The time had come again. I put out the call for beta readers and this time, _this time_ I chose the metaphor more carefully. No wide-body jets this time, not after the unfortunate timing of my choice before of that venue and the coincidental release of the Airport movies. And no cruise liners either: it seemed the moment I'd thought of that, Speed 2 was advertised in the theatres and a Poseidon Adventure retrospective began playing at the local art cinema.

No, I needed something safe, non-threatening, but something to leave me in control. So I created the schoolhouse metaphor, abused wooden desks set in a circle around me, and I summoned the beta readers. True to the metaphor, they arrived in casual clothes and sporting adhesive name tags with cheery "Hi, my name is ____________" next to a cartoony red apple sticker.

I gathered the sets of my beta story in my hands, and looked over the group. As was usual, the readers were relaxed, unconcerned about their sudden appearance here. There was something familiar about this group, though, and I found myself shaking my head slightly in annoyance. Do this enough, I realized, and everyone wears colors of deja-vu.

The first reader had the lid to the desk open. For her, the metaphor apparently entailed having vast quantities of things, stuff, junk in the desk. She'd braced the lid against her head, and once I had her attention, she let the lid down a bit to mid-chest level. "Mira" was neatly penciled on her name tag. I handed her the beta sheets with a smile, but she, after a moment of casting about for a temporary home for the papers, finally set them on the floor, placed a dainty foot atop them, and continued her search in the dark recesses of the desk.

The next beta reader was lounging in his chair with an air of general amusement. He received the beta story from me with an endearing grin and twinkling eyes. I turned away as "Jerry" began to read, and noticed that the next desk had not one but two readers, squeezed in side by side at the desk's seat. There was some muffled giggling, then "Claudia" and "Bill" took a single copy of my story and began to read it together.

At the next desk the beta reader was dead to the world. I was somewhat concerned until I heard the heavy sounds of slumber. With care, I lifted the reader's head, and slid the story under, then let the story cushion his head on the desk.

I moved on to the last beta reader. This one held out his hand eagerly, pulled a pencil from his plastic-lined shirt pocket, and hunched forward at the desk peering over the page. A symphony of little grumbles, muted exclamations, and puzzled throat gurgles emanated from him.

A soft sliding of air brushed past my face. I turned to see "Jerry" standing next to his desk, my story reduced to a squadron of paper airplanes. Page 31 had been particularly flightworthy, and had flown right by me on its way out the open window. "Jerry" looked mischievous with only the slightest tinge of embarrassment. With a sigh, I sent him out to retrieve the page.

"Mira" had finished excavating the desk, and appeared to be hard at work over the story. Unfortunately, the story was printed on one side of the paper only, and here "Mira" was at work on the blank sides of the sheets, creating some brilliant but completely unrelated art. I smiled at her, not wanting to put a damper on her enjoyment. Well, maybe one of the other--

--the two buddy beta readers had their heads together, hiding behind two sheets they held up side by side like a book. An explosion of giggles erupted, then with a single cry, they chorused "He was NEKKID!" and then their laughter pealed forth in unison. Slowly their laughter died away, then four eyes peeked up over the tops of the pages, and seeing me, the eyes and the heads they belonged to submerged below the cover of the beta pages. I could see in my mind's eye the highlighting of all the juicy passages, could hear their clandestine hisses as they repeated the risque sentences to each other, punctuating the phrases with elbows to the other's ribs.

The eager beaver of the bunch was now nowhere to be seen, but had left his copy of the beta story turned over on the desk, with a neat "Done!" scrawled diagonally across the page, and a smiley face in the dot at the bottom of the exclamation point. I turned the story over, and glanced through the comments, which consisted chiefly of cheerful exclamation points, the occasional cryptic "huh?", and a number of stick horses drawn in the margins of the pages. There was no indication of whether he'd liked the story or not, but I noted with a rueful grin that "Bruce" had printed his name at the top of each and every page.

In exasperation I sent them all back. I added to my armload of stick horse-decorated beta the beta with the dainty footprint and artwork, the paper fighter squadron, and the neon-highlighted giggle-fest beta. All that remained was the copy of the beta from the one who had slept through it all.

But apparently he hadn't. The pages were out of order, and the top page bore a note in hurried pencil scratches:

"It's good, but it needs more--"

and the next word was gone, having been inscribed on a weak spot in the paper where the snoozing beta reader had drooled. The shredded edges of the hole and the gray of the graphite was all that remained of his advice, save for his closing

"Hope this helps. Best, Joe"

I held up the page and looked at the lights through the damp hole in the paper. With resignation, I set the rest of the beta copies on the desk, and stacked this last one on top. There was a momentary change in air pressure, then with as much warning, my surroundings changed. Gone was the schoolhouse: in its place was an oaken table bearing guttering candles, the room's light opposed by heavy draped fabric nailed at the window frames, and regarding me with satisfaction a slight, bearded man dressed in hand-worked velvet and closeweave.

On the table, lit by the playful shimmer of the candles, was a manuscript. I nodded agreeably at my host, and took a seat at the table to begin my work. It was involved, intricate work, and I made corrections and notes as legibly as I could with the pen and ink. When the last flourish and turn was dry, I handed the manuscript to my host, who was clearly overcome with anticipation.

His reaction was not long in coming. At first a frown, then deeply knitted eyebrows, then thunder clouded his face. The look in his eyes was so sorrowful, it wrung a smile of apology from me.

"What is the meaning of this?! Every note is a correction, an indication of error. Did you not appreciate the poetry, the depth, the drama?" he pleaded.

I shook my head. It was plain he didn't understand, but I rather suspected he would, with time.

"You should have expected this, after all, you did call me here. It's good, I found it a pleasant read but--" I smiled to soften the blow that was coming.

"--I come to beta Caesar, not to praise him."

With Beta'ed Breath © 1997 Cathy Faye Rudolph