A/N: With my fandom time as limited as it is, I wasn't sure when or if I'd write another Voyagers! story. But after I read Michael Davis's Street Gang, this plot bunny hatched, and resistance proved futile. Chronology-wise, this tale probably falls in between "Make a Joyful Noise" and "A Stitch in Time"; mood-wise, it has more in common with the former.

Disclaimer: Phineas Bogg and Jeffrey Jones belong to Scholastic Productions, James D. Parriott Productions, and Universal-MCA Entertainment.

"When I was young, my ambition was to be one of the people who made a difference in this world. My hope is to leave the world a little better for having been there."

--James Maury Henson (1936-1990)

A DIFFERENCE IN THIS WORLD

New York, May 1969

Flipping open the Omni, Phineas Bogg noted the blinking red light without surprise, then glanced at the street sign. "East 53rd. Look familiar, kid?" he appealed to his partner.

Jeffrey Jones frowned as he took in their surroundings. "Not really, Bogg. Looks like a lot of office buildings to me." He paused, considering. "Maybe someone important works here?"

"Hard to imagine, but I guess it's possible." Bogg regarded the unassuming structures above them without enthusiasm. "Should we just pick one and go--OOF!"

He broke off with a grunt as something slammed into him with the force of a battering ram. Despite his size, he rocked back on his heels, fighting for balance as frantic arms encircled his neck.

"Oh, gosh, mister--I'm so sorry!" a breathless female voice exclaimed.

Regaining his balance, Bogg looked down at the culprit--a petite blonde, perhaps in her late teens, wearing a jacket with some kind of commercial logo over her blouse and mini-skirt.

"No harm done," the Voyager began, but the girl rushed on, the words tumbling pell-mell from her lips. "I was trying to rush my delivery, and I didn't look where I was going, and then my heel broke--"

Jeffrey rolled his eyes, and Bogg could almost see the thought flashing through the boy's head: what kind of idiot wears heels to run errands?

"Oh my God!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "My bag! Where did it go?"

"It landed over there." Jeffrey retrieved the bag--a large, brown paper one, heavy with what was probably someone's lunch--and looked it over before holding it out to her. "Seems to be okay."

"Thanks." Accepting the bag, the girl took a step back and gave a sharp cry of pain, drawing up one foot beneath her like a stork. "My ankle!"

Bogg reached out to steady her and she clutched gratefully at his arm. "Can you put any weight on it?" he asked.

She tried it, winced, and shook her head. "I must've twisted it when my heel broke." Near tears, she gazed up at the building directly in front of them. "Oh, I'll never make it up those stairs--or even to the elevator! What am I going to do?"

Jeffrey glanced at Bogg, a pushover when it came to damsels in distress, and saw that his partner was already melting like an ice cream cone in the sun. He stifled a sigh. "Why don't you let me make the delivery and bring you back the money? Bogg can stay here with you, and then we'll get you a cab to take you home--or wherever."

"Great idea, kid," Bogg approved.

Teary blue eyes turned in Jeffrey's direction. "You'd do that for me?"

"Sure." The girl might justify every blonde joke Jeffrey had ever heard, but there was no reason not to help her out; that was what Voyagers did, after all. "Who's the delivery for?"

The blonde sniffled, getting herself back under control. "Mr. Henson. At the Muppet Workshop."

"Henson?" Jeffrey echoed sharply, feeling a pulse of excitement at her disclosure; he was aware of Bogg's curious glance in his direction.

The girl nodded. "He eats at our deli sometimes. He's a really good tipper," she added, rather wistfully.

"Um, yeah." Jeffrey's mind was racing. 1969 . . . that must mean . . . he caught his breath, made himself ask casually, "So, what floor is he on?"

--xxx--

Smaller than he'd expected, but every inch of the workshop seemed to burst with color and promise. Wide-eyed, Jeffrey gazed at the icons of his childhood, immortalized in foam and fleece, ready to spring to life at a skilled touch or voice. In the midst of this chaos sat a dark-haired man with a thick mustache, setting tiny stitches in the head of a puppet. A puppet who looked startlingly familiar.

Jeffrey stopped in his tracks, his gaze riveted to the puppet's head, all bright green felt and protuberant eyes, like the halves of a ping-pong ball. And yet those eyes were disconcertingly lifelike: Saturn-shaped pupils seemed to stare back, even smile at him . . .

The mustached man glanced up from his task. "Looking for someone, kid?" His voice was deep and kind.

"Oh . . ." Recalled to his purpose, Jeffrey held up the paper bag. "I got a delivery here for Mr. Henson?"

"He's in the back room." The man nodded towards the door behind him, which stood slightly ajar.

"Thanks." Jeffrey ducked his head and made for the door. Stepping over the threshold, he once more came to a stop at the scene before him.

Two tall, thin men--one bearded, one wearing thick glasses--stood before a mirrored wall, operating two large hand puppets and studying their reflections intently. After a moment, the man with glasses lowered his right arm and turned, frowning, to his companion. "I don't know, Jim. This doesn't seem to be working." He gestured with his free hand towards the puppet on his right arm--a short, rotund creation with orange "skin" and a shock of black hair that seemed to grow in all directions. "I'm not getting a good sense of him yet. Maybe we should try something else."

The bearded man laid a forefinger against his lips, made a low, considering sound in his throat. "Hmmm. What did you have in mind, Frank?"

"Maybe we could try Ernie here with Kermit?" Frank suggested. "Or Bert with Cookie Monster?"

"Hmmm," Jim repeated--and this time, the sound carried a trace of dissatisfaction. "I don't know, Frank. Don conceived of these two as a set." He lifted his own arm, studied the skinny yellow puppet whose hair stuck straight up like the bristles of a brush. "I'd hate to break them up before we've found a way to make it work--"

"We've got company," Frank interrupted, gesturing at Jeffrey's reflection behind them in the glass.

As one, the puppeteers turned toward the door and Jeffrey found himself on the receiving end of two appraising stares. Though neither gaze was unfriendly, he felt his cheeks grow warm beneath their scrutiny.

Jim spoke first, his voice oddly soft for so tall a man. "Can I help you, son?"

Jeffrey swallowed. What did one say in the presence of a genius, even a gentle, unassuming one? "Um, I brought your lunch," he offered, holding up the bag again. "From the deli?"

The two men relaxed visibly, even smiling at him. "Why don't we take a break, Frank?" Jim suggested, stripping the puppet off his arm and tossing it into a nearby box. "We can try again after lunch. How much do I owe you?" he asked Jeffrey,

To Jeffrey's relief, the receipt was stapled to the bag. Handing the whole thing to Jim, he waited as the puppeteers rummaged through their wallets for payment; Jim was a good tipper, he observed---just as the girl had said. And Frank wasn't stingy either.

But there was something else that had to be done, as he now knew. Mustering up all his tact, he began, "I couldn't help noticing what you were doing--with the puppets."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim traded a glance with Frank--the way he and Bogg sometimes did, Jeffrey thought. Partners, no question about it. "Do you, uh, like puppet shows?"

Jeffrey nodded, glad that he didn't have to feign enthusiasm in this case. "Oh, yeah--they're great! In fact, I think most kids like 'em."

Jim unwrapped his sandwich, his gaze intent on Jeffrey. "Do you think they'll like Bert and Ernie here?" he asked, gesturing towards the two abandoned puppets.

"They won't if we don't find them a personality soon," Frank muttered, picking up his own sandwich.

"Sure. They look really colorful--and fun," Jeffrey replied. "Only . . ." he hesitated, choosing his words with care. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but--have you tried switching parts?"

--xxx--

The kid should've been back by now, Bogg thought, stepping out of the stairwell. Annoyance warred with concern as he strode down the corridor; they still had a red light and no idea what was causing it. What if something had happened to Jeff . . . no, he wasn't going to think like that. But he lengthened his stride all the same until he came to the right door.

Muppet Workshop. And just what the hell was a "muppet" anyway? Bogg wondered.

The first room he entered was full of puppets--staring at him from open boxes and drawers. Their vacant eyes and slack mouths gave Bogg the creeps, kind of; he looked away as best he could. A man with a mustache, stitching away at something green with bulgy eyes, pointed him towards a second room when he asked if a kid with curly black hair had come through.

Sure enough, there was his partner, standing just inside the door, his back to Bogg. Relieved--and consequently even more annoyed, the older Voyager opened his mouth to scold . . . until he saw the tension in Jeffrey's frame, the slight, forward lean of his body. The kid was in "working mode"; after two years Bogg recognized the signs.

Something was happening here, something important. Closing his mouth, Bogg followed his partner's gaze--and felt his bewilderment increase when all he saw was two men operating hand puppets in front of a mirror.

The bearded guy closest to Jeff raised his right arm, covered entirely by a large orange puppet with bushy black hair. "Heyyyy, Bert," he remarked, working the puppet's wide, grinning mouth in tandem with the words. "Your nose is on crooked." He reached out with the puppet's left hand, plucked the bulbous red nose from the second puppet's face.

"By doze!" The other puppet, operated by a man with glasses, protested loudly and nasally. "Erdie, give be back by doze!"

"Erdie" lifted his left hand, pilfered nose and all, to his mouth and snickered gleefully. "Hee-hee-hee."

The man with glasses turned to the bearded guy. "What do you think, Jim?" he asked, in what Bogg assumed was his normal voice.

The bearded man frowned slightly. "I think--I feel more comfortable this way, Frank," he replied, his own voice dropping in volume and sliding down about half an octave.

"Then that's how we'll do it, from now on." Frank turned to Jeffrey. "Thanks, kid."

Jim smiled at the boy. "That was a good suggestion."

Jeffrey smiled back. "Just a thought I had."

Bogg cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the other three. "Ready to go, Jeff?" he asked pointedly.

"Um, sure, Bogg." Jeffrey turned back briefly to the bearded puppeteer. "Good luck with your show, Mr. Henson! Mr. Oz," he added, nodding towards the man with glasses.

The two men smiled, making the puppets wave goodbye as the Voyagers left the room. The mustached man, now attaching eyeballs to what looked like a pile of bright blue fleece, gave them a brief nod as they exited the workshop.

"So, where's the blonde?" Jeffrey asked as they headed for the stairs.

"Suzanne? Down in the lobby--I thought she'd be more comfortable waiting there."

"Suzanne, huh?" the boy remarked, with what was almost a smirk.

"Knock it off, kid--I don't rob the cradle. She's scarcely older than you." Though that hadn't prevented her from batting her eyes at him in a most alarming fashion, Bogg remembered uncomfortably. He'd been almost relieved when Jeffrey's delay in returning had given him an excuse to go upstairs. Speaking of which . . . "Want to tell me what was going on back there?"

The boy's dark eyes glinted triumphantly. "Check the Omni," was all he said.

Bogg frowned but flipped open the device. "Hey, green light!" His frown deepened. "Wait a minute--you mean, this was all about a couple of guys playing with puppets?"

"They're not just any puppets," Jeffrey corrected. "They're Bert and Ernie, the famous puppet team!"

"Bert and Ernie," Bogg echoed, mystified. "They anything like Punch and Judy?"

"Kind of. Only smarter--and maybe a little less violent." Jeffrey started down the stairs just ahead of his partner. "Jim Henson--the guy with the beard--is supposed to be Ernie," he explained. "And his partner, Frank Oz, does Bert. Except they had it the wrong way around when I came in, so I helped them get it straightened out. They'd probably have figured it out themselves soon enough, but at least they'll be playing the right parts for sure when Sesame Street starts shooting."

"What's Sesame Street?"

Jeffrey gave him a disbelieving stare. "C'mon, Bogg--Sesame Street? It's the greatest children's show of all time!"

Bogg raised his brows. "Exaggerating things a bit, aren't you, kid?"

"No, I'm not," Jeffrey said staunchly. "Sesame Street's gonna be huge, Bogg. It'll change the way whole generations of kids learn their letters and numbers. Including me," he added, with a grin that seemed to light up the dim stairwell. "I grew up watching Sesame Street. Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, Kermit the Frog--they're old friends."

"Kermit the Frog . . . was that the funny-looking green thing with the eyes?"

Jeffrey laughed. "Yup! He's probably Jim Henson's most famous creation. I did an oral report on the Muppets once, for social studies."

Bogg sighed. "Mind telling me exactly what a 'Muppet' is?"

"Oh!" The boy grinned again. "Sorry! It's a combination of 'marionette' and 'puppet.' That's what all of Jim's puppets are called--he came up with the name himself."

"Jim, huh?" Bogg teased.

Jeffrey flushed but looked only slightly embarrassed. "He's a really nice guy, Bogg. And he goes on to do some incredible stuff--not just Sesame Street!"

Bogg regarded his partner with amused affection; he enjoyed seeing the kid get excited like this. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Why don't we go down and give Suzanne her money?" Jeffrey suggested, his eyes still aglow. "And then--I can show you some Muppet magic."

--xxx--

New York, March 1970

"Ab-ca-def-gi-jeckle-mi-nop-kwer-stoov-wix-iz! It's the most remarkable word I've ever seen. Ab-ca-def-gi-jeckle-mi-nop-kwer-stoov-wix-iz! I wish I knew exactly what I mean . . ."

"Hair is a part of you. It is not a part of me, because I am a frog . . ."

"I knew it was a pie, but who wants to be hit in the face with a number four?"

A reluctant laugh puffed out from between Bogg's lips. "Okay, kid--I'm convinced," he remarked, turning away from the TV set in the window. "Sort of. At least it's a more interesting way to learn than just memorizing things."

"Sure is," Jeffrey agreed. "I know I found it easier, anyway. But this is just the beginning. Kermit the Frog gets his own variety show in a few years--well, along with a bunch of other Muppets. Miss Piggy, Fozzie Bear, the Great Gonzo . . . I used to watch The Muppet Show every Saturday night with my folks. It ran for five seasons."

"Five seasons?" Bogg echoed; he had a hard time imagining a puppet show lasting even one. Especially at night.

"Yup. It only went off the air so Jim could concentrate on making movies instead. And I think there might've been a new TV show in the works too, though I never saw it."

"Did you see any of the movies?"

Jeffrey nodded. "He'd made two of them by the time I started Voyaging. You got to see the Muppets riding bikes, driving cars, even sky-diving--it was awesome."

"Sounds like it," Bogg conceded. "This Jim Henson must be a pretty talented guy."

"He's a lot more than that," Jeffrey informed him earnestly. "He's a genius, Bogg. The kind of person who can change the world!"

A guy who plays with puppets, changing the world? The thought made Bogg smile, despite his skepticism. "Whatever you say, kid," he replied, slinging an arm around his partner's shoulders and leading him away down the street . . .

--xxx--

London, 1981

"Thank you all for coming. I thought now that The Muppet Show has finished, we could discuss our next project."

Jim paused, studying the faces around the table: some alert, some still showing the effects of last night's wrap party, but all curious, even expectant. With a brief glance at Michael Frith, he pushed forward the first sketches they had made over the last few months.

"I want to do a show that will promote world peace . . ."

END

Dedicated to the minds, hearts, and talents behind Sesame Street, especially the late Jim Henson, Muppet Master, and Don Sahlin, Muppet designer.