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  DON’T MISS ANY OF THE EXCITING

  QUANTUM LEAP ADVENTURES . . .

  QUANTUM LEAP: THE NOVEL

  The thrilling debut based on the smash hit TV series!

  TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

  Sam’s new mission could make or break the Quantum Leap Project—for ALL time.

  THE WALL

  What can a child do to alter the fate of Germany? Sam is about to find out.

  PRELUDE

  Sam’s first Leap—here’s how it all began . . .

  KNIGHTS OF THE MORNINGSTAR

  After his latest Leap, Sam finds himself wielding a sword—

  and facing a man in full armor!

  SEARCH AND RESCUE

  Sam races against time and a deadly blizzard to rescue survivors of a plane crash—including Al.

  RANDOM MEASURES

  Al must make the ultimate choice—save Sam, or a wife he never knew he had . . .

  PULITZER

  Is Al a traitor to his country? Only Sam can find out for sure ...

  And now, the newest Quantum Leap adventure . . .

  DOUBLE OR NOTHING

  QUANTUM LEAP

  OUT OF TIME. OUT OF BODY.

  OUT OF CONTROL.

  With due gratitude and humble thanks to Ginjer Buchanan, editor of patience, and Ashley McConnell, who understood

  —LAG

  To be nobody but yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.

  —e.e. cummings

  I have never seen a greater monster or miracle in the world than myself.

  —Montaigne

  PROLOGUE

  Dr. Sam Beckett had made a lot of Leaps by the first time he arrived at the tenth of May, 1986.

  Although each Leap was different, he always knew the moment history was put back to rights. He had come to recognize the end of his intrusion in someone’s life the way a symphony conductor can feel a concert’s approaching finale—instinctively, without looking at the music.

  As if the last cymbal crash had just been completed, Sam felt the moment of completeness slipping over him.

  Part of him, as always, warmed to the bright tingle that precipitated the coming lunge Outward. And, also as always, another part of him resented it, wondering when his days of Leaping would be over, and he would be returned to his own life. But Dr. Sam Beckett hadn’t been in charge of this Project in a long time, and he had learned to take what satisfaction he could from a jobwell done, and not think too much about what he couldn’t change.

  As the familiar shimmer rose to envelope him, he first lost sight of Al, then the rest of his surroundings. Everything felt as it always did. His anticipation grew, his borrowed eyes closing, his borrowed mouth curved into a smile. Leaping had become like skiing to Sam—lean into the curves, push off for speed, bend into the wind—all downhill and easy.

  Piece of cake, he thought. Nothing to it.

  And normally, he would have been correct. But this time .. . this time he was wrong. In that fraction of a second he had in between bodies—in between lives—

  he felt a sudden jagged agony that tore his eyes open and split his mouth into a piercing scream.

  His eyes burned from the exploding torment, locking on the ceiling of the Waiting Room.

  The Waiting Room? asked a tiny part of his mind.

  What was he doing there?

  The part of him that could even notice his surroundings wondered if at long last he might have finally made it back home. The rest of his brain was forced to ignore the question; it was too busy shutting down nerve bunches, silencing a thousand requests for relief every millisecond.

  Sam’s mouth locked open during his return—paralyzed wide and round—by his body’s need to scream. It was an instinctive response, his primate brain overwhelming the more sophisticated layers above it in order to deal with the flooding rush of searing agony. His rational mind in shreds, the cortex was taking over, trying to use mere noise to chase away the racking, brutal pain.

  It did not work.

  His body had been standing when he had reentered it.

  His newly crippled presence sent it flying, toppling—

  spasms of misery punishing him so severely he could not feel the additional sting as his face slammed against the wall.

  Nor did he feel the grueling hurt of what followed, not of his knees hitting the floor—left first, then the right—not the crack of his right shoulder or the sting of his head. Indeed, by that point he was already gone, leaving those simple pains for whoever entered his body next.

  This wasn’t a Leap, it was a sundering. The fabric of his soul was tied in knots, turned inside out, and then ripped in half. For the first time, his passage through the Ether had become a fall into hell. His pain was so great that he could not think, could not breathe, could not even comprehend what thinking or breathing might be.

  And then, it was over. The split second of a usually glorious Leap had become a nightmare ended. The actual pain gone, its residual presence dug into Sam’s nerve endings with sharp-edged fingers, tearing at him with every breath, every thought.

  Sam stayed curled within the brain of his new host for a long time, not caring who, or where, or when. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to think. On the most basic level, Sam Beckett was terrified that once he did any of the three the pain would start again.

  He was right.

  CHAPTER ONE

  After an unmeasured space of time had gone by, Sam finally opened his eyes, very slowly. There was an intense throbbing in his head, but nothing to compare with what he had experienced before.

  Well, he thought, that didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it was going to.

  Sam inventoried his new body, probing for any other lingering signs of the pain he had felt during the Leap that had brought him to . . . where? A quick survey of his surroundings told him that he was not in the Waiting Room. For whatever reason he had briefly flashed there, he had left again, finding his way once again to some other time, some other body, some other problem to be solved.

  “Damn,” he cursed, anger the overriding emotion flooding his mind. “Damnit, anyway. Here we go again.”

  Sam wondered at his instinctive reaction. Sure, he often felt frustration over not being able to get back to his own life. But never before had he felt such bitterness.

  Of course, he told himself, never before had he come so close to making it back, either. He thought for a while about what possible fluctuation might have brought him back to the Waiting Room, but soon pushed the question aside. For all he knew, he had appeared in the Waiting Room a thousand times before. His memory had developed so many different holes through his various Leaps, it would not have surprised him to find out that he had only had one peaceful Leap and all the rest had been horribly painful experiences like the one he had just ridden out.

  Taking stock in his situation, Sam looked around his latest host’s room.

  Hey, I’m in bed, he thought. Now that, that is a nice change.

  Sam tried out the muscles of his new face, seeing how they felt when he smiled, deciding they molded into a smile just fine. What a blessed relief to open his eyes, for once—and not be staring out at an audience waiting for him to perform. Or in a battle zone.

  Or pregnant, he thought, stretching his arms over his head. Or—oh, hell—a chimp. He remembered those Leaps, if not the details of them.

  No, for once it was nice to just wake up like a normal guy in a normal bed in a normal room. Chuckling to himself, he stretched again, thinking that if he had to keep Leaping, this was the w
ay he wanted to do it. His mind ran back to a sudden memory—a cartoon he had seen somewhere, in his own past or some previous Leap, showing an overweight, white-mustached man lounging by the pool in workout sweats. Next to him was a tuxedo-clad butler, puffing and sweating, doing sit-ups.

  The punch line had read, “Hurry up and do those sit-ups, Jeeves. I’ve got to get into shape.”

  Yeah, thought Sam, grinning to himself. That’s the ticket. Low maintenance Leaping from now on. No muss, no fuss. No punches in the head. Just get up out of bed and go down and read the morning paper.

  Then a sudden thought struck him. What if his new host couldn’t get out of bed? What if he had no legs, or was dying, or . . .

  Pushing aside his paranoia, Sam jumped out from under the sheet and blanket, hitting the floor with a satisfying thud. He looked around the room, searching out clues to his new life. The walls were papered in a light blue print of small flowers—tasteful and reserved and not, Sam felt, the pick of his host.

  The overhead light fixture was off-the-shelf. The dresser, secondary dresser, the chair next to them, nightstand . . . all had the same thrift-shop look to them. They were well chosen, and they had all been refinished by a careful if inexpert hand. Sam sized his new self up as lower middle class, but trying.

  The room lacked all but the simplest, most basic adornments. There was a mirror and two posters on the walls—one of a country band, another of the Harley-Davidson symbol, but nothing else. No fish tank, flowers, pictures, no books. His host seemed to be a man of few belongings. The nightstand had a bargain-basement reading lamp and several magazines, but Sam noted they did not seem to be on his side of the bed. No, his side of the bed showed him only a pack of Marlboros with three cigarettes remaining and an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle.

  Huuummmmm, he thought, holding the bottle up to the window, checking to see if it was recently emptied or merely long forgotten. Spotting several wet drops still sliding freely around the inside he put his hand to his head again, concluding, This might explain my headache. Oh, boy, is it a doozy.

  Sam set the bottle back down on the floor next to the cigarettes and crossed the room to the mirror. He looked himself over, pleased with what he saw. He was a tall man; over six feet, well muscled, with broad shoulders and a thick neck.

  And not bad-looking, either. That’s a nice plus. I mean, all right, next time I’11 be a balding, one-legged dwarf with an eye patch, but this time—he smiled into the mirror, checking his straight teeth— not bad.

  Staring into the blue-gray eyes of his reflection, he flexed the muscles of one arm, then both, then ran his fingers through his shoulder-length black hair.

  “No, not bad at all.”

  Searching for something to wear, he checked the closet first. He found what appeared to be his clothes on one side and a large number of empty hangers on the other. He raised one eyebrow at the sight, wondering what would make whoever he was keep his house that way. Then he decided to worry about it after he found out who he was and what his chore was to be this time. Pulling out a pair of black jeans, he carried them with him to the large dresser. While he searched for some underwear and socks and a shirt, he talked to himself in a whisper.

  “So, who are you, buddy? And what’s your problem?

  What’s God, Time, or Whoever got in mind for me this time around? Man, you build one little Quantum Accelerator and throw yourself out into time . . . and this is the thanks you get.”

  Sam stopped, wondering at his own words. Ever since waking up in his new body, he had seemed more at odds with his Leaping than ever before.

  Pulling a pair of bikini briefs out of the dresser’s top drawer, along with a pair of socks, he said aloud,

  “Maybe it’s this headache. This Leap was worse than usual, I think.”

  Shrugging, Sam put on the briefs and socks, and then pulled his pants on. Spotting a pair of cowboy boots on the side of the dresser, he sat down on the edge of the bed and put them on as well. A part of his mind wondered if his host tucked his pant legs in or pulled them over his boots.

  This time, as so often in the past, instinct took over, and Sam found himself tucking the pant legs into the boots. He sat back, finding himself agreeing with the choice. No, he, Sam Beckett, was not one for cowboy boots, and on those occasions where he had worn them he had always preferred his pants on the outside, but this time, tucked felt just right.

  Sam stood up, noticing again the empty bottle on the floor next to the cigarettes.

  “Well,” he said, picking up the bottle, “maybe this is what made it a bad Leap.”

  He could not be certain, not with the Leaps making Swiss cheese out of his memory, but perhaps being drawn into a drunk was what had caused such severe pain this time. Maybe alcohol set up some sort of barrier that made Leaping particularly painful.

  “Could be that’s all it was—Leaping into a hangover.” If so, he hoped his host, back in the Waiting Room, had a headache to match his. Dropping the bottle into the wastebasket near the door, he said, “Well, if that is all that’s ruining my day, I won’t have to worry about it ruining any more.”

  Although, as the bottle left his fingers, Sam felt a twinge of regret run through his new body. It happened often. During almost every Leap he could feel the needs of his host crying out, struggling with him to do things in certain ways even though they were no longer present—consciously or unconsciously.

  As far as Sam knew, if he were to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth, he could probably get rid of or at least lessen the hangover still nagging his new brain. But that was the least of his problems right now. Priority one: who was he? He scanned the room again, looking for a pair of pants rolled up somewhere that might have a wallet or some other key to his identity.

  Nothing.

  Sam did not like the idea of going out into the hall without some idea of what his name was.

  Why couldn’t you have framed a birthday card someone gave you, or have won a bowling trophy, or something, huh, buddy?

  A bit of scribble on the country western poster caught Sam’s eye. Crossing the room again, he bent over and read, Best wishes from The Gallagher Gang to Ward and Betty.

  “Ward,” he whispered. “All right, Ward, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

  Betty, Sam thought. He noticed that he was wearing a wedding ring. Studying its design for a second, he added, “Yeah. Let’s go get cleaned up, meet Betty, and get this show on the road.”

  His hand on the doorknob, Sam stopped to wonder where Al was. A shard of memory flashed from his painful last Leap. It had been night. He had first entered Ward’s body at night.

  Looking around for a clock, not finding one, Sam went to the window. Sticking his head out, he looked up. He had learned to tell time during his boyhood days in the country.

  “It’s nine,” he said aloud. “At least nine. But it was dark when I Leaped in. Even, even if it was almost sunrise—I’ve been here for . .. for what? Four, five hours already.”

  Where’s Al? He’s always here by now.

  The thought unnerved Sam. Yes, Al had been late on some occasions, or had waited until Sam could talk freely. But Sam could certainly talk freely here in the bedroom by himself, and Al might have been late before, but never this late.

  At least, not that I can remember.

  And that was it, wasn’t it? That was always it. Every new Leap he had to start over from scratch, learning what he did—and didn’t—remember. Maybe it had taken Al days to reach him in the past. Maybe he had bad Leaps every time he turned around. Maybe Ward was causing problems somehow—if he really was Ward.

  Maybe Ward was the husband of some woman his host had spent the night with, and now Sam was going to have to explain his way out of another hopelessly ludicrous situation.

  He growled to himself.

  I get the idea. Leaping is tough. Well, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

  Let’s assume the best case scenario. Our name is Ward; this is
our home. We’re a pretty basic type of guy which, along with being a smoker and a drinker, means we’ve got some kind of basic problem to fix up and then we’ll be out here. So . . .

  Sam let his new fingers grip the doorknob again, letting them turn it this time. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the hall.

  Buck up, Sam, he thought. Maybe Al’s late, maybe he isn’t. Who cares? Whatever’s going on, we’ll handle it. Something will change for some guy named Ward, we’ll Leap into the next job, and that’ll be the end of it.

  Easy.

  ‘‘Right?’’ he asked the air in the hallway, answering,

  ‘‘Of course, right.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The door to the Control Room crashed open, accompanied by a dry, growling voice screaming questions.

  “What is this? I can’t take a lousy nap without this place falling apart around me? This had all better be somebody’s idea of a sick joke. That’s all it is, right?”

  Banging his way into the chamber under full steam was Admiral Al Calavicci. His usually dark eyes were darker than normal, each of them sporting bags underneath black enough to match the bushy eyebrows above.

  He had been trying to catch up on at least a few of the dozen hours of sleep he had lost over the last two months trying to keep track of Sam.

  “Just an hour,” he had pleaded. Of course, being Al Calavicci, even when he had begged for “just one little hour, sixty tiny little minutes so I can try and get my feet back under me’ ’ his gravel-shod voice had made it sound much more like an order than a plea.

  Still, he had tried so hard to sound reasonable that everyone involved had sworn they would not bother him unless there was a real need. But he had not gotten an hour. Although he had fallen asleep within twenty seconds of closing his eyes, it had only been twelve minutes before a panicking Dr. Beeks was shaking him awake.

  Al’s first reaction was to throw a fit. His nerves were certainly egging him on. Every muscle in his body was tight, almost spastic. He had missed too much sleep, drunk too much coffee, skipped too many meals, and had basically abused himself in the name of the Project.