt it was only wise to asked her to leave. I led her to the cave exit but she wouldn’t go. I gave her a little push. Big mistake. Those forepaws may look small but they’re powerful. She gave me a punch in the jaw that landed me flat on my back. When I tried to stand up, I got another punch in the face along with a kick in the stomach that knocked the breath out of me. Another punch to the face and I was on my back again.

One quick hop and she was sitting on top of me with all her weight. I tried to get up but couldn’t. She slid her scrotum up and down my torso, emitting a deep growl, and a primeval and musky odor that was overpowering. Her claws were small but sharp enough to tear off my shorts. Before I could get my breath back, she had moved down my body, sat on my legs, pinned me down, and drawn my penis once again into her moist mouth.

Try though I might, I could not stop myself from reaching a full and mighty erection. What man could? It didn’t make any difference that she wasn’t human. It felt good. She could have been a Martian.

Suddenly she stopped and hopped forward so we were face to face, her forepaws pinning down my shoulders. With the fulcrum of her legs at the base of my erection, she slid up my rod, then down again. With startling ease I found myself suddenly inserted into her tight and quivering marsupial genitalia.

It felt good. I couldn’t believe it. If I had had the strength to throw her off, I’m not sure I would have. She was riding me up and down, up and down, those massive legs pounding away, her tail beating the ground between my legs, her forelegs scratching my chest, when I was distracted by the sound of the didgeridoo. The Gupti had apparently returned. I didn’t have time to extract myself from Samantha before the entire group of soul travelers woke up and looked at me.

They simply stared. They had achieved such a level of cosmic consciousness that when they finally returned to earth after months of interstellar travel, they weren’t the least bit concerned that the first thing they saw upon their arrival back in their physical bodies was me fucking a kangaroo.

Samantha wasn’t too happy though. She wasn’t an exhibitionist and clearly wasn’t enjoying the scrutiny. She hopped off of me and out of the cave never to be seen again. I was still sticking triumphantly in the air, so I quickly stuffed myself back into my pants. Unfulfilled again.

I helped the Gupti with his prescribed duties, supplying all the travelers with a freshly drawn cup of well water and a ripe fig. It was as though nothing had happened, like morning in camp, everybody waking up in the crisp air, stretching, looking at themselves with self-satisfied smiles. We hiked back down to the flatlands, everyone got in their jets and taxied away. I slept the whole way back.

When I got back to work that Monday, everyone asked me how it went. I said it was great and I had the tan to prove it. "Did you get laid?" someone had the gumption to ask.

"No," I said, "not really." They looked at me knowing there was more. "But I did fall in love."