"I was born on January 1, 1001, I was supposed to die December 14, 1040. That makes me more than 1000 years old."

Harry reached for his glass and sipped it slowly to cover his disbelief. He wondered why he had accepted the old man's invitation to dinner in the old country mansion.

"Of course, you don't believe it. Science and religion both suggest that Man has a limited lifespan. Something like 120 years."

Harry nodded his agreement. "Good brandy you have here." He sipped again, savouring the taste of the fine spirit, veering away from the subject. It wasn't like he knew the old codger, just a few chance meetings in the course of work at some meetings that were suspected of being covers for a terrorist group.

"Yes. Aged for hundreds of years in the barrel. Amazing what one can do when one has the time."

"So, you're older than Methuselah", gaining a smile from his host. "The brandy have something to do with that?"

Oops! Harry thought. That comment was a bit gauche, uncalled for, especially with the graciousness the old man was showing. He was, after all, the guest, and guests were not supposed to be nasty.

"No, but it has something to do with the brandy. I casked it myself, when the Virgin Queen died, and bottled it when her namesake took the throne."

Harry shrugged, relieved that the old man was treating the gaucheness as a joke. If asked to guess the other's age, he'd have estimated something around 70. A well-preserved 70, despite the sparse white hair, the greyed sagging skin and the careful movements. "Okay. How do you manage it? This looking like you're a well-preserved seventy or so?"

"Thank you, young man. Actually, this body is almost ninety, still a lot younger than my real age."

"Well, I hope I look as good when I'm ninety."

"Oh, you will, young fellow. You will."

Harry returned his host's smile. "And you can tell me how? Give me the secret?"

The old man chuckled. "Of course! I'll tell you now, in fact."

Harry leaned forward. In his line of work, the odds of surviving through to his nineties was difficult, if not impossible. "Do tell, old man."

As the words left his mouth, he realised that he had no idea what the old man's name was. How the hell did he get invited to such a sumptuous dinner? More, why the hell had he accepted? This was not part of his job.

"First, Harry, you have heard about the International Date line? Of course you have. And crossed it numerous times."

Harry laughed.

"Not that hoary story! You cross the line at midnight, going west, you jump over a whole day! So, you crossed the line at midnight December 13 and got to December 15, without ever being in December 14! Thus you never lived in that day! And hence your death could never happen!"

The old man smiled at him.

"Of course, but the International Date Line didn't exist in 1040! Hell! They believed the earth was flat, back then!" Harry finished.

"Not quite, Harry. First, despite the Church, many people knew the world was round. Even the Greeks knew that. And the Phoenicians knew about the day-change effect long before that." The old man stood up, and added more brandy to Harry's glass.

Harry watched him move, imagined hearing the old bones creak.

"The point is that there are places where one can straddle an imaginary line, and be in two distinct days. There are places in the South Pacific where, for a couple of hours, one can be in three different days simultaneously, and it happens every day!"

Harry felt sluggish. The brandy might be strong, but that strong? He knew his capacity for alcohol. One glass – no, a couple of sips – could not have that much of an effect, especially on top of a full meal.

"But, at the International Date Line, this is more arbitrary than actual. There are places where it happens because of the nature of the world. This house, for example, was built in such a place. It's not an everyday occurrence, though. Some years, it happens twice, most years only once, and some years not at all. Tonight is one of those times."

"Showha…" Harry caught the slurring and corrected himself. "So, what does that mean?"

With difficulty, he shook his head, attempting to clear the fuzziness in his vision. He tried to raise his glass for another sip of the excellent brandy. He frowned when his hand did not move.

"By now," continued his host, "you will be realising that you are not capable of moving. Don't worry too much. It won't last long."

He walked over to Harry, gently touching the younger man's face.

"You see, back in the eleventh century, I was an alchemist. I didn't discover the Philosopher's Stone or the Universal Solvent. But I found something that had attributes of both. It started with something like this excellent brandy. Have you ever realised why they call distilled alcohol 'spirits'? It has to do with finding the essence – the spirit – of the substance. It's about taking away the non-essentials to find the purest form of the substance. Plato's Ideals, if you will."

The old man went back to his seat.

"When you have this pure form, you can do many things. But you need the energy to affect the real world. Often, you don't have enough energy to do so. Like Galileo, you finish up knowing that, if you had a long enough lever and a fulcrum, you can move the world. "

Harry struggled against the growing numbness.

"Alcohol is an excellent solvent. It is almost the Universal Solvent we all dreamed of. But it doesn't have enough strength – energy – to dissolve everything. A Philosopher's Stone is really only a catalyst. It allows you to do something with only a fraction of the energy you actually need. So, if a well-distilled alcohol is combined with the Philosopher's Stone, it becomes the Universal Solvent."

"What… happen…" Harry managed to croak.

"Ah, yes! What's happening to you. Well, the brandy you drank has an extra ingredient. Mine too. This version of the Philosopher's Stone allows the alcohol to dissolve the spirit. Your essence. You lose control of the body. Shortly, your spirit will be free. But spirits don't like freedom, and it will look for ways to survive. It will grab another body – any physical body that has no spirit attached. But that will take time. By then, my spirit will have taken your body, so you will take this one. It's called The Crossing, if you are interested."

The host looked at his wrist watch.

"One last thing," Harry heard as he sank into unconsciousness. "Your new body will die in 10 to15 weeks, definitely in less than four months. Of natural consequences, of course. But enjoy my house while you can. You'll be willing it back to me."

#

Harry could hear his body creak as he picked up the morning's newspaper and hobbled to the breakfast table, resigned to the fact that no one would believe his story of someone switching bodies. Hell, if he was not in this old body, he wouldn't believe it himself.

It had taken three days for him to regain consciousness. Three days while the old man had been extremely busy.

He had tried calling old friends. Except for one, the new Harry had already visited them. Even mentioning little private things had not helped. Especially when he could only remember his old name, and barely describe where he was. The old man's name? He had no idea what it was, or the place where he now was.. Harry shuddered at the memory. He had sounded so crazy. It was no surprise when they had threatened to pass his calls over to the police.

The one exception had started out fine, but then the new Harry had arrived, and then came the questions he could not answer. Eventually, he had given up.

The next couple of days, he had searched through the old man's library, hoping to find some way of reversing the effects of the Crossing. He had found the notes on doing it. He just needed to find another poor sucker, get him or her to drink some of that liquor, and he'd have a new body. The only problem was that the physical conditions would not be right for about three months.

Would he survive that long?

Slowly, he read the paper. On page six, a story caught his eye. His old name was there:

"Police are investigating the shooting of Harry Simpson…"

Harry smiled. The stupid old fart had not realised that some civil service jobs create deadly enemies. Maybe, with a little bit of luck, he had enough time…

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