The Year's Best Science Fiction : Tenth Annual Collection

THEYEAR'S BESTSCIENCE FICTION TENTH ANNUAL COLLECTION

ALSO BY GARDNER DOZO$ Anthologies A Day in the Life AnotherWorld BestScienceFiction Storiesof the Year, Sixth Annual Collection BestScienceFictionStoriesof the Year,SeventhAnnualCollection BestScienceFictionStoriesof the Year,Eighth AnnualCollection FictionStoriesof theYear,Ninth AnnualCollection BestScience FictionStoriesof the Year,Tenth AnnualCollection BestScience ScienceFictionMagazine The Bestof lsaacAsimov's Asimoy'sScienceFictionMagazine lsaac Time-Travellers from ScienceFictionMagazine Talesfrom IsaacAsimov's Transcendental IsaacAsimov'sSF Life IsaacAsimov'sPlanet Earth (with SheilaWilliams) lsaac Asimov'sRobofs(with Sheila Williams) The Year's BestScienceFiction, First Annual Collection The Year'sBest ScienceFiction, SecondAnnual Collection The Year'sBest ScienceFiction, Third Annual Collection TheYear's Best ScienceFiction, Fourth Annual Collection TheYeais Besf scienceFiction, Fifth Annual collection The Year'sBesf ScienceFiction, Sixth Annual Collection TheYear's Best ScienceFiction, SeventhAnnual Collection The Year'sBest ScienceFiction, Eighth Annual Collection TheYeafs Best scienceFiction, Ninth Annual collection Future Earths: L|nder African Sfties(with Mike Reslick) Future Earths: Under Soufft American Sfties(with Mike Resnick) (wit[ ]ack Da11) Future Power(with fack Danp) Sorcerers! Demons!(with fack Dann) Aliens!(with JackDann) Dogtales!(with |ack Daln) I)nicorns! (with JackDanl) Rtpper! (with Susal Casper) (with Darur) Magicats! fack (with fack Dann) Seaserpents! Danr-r) (with 2 Migicats fack (with Dinosaurs! (with Dann) fack Dann) Bestiary! fack (with People! Little Danl) (with fack Daln) Mermaidsl fack

IsaacAsimov's Aliens lsaac Asimov'sMars

Fictiort Strangers The Yisible Man (collection) Nightmare B/ue (with George Alec Effinger) S/Jw Dancing ThroughTime (with JackDann, Michael Swanwick, SusanCasperand lack C. HaldenranII) The Peacemaker G eodesicDreams (collection) Nonfiction The Fiction of lames TiPtree, lr'

THEYEARS BESTSCIENCE FICTION TENTH ANNUAL COLLECTION

GardnerDozois,Editor

ST.MARTIN'SPRESS

NEWYORK

For my ClarionWestClasses, the Classof 19BB and the C/assof 1992.

CopyrightO I99l by GardnerDozois. coLLECrIoN. ANNUAL FrcrroN:TENTH scrENcE BEST THEynAR'S Printedin the United Statesof America.No part of this bookmay be usedor All rightsreserved. exceptin the caseof briefquotawithoutwrittenpermission ,.prJ,r".d in any mannerwhatsoever St. Martin'sPress,175Fifth address information, For or reviews. articles in critical tionsembodied Avenue,New York,N.Y. 10010. CatalogCard Number:85-645716 Libraryof Congress ISSN:0743-1740 FirstEdition:fune 1993 10987654)2r -8 0-i lZ-0917+ Paperback -X Hardcover0-3lZ-09427

Acknowledgment is madefor permission to print the followingmaterial: "Criffin'sEgg,"by MichaelSwanwick.Copyright@ 1990by MichaelSwanwick.Firstpublishedin GreatBritainin l99l by RandomCenturyCroup. Reprintedby permission of RandomHouseUK Limited and St. Martin'sPress. "Eventhe Queen,"by ConnieWillis. Copyright@ 1992by DavisPublications, Inc. Firstpublished in lsaacAsimov'sScienceFiction Magazine,April 1992.Reprintedby permissionof the author. "The Round-Eyed Barbarians," by L. Sprague deCamp.CopyrightCI 1992by L. Sprague deCamp. Firstpublishedin AmazingStories,fanuary1992.Reprintedby permission of the author. "Dust," by Greg Egan. Copyright@ 1992by DavisPublications,Inc. First publishedin lsaac Asimov'sScienceFictionMagazine,fuly 1992.Reprintedby permission of the author. "Two GuysfromtheFuture,"byTerryBisson.CopyrightO 1992byOmni Publications International Ltd. Firstpublishedin Omni, August1992.Reprinted by permission of the authorandthe author's agent,SusanAnn Protter. "The Mountainto Mohammed,"by NancyKress.Copyright@ 1992byDavisPublications, Inc. Firstpublishedin IsaccAsimov's Science FictionMagazine,April 1992.Reprintedby permission of the author. "The Comingof Vertumnus,"by lan Watson.CopyrightO 1992by lnterzone.Firstpublishedin lnterzone,February1992.Reprintedby permission of the autl-ror. "A Long Night'sVigil at the Temple," by RobertSilverberg. Copyright@ l99Z by Agberg,Ltd. Firstpubfishedin AfterThe King(Tor). Reprintedby permission of the author. "The Hammerof Cod," byArthurC. Clarke.Copyright@ 1992byArthurC. Clarke.Firstpublished in Time,Fall 1992.Reprintedby permission of theauthor'sagents,ScottMeredithLiteraryAgency, Inc., 845Third Avenue,New York,N.Y. 10022. "Crownups,"by lan R. Macleod. Copyright@ 1992by DavisPublications, Inc. Firstpublishedin lsaacAsimov's Science FictionMagazine,f une 1992.Reprintedby permissiolof the ,uiho, andthe author'sagents,OwlswickLiteraryAgency. "Graves,"by foe Haldernan.Copyrighto 1992by MercuryPress,Inc. First publish ed in The Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction,October/November 1992.Reprintedby permission of the author. "The Glowing Cloud," by StevenUtley. Copyright@ 1992by Davis Publications, Inc. First publishedin lsaacAsimov'sScience FictionMagazine,fanuary1992.Repriptedby permissionof the author. "Gravity's Angel," by Tom Maddox. Copyright @ 1992 by Omni Publicatio's I'ternational Ltd. First published in Omni, November 1992. Reprint d by permission of the author. "Protection," by Maureen F. McHugh. Copyright @ 1992by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Isaac Asimov's ScienceFiction Magazine, April 1992. Reprinted by permissiop of the author. "The ["ast Cardinal Bird in Tennessee,"by Neal Barrett, fr. Copyright O 1990 by Artists Writing For Film, Ltd. First published in Slightty OffCenter (Swan Press),October 1992. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Birth Day," by Robert Reed. Copyright @ 1992 by Mercury Press, I1c. First publishedinThe Magazine of Fantasy & ScienceFiction, fune 1992.

"NamingNames,"by PatCadigan.CopyrightO 1992by PatCadigan.Firstpublishedirr Narrow of the author. by permissiorr House(Little, BrownUK).Reprinted "The Elvis NationalTheaterof Okinawa,"by |onathanLethemand Lukasfaeger.Copyright@ by in In Dreams(Gollancz).Reprinted 1992byfonathanlethem and Lukas]aeger.Firstprrblished permission of the authors. ,,TheTerritoryi'by BradleyDenton.CopyrightO 1992by MercuryPress,Itrc. Firstpublishedin of the author' Fiction,)uly 1992.Reprintedby pen-nission TheMagazineof Fantasy& Science "The Bestand the Restof famesfoyce,"by lan McDonald.Copyright@ 1992by lnterzone.First of the author. publishedin lnterzone,April 1992.Reprintedby permission ,,Namingthe Flowers,"by KateWilhelm. CopyrightO 1992by KateWilhelm. Firstpublishedby of the author. AxolotlPress.Reprintedby permission ,,Srodgrass," by lan R. Macleod. CopyrightO 1992by lan R. Macleod. First publishedin In OwlswickLiterary of theauthorandtheattthor'sageuts, by permissiorr Dreair(Collancz).Reprinted Agency. ,,Bythe Mirror of My Youth," by KatheKoja. Copyright@)l99Z by RobertSilverberg and Karen and the author of the pernrission by (Bantanr). Reprinted 2 Haber. First publis6edin llniverse 10022' author'sageni,ScottMeredithLitcraryAgency,Inc., 845Third Avenuc,New York,N'Y' ,.out'urnberirg the Dead,"by FrederikPohl.Copyright@ 1990by FrederikPohl. Firstpublished of RandomHouse i' GreatBritainin l99l by RandomCenturyGroup. Reprintedby pernrission UK Limitedand St. Martin'sPress.

CONTENTS

lx

Acknowledgments Summation: 1992

xi I

Michael Swanwick

GntpprN'sEcc

Connie Willis EvnN run QunnN L. Spraguede Camp THe RouND-EyEDBensenhNs Dusr

Greg Egan Terry Bisson

Two Guvs FRoMTHE FuruRE Tue MoUNTAINro MoUIMMED

Nancy Kress Ian Watson

THs CoN,rrNcoF VuRruN,INus

A [,oNc Ntcst's Vtcu- AT THE TnN{pt-s

Arthur C. Clarke

THE HeN,runnor Goo GnowNups

Robert Silverberg

Ian R. Macleod

Gnavss foe Haldeman THn GlowrNG CLoUD Steven Utley Gnevrrv's ANcm Pnorncrlox

Tom Maddox

Maureen F. McHugh

Tun Lesr CenplNel Brno lN TeNNnsssn Bmru Dev

Neal Barrett, ]r.

Robert Reed

Neurruc Neuns

Pat Cadigan

THn Ervrs NerroNel THserER oF Oxmewe Bradley Denton

THn Bssr ANDrHE RBsr or Jaues Jovcn NeurNc rHB Fr-ownns Kate Wilhelm SNoocness lan R. MacLeod By rsa Mrnnon op My YourH OurNuunERrNc rse Deeo Honorable Mentions

lan McDonald

Kathe Koia

Frederik Pohl

r27 r37 175 195 205 738 245 296 312 7+6 357 ]67

fonathan Lethem

and Lukas faeger THs TnnnIToRY

67. 76 87 ll3

390 394 432 4+8 +91 5 tI 519 583

[-

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The editorwouldlike to thankthe follorvingpeoplefor theirhelpandsupport: firstand foremost,SusanCasper,for doingrnu.h of the thankjess scuf*ork involvedin producingthisanthology;MichaelSwanwick ,lanetKagan,Ellen Datlow, Virginia Kidd, Sheila Williams, Ian Randal'Strock,"Scott L. Towner, Tina Lee, D:vid ?ringle, KristineKathrynRusch,Dean Wesley Smith, Pat cadigan, David S. Garnett,charles c. Ryan, chuq von Rospach, SusanAllison, Ginjer Buchanan,Lou Aronica,BetsyMitchell, Beth Meacham,claire Eddy, David G. Hartwell, Bob walters, TessKissinger, Jim Frenkel,Greg Egan, stevePasechnick, SusanAnn protter,Lawrence Person,Dwight Brown, Chris Reed,Dirk Strasser, Michael Sumbera,Glen Cox, Darrell Schweitzer,Don Keller, RobertKillheffer, Greg Cox, and specialthanksto my own editor,Gordon Van Gelder. Tlrarrls are also due to CharlesN. Brown, whose magazineLocus(Locus Publications, P.o. Box 13305,oakland, cA 9466t, $s"o.oofor a one-year subscription via firstclassmail, $1g.00secondclas) *r, us.d ,, ltwelve_issues] a referencesourcethroughoutthe Summation,and to Andrewporter,whose magazine ScienceFictionChronicle(Science FictionChronicle,P.O. BoxZ730, Blooklyn,NY I 1202-0056,$30.00for a one-yearsubscription itr.lu. isues]; $36.00first class)wasalsousedas a referencesourcethroughout.

SUMMATION: 1992

This was a low-key, low-energyyear,for the most part, a recessionyear with a siegementality firmly in place, gray, grim, unsnriling-and yet, it seemsto me that many people were a little more gloomy and pessimisticthan was actually justified by the year'sevents. Yes, things of ill olnen happened in 1992-there were major corporate shakeupsand cutbacksat Bantam and at PulphousePublishing, for instance, with unadmittedbuying slowdownsor freezesclearlyin placeat other publishing houses,and there may be worse to come. Some book editor, *.r. firecl, oI participatedin the usual game of Editorial Musical Chairs, with former Roc editor John Silbersackmoving to Wanrer, for instance,former Wanrer editor BriarrThomsen moving to TSR, former BantameditorArny Stoutgoing to Roc, and former Ace editor PeterHeck going from Ace back to editinglhe Waldelbooks SF newsletter.For the first tinre in severalyears,the overall pumber of booksin the relatedSF/fantasy/horror genresdid not increase,and even bega' io creep back a little. Money was generallytight this year, and maly mid-list writers were forced to takepart-time or full-time jobs-if they could fi1d themin order to make ends meet. Fewer writersand editorswent to corrventionsarrd professional gatherings,aud when they did go, they werc more likely to spc'cl tSeir time glumly sitting around discussinghow depressing everythingwas. And yet, certainly things could have been a lot worse.The American SF publishing industry l-rasyet to be hit with thc kind of really najor aud crippli'g collapsethat afflictedBritish SF publishingin l99l (although,of coursc,it coul
xii

Summation: 1992

the late sixties),the year'santhologieswere rather weak, and overall it wasn't a terribly good year for short fiction in general (although so many storiesnow appear in the field annually, hundreds and hundreds of them, that even in a weak year there'sstill more than enough good storiesamong the chaff to fill a volume of this size easily), or for genre movies either (although it wcs a fairly strongyear for novels). Still, as someonewho's been assemblingBest of the Year antholo'gies,and Summations,since 1976,1can assureyou that sciencefictior-rhasseena number industrypeopledid seemto be gloomof considerablyworseyears.Nevertheless, ier than usual this year, perhapsgloomierthan tl-reyought to have been realistically. Perhapsit was the fact that severalof the most beloved figures in the field died this year, including lsaac Asimov and Fritz Leiber; perhapsit was the deepeningof the nationwide recessiongenerally,throughout 1992, or the Los Angeles riots, or the Presidentialelections, about which many people were right up until they heatedup at last, almost to November. Whatever depressed it was, severalcommentatorswere predictingthe imminent death of the science fiction genrethis year, ir-rarticlesin semiprozinesand fauzines,in lettersand in Even postingson the electroniccomputernetworks,and in privatecouversations. gloomy cautionary wrote a sort, fairly optimistic usually a Hartwell, David G. editorial for The New York Reviewof ScienceFiction, warning that becauseof the increasingdilution of the form, "science fiction could end this decade. Maybe it will. Maybe it (already)has." The coming death of sciencefiction was also predictedhere and there by CharlesPlatt, Barry Malzberg, and others. A bit of historical perspectivemay be in order here, since, as with so much else that happensin the SF publishing world, we have been through all this before. By the beginningof the 1960s,for instance,afterthe furor and excitementof the Golcxy-era aestheticrevolution of the mid-1950shad begun to die away, had settled after the inflationary postwarSF boom had gone bust ar-rda recessiot't many magazines, in over the SF publishing industry, wiping out dozensof SF a dismal as fifties beganto perceivethe SF world of the late fansand professioirals place, in Robert Silverberg'swords, "a kind of fallen empire that had collapsed into eerie provirrcialdecay." For the first time since the middle of the thirties (just prior io fohn W. Campbell's takeoverof Astounding),it became possible to eniertainseriouslythe thought that SF might havereachedthe end of its string and be or-rits way to extinction. Many critics and commentatorswere worried and increasinglyglum over what they perceivedas the suddendearth of worthwhile SF, a1d the proliferation of "watered-down"r'ronkosherSF (including fantasy"masquerading"as SF), and it is probablysignificantthat the_winr-rerof the fanzir',. Htrgo for 196l was a symposiumwith the title Who Killed Science Fiction? Was sciencefiction dead, or dYirrg? With hildsight, it is easyto see that it was not. A great deal of good work, and even -,r.h evolutionarilysignificantwork, was publishedthroughout the early sixties,right through this supposedlydry and sterileperiod-the bulk of Cordwainer Smith's work, for instance,the best of |ack Vance's short work,

Summation: | 992

' I

incandescentlystrangework by Philip K. Dick apd f.G. Ballard, as well as importantwork by Poul Andersorr,Algis Budrys,Edgarpangborn,Avram Davidson, Richard McKenna, TheodoreSturgeon,and dore,lsof others.Most of the new writerswho would soon be the starsof the New Wave revolution-samuel R. Delany, Roger zelazny, ursula K. Le Guin, Keith Roberts, foanna Russ, Norman Spinrad, Kate wilhelm, Thomas M. Disch, fohn Slad.k, ,nd many others-h ad already startedtheir careersby the early sixties,and were busily toiling awayin obscurity,attractingas yet little or no attention.And many older writers who were consideredat the time to be "burnt out" can be seen irr retrospectto have insteadbeen within a few yearsof a revitalizilg surge of new creativeenergy. And yet, or-reof the most common perceptionsof this period at the time was that SF was in de.cline,a long, slow dwindling-awayinto gray mediocrity, the ferociousfiresof the early yearsof the fifties.ooli1rgi,rto ash-a.d the evidence to the contrary seemedto registeron few. We went through this whole thing again some yearslater, i1 the middle and late seventies,in a low-energyrecessionary period following the creative excitementof the New Wave revolution of the mid-sixties,when once again commentatorswere shakingtheir headssolemnly over tfie immi'e't demiseof sciencefiction, scholarlyarticleswere being *ritt.r, explainingwhy it was All Over, and some writers (among many otheri who were o/ro pl.ri-rged ilto gloom and despairin thosedays. . . for someveryrealreasons,it shouldbe emphisired) were making a big public show of "gettingout" of sciencefiction, renouncilg a failing gerlre for greenerarrd lucrative pastureselswhere.(Nearly all"of .more them were working in the field againby the beiinning of the new decade,if ,rot before')This wastlreoreticallyarrotherdry and sterile"periocl in SF-a1d yet, as David G' Hartwell notesin an article about the seventiesin the Decemberl99l issue of The l'lew York Reviewof ScienceFiction (and as other conrmentators havepoi[rtedout), a tremettdousamount of good work *r, proJuced during this "sterile" period, by writersas variousas pohl,"MiJamesTiptree, /r., Frederik -toanna chael Bishop, Ursula K. Le Guin, Gene wolfe, John' vra"y, Russ, Robert Silverberg,Brian W. Aldiss,and dozensof others.As is'usually the case irr these episodesof postcoital tristethat inevitably seem to follow periods of compacted"revolutionary"aestheticfuror, the evijence for SF's stateof health would againbe viewedwith a very-selective eye. As I pointed out at the time, ilr severalof the "Best" anthologiesfrom the laie seventies,if you lookedaround carefully, you could see, even then, the seedsbeing planted tl-ratwould soorr bloom into a new period of energyand expansionand creative excitement. Amd now, in the wakeof the "Cyberpunk" revolution,and in a recessionary p.::d following a boom, we're goi.g tirrough it all agaii-r.More o, l"rr. No, history does not repeat itseli in tidy one-to-one analogues;there are important differencesbetweer-r each of those historicalsituatiorrl,especiallyas far as the mechalricsof the SF publishingworld are concenred, differe,rcesthat are too complicatedto get irtto in detail in the spacepermitted here-apd yet, I really feel that, in general,the pattenrholds. Of course,this can be disrnissed asrnerelya belief onmy part, somethipgthat

xiv

Summation: 1992

I takeon faith 2lens-211d yet, I can look around me, right here, right now, and clearlyseethe seedsbeing plantedthat are going to blossomin the yearsahead. There are new writers out there right now who are going to be the Big Names of the nineties-hell, the Big Namesof the first part of the Zlst century, for that matter. Someof them may be in this book. Someof them haveyet to be noticed. Some of them have probablynot even made their first saleyet. But they're out there. kid Right now, even as you read thesewords, there'ssome sixteer-r-year-old out there somewherereadingsomethingthat is blowing l-rim or her away, sitting somewherewith a book or a story graspedtightly in sweatyfiugers, eyesbulging out of his or her head, going "Wow! Wow! Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!", andthat kid, whoeuerhe or she may be, is going to be the key figure, or one of them, in the next high-energycreative"revolution" to hit sciencefictior-r.What that revolution will consistof, I don't know, although ['d be willing to bet that Cyberpunk will be one of the elementsthat is sweptinto the meld, iust as the New Wave was one of the elementsthat went into the meld for tl-recreation of Cyberpunk. I may not like it, or evenrecognizeit-few old fart editorsmaintain their ieceptivity or credibility through more than one such revolutionaryupheaval, ,r-,d I'u. alreadybeen through at leasttwo of them. But it's out there. And so is that kid in ttre grubby T-shirt, reading until the room grows too dark to seethe page,becausehe or she can't bear to breakaway loug enough to get up and turn on the light' It was a gtayand somewhatglum year in the magazinemarket, although there were some elcouraging sig1s, and even a couple of pote'tial successstories. the U.like 1991, it was a iehiiuely quiet year-most of the maior changesin of beginning the or of l99l end the by place magazinemarket were alreadyin of their out working of the beginning the year is tgiZ, a.d what we've seenthis is still out otr whetherthe overall the fficts. . . although,in somecases, iury we may have to wait until rrext aud effectof t6e .h..f., is positiveor negative, (or later) to know for sure. year ' Magazine saleswere down almost acrossthe board in all of the established (rrotjust SF/fantasy *"grrTr-,.s, ilcludin gOmni, asthe magazinefield in general the effects of the witfi titl;, or even fiction magazines)coniilued to struggle had the recession,which d..p.,',.J throughoutmost of 1992.Amazing probably saw its rnonthly worst year, as its first full year as a large-sizedslick-format year, according last circ'latiop plummet disastrously,down 61.6 percentsirrce a largeto the newsmagazine Locus;this must particularly hurt Amazing, since magazine, sizedmagazineis so much more costlyto produce than a digest-sized by the spring so tlrat.*p.,-,r., are probably risingas salesdecline. Nevertheless, accordirrg them, of 1993,parent.o*ir.y tSR *m rtill conrmittedto supporting dramatically irrcrease to editor Kim Mohr,l, *ho remainsconfidentthat saleswill in the business, this year. Amazing is probablythe best-/ooftingSF magazine format, but new in its ,',d yo,r'd think th"atit'would do well on the newsstands is awfuldistribution its the problem may be that very few people se-eit there; York, for New or in Philadelphia it's almost impossibleto find on newsstands

Summation: 1992 instance;or at leastI haven't been able to find it in thoseplaces,and I've beer-r lookirrg. It was recently announced that Amazing has signed on with a new natiorral distributor, which will distribute the magazinesiarting with its April 1993 issue,and maybe that will help; let's keep ou, fi,rger,.ros]s.dfor them. Aboriginal SF also continued to strugglethroughout1gg1, as did pulphouse: A Fiction Magazine. Aboriginal SI skippedtheir Spring IggZ issue,and only publishedthree issuesthis year, althoughthey were large-"double"issues-they are now scheduledto produce four quarterly"doublei issuesa year; fir-rancial considerations alsoforcedthem to drop the useof color for their iriterior illustrations, and their circulationcontinuedto decline.As I reportedlastyear, Aboriginal SF had laid off their paid staff(all work is now beingio,l. by voiunteerlabor) and applied to the IRS for nonprofit statusin order to enable the magazine to continue to publish, but that statrr-s still has not yet been approved,,,l-d it *ry well be that the magazine'ssurvivaldependson what the IRS'ultimately decides to do. Money problemsalso hit PulphousePublishinghard this year, causing the carrcellationof many of their proiects,and affectir-tgPulphouse:A Fiction Magazineas well. Last year, editor Dean WesleySmith had been forced to give up on his ambitiousbut unrealisticoriginal plan to publishPulphouse ^, ^ *uikly magazine,and had changedthe publicationscheduleto a more feasible one of publicationeveryfour weeks,closerto the monthly schedulethat is the industry standard-unfortunately, probablybecauseof the upheavalsat pulphousepublishing, Pulphouse:A Fiction Magazine was publishld extremely er'raticallythis year' managingto produceonly six of their scheduledthirteenissues, at irregular irrtervals;if they can't steadydown.to a reliablepublication schedule this ir r, they may be in trouble, but the Pulphousep.opi. are planning to devotemore of -their energiesto the magazine now thai many of their oih., projec* are defunct or scaleddown, so we'll see. Money troublesalsocaused Weird Talu to publish only two issues this year, and to change format with the secondissueio a full-sizl rtaplebound format from a somewhatsmallerperfectboundformat. This change*ry up helping Weird Talesconsiderably,sir"rce "na issuesin this format ,r. ,nu.h i.r, .*p.nsive to produce (therebyincreasingthe magazine'sprofitabiliry)and bookstJrechai's will carry it in its new size,where they wouli not carry it at its former size . which, of course, may help its chancesof being dispiayed, ar-rd,therefore,of being bought. omni, which went through , ,r,rrriu" internal ,"oig n r tion last year and moved its production facilities to North Carolina, als]ochanged its format slightly, going from perfectbound to staplebound-the good news is that this makesthe magazineconsiderably to produce(es[eciallyas its productionhas been consolidatedwith that "h.rp., of anothergeneralmedia magazine, Compute)' which increasesits profitability;the bcd news is that much of the graphic styleand fl-airthat typified the old omni has been lost in the process(the magazinenow looks almost exactlyrtke compute, perhaps not rrrrpriir,gly), and sincemuch of the upscaleappealof Omni dependedon the ,ophirti.rtion of its graphicsand the slicknessof its whole ut:y"_li'look" (it was thi chicthing to be seenreadingon the Metroliner, in the old days),it remains to be seenwhat the overall effect of all this will be on sales.oini also starteda new original

xvi

Summation:1992

anthology seriesthis year, which we discussbelow irt tl-rcoriginal anthology section. At the beginning of 1992, Analogand IsaacAsimov'sScienceF iction Magazine (alo1gwith two mysterymagazines,all formerlybelongingto DavisPublications) were"soldto Dell Magazines,part of the Batrtam Doubleday Dell Publishing In NovemBertelsmatlt't. Group, which is a part of the inten'rationalconsortir.rm (which, for "relaunched" new logos with b.r, tir.y *ere ,edesignedslightly and Science Asimov's tns;fm, included a name change-or alteration, arlyway-to Fic,tion),ald in early 1993they changededitorial officesand editorial addresses, as Dell Magaziles moved irrto a huge new office tower in Manhattan, along with Balt.*, D.ll, Doubleday, and all the other (formerly) far-flur-rgpiecesof the BertelsmannAmericanempire.The editorialstaffsof both magaziuesremain intact, however, and so far other charrgesl'ravebeen minor. Circulation was down somewhatfor both AnalogandAsimov'sScienceFiction in 1992,but Dell and greatly Magaziles is putting into action a massivepush for trew subscriptions ilcreasedlewsstald display,and next yearwe'll begin to seewhat effectthis has. Circulation was also down slightly at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, 18.6 percent,accordingto Locus,but not enough to offsetcompletely lastyear'sgaii incirculation of 10.9 percent,leavirrgit still in bettershapethan some it h;d b"e,-,in 1990.The tragicdeath of IsaacAsimov in 1992con-rpelled Benford and Gregory Sterling Bruce with F&SF, for columnists i1 cha'ges Review takin! over the sciencecolumn on a rotatingbasis;later, lopgtime Book will be (see a1d below), magazine ow1 his start to left Budrys colurlnist Algis editor New Card. scott Orsou and Kessel by basis |ohn replacedor-r, rotating editor lorrgtime from year last reins the over took who Kiirtir-,. Kathryn R,rslh, first-rate a be doing to seems iob aud in r-ricely, settling Ed Ferman, seemsto be Yes)' year-appareltly, last "Can fronr it?" do she (to answerthe cries of The British magazile Interzonecompletedits secoudfull year as a monthly percer-rt' publication. CircJatiol was down somewhat,by approximatelyl5 quality-in literary of terms in year solid another ,ltho.,gh the magazinehad and fact,Iiterzone irln. of the bestsciencefiction magazinesavailabletoday, work' quality find to places certainly one of the most reliable startedin 1992, and one of them, a large-sizefullTwo new SF magazir-res had one color magazine called ScienceFiction foe, editedby Scott Edelma', memory' recent in magazile SF of the most successfullaunchesof a1y new 100,000with achieving,accordingto one estimate,a circulation of more than has high Age-it Fiction Science its first isi,re. There Is obviouslymoney behind advertisupscale of the kind is attracting froduction values,is very slick-looking, prominent lots of getting been has lrs that rarely bother witir SF magazines,atrd bookstore rackdisplay,displayedright ,rp .,.r, the cashregisterin many national produce, to magazi'e expe.sive chains; on'the ;th.t hrid, ii must be a very magazine digest a than iust which meansthey needa higher level of profitability on out magazitle a keep to indeed to break even, and it takes very deep pockets ten dollars as much as often displayin thosechoice racksnear the cashregister, about per register per store,which can run ilto real money wften you're talking

Summation: 1992 the big bookstorecl'rainswith thousandsof franchisesnationwide. So far, the gamble seemsto be paying off for Scienceh-iction Age, artdif they can manage to establishthemselvessolidly beforetheir money runs out, they may become one of the most promineut and widely read SF magazinesof the nineties-it is still too early to tell, though, with only tl-rreeissuesout to date; we may well have to wait until next year, or even longer, to determine the real outcome. Still, this could be the startof an important new market, in a field that can use all the short-fiction marketsit can possiblyget. [t's way too early to get any definite feel for the editorial personalityof ScienceFiction fue, especrallysince this is somethir-rg which often evolvesand mutatesover time anywiy; ro iar, the issueshave beelr split equally betweenfiction and nonfiction, which is a little too much nonfiction for my tastes-but hey, for all anyoneknows, it could be the nonfiction that'sselling the magazine!It's just too early to tell. The other new magazineis Tomorrow,a considerablylessupscaleoperation (not attractingmany advertisers, so far, or gettingany kind of natior-raldistribution), editedby Algis Budrys.Tomorrowpublishedone issuelate in IggZ, but it wasdated 1993-which for us pushesany considerationof materialfrom it ir-rto next year. It's had a rocky launch so far; it startedout being published by PulphousePublishing,but Budrysbought it frorn them late in 1907,and intends to publish it himself, although there will be a delay of severalmonths between the first issueand the secor-rd.Unlike ScienceFiction Age, there'sclearly not a lot of money behind Tomorrow-but don't discount it; Budrys is a canny a1d experiencededitor, and may well end up doing somevery interestilgthingswith this magazine,if it survives.At any rate, I wish it well, too-as I s"fr above,the field can use all the short-fictionmarketsit can get. As most of you probablyknow, I, GardrrerDozois, am also the editor of a prominent SF magazine, Asimov'sScienceFiction And that, as I've me'tio'ed before, doesposea problem for me in compiling this summation, particularly the magazine-by-magazine review that follows. Ai the editor of Asimiv's,I could be said to have a vestedinterest in the magazine'ssuccess,so that anythi'g negativeI said about another SF magazine(particularlyanother digest-sizeJ magazine,my direct competition),could be perceivedasan attempttoLake my own magazinelook good by tearingdown the competition. A*aie of this constraint, I've decidedthat nobodycan complain if I only saypositivethings about the competition . . . and so, once again, ['ve limited -yr.lf to a listilg Lf ,o*. of the worthwhile authorspublishedby each. Omni publishedgood fictiorrthis yearby Terry Bisson,Tom Maddox, Harlan Ellison, Poul Anderson,Howard Waldrop, fonathanCarroll and others. Omni,s fiction editor is Ellen Datlow. The Magazine of Fantasy & ScienceFiction featured good work by Bradley Denton, foe Haldeman,RobertReed,Stevenutley, Marc Laidlaw, pat cadigan, PaulJ. McAuley, Lisa Mason,Terry Bisson,and oihers.F&SF's editoris Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Asimov'sScienceFiction publishedgood work by Michael Swanwick,Connie willis, Maureen F. McHugh, Nancy Kress, Mike Resnick, pat badigan,

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Summation: 1992

FrederikPohl, Mary Rosenblum,PamelaSargent,Lucius Shepard,Greg Egan, Tony Daniel, Ian R. Macleod, and others. Asimov'sSF's editor is Gardrrer Dozois. Analog featuredgood work by GeoffreyA. Landis, Vonda N. Mclntyre, G. David Nordley, William E. Cochrane,Dean Mclaughlin, Brian C. Coad, Ben Bova, and others. Analog'slongtime editor is StanleySchmidt. Amazingfeaturedgoodwork by L. Spraguede Camp, PamelaSargetrt,Phillip C. fennings,Ursula K. Le Guin, Brian Stableford,Avrant Davidson,and others. Amazing'seditor is Kim Mohan. lnterzone published good work by Greg Egan, Ian McDonald, Gwenyth |ones, Eugene Byrne, lan Macleod, Diane Mapes, Lawreuce Watt-Evans, Kinr StarrleyRobinson,David Langford,and others.Interzone'seditor is David Pringle. Aboriginal ScienceFiction featuredgood work by Patricia Anthony, Gregory 'fhe editor Belford, RichardK. Lyon, Wendy Wheeler, famil Nasir, and others. of Aboriginal ScienceFiction is CharlesC. Ryan. WeirdTalespublishedgoodwork by S.P. Somtow,Tanith Lee, Avram Davidson, F. Paul Wilson, and others. WeirdTales'seditorsare George H. Scithers and Darrell Schweitzer. Pulphouse:A Fiction Magazine publisl-redgood work by Kathe Koia, Parke Godwip, S.A. Stolnack,Suzy McKee Chanras,Tim Sullivan, fanet Kagan, Amy Bechtel, and others. Pulphouse:A Fiction Magazine's editor was Dean Wesley Smith, but he is now acting as publisherand the editor is fonatharrE. Bond. ScienceFiction Age publishedonly one issucthis year, but it containedgood work by Paul Di Filippo, Don Webb, and others. ScienceFiction Ne's editor is Scott Edelman. As usual, short SF corrtinuedto appearitr matry magazinesoutside genre boundaries. Playboy in particular continuesto run a good deal of SF, under fiction editor Alice K. Tumer; this year they featuredgood work by Robert Silverberg,Lucius Shepard,and fohn Varley, among others. startedearly in 1993,a hip (perhapstoo magazir-re An interestingassociational so) large-formatnational magazirrecalled Wired, which seems self-consciously to be devotedto exploringcutting-edgenew techuologies,especiallycomputer networks,electronic media, and Virtual Reality. Although there's no science fictiop as such publishedhere, the magazinehas a definite "Cyberpunk" feel to it, and the debit issuenot only featuresan article by Bruce Sterling about the future of military technology,it alsousesa blown-up photoof Bruce'sfaceas its cover image!In spiteof being so "creatively"Iaid out and typesetasto be nearly unreadabl. in rpotr, Wired is supposedlydoing quite well in initial sales,and may be a success. (subscription addresses follow for those magazineshardestto find on the s: The Magazine of Fantasy & ScienceFiction, Mercury Press,[nc., newsstand Box 56, Cornwall, CT 06753,annual subscription-lZ issues-$26 in U'S'; Asimoy'sscienceFiction, Dell MagazinesFiction Group, P.O. Box 51J3, HarInterzone,2lTPrestonDrove, Brighlan, [A, 515%-513],$34.95for l3 issues;

Summation: | 992

xtx

ton BNI 6FL, United Kingdom, $52 for an airmail one year-I2 issuessubscription;Analog, Dell MagazinesFiction Group, P.O. Box j137, Harlan, IA, 51593-5131, Pulphouse: $14.95for l3 issues; AFictionMagazine, p.o. Box lzz7, Eugene,oR 97440, $19 per year (13 issues)in US; AboriginalScience Fiction, P.o. Box 2449, Woburn, MA 01888-0849,$18 for 4 issuesin US; Weird Tales, Terminus PublishingCompar.ry,P.O. Box I3418, philadelphia, PA l9l0l-3+L8, $16 for 4 issuesin US; Tomorrow,'fhe Unifont Company, lnc., Box 6018, Evanston,LL60204, $18 for 6 issuesin US.) lt was a bad year in the semiprozinemarket, which continuesto contract, with more magazineslost this year in addition to thc magazineslost /asf year. Michael G. Adkisson'sNew Pathwaysseemsto I'ravefinally diecl,or at leasi['ve seenno new issuefrom them siucethe one I reviewedherelastyear.The eclectic ForbiddenLines went from bimonthly to quarterlysonretimeduring 1992, and StevePasechnick's promisingStrangePlasmaonly publishedone issuethis year, and there are rumors that it is about to go under as well. The entertainingNoya F'xpress-editedby LawrencePerson,Glen Cox, and Dwight Brbwn-publirh.d no issuesduring 1992,althoughthey did producean issue iust beforepresstime in early 1993. ScienceFiction Reviewevidentlyhas died, as I'raslniquities.A1 issueof Whisperswas again promisedfor this year, and once again failed to appear.Grue, 2 tu, Deathrealm, Weirdbook,Midnight Graffiti and ,f alesof the Unanticipatedall producedonly sir-rgle issuesthis year. Doug Fratz'seuantum (formerlythe long-runningThrust)announcedthat it woulcl."rr.,, ,,.r i-i,ld"p",ldent publication in 1992and mergewith ScienceFiction Eye, which itselftnly publishedone issuethis year (although another issuedid come out soon after the beginningof 1993);allegedly,there is still one giant final issueof euantum yet to come. And Marion Zimmer Bradley'sFantasyMagazine renrailed unimpressivein quality. On the (somewhat)more positiveside, there continuesto be a lively British semiprozinescene,with severaleclecticmagazinessuchasBBR, Nexus,Strange Attractor, Scheherazade, Exuberdnce,and a number of othcrsstrugglingeitSer to be born or to stayalive long enoughto producealother irr.,.-*ljll seehow the dust has settledby next year;some of thesernagazinesare quite likely to be alreadydefunct.There'san interestingCanadianmagazile callei On Specw6ich seemsfairly reliably establisl-red and which ha, proJ.,cedsome irrtercsti.gwork this year, and two worthwhile Australir,', nng", ines, Aurealis and Eidolon. CemeteryDance seemsto have establishcditself as the most promi'e't of t5e horror semiprozines,and is now readilyavailableon many laige ,rewssta'ds. ClrarlesN. Browr-r's Locusand Andy Porter'sScienceFictionChronicleremain your best bet among the semiprozinesif you are lookilg for news a'd/or an overviewof what'shappeningin the genrc. StepfiepP. Browl's ScienceFiction Eye and The New York Reviewof ScienceFiction (whosecditorial staff ir-rcludes David G' Hartwell, Donald G. Keller, Robert Killheffer, and Gordon Van Gelder)arethe mostfun to readof the criticalzines,the m
Summation: | 992

istheDamon criticalzine onceagainthisyear.Anotherinteresting issueschedule year. this Knight-edrtedMonad, whch put out its secondedition (Locus,l.ocusPublications, Inc., P.O. Box 1730r,Oakland,CA94661,$]8 for subscription,l2 issues;ScienceFictionChronicle,Algol a one-yearsecond-class $3J P.O. Box 2730,Brooklyn,NY I1202-0016, Press, $27for one year,12issues, 8217l,angportTerrace, firstclass;Quantum(formerlyThrust),ThrustPublications, Box 185J9, ScienceFictionEye,P.O. MD 20877,$7 for 3 issues; Gaithersburg, P.O. Box MGA Services, fuheville,NC 28814,$10for oneyear;NewPathways, NovaExprws,White subscription; 861994,Plano,TX 75086-7994, $25for 6-issue (4P.O. Box 27231,Austin,TX78755-2271, $10for a one-year Car Publications, StrangePlasma,EdgewoodPress,P.O. Box 7&, Cambridge, issue)subscription; MA 02218,$8 for 3 issues;Aurenlis:The AustralianMagazineof Fantasyand P.O. Box 538, Mt. Waverley,Victoria Fiction,ChimaeraPublications, Science "all moneyordersfor subscription, 3l+9, Australia,$24 for a 4-issue(quarterly) shouldbe in Aushaliandollars";BBR,P.O. Box625, Shefsubscriptions overseas of Science TheNewYorkReview fieldSl JGY, UnitedKingdom,$18for 4 issues; NY 10570,$25peryear;CemeP.O. Box78, Pleasantville, Fiction,DragonPress, MD 210+0,$15 for 4 P.o. Box 858, Edgewood, teryDance,CD Publications, issues(one year),$25 for 8 issues(two years);Crue Magazine,Hells Kitchen Box J70, Times SquareStation,New York, NY 10108,$13 for l Productions, one Midnight Craffiti, P.O. Box 2146,YuccaValley,CA 92286-2545, issues; Station, lake Street Box 80J6, P.O. yearfor 919.95;Talesof the Unanticifuted, P.O. Eidolon,EidolonPublications, MN 55408,$10for threeissues; Minneapolis, (Australian)for 4 issues overseas, 6006, $34 Box775,Nodh Perth,WestemAushalia P.O.Box23,ChapelHill, NC 27514, ForbiddenLines, to RichardScriven; payable Box 1727,Eugene,OR Publishing, (oneyear);Monad,Pulphouse $tZ fot 4 issues issues.) four or $18for 97440,$5 for singleissues werefewoutright weakyearfor originalanthologies-there This wasa generally of stinkers,but euenmost of the bestoriginalanthologies 1992were a bit lackluster,with few reallyfirst-ratestories. (Jniverse for instance,the secondvolumein the new 2 (BantamSpectra), (acontinuation of TerryCarr's editedby KarenHaberandRobertSilverberg series lUniverse to 1990's compared disappointing is somewhat series) oldUniverse (with the but money, this is still a solid anthology,and a goodbuy for the in it are stories exceptionof the KatheKoja storyreprintedhere)none of the or few bad with stuff, . . . entertaining,yes,goodsolidsecond-rank exceptional first-class evenmediocrestoriesamongthem, but with nothingthat'sreallyof quality,either;goodworkhereby foeHaldeman'Tony Daniel,Clrolyn Gilman, PaulaM.y, andothers.NewWorlds2(Gollancz), famil Nrrir, DeborahWessell, ih. r".o.,d volumein the new Britishanthologyserieseditedby DavidGarnett, andall the moredisapweakerthanlastyear'sdebutanthology, is considerably Aswith anthology. wassuchan outstanding l99l's NewWorlds pointingbecause UniverJe2, there'snothing reallyfirst-ratehere,althoughNew Worlds2 does featuregoodworkby lan McDonald,fackDeighton,StephenBaxter,andothers. 2, though,which at leastmaintainsan eventoneand a solid Unlike (Jniverse

Summation: 1992 averagelevel, there is a good deal of weakwork i1 New Worlds2, ardsome stuff that is iust plain bad-t certainly could have done without the two piecesby Warwick Colvin fnr. (which I gatheris an in- joke pseudor-rym for one of the old I"lew Worlds insiders),for instance,severalof the other sioriesare annoyi.gly self-conscious and pretentious,and, with spaceat such a premium in an anthology which is only issuedonce a year (and which at the moment is Britain'sonly continuing SF anthologyseries),I can't help but wonder if it wasn't a mistake to devote so much of that space to two long outlines for never-to-be-written novels by the late Philip K. Dick; they're interesting,but I would rather have seenthe spaceutilized for new stories,especiallyas there are so few professional British marketsfor short fiction thesedays. Let's hope thesetwo very irnportant anthologyseriesget back on track and producestrongervolumes next time ,1sund-esfecially f'lew worlds. What Might Have Been Volume 4: Alternaie Americas(Bantam Spectra), edited by Gregory Benford ar-rdMartin H. Greenberg,was somewhat weaker than previousvolumeshave been, perhapsbecausethe theme for this one is too specialized(for the most part, it's a de facto Alternate Columbus anthology), and, as a result, too many of the storiesare too similar to each other; still, a worthwhile anthologyfor the money, containingstrongwork, both original and reprint, from L. spraguede camp, pamela Sarge't, Robert Silverberg, A.A. Attanasio' Sheila Finch, and others.There *"r. t*o issuesof promising a new seriesof mixed original and reprint anthologiesout this year, Omni BestScience Fiction One and Omni Best ScienceFictioi Two, both from Omni Books, and both edited by Ellen Datlow-Volume One contains good original work by RobertSilverberg,I.R. Dunn, Bruce McAllister, Elizabeti n. r-ytr-", others; Volume Two containsgood original work from Lucius Shepard,pat",-,d Cadigan, Maggie Flinn, ElizabethHand, and others,and there is gooi reprint work frorn Omni in each volume. L. Ron Hubbard PresentsWriteri of the'Future Volume vIII (Bridge),editedby Algis Budrysa'd Davewolverton, was, asusual,appren_ tice, work by people who may-or may not-one clay be writing at a really professionallevel,but,who mostly are not as yet. Responding to riy statement here last year that his synergyseriesseemedto be d.rd, G.or!. z.bro*rki tells me that the seriesis nof dead, but will be publish.d o,-, irr.g,rtar basis, ",:-, whenever he's assembledenough worthwhile rnaterial;there 16 i1o issue of Synergyout this year, for the secondyear in a row. The long-promised last edition of the Pulphousehardbackanthologyseries,Pulphouse Twelve, didn,t appe.ar this year either, and is now being promisedfor sornetimein ]gg3. There was a somewhatupscalethrred-world anthology this year:Murasaki (Bantam Spectra),edited by Robert Silverberg.There is excellelt rnaterial ir-r Murasaki, by such people as Nancy Kress,Foul Ancrersol, cr.g B.rr, and others,but for once the cover line, 'ta novel in six parts," is accurate-none of the sectionsis really independentenough from the others to stand on its ow' feet as an individual story, which is wh/ you find none of thenr repriptedhere; this book-novel, althology, whateverit is-contains some first-rateSF ideas a'd extrapolation,though, a'd is well worth a look. Other shared-worldanthologiesthis year included: Tales of Riverworld(War-

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Summation:1992

ner Questar), edited by Philip fosd Farmer ar-rdMartin H. Greenberg;WiId editedby GeorgeR. R. Martin; WiIdCards: CardiXl: Dealer'sChoice(Bantam), "Book One of a New Series"),editedby George Card Sharks(Bantam-listed as R. R. Martin; The Further Adventuresof Batman 2: Featuring the Penguin (Bantam Spectra),editedby Martin H. Greenberg;andThe Crafters,BookTwo (Ace), edited by Christopher Stasheffand Bill Fawcett. of the yearis probaTurning to the non-seriesanthologies,the bestar-rthology bly AlternatePresidents(Tor), edited by Mike Resrrick,a strong mixed reprintand-originalanthologyfeaturingexcellentwork by Pat Cadigarr,Eileen Gunn, Shwartz, LawrencePerson, fudith Moffett, fack Chalker, fanet Kagan, Susan Resnick,is also a strong Mike (Tor), by edited Kennedys Alternate s. other and Pat Cadigan, Barry N. Gerrold, David by good work very althology-featuring himself, and othersResnick DiChario, A. Nicholas Kress, Nancy Malzbei!, Might Have Been What afflicted that thing the same from bit a but it ,,rff.6 yolume 4: the theme is specializedenough-much more specializedthan in Alternate Presidents-thaimar-ryof the storiesare too similar to each other, and othersare driven to ratherdubious extremesin order to try to avoid doing what everyoneelseis doing ("SupposeJFK and his brothersformed a rock group and ,".r. th. big hits of the decadeinsteadof the Beatles?").Also unlike Alternate presidents, *hi.h wassolidly SF for the most part, there is a rathercurious vein of fantasythat runs throughout this volume, wherein writers mix fFK and the and other Kennedyswith stanJardgenremermaids/leprechauns/wizards/druids, it does although successful, often not and queasy, so on-the result is rather give one the uncomfortable feeling (perhaps-not unintentionally on Resnick's figure, no lessrare and fabulous iart) that |FK himself is now a mythological solidly and centrallywith the work that thal a unicorn. I preferthe storieshere fortunately, happsnsd-3nd, have kind of AlternateHistory that actuallymight arrthology. worthwhile very a this they make up the bulk of the book, and make away (DAW)' moves Resnick'sother 1992sciencefiction anthology,Whatdunifs of the many with field, the of fron-rAlternate History and closer to the ceuter far by is it also unfortunately, but, storiesdealingwith aliensand distantworlds, various is that here gimmick the the weakesto1Resnick'sarrthologiesthis year; Resnick authorswrite sciencefiction mysterystoriesfrom plot ideasprovided by few very but to them, out himself, solvingthe mystery,..nrrios that he throws are here stories the of most of the writers rise adequateiyto the challeuge, and is the better Much at bestcompetent,maicingfor a rather lacklusteranthology' and Kim British antlrologyIn Dreims (Gollancz), edited by Paul J. McAuley words, other Newrnan.This anthology"in celebratiorrof the 7-inch single"-in 'n stories-also roll for the most part, it's a"collection of SF and fantasyrock and containsseveralstoriesthat wander so suffersa bit from overspecialization, anthology far off the ostensibletheme that they might just aswell be in someother first-rate a Macleod, R. Ia' altogether, but it also featuresa brillia.t story by Ia' McDo'ald, by good work a.d irp. Uv fonathan Lethem a'd Lukas faeger, Stephen Baxter, among others' and Tuttle, Lisa Egan, Greg Shiner, Lewis "griii rlt anthology wasa m ixed sci ence fi ction/fantasy/horror/ Another interesting edited by Peter suspenseantholoiy called Narrow Houses (Little Brown),

Summation: 1992

xxiii

Crowther, which featuredexcellentto good work by Pat Cadigan, Brian Stableford, Ian McDonald, Ian Watsorr,and others.The IJltimate-Dinosaur(Bantam Spectra),editedby Byron Preissand RobertSilverberg,is a handsomebook, but, like most of thesebig glossyByron Preisscoffee-tablevolumes, it's more notable for the lavish artworkand the nonfiction articlesincluded than for the fiction, althoughthereis goodwork hereby connie willis, L. spraguede camp, Paul Preuss,and others. Ark of lce (PottersfieldPress),edited Uy drt.y Choy.L, is this year'sonly "regional" SF anthol ogy (Future Bostonhas still not come out), a mixed reprint/originalanthologythat purportsto be "Canadian Futurefic1ien"-25 usual with such anthologies,the rationalefor selectingcertain stories here is sometimesratherweak,but many of the storiesare interes=ting, including phyllis Gotlieb, Eileen K.r,irghrn, good work by Garfield Reeves-stevens, ,nj others,and I enioyedit. ['m afraid I can't say the samething for the most part about Abortion stories: Fiction on Fire (MinRef press),editeldby Rick Lawler, but the maiority of the storieshere are not very good, and a f.r ,r. both offensive and not very good, of the deliberatelyoffensivewatch-me-eat-my-own-snot variety. There was also an interesting -mixed original/reprint anthology calledLife Among the Asteroids(Ace), edited by Jerry pournelle with fohn F]'crrr. Unusually-and encouragingly-there were severalstrong original fantasy anthologiesthis year. The strongest,and one of the strongestof tfrJ year in any genre (and certainly the lggZ) wis After th".e -strongestG,reenberganthology King: Storiesin Honor of/.R.R. Tolkien (Toi), edited6y "t Martin i{. Gr..nberg. ['m surethat many Tolkien fanswho bought this weredisappointed to find none of the familiar Tolkien charctersor settingsor plot materialsused herein, but ignoringthe whole I.R.R. Tolkien connection(which you might as well, since it is subiectiveto the point of being invisible), this is an intJresting and very eclectic book that spansa wide range of different kindsof fantasyjrnd .u.n includes a sciencefiction story or trvo;the bestwork here is by Robert Silverberg, fohn Brunner, Emma Bull, GregoryBenford,fudith Tarr, 'i'.rry pratchett,and Jane Yolen, among others. Another good fantasyanthology, ,o-.rhat more specializedin theme than After the Kng but also showing a fairly wide range of moods and attacks, is Grcils: Questi, Visitations, and Other Occurrences (Unnameable Press),edited by Richard Gilliam, Martin H. Greenberg,and Edward E. Kramer; not surprisingly,it's mostly Arthurian fr"t ryTuoly Grail Quest stuff here, but the tone variesnicely, ,o-.times quite widely, from "nj story to story-there's good work here by Neil Gaiman, S. p. Somtow, pat Cadigan, Lee Hoftnan, Robert Sampson,Gene Wolfe, Iiarl Edward Wagner, and others.Aladdin: Master of the Lamp (DAW), edited by Mike Resnickand Martin H' Creenbergalsohassome interestinghigir spots, aithough it may suffer more from uniformity of tone than Grcilr (ril.a!t most of the stories areshort: 4J storiespackedinto a llr-page book); there'sgood work here by Maureen F. McHugh, SusanCa,sW1,pat Cadigan, fudith frrr, fane yolen, fanet Kagan, Beth Meacham, and others. Arso interestingwere: c'hristmas n^ii.ri rDAw), edited by Rosalind and Hrtirtin H. Greenberg; The Magic of ,y..Greenberg christmas (Roc), edited by John Silbersackand christopher schelling; and Dragon Fantastic (DAW), edited by Rosalind M. Gre.r,L.rg and Martin H.

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Summation: 1992

Greenberg.Startingin 1991, there will be an annual original fantasyanthology seriescalled Xanadu, from Tor, edited by Jane Yolen, something I also find quite encouraging.(There were alsoa couple of British fantasyanthologiesedited by Brian Stabiefordthat I was unable to find this year; I'll catch up with them next year.) I'm not following the horror field as closelyas I usedto, sinceit's now being coveredby three separateBestof the Year anthologies,but there the big original anthologiesseemto have beenMetaHonor (Dell Abyss),editedby Dennis Etchison, a *i*ed original/reprintanthologycalled MidnightCroffiti(Warner), edited by jessicaHorsting tt d ;ttn.s Van Hise, and Sti// Dead (Ziesing), edited by fohn Skipp and Craig SPector. This seemedto be a pretty strong year for novels, as far as literary quality is concerned,althoughthe overallnumber of novelspublisheddeclinedsomewhat as publishing cutbacksbeganto take hold, and will probablydecline further in the future. According to Locus,there was an overall 8 percent decreasein the number of books pr.tblirh.d in 1992, with mass-marketpaperbacksdown 16 down a whopping 19 percent; percent, and mass-marketpaperback-originals small-pressmarket is actually the while irrd.ou., numbers remained-steady, publishedlast year(down novels SF new 2J9 were there growing. Lacusestimates of 281), 278 new estimate 1990's from even frorn l99t's estimateof J08, and of 301), and 185 year's estimate last (down from slightly fantasynovelspublished in the horror cutbacks of in spite year's new horror novels (the same as last have been novels horror adult market- Locuspoints out, though, that although These slack)' the up taking proliferated, cut back, yo,rlg-adult horror nou.lr have af science number the that b. ,]r.d-rnd have been-to demonstrate figures "rn is in steadydecline, with their rack spacebeing eaten uP by fantasy fiZtionbooks and horror novels,but tirereis a bit of subiectivitybuilt into the figures,depending fiction nsvsl-svery yeal' there are a on what you chooseto define as a science are f.* ,,ou.is listed as "fantasy" for which a case could be made that they well! as versa vice probably "actually" science fiction instead . . . and very Nevertheless,slice that as you may' the fact remains that, in spite of cutbacks' science there were still almost 700 new novelspublished this year in the related overwere that fiction/fantasy/horrorgenres, not even counting those novels some under looked (as inevitably Jome alwaysare), or which were published Ballot, other aestheticheading altogether(there is a novel on this year'sNebula about word a for instance, that was[ublished completely out of genre, wlthgut probably sciencefiction being mentioned on iti dust iacket, and which therefore 'only" 700 isn't included in th".r. figures).But even if we acceptthe figure-of 200 * new new novels, even if we iestricted ourselvesto considering iust the for impossible sciencefiction novels alone, it has obviously become iust about I reading any one individual to read and evaluateaII of them. With all of the have don't I have to do at shorter lengths for Asimov'sand for this anthology, to pretendhere the time to read all the ,,o-u.I,anymore' and I'm not going to try that I have done so-in fact, I haven't even come close. that of the So, then, as usual, I am going to limit myselfhere to mentioning

Summationz 1992 novelsI didhave time to read,I most enjoyed:RedMars, Kim StanleyRobinson (BantamSpectra);Foo/s,PatCadigan(BarltamSpectra); ChinaMountainZhang, Maureen F. McHugh (Tor); DoomsdayBook,Connie Willis (Bantam Spectra); A MiIIion Open Doors, fohn Barnes(Tor); Why Do Birds, Damon Knight (Tor); Worlds Enough and Time, foe Haldeman (Morrow); A DeeperSea, Alexander fablokov (MorrodAvoNova); and Steel Beach, fohn Varley (Putnam). Other novelsthat receiveda lot of attentiorrand acclaim this year included: A Fire U pon the Deep, Vernor Vinge (Tor); Mining the Oort, Frederik Pohl (Del R"y); G/css Houses,Laura J. Mixon (Tor); Aristoi,Walter Jon Williams (Tor); Anvil of Stars, Greg Bear (Warner Questar);The Broken Land, lan McDonald (Bantam Spectra);Snow Crash, Neal Stephenson(Bantam Spectra);Time, Like an Ever-Rolling Stream, fudith Moffett (St. Martin's Press);Inrd Kelvin's Machine, fames P. Blaylock(Arkham House); rflstivalTide, ElizabethHand (Bantam Spectra);Count Ceiger'sBlues, Michael Bishop (Tor); Mars, Ben Bova (BantamSpectra);Oracle,Mike Resnick(Ace);Transcendence, CharlesSheffield (Del Rey);Hieh Aztech, Ernest Hogan (Tor); Chanur's Legacy,C. f . Cherryh (DAW); I-ast CalI, Tim Powers(Morrow); Was, Geoff Ryman (Knopf); The Hollow Man, Dan Simmor-rs(Bantam Spectra);Briar Rose,|ane Yolen (Tor); TheYenomTreesof Sunga, L. Spraguede Camp (Del R.y); Labyrinth of Night, Allerr Steele(Ace);The Remarkables,Robert Reed(Bantam Spectra);Bad Brains, Kathe Koja (Dell Abyss);Flying in Place, SusanPalwick (Tor); Useof Weapons, Iain M. Banks(BantamSpectra);lshmael,Daniel Quinn (Bantam);Cold as lce, CharlesSheffield(Tor); Sideshow,Sheri S. Tepper(BantamSpectra);Yalentine, S. P. Somtow (Tor); The Memory of Earth, orson ScottCard (Tor); and Destroying Angel, Richard Paul Russo(Ace). In spite of problems and corporateshakeups,it can be seen that Bantam Spectrahad a strongyear, as did Tor. Morrow is not as much of a presenceon the list as it had been for the last couple of years,and I suspectthat son'reof the books from Morrow that did geI noticed this year were actually bought by exeditor David G. Harhvell beforehe was fired; it remainsto be seenif AvoNova, the replacementprogramfor Morrow's SF line, can establisl-r asstronga presence for itself. There were severalgood first novels this year, although the most excitement was stirred up by Maureen F. McHugh's China Mountain Zhang and Susan Palwick'sFlying in Place-particularly the McHugh, which attractedas much attention as any first novel has for a number of years.Otl-rerfirst novels included Steven Gould's lumper (Tor), Don H. DeBrandt'sThe QuicksilverScreen(Del R.y), Charles Obendorf s Sheltered Lives (Bantam Spectra), Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff s The Meri (Baen),and PoppyZ. Brite'sLosf Souls(DelacorteAbvss). Severalyoung editorsare to be congratulatedon their willingnessto take a chance with new writers, among them Ellen Key Harris of Del Rey, Patrick Nielsen Hayden of Tor, and Gordon Van Gelder of St. Martin's press. lt should be an interestinghorseracethis year for the Hugo and the Nebula Awards, since severalof the year'snovels are stirring up unusual amounts of excitementand acclaim, especiallyRobinson'sRed Mars, Willis's Doomsday Book, and Varley'sSteelBeach.tt will be intriguing to seewhich of these-if

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any of them-win what . . . but it's alreadyshapingup asa stronglycompetitive year. Associationalitems and obscurelypublishednovelsthat might be of interest to SF readersthis year included:Harveyfacobs'sBeautiful Soup:A Nove/for the 2lstCentury ($12.95from Celadon Press,l0l W. l2th St., New York, NY l00ll); Carol Emshwiller'sVenus Rising($6 from EdgewoodPress,P.O. Box 264, Cambridge,MA 02238);Neal Barrett,fr.'s comic Mafia novel, PinkVodka Blues (St. Martin's Press);and the publication of R. A. Lafferty's novel More Than Melchisedechin three separatevolumesby United Mythologies Press:Tales of Chicago, Talesof Midnight, and Argo(eachvolume $19.95 plus $3 postage from United Mythologies Press,Box J90, Station A, Weston, Ont., Canada M9N iNl). It was another good year for short-storycollections,and, once again, many of The bestcollectionsof the year the bestof them werepublishedby small presses. were:Globalhead,Bruce Sterling(Ziesing);the massiveTheCollectedStoriesof RobertSilverberg,Volume 1: SecretSharers(Bantam Spectra);Home by the Sea, Pat Cadigan (WSFA Press);Slightly Off Center, Neal Barrett, fr. (Swan Press); Meeting in Infinity, John Kessel(Arkham House); and Speakingln Tongues,lan McDonald (Bantam Spectra).Also excellent were And the AngelsSing, Kate Wilhelm (St. Martin's Press);When the Five Moons Rise, Jack Vance (Underwood-Miller); IronTears, R. A. Lafferty (EdgewoodPress);Isaac Asimov:The Complete Stories,Volume 2 (Doubleday Foundation); WiII the Last Personto Leavethe Planet PleaseShut Off the Sun?, Mike Resnick(Tor): Kaeti onTour, Keith Roberts(Sirius Book Company); CrosstimeTraffic, Lawrence Watt-Evans (Del Rey); and The Sonsof l'Joah & Other Stories,fack Cady (Broken Moon Press).Young Wolfe, Gene Wolfe (United Mythologies Press),will probably appeal mostly to really hardcore Wolfe fans and Wolfe completists, but is of considerablehistoric interest. Kipling's ScienceFiction and Kipling's Fantasy, both from Tor and both edited by fohn Brunner, should help to reintroduce genre readersto one of the seminal authorsin the developmentof both forms, and one who often readsas freshly and vividly today as he did eighty yearsago. An interestingborderline collection, with some storiesreminiscentof Magic Realism and some closer to the center of the field, is Mrs. Vargas and the Dead Naturalist, KathleenAlcald (CALYX Books).Noted without comment is CeodesicDreams, Gardner Dozois (St. Martin's Press). (Severalof these small presspublishersare small er-roughthat there'slittle chance of finding these collections in bookstores,so ['ll list mailing addressfor cA 96088-$29.95 them here: Mark V. Ziesing,P.O. Box76, Shingletowr-r, for Clobalhead;Swan Press,P.O. Box 90006, Austir-r,TX 78709-$9.50 for Slightly Off Center; WSFA Press,P.O. Box 19951, Baltimore, MD 2l2ll0951-$49.95 for Home by the Sec;Arkham House,P.O. Box 546, SaukCity, WI 53583-$20.95 for Meeting in lnfinity; Ur-rderwood-Miller,708 Westover Drive, Lancaster,PA 17601, $29.95 for When the Five MoonsRise;Edgewood press,P.o. Box 264, Cambridge,MA 02238-$10 plus $1.50 shippingand handling for lron Tears;The Sirius Book Company, P.O. Box 122, Feltham,

Summationz 1992

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Middlesex,England, UK-[,I3.95 for KaetionTour;Broken Moon Press,P.O. Box 24585, Seattle,WA 98124-0585-$11.95 for The Sonsof Noch & Other Stories;United MythologiesPress,Box J90, StationA, Weston, Ont., Canada M9N lNl-$19.95 for YoungWolfe;CALYX Books,P.O. Box B, Corvallis, OR 97339-$9.95 for Mrs. Yargas and The Deod Noturolist.) As you can see, small-presspublisherscontinue to publish the bulk of the year'soutstandingcollections,althoughtradepublisherssuch asBantam Spectra and St. Martin's took up some of the slack this year. Those publisherswho continue to publish hardcover collections are particularly courageous,as few paperbackedition, even hardcovercollectionsthesedayseversell a mass-market thoseby relativelyBig Names, a situationI find deplorable. With the closing down of the Author'sChoice Monthly line, with the Shorf Story Paperbackline being put "on hold" for an indefinite period of time, with the drastic downscalingof the Axolotl novella line (with many announced individual titles cancelled),with the collapseof the proposedAxolotl/Bantam AHardbackMagazine original novellaline, and with the deathof the Pulphouse: just Publishing is about out of the short-fiction Pulphouse series, anthology And thus endsAFictionMogazine. of Pulphouse: exception with the business, program of publishing most ambitious SF short-fiction in failure, alas-the lines, failure of the the recenttimes. With the failure of the variousPulphouse Tor Doubles line, the canceling of the AxolotllBantam novella line, and the presumed failure of the British Legend novella line (At least, they have yet to with any moresuch booksto date.), I'- afraid that follow up the initial releases short fiction in book form is going to become evenharder to find in the science fiction genrethan it alreadyis, and collections,for the most part, will continue to be left to the small pressesby most of the major trade publishers. A bleak collectionsare prospect-the only bright spothere being that at leastsmall-press getting noticed more now than they were a few yearsago, and are perhapsa bit more readilyavailablenow-mostly in SF specialtybookstoresand in the more "literary" chain bookstoressuch as Borders-than they used to be. Your bestbets in the reprint anthologymarket in 1992, as is usually the case, were the various"Best of the Year" anthologies,and the annual Nebula Award anthology, Nebula Awards26 (Harcourt Brace )ovanovich), edited by )ames Morrow. Sciencefiction, which only two yearsago was coveredby three "Best" anthologies,is down to being coveredby only one, the one you are holding in your hand at this moment. There are still three Best of the Year anthologies Year'sBestHorror Stocoveringhorror: Karl EdwardWagner'slong-established ries(DAW), now up to volume XX, a newer British seriescalled BesfNaw Horror (Carroll & Graf), editedby RamseyCampbell and Stephenfones, up to volume 3 this year, and the Ellen Datlow half of a mammoth volume covering both horror and fantasy, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror (St. Martin's Press), edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, this year up to its Fifth Annual Collection. Fantasy, as distinguishedfrom horror, is covered only by Terri Windling's half of the DatlowMindling anthology-and at a time when the fantasygenre is expanding,too. I don't personallyseewhy we need three"Best"

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Summation: 1992

anthologiescoveringhorror when we only have one anthologycoveringscience fiction and only half of an anthology covering fantasy-but the publisherscertainly don't askmy opinion on thesematters.Maybe next yearsomeonewill start another sciencefiction "Best" anthology, or a "Best" anthologydevotedto fantasy alone. Other good buys for the money this year were several"historical overview" typeanthologies,the bestof which wasprobablya massiveoverviewof the horror field, Foundationsof Fear (Tor), editedby David G. Hartwell. Other goodvalues in this areaincluded:the interestingalthoughsomewhatidiosyncraticTheOxford Bookof ScienceFiction (Oxford), edited by Tom Shippey;Isaac AsimovPresents the Great SF Sfories:24 (DAW), edited by Isaac Asimov and Martin H. Greenberg; lsaac Asimov Presentsthe Great SF Sfories:25 (DAW), edited by of Fantasticscience IsaacAsimovand Martin H. Greer-rbery;TheMammothBook Fiction ShortNove/sof the 1970s(Robinson),edited by IsaacAsimov, Charles G. Waugh, and Martin H. Greenberg;TheMammoth Bookof Fantastic Fiction (Carroll & Graf), edited by IsaacAsimov, Charles G. Waugh, and Martin H. Greerrberg;TheBestof Astounding(Carroll & Graf , editedby famesGunn; and a "Best" anthology drawn from the small-pressfield, The Bestof the Rest 1990 (EdgewoodPress),edited by StephenPasechnickand Brian Youmans. The bestone-shot"theme" reprir-rtanthologyof the year was probablyInside the Funhouse: 77 SF StoriesAbout SF (AvoNova), edited by Mike Resnick. When I heard about this one, I expectedit to be pretty lightweight, but, in fact, severalof the storieshere are quite substantialin quality (notably Pohl and Kornbluth's"Mute IngloriousTam," EdmorrdHamilton's"The Pro," and Malzberg's"Corridors," among others),and none of the storieshere are lessthan entertaining;if for nothing else, Resnickshould be complimented for reprinting Philip K. Dick's "Waterspider,"a rare storythat featuresPoul Andersonas the main character! Also quite good, corrsiderablybetter than tl-reyear's original Christmasanthologies,was ChristmasStars(Tor), editedby David G. Hartwell, which containedexcellentstoriesby Connie Willis, Gene Wolfe, fack McDevitt, Brian W. Aldiss, and others. Also interestingwere: Bootcamp3000 (Ace), edited by Gordon R. Dickson, (Ace),edited CharlesG. Waugh, and Martin H. Greenberg;and SpaceDogfights by Algis Budrys,CharlesG. Waugh, and Martin H. Greenberg.Noted without II (Ace), editedby JackDann and GardrrerDozois, and comment are[,Jnicorns Isaac Asimov'sEarth (Ace), edited by Gardner Dozois and Sheila Williams. This was a somewhatstrongeryear than averageir-rthe SF-orientednonfiction SF referencebook field, although once again, disappointingly,|ohn Clute and PeterNicholls'slong-promisedupdateof Nicholls'sTfte ScienceFiction Encyclopedia failed to appear(thereare strongindicationsthat it will really actually No Fooling appearnext year, though; I've even seena galleyproof of my entry and aswe go to pressmy editor swearshe hasactuallytoucheda copy of the finished book). A new edition of Twentieth-CenturyScience-FictionWriters (St. ]ames Press),edited by Noelle Watson and Paul E. Schellinger,was releasedlate in lggl, although I didn't catch up with it until early this year. It's a solid work,

Summation: 1992 and a valuablereferencetool, and certainlya better and more usablejob than Cunn's The New Encyclopediaof ScienceFiction from a few yearsback, but it too is plaguedby frustratingomissions(you can understandhow some of the newestwriterscan be overlooked,but how can a work publishedin 1992,the year when shewon the Arthur C. ClarkeAward, manageto overlookPatCadigrn, fot instar-rce? Or overlookNancy Kress,ir-rthe year when she won both the Hugo and the Nebula Awards?And there are many other omissionsas well) and by irritating errorsof fact-in my own entry, for instance,the one in which I can most easilycheck the facts, they insist on listirrg me as the editor of the Full Spectrumanthologyseries(much to the dismayof the actual editors,I'm sure!), even though I carefullycorrectedthat mistakeon the gallevs.Nitpicking of this sort aside, Twentieth-CenturyScience-FictionWriters is a valuable reference work, and certainly belongsin libraries, but it is not an entirely satisfactory replacementfor Nicholls's 1979The ScienceFiction Encyclopedia,andthe need for an updateof the Nicholls book is still urgent,and growingmore urgentevery year. Elsewhere,your best bets for SF referer-rce works this year *.*, Science Fiction, Fantasy, & Horror: l99l (Locus press),edited by Charles N. Browp and William G. Contento; Reginald'sScienceFiction and Fantasy Awards. SecondEdition (Borgo Press),edited by Daryl F. Mallett and Robert Reginald; Reference Cuide to ScienceFiction, Fantasy,and Horror (LibrariesUnlimited), edited by Michael Burgess;and ScienceFiction and FantasyLiterature II: A Checklist, 1975-1991(Gale Research),edited by Robert Reginald.There were severalbooksthat might be of use to those interestedir-rthe ciaft of writing or i' SF criticism, among them The Profession of ScienceFiction (St. Martin's Fress), editedby Maxim fakubowskiand EdwardJames;lnsideScienceFiction: Essays on FantasticLiterature (BorgoPress),editedby fanresGunn; Strategiesof Fantasy (lndiana UniversityPress),by Brian Attebery;Fiction 2000:Cybirpunk and the Future of Narrative (University of Georgia Press),edited by George Slusser and Tom Shippey; Science Fiction and Fantasy Book Revi,ewAniual 1990 (GreenwoodPress),editedby RobertA. Collins and RobertLatham; andVictorian FantasyLiterature (Fdwir-rMellen Press),by Karel Michalson. For those interestedin sciencefiction in Other Lands,there wasCanadian ScienceFiction and Fantasy(lndiana UniversityPress),by David Ketterer, and lapaneseScience Fiction: Aview of a changing societv(Routledge),by RobertMaithew. And for those more interestedin individ ual authors,there was a book-lengthinterview with Michael Moorcock, Michael Moorcock:Death Is No Obstacie(Savoy), by colin Greenland; a biography of Arthur c. clarke, Arthur c. clarke: The Authorized Biograpfry(contemporary), by Neil McAleer; and a book-le'gth study of William Gibson, called, appropriatelyenough William Gibson (Star, mont House), by Lance Olser-r. Of the year'sart books,by far the bestwasJamesGurney'smarvelousDinotopia (Turner Publishing).Other artistsin the field may paint dinosaurs better and more accuratelythan Gurney (Bob Walters,for ir-rstance, or Dougal Dixol), but Gurney here is unmatched for the imagination, creativity,and-gentlewhimsy that he brings to his wry and charming depiction of how h,r-rn ,ociety miglrt mingle with dinosaursif the dir-rosaurs had not become extinct, ,r,d i,rrn.-y,,

Summation: 1992 control of technique here is painterly and masterful, eveu iu the pieces that don't feature human-dinosaurir-rteraction,such as the wonderfully evocative "Waterfall City." I wouldn't be at all surprisedto seethis book wir-rGurney a Hugo Award this year. Also worthwhile were:lohn BerkeyPaintedSpace(Friedlarrder Publishing Group), John Berkey;Yirgil Finlay's Women of the Ages (Urrderwood-Miller),Virgil Finlay; The Fantasy Art Techniquesof Tim Hildebrandt (PaperTiger), Tim Hildebrandt;In the Garden of Unearthly Delights (PapcrT'iger),)osh Kirby; and H.R. GigeisNecronomiconll(MorpheusInternational), H. R. Giger. ln the general genre-relatednonfiction field, the choice was also clear-the best generalnonfictior-rbook of the year was Bruce Sterling'scompellingThe HackerCrackdown:Law and Disorderon the ElectronicFrontier (Bantam).This isrr'tstrictlv about sciencefiction, although plenty of sciencefiction writersare mentioned prominently, but it will certainlybe of absorbinginterestto auyone who is intrigued by computers and computer crime, cotrcernedwith First Ancndment issuesir-rvolvingthe reprcssionof free specch, or fascinatedby speculationson what effect the rapidly evolving "electrouic community" will hru. u,'rthe lifestylesand nores of a not-too-distantfuture society.Speakingof tfie "electronic community," some of that same territory is also explored in Arthur C. Clarke'sHow the World Was One: Beyondthe Clobal Yillage (Bantam), another interestingspeculationotr how the commurticationsrevolutionis about to change-and alreadyhcs changed,in fact-our lives in every detail from the most tnundane to the most profound. 11 spiteof tfie presenceof severalbox-officeblockbusters,1992 seemed(to me, alyway) like a iather lacklusteryear for genrefilms. There were lots of sequels, and most of them demonstratedonce again that more is usually less-a lesson that you would have thought that Hollywood had had plenty of time to learn by rrow.At any rate,Batman Returnswasevenmore disappointingthan the original Batman-and I didn't even like that all that much to begin with. Aliens was disappointing, by far the worst of the Alien movies (perhapsthey should have uu.d thrt screenplayby Bill Gibson afterall, eh?)-at least SigourneyWeaver got cfiornped (reputedly by request)and so doesn't have to worry about being It.t.k with doing another one of these . . . althougl-rafter the lackluster boxoffice draw, that rnay not be too much of a possibilityanyway. Honey, I Blew lackingthe naivecharm arld energyof Honey, Up theKid wasalsodisappoir-rting, I Shrunk the Kids. In fact, "disappointing"is a good word for many of 1992's films, and is just asapplicablefor the samereasonswhen extendedbeyondstrict genrebouldaries:LethalWeapon3, for instance,was"disappointing,"not even L good as the secondmovie in the sequence,let alone the first, and even Home AIJne2, althoughit madescadsof money, wasfundamentallyjust an overblown rerun of the tropesof the original movie, playedwith lessenergyand vervethe second time around. Since this has been true of the vast majority of movie sequels since Son of Kong_if not long before-you'd think that the movie injustry would have.".rght on by this point. Usually they don't even make all that much money-although every now and then a Terminator 2 or a Home

Summation: | 992

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Alone 2 makes a bizillion bucks, and then everyonegoes sequel-crazy.I'm praying that there won't be a Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves2. I might even be willing to make a small burnt offeringto insure againstit. "Disappointing"isn't a word that appliesonly to sequels, of ccurse.The bulk of the originalgenrefilms of l992were disappointingaswell. Toyswasstunningly beautiful and creativein its set-designand its costumingand photography,but as a movie it was dull, heavyhandedlypreachy, and ponderouslycoy, full of thudding elephantinewhimsy-166 bad they didn't savesome of that creativity for the script; even Robin Williams and foan Cusack couldn't savethis one. Bram Stoker'sDracula was handsome, glossy,glassy-eyed,and dead, like a stuffedpanther in a museum case.Preludefo a Klss was well-intentionedand well-acted,but ultimately ratherglib and unsatisfactory, failing to come to grips with many of the more challengingaspectsof its premise.Mel Gibson sttrggled manfully with the material in ForeverYoung, and did a crediblejob (especially in the sceneswhere he was irrteractingwith the your-rgboy), but leaky writir-rg and holes in its plot logic you could fly a B-52 through without scrapingthe wingtipseventuallyscuttledthe movie-interestingly, almost the identicafthematic materialwashandedmuch more subtlyand more satisfuinglyin lastyear's much lessexpensiveand much lesshyped Late for Dinner. (JniversalSoldier was sort of like Terminator 2 with everything tl'rat was good about that movie removed. Freeiackhad some good specialeffects,and some decer-rtactorsadrift irr a rather muddled plotline. The Lawnmower Man had some good special effects-period. Death BecomesHerhad some good jokesand ,o*. cute comicbook-grotesquespecial effects, but there was not really much there there, to paraphraseDorothy Parker.Buffy theVampire Slayerwas dumb but elergetic. Encino Man wasdumb. I hatedTwin Peaksenoughon televisionthat I couldrr't bring myself to see Twin Peaks'Fire walk with Me, so you're on your ow. there. The best fantasymovie of 1992 in many respectswas Disney'sfull-lelgth arrimatedfeatureAladdin, which featuressomecreativeand (for Disney,rnyway) unusuallysatiricalanimation and a funny and frentic over-the-topvocal p.tformance by Robin Williams. (There werc alsosomefull-lelgth alimated features that didn'f do all that well: cool world, Ferngully-The Last Rainforest,a'd Rocfr-A-Doodle-p,rov-lngthat, in spiteof the immensebox-officedraw of Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin, animated films aren't automaticallythe Road to Success.)Thunderheartwas a well-acted intelligent| scripted ihrill", with a strong, though subtly played, fantasticelement drawn from American India' mysticism'I myselfdidn't go to seeTheMuppet ChristmasCarol, but it's gotte. somegood reviewsand good word-of-mouth,and thosewho haveseenit tell me that Michael Caine deserves some kind of specialawardfor beilg able to give a seriousand straight-faced performanceas Scroogewhile talking [o felt pigi and frogs. As usual,therewerealsotrompingzombielegionsof cheaplyproducedslasher/ serialkiller/explodinghead movies,aswell assornebig-budiei i,orro, films suc6 asSleepwalkers,Pet SemetaryTwo, andHellraiser lll: Hell in Earth, a.d several entriesin the new Killer Babysitter/Secretary/Roommate subgelre, such as T'he

Summation: 1992 Hand That Rocksthe Cradle, but I've burnt out on horror movies(a low-budget sleepercalled Tremorsfrom a couple of yearsback was the last one I actually enioyed),and am rarely able to force myself to sit through them any more, so you're on your own there, too. My favoritemovie of the yearwasClint Eastwood'sUnforgiven.I could iustifu a mention of it here by working up an elaboraterationaleto the effect that its exactinglyauthentic portrayalof the realWlld West makesit as exotic as many an author's alien planet, and just as capableof delivering profound Culture Shock . . but, fuck it, I'm not going to bother. It's a good movie. Go seeit. I think you'll like it. Most of the excitementabout genre nraterialthis year actually seemedto be on television,anyway,to considerationof which we turn next. Sci-Fi Channel, a cable channel deThe long-awaitedand often-postponed voted entirely to, well, "Sci-Fi," actuallydid debut this year, but we can't get it here in Philadelphia,so I'm unable to comment personallyon it-from what I've read,though, and from what ['ve heardfrom others,it seemsas if it's mostly another excuseto recycle the sort of films that they make fun of on "Mystery ScienceTheater 1000." Whether it'll ever be more than that, I dor-r'tknow; I also don't have any really firm idea how it's doing financially, although one sourcesaid, vaguely,that it was doing "okay." We'll see. Severalgenre-relatedshowscame and weut on televisionduring 1992, the bestof which wasprobably"The Young Indiana |onesChronicles," which may get a new leaseon life in 1993."Scorch,""NightmareCafe," and "Fish Police" were not very good, and quickly went down the tubes. "Eerie, Indiana" also died, as,I think, did "Hi, Honey, I'm Home" and "Charlie Hoover'" I stilldon't like "Dinosaurs"or'"Quantum Leap," ['m tired of "The Simpsons,"and the big r1ewCult Favorite,"The Ren and Stimpy Show," strikesme as overrated."Star Trek The Next Ger-reration"is still probablythe best scierrcefiction show ou television(and that includes the new SF seriesdiscussedbelow). J'he abovementioned"Mystery ScienceTheater 3000" cau be very funny indeed,although I get tired of it after a while and only rarely make it all the way through arr epirode.Fox's new animatedseries,"Batman," is surprisinglygood and surprisingly intelligent, with some limited but effectiveatrimation,and good scriptsI aciually lile it betterthan the Batman theatricalmovie and its sequel,if for no other reasonthan the fact that I don't have to keep thinking how completely it. "Northern Exposure" wrong Michael Keatonis for the part while I'm watcl-ring is still one of the top showson television,although the writir-rghas slipped in quality somewhatthis year (possiblybecausenetwork bigwigs,having noticed the ,ho*,'are now busily trying to "improus" 11-1hat'smy guess'anyway),and still occasionallyrur-rsshows that have a fantasticelement; Ed's old Indian ghost this year, for instauce. made a return apPearance There wasa big infl.t* of new sciencefiction showsat the beginningof 1993most of them wiil probably kill each other off, although it's probably too early to predictwhich of th.nl will kill which.lt's probablya fairly safepredictionthat "St1 Trek: Deep SpaceNine" will survive-it is tl-rebestof the r-rewlot of SF shows,and hasthe massivecarry-overrron-lentumgeneratedby "Star Trek: The

Summation: 1992 Next Generation"going for it; if it can regularlypull a sizableproportionof the "Star Trek: TNG" viewing audience,that alone ought to ensureits survivalfor a while. Having saidthat it's the bestof the new SF shows,I must alsoadd that [ find it somewhatdisappointingoverall-it is, so far, anyway, not as good as "Star Trek: TNG" has become(although it should be rememberedthat it took tftaf show severalseasonsto really gather steam, and that the earlier episodes were actuallyratherweak),is on occasionslow almostto the point of being dull, and often somewhat flat. Part of the problem is that the cast does not feature anyonewith the actingability, or at leastthe theatricalpreser-rce, of the bestactors from the "Star Trek TNC" cast-the performancesare often rather wooden, the most accomplishedactor in the castis given relativelylittle to do, and the most potentially interestingcharacteris being portrayedby an actresswho so far has yet to demonstrateher ability to act her way out of a paper SpaceBag. So far only the actor who plays the Good Bad Guy (or Bad Good Gry, if you'd rather),Quark, is showingany sort of real flair or panachein his performan somethingthat "StarTrek: Deep SpaceNine" could use a lotmore of to divert you from the thought that, after all, it's just a show about a, like, you know, spaceshoppingmall. Gee. Still, as I say, this one is likely to be around for a couple of seasons at the least-l'm not sure I'm assanguineabout the other new SF shows.I waspredisposed to like "Babylon 5" becausethe genrepeopleI know who work in Hollywood were sympatheticto it, and becauseof the widespread allegationsthat its scenariowasrippedoff by anotherproductioncompany(and, ir-rdeed, its back-storyand settingare similar enoughto thoseof "Star T'rek:Deep SpaceNine" that there are probablylawyerssomewheregirding their loins righl now to sue somebody,one way or the other), but, wher-rpush came to shove, I found that I didn't like it very much afterall. The acting is even more woodel, if possible,than that in "Star Trek Deep SpaceNine," and the much-hyped computer-generated specialeffectsare actuallyrathercheesy-looking,not nearly asgood asthe effectsand productionvalueson either "Star Trek TNG" or "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine" (although probably a good deal cheaperto produce, which may courlt for something).I think that "star Trek Deep SpaceNine" will probabysink "Babylon 5," though-people certainlyaren't going to watch two such similar shows,and "Star Trek: Deep SpaceNine" is the slicker product, and comeswith a built-in audience.I waseven lessimpressedby "space Rangers," which mostly wastesthe wonderfully talented Linda Hunt, and which strikesme as "The A-Team" with spaceships-to be fair, I do know people who like this one, though. "Time Trax" is evenworse,so bad, in fact, thai I am hard pressedto find an adequatecomparisonfor it-it's like "Knight Rider" with timetravelers,perhaps,although even that'snot quite bad enough. By late February of 1993, it was being rumored that "Space Rangers"had alreadydied, ,r,d i suspectthat "Time Trax" will quickly follow it into oblivion, bui don't worry, there are lots more SF shows comirlg up in the near future, including "Sea Quest," a "Cyberpunk" showcalled"wild palms," and perhaps,asa mid-ieason replacement,"Doors." So, if any of theseshowsbecomewildly popular,will that then, asis sometimes claimed, generatevast new audiencesfor print sciencefiction? My alswer is.

xxxiv

Summation: 1992

ProbablyNot. Oh, therewill be Eomeviewerswho willbe inspiredby theseshows to begin readingprint sciencefiction, just asthere were somewho were inspired to do so by "Star Trek," Star Wars, and "Star Trek The Next Generation"but there won't be any significantnumbersof them, if history is any guide. For the most part, viewersof thoseshowsare only interestedin readingprint science fiction if it'sabouf the showsthat they like, i.e., a StarTrek novel;no significant spilloverinto the rest of the SF print genre has ever been demonstrated.What is likely to have a significantimpact on the print SF genre is the flood of new TV-related tie-in books that will spill on to the newsstandsif orre of theseshows becomeswidely popular-already there'sa multitude of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novels being prepared,to join the armies of Stor Trek and Star Trek: The Next Generationnovelsalreadyon the racks,and if the otherseriesaresuccessful, we could conceivablyseeBabylon5 orTimeTrcx novelsthere in the near future, too. I don't begrudgeviewerswho enjoy tl'reseshowsthe right to read a novel basedon one of them-what does make rne grumpy occasionally,though, is that thesekind of bookstend to gobbleup rack displayspace,somethingalready irr short supply,and thereforemake it evenharderfor tron-series,non-television/ movie-relatedSF novelsto get displayed. And that makesit even harder for a writer to sellan adult SF r-rovelof quality, especiallyorrethat is "literary," or not franchise.Why should publishers part of a seriesor a "trilogy" or a sharecropper bother to buy such a risky item, or booksellersbother to displayit, when the next StarTrek: Deep SpaceNine novel is almost certainlygoir-rgto sell considerably better?This is no one'sfault, I guess,and I don't know what can be done about it . . . but it does cause me to cast a cynical eye on the claim that these TV shows,if successful,will be the salvationof the print SF genre.Yes, I think that a few of the viewersattractedby theseshowswiII go ou to readingRobert Heinlein or Connie Willis or Williarn Gibson or Pat Cadigan-but that there will be enough of them to make up for the negatiyeeffects. . . I don't know. I'd like to think so, but, really, t doubt it. The 50th World ScienceFiction Corrvention,MagiCon, was held in Orlando, Florida, from September2 to September7, 1992, and drew an estimatedattendance of 5900. The 1992 Hugo Awards, presentedat MagiCon, were: Best Novel, Barrayar, by Lois McMaster Bujold; Best Novella, "Beggarsin Spain," by Nancy Kress;BestNovelette,"Gold," by IsaacAsimov;Best Short Story, "A Walk in the Sun," by Geoffrey A. Landis; Best Non-Fiction, The World of Charles Addoms,by Charles Addams;BestProfessionalEditor, Gardner Dozois; Best ProfessionalArtist, Michael Whelan; Best Original Artwork, Michael Whelan for the cover for The Summer Queen; Best Dramatic Presentation, Terminator2; Best Semiprozine,Locus;BestFanzine, Mimosa, editedby Dick and Nicki Lynch; Best Fan Writer, David Langford;Best Fan Artist, Brad W. Foster;plus the fohn W. Campbell Award for BestNew Writer to Ted Chiang. the iggt Nebula Awards,presentedat a banquetat the Colony SquareHotel in Atlanta, Georgia,on April 75, 1992,were:Bestlllovel, Stationsof theTide, bv Michael Swanwick;Best Novella, "Beggarsin Spain," by Nancy Kress;Best

Summation: 1992

xxxy

Novelette,"Guide Dog," by Mike Conner;BestShort Story,"Ma Qui," by Alan Brennert;plus a specialBradburyAward to Terminator2. The World FantasyAwards,presentedat the EighteenthAnnual World FantasyConvention in Pir-reMountain, Georgia,on November I , 1997",were:Best Novel, Boy'sLrft, by Robert R. McCammon; Best Novella, "T'he Ragthorn," by Robert Holdstockand Garry Kilworth; Best Short Story, "The Somewhere Doors," by Fred Chappell; BestCollection, The Ends of the Earth, by Lucius Shepard;BestAnthology, The Year'sBest Fantasyand Horror: Fourth Annual Collection,editedby Ellen Datlow and T'erri Windling; BestArtist, Tim Hildebrandt;SpecialAward (Professional), GeorgeScithersand Darrell Schweitzerfor WeirdTales;SpecialAward (Non-Professional), W. Paul Ganley forWeirdbook, and a Life Achievement Award to Edd Cartier. The 1992 Bram StokerAwards, presentedat the ParkerMeridien Hotel in New York City by the Horror Writers of America, were:BestNovel, Boy'sLife, by Robert R. McCammon; Best First Novel (tie), T'hecipher, by Kathe Koja and Prodigal, by Melanie Tem; Best Collection, Prayersto Broken Stones,by Dan Sirnmons;BestNovella/Novelette,"The Beautiful Uncut Hair of Graves," by David Morrell; Best Short Story, "Lady Madonna," by Nancy Holder; Best Norr-Fiction, Clive Barker's Shadowsin Eden, edited by Stepher-rJones;plus a Life Achievement Award to Gahan Wilsor-r. The l99l fohn W. Campbell Memorial Award-winner was Buddy HoIIy ls Alive and Well on Canymede,by BradleyDentorr. The l99l Theodore SturgeonAward waswon by "Buffalo," by lohn Kessel. The l99l Philip K. Dick Memorial Award-winner was King of Monting, of Day, by Ian McDonald. Queen 'fhe fames Tiptree, fr. Award was createdin l99l and the first award was given to White Queen, by Gwyneth fones and to AWoman of the lron people, by Eleanor Arnason. The 1992 lames Tiptree, Jr. Award was given to China Mountain Zhang, by Maureen F. McHugh. ]'he l99l Arthur C. Clarke award was won by Synners,by pat Cadigan. Death took a heavy toll from the sciencefiction field in l99Z and early 1993, claiming severalof its most famousand belovedfigures.Among the dead were: IsaacAsimov, 72,- one of the original giants of sciencefiction's Golden Age, perhapsthe most famousSF writer of the last half of the twentiethcentury, and certainly the most tirelessand indefatigablesciencepopularizer,author of the famous Foundation trilogy as well as I, Robot, The Cavesof Steel,The I,laked Sun, and literally hundredsof other books;Fritz Leiber, 81, another Goldel Age giant and a seminal figure whosecareerspannedthe entire developmer-rt of the modern fields of sciencefiction, fantasy,and horror, all of which he influenceddeeply,a multiple awardwinner, author of ConiureWife, The Wanderer, Our l-ady of the Darkness,and The Big Time (in my opinion, one of the te1 best SF novelsever written); Reginald Bretnor, 80, the creatorof the "Feghoot" and the "PapaSchimmelhorn" stories,aswell asa respected academicwho produced such works asThe Craft of ScienceFiction; Keith tr,aumer,67, popular author

Summation:1992 of tlre long-running "Retief' series,as well as such novels as Worlds of the Imperium, A Plagueof Demons,and the underratedATrace of Memory; Alan E. Nourse, 63, veteranSF writer, author of TroubleonTitan and Sfar Surgeon, among many others;Dwight V. Swain, 76, longtime SF and fantasywriter; Robert Sampson,65, a pulp-eraauthor who in recentyearshad revitalizedhis careerasa short-storywriter with salesto many of the top markets;Angela Carter, listedas a sort of "Magic 51, respectedliterarywriter whosework wassometin-res Realism,"author of TheWar of Dreams,Nights at the Circus,and many others; Mary Norton, 88, author of the renownedseriesof children's fantasynovels about the adventuresof "The Borrowers,"a miniature race that lives in hiding behind the scenesof our normal human world; Gustav Hasford, 45, author of The Short-Timers,The Phantom Blooper, and others; Rosemary Sutcliff, 71, historical novelist,author of the classicArthurian novel Swordat Sunset;Jack Sharkey,61, veteranSF author who wasa popularwriter for Calaxy in the fifties; Daniel Da Cruz, 69, author of The Ayesof Texas and other SF novels;Kobo Abe, 68, Japaneseliterary novelistwho occasionallypublishedsome SF, such as Inter lce Age 4; Desmond W. Hall, 82, former assistanteditor of Astounding; foe Shuster,78, the co-creatorof Supermau GeorgeMacBeth, 60, British poet, producer, and well-known figure in the British SF scene;Millea Kenin, 49, small-presspublisher and writer; William M. Gaines, 70, publisher of Mad magazine;Samuel S. Walker, 65, founder and presidentof Walker Publishing; Gerard K. O'Neill, 69, physicistand highly infuential advocateof spacecolonization, author of The High Frontier;Gerald Feinberg, 58, well-known physicist and longtime SF enthusiast;Scott Meredith, 69, founder and longtime head of one of the most successfulliterary agenciesin the world; Sidney Meredith, 7J, brother of Scott Meredith and co-founder of the Meredith Agency;Gerry De [.a Ree, well-known collector and publisher;Vincent Miranda, 46, longtime SF fan and academic,husbandof SF writer SarahClemens,a friend; Margo Skinner, poet, wife of SF writer Fritz Leiber;Horst Grimm, 64, husbandof SF writer Cherry Wilder; Helen Silverberg,8l , mother of SF writer RobertSilverberg;and Mary Potter Bias, 78, mother of SF figure Cay Haldeman.

GRIFFIN'S EGG Michael Swanwick

v MichaelSwanwickmadehis debutin I980, and hasbecomeone of the nrostpopular and respected of all that decade's newwriters.He hasseveraltimesbeena finalistfor the Nebula Award, as well as for the World FantasyAward and for the |ohn W. Campbell Award, and I'raswon the Theodore SturgeonAward and the Asimoy's Reader's Awardpoll. Lastyear,his criticallyacclaimednovel, Stationsof the Tide, worr him a Nebula Award as well. His other booksinclude his first novel, ln the Drift, which waspublishedin 1985,and 1987spopularVacuum F-lowers. Asidefrom Stationsof the Tide, his most recentbooksare a collectionof his collaborativeshort work witlr other writers, SIowDancing ThroughTime, and a collection of his solo slrortfiction, Cravity's Angels.Coming up is a new novel, tentativelyeltitled Tlre lron Dragon'sDaughter. He's had storiesin our Second,Third, Fourth, Sixth, and SeventhAnnualCollections.Swanwicklivesin Philadelphia with hiswife, Marianne Porter,and their youngson, Sean. hr the complexand powerfulnovellathatfollows,Swanwicktakesusto the Moon, whicl'r,in Swanwick's hatrds,is a surprising place:a vastindustrialparkof bewildering scaleand complexity,home to many top-secret,high-techexperimentalprojects, and home alsoto arr intricateLunar societywith lifewaysand customsof its ow'; a societythat soon finds itself confrontedwith a bizarre and unsuspectedmenace, which could spellnot only its own doom, but could inalterably.hrng. the whole human race. or wipe it out forever.

The moon?[t is a griffin'segg, Hatchingto-morrownight. And how the little boyswill watch With shoutingand delight To seehim breakthe shell and stretch And creepacrossthe sky. The boyswill laugh, The little girls, I fear, may hide and cry . -Vachel Lindsay The sun clearedthe mountains.GuntherWeil raiseda hand in salute,then wincedasthe glarehit his eyesin the instantit took his helmetto polarize.

Michael Swanwick

He washauling fuel rodsto ChatterjeeCrater industrialpark. The Chatterjee B reactorhad gone critical forty hours beforedawn, taking fifteen remotesand a microwaverelaywith it, and putting out a Powersurgethat causedcollateraldamageto everyfactoryin the park.Fortunately,the occasionalmeltdownwasdesignedinto the system.By the time the sun roseover the Rhaeticushighlands,a new reactorhad beenbuilt and wasreadyto go online. Gunther drove automatically,gauginghis distancefrom Bootshapby the amount of trashlining the Mare Vaporumroad.Closeby the ci$, discarded sat in open-vacuumstorage, constructionmachineryand damagedassemblers van had exploded, Ten kilometersout, a pressurized awaitingpossiblesalvage. scatteringmachineparb and giant wormsof insulatingfoam acrossthe landscape.At twenty-fivekilometers,a poorly gradedstretchof road had claimed running lightsfrom passingtraffic. a.ty n.rmberof cargoskidsand shattered cleangashin Fortykilometersout, though,the roadwasclear,a straight,_ the diri. Ignoringthe voicesat the backof his skull, the traffic chatterand that the truck routinely fed into his transceiver automatedsafetymessages on the dashchip, he scrolledr.tpthe topographicals Right abouthere. Guntherturnedoff the Mare Vaporumroadand beganlayingtracksover route,"the trucksaid."Deviations virginsoil. "You'veleft your prescheduled schedulemay only be made with the recordedpermissionof your ft; " dispatcher. lYeah, well." Gunther'svoiceseemedloud in his helmet,the only physiand the cal soundin a babelof ghosts.He'd left the cabin unpressurized, insulatedlayersof his suit stilled even the conduction rumbling_from the treads."You and I both know that so long as I don't fall too far behind schedule,Beth Hamilton isn't goingto careif I straya little in between." " this unit's linguisticcapabilities. "You haveexceeded "That'sokay,don't let it botheryou." Deftlyhe tied down the sendswitch on the truck trdio with a twistof wire. The voicesin his headabruptlydied. He wascompletelyisolatednow. directlyto "You saidyou wouldn't do that again."The words,broadcast "Generaof God' voice the as resonant and deep as his trancechip, sounded 12dis-" constant maintain drivers all that requires tion Five policy expressly "Don't whine. It's unattractive." this unit's linguistic-" "You haveexceeded maps,tracing "Oh, shutup." Guntherran a fingeroverthe topographical cherry-soil, over kilometers Thirty the coursehe'd plottedthe night before: north on then and before, crossed ever terrain,,o h,r-an or machinehad early. at Chatteriee be to manage even might Nlurchisonroad.With luck he the Ahead, side. to either by sailed plain. Rocks He droveinto the lunar beh-ind dwindling treadmarks for the mountainsgrew imperceptibly.Save him, thereias nothlngfrom horizonto horizonto showthat humanityhad everexisted.The silencewasperfect. Guntherlivedfor momentslike this. Enteringthat clean,desolateempti-

Griffin's Egg

ness,he experienced a vastexpansion of being,asif everythinghe saw,stars, plain, cratersand all, wereencompassed within himself.BootstrapCi$ was only a fadingdream,a distantislandon the gentlyrolling surfaceof a stone sea.Nobodywill everbe first here again,he thought.Only me. A memory floatedup from his childhood.It wasChristmasEve and he was in his parents'car, on the way to midnight Mass. Snow was falling, thickly and windlessly,renderingall the familiar roadsof Dtisseldorfclean and pure undersheetsof white. His fatherdrove,and he himselfleanedover the front seatto stareaheadin fascinationinto this peaceful,transformed world. The silencewasperfect. He felt touchedby solitudeand madeholy. The truck plowedthrough a rainbowof soft greys,submergedhues more hints than colors,as if somethingbright and festiveheld itselfhidden iust beneatha coatingof dust.The sun wasat his shoulder,and when he spun the front axle to avoida boulder,the truck'sshadowwheeledand reached for infinity. He drovereflexively,mesmerizedby the austerebeautyof the passing land. At a thought,his peeceeput musicon his chip. i'stormy Weather"filled the universe. He wascomingdown a long, almostimperceptible slopewhen the controls went dead in his hands. The truck powereddown and coastedto a stop. "Goddamnyou, you assholemachine!"he snarled."What is it this time?" "The land aheadis impassible. " Gunther slammeda fist on the dash,makingthe mapsdance.The land aheadwassmoothand sloping,any unruly tendencies tamedeonsagoby the Mare Imbrium explosion.Sissystuff He kickedthe door openand clambered down. The truckhadbeenstopped by a babyrille:a snakelike depression meandering acrosshis intendedroute,lookingfor all the world like a dry streambed. He boundedto its edge.It wasfifteen metersacross,and three metersdown at ih _deepest. fust shallow€nough that it wouldn't show up on the topos. Gunther returnedto the cab, slammingthe door noiselessly behind him. "Look. The sidesaren'tverysteep.I've beendownworsea hundredtimes. We'll just takeit slow and easy,okay?" "The land aheadis impassible,"the truck said. "Pleasereturn to the originallyscheduledcourse." w_agnerwason now. Tannhtiuser.Impatiently,he thought it off. "If you'resodamnedheuristic,then why won't you everlistento reason?" He chewedhis lip an_grily, glve a quick shakeof his head."No, goingback yould put us way off schedule.The rille is bound to peter o,r-tir, f.* " hundredmeters.Let'siustfollow it until it does,then anglebackto Murchison. We'll be at the park in no time." Three hourslaterhe finally hit the Murchisonroad.By then he wassweaty and smellyand his shoulders achedwith tension."Where arewe?"he askei

Michael Swanwick

sourly.Then, beforethe truck could answer,"Cancel that." The soil had turned suddenlyblack. That would be the ejecta fantail from the SonyReinpfaltzmine. Their railgun wasorientedalmostdue south in order to avoidthe client factories,and so their tailingshit the roadfirst. That meant he wasgettingclose. Murchisonwaslittle more than a confluenceof truck treads,a dirt track crudelyleveledand markedby blazesof orangepainton nearbyboulders.In HaradaIndustrial quick orderGuntherpassed througha seriesof landmarks: fantail,Kruppfunfzigfantail.He knew fantail,Seaof StormsMacrofacturing them all. G5 did the roboticsfor the lot. A light flatbedcarryinga shippedbulldozerspedpasthim, kickingup a sprayof dustthat fell asfastaspebbles.The remotedrivingit waveda spindly arm in greeting. He waved back automatically,and wonderedif it was anybodyhe knew. The land hereaboutswas hackedand gouged,dirt and bouldersshoved heapsand hills, the occasionaltool stationor OxytankEmerinto careless gency StoragePlatform chopped into a nearby bluff. A sign floated by: TOILET FLUSHING FACILITIES % KILOMETER. He made a face. that his radiowasstill off and slippedthe loop of wire Then he remembered voice, his dispatcher's from it. Time to rejoin the real world. trmmediately harshand staticky,wasrelayedto his traucechip. "-ofabitch! Weil! Where the fuck are you?" to be." "l'm right here, Beth. A little late, but right whereI'm supposed "genefx-" The recordingshut off, and Hamilton'svoicecameon, live and mean."You'd betterhavea realgoodexplanationfor this one, honey." "Oh, you know how it is." Guntherlookedawayfrom the road, off into the dustyiadehighlands.He'd like to climb up into them and nevercome back. Perhapshe would find caves.Perhapsthere were monsters:vacuum slowand patient,takingcenturies with metabolisrns trollsand moondragons thatcouldswimthroughstone beings hyperdense to moveonebody's-length, as if it were water. He picturedthem diving, following lines of magnetic force deep, deep into veins of diamond and plutonium, headsback and singing."l pickedup a hitchhiker,and we kind of got involved." "Try tellingthat to E. Izmailova.She'smad as hornetsat you." "Who?" "lzmailova.She'sthe new demolitionsiock, shippedup hereon a multicorporatecontract.Took a hopperin almostfour hoursago,and she'sbeen *riting for you and Siegfriedeversince.I takeit you'venevermet her?" ttNo. tt

"Well, I have,and you'd betterwatchyour stepwith her. She'sexactly the kind of tough broadwho won't be amusedby your antics." "A*, comeon, she'sjustanothertechon a retainer,right?Not in my line of command.It's not like shecan do anythingto me." "Dream on, babe.It wouldn't takemuch pull to geta fuckup like you sent down to Earth."

Griffin's

Egg

*+*

The sun wasonly a finger'sbreadthoverthe highlandsby the time Chatterjee A loomedinto sight.Guntherglancedat it everynow and then, apprehensively.With his visor-adjustedto-the H-alphawavelength,it wau blazing white spherecoveredwith slowly churning black specks,More granrlrl than usual. Sunspotactivityseemedhigh. He wondeiedthat the Ridiation Forecast Facilityhadn'tposteda surfaceadvisory.The guysat the Observatory wereusuallyright on top of things. Chatterfee A, B, and C werea triad of simplecratersjust belowChladni, and while the smallertwo wereof minimal interest,ChatterjeeA wasthe child of a meteorthat had punchedthroughthe Imbrian basalhto assweet a vein of aluminum ore as anythingin the highlands.Beingso convenient to Bootstrapmade it one of management's darlings,and Gunther was not surprised to seethat Kerr-McGeewasgoingall out to gettheir reactoronline again. The parkwascrawlingwith walkers,stalkers, andassemblers. Theywereall overthe blister-domed factories,the smelteries, loadingdocks,nnd'ur.u,rgarages. Constellations of blue sparkswinkedon and off rr major industrial constructsweredismantled.Fleetsof heavilyloadedtrucksfannedout into the lunar plain, churning up the dirt behind them. Fah Waller startedto sing "The foint is fumping" and Gunther laughed. He slowedto crawl, swungwide to avoid a gas-plater that was being 1 wrangledonto a loader,and cut up the chatteriie B ramp road. A new la_nding pad had beenblastedfrom the rock just belowthe lii, and a cluster of peoplestoodabouta hopperrestingthere.one humrr, rnd eightremotes. One of the remoteswas-speaking,making choppy little gestlreswith its arms.Severalstoodinert,identicalassomanyantiquetelephJnes, unclaimed by Earthsidemanagementbut availableslrould more aivisorsneed to be calledonline. Gunther unstrappedSiegfriedfrom the roof of the cab and, control pad in one hand and cablespoolin the other, walkedhim towardthe hopp.r. The human strodeout to meethim. "you! what keptyou?"E. rzmailova /orea iazzyred-and-orange StudioVolgaboutiqu. ,uit, in sharpcontrastto J his.own company-issue suit with the C5 logo on the chest.H; coulclnot makeout her facethroughthe gold visorglass.But he could hear it in her voice:blazingeyes,thin lips. "l had a fat tire." He found a goodsmoothchunk of rock and setdown the cablespool, it to mike sureit sat flush. "we got maybefive _wriggling hundredyardsof shieldedcable.That enoughfor you?" A short,tensenod. "o\ry," He unholsteredhis bolt gun. "Stand back." Kneeling,he anchored the spool to the rock. Then he ran a quick check of t"lr. unit,s functions:"Do we know what it's like in there?,' A remotecame to life, steppedforwardand identifiedhimself as Don sakai, of G5's crisis managementteam. Gunther had workedwith him

5

]'lichaelSwanwick

before:a decenttough guy, but like most Canadianshe had an exaggerated walkedher unit fearof nuclearenergy."Ms. Langhere,of Sony-Reinpfaltz, in but the radiationwasso strongshelost controlaftera preliminaryscan." A secondremotenoddedconfirmation,but the relaytime to Toronto was just enoughthat Sakaimissedit. "The remotefust kept on walking." He "The autonomouscircuits coughednervously,then addedunnecessarily, weretoo sensitive." "Well, that'snot goingto be a problemwith Siegfried.He'sasdumb asa rock. On the evolutionaryscaleof machineintelligencehe rankscloserto a crowbarthan a computer." Two and a half secondspassed,and then Sakai laughedpolitely. Gunther noddedto lzmailova."Walk me through this. Tell me what you want." Izmailovasteppedto his side,their suitspressingtogetherbriefly as she jackeda patch Cordinto his control pad. Vagueshapesflickeredacrossthe outsideoi h.r visor like the shadowsof dreams."Does he know what he's doing?"sheasked. "Hay, l-" "Shut up, Weil," Hamiltongrowledon a privatecircuit.Opglly, shesaid, "He wouldn't be here if the companydidn't have full confidencein his technicalskills." "I'm surethere'sneverbeenany questisn-" Sakaibegan.He lapsedinto silenceas Hamilton'swordsbelatedlyreachedhim' "There'sa deviceon the hopper,"Izmailovasaidto Gunther' "Go pick it up." He obeyed,reconfiguringSiegfriedfor a small, denseload. The unit bent low over the hopper,wrappinglarge,sensitivehandsaboutthe device. Gunther appliedgentlepressure.Nothing happened.Heavylittle bugger. Slowly, .ri.frlly, he uppedthe power. Siegfriedstraightened. "Up the road,then down inside." The reactorwasunrecognizable,melted,twistedand foldedin upon itself, There had a mound of slagwith twistingpipessproutingfrom the edg-es. beena coolanteiplosion earlyin the incident, and one wall of the craterwas material?"Sakaiasked. brightwith sprayedmetal."Where is the radioactive EuIn thoughhe *ar a third of a million kilometersaway,he soundedtense and apprehensive. "lt's all radioactive,"lzmailovasaid. They waited."l mean, you know. The fuel rods?" "Rijht now, your fuel rodsare probablythreehundredmetersdown and still goIng.We aretalkingaboutfisiionablematerialthathasachievedcritical -rrl VJty early in the pto..rr the rods will have all melted togetherin a tapableof burning its way through.to.f. Pictureit sortof superhot'puddle, a52der,r., heauyblob of *ax, slowlyworkingitswaytowardthe lunar core'" "God, I love physics,"Gunther said. helmetturnedtowardhim, abruptlyblank.Aftera long pause' Izmailoua's on it switched againand turned away."The roaddown is clearat least.Take

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your unit all the way to the end. There'san exploratoryshaftto one side there.Old one. I want to seeif it's still open." "will the one devicebe enough?"Sakaiasked."To cleanup the crater, I mean." The woman'sattentionwasfixed on Siegfried's progress.In a distracted tone shesaid,"Mr. Sakai,puttinga chain acrossthe accessroadwould be enough_to cleanup this site.The craterwallswould shieldanyoneworking nearbyfrom the gammaradiation,and it wouldtakeno effortat all to reroute hopperoverflightsso their passengers would not be exposed.Most of the biologicaldangerof a reactormeltdowncomesfrom alpharadiationemitted by particulateradioisotopes in the air or water.When concentrated in the body, alpha-emitters can do considerable damage;elsewhere,no. Alpha particlescan be stoppedby a sheetof paper. So long as you keepa reactor out of your ecosystem, it's as safeas any other largemachine. Burying a destroyed reactoriustbecause it is radioactive is unnecessary and, if you rill forgiveme for sayingso, superstitious. But I don't makepolicy. I just blow thingsup." "ls this the shaftyou'relooking[or?" Gunther asked. "Yes. Walk it down to the bottom. It's not far." Gunther switchedon Siegfried's chestlight,and sanka roller relayso the cablewouldn'tsnag.They wentdown. Finally Izmailovasaid,"Stop.That's far enough." He gentlysetthe devicedownandthen, at her direction,flicked the armingtoggle."That'sdone," Izmailovasaid."Bring your unit back.I've given you an hour to put somedistancebetweenthe craterand yourself." Gunthernoticedthat the remotes,on automatic,had alreadybegunwalking away. "[Jrn . I've still got fuel rodsto load." "Ngt todayyou don't. The new reactorhas been takenback apartand hauledout of the blastingzone." Gunther thought now of all the machinerybeing disassembled and removed from the industrialpark, and was struckfor the first time by the operation'ssheerextravagances of scale.Normally only the most sensitive deviceswereremovedfrom a blastingarea."Wait a minute. fust what kind of monsterexplosiveare you planningto use?" There was a self-conscious cockinessto lzmailova'sstance."Nothing I don't know how to handle.This is a diplomat-class device,the samed"ri"g,l as saw action five yearsago. Nearly one hundred individual applications without a singlemechanicalfailure.That makesit the mostreli"bll weapon in the historyof warfare.You shouldfeel privilegedhavingthe chanceto work with one." Guntherfelt his fleshturn to ice. "/esusMother of God," he said..,you had me handlinga briefcasenuke." "Betterget usedto it. Westinghouse Lunar is putting theselittle babies into-mass production.We'll be crackingopen*o,t.rtrinr *ith them, blasting roadsthrough the highlands,smashingapart the rille walls to seewhat'i

Michael Swanwick

"And that'sjust the beginning. " ,)inside. Her voicetook on a visionarytone. Thereareplansfor enrichmentfieldsin SinusAestum.Explodea fewbombs over the regolith,then extractplutonium from the dirt. We're going to be the fuel dump for the entiresolarsystetn." His dismaymusthaveshownin hisstance,for lzmailovalaughed."Think of it asweaponsfor peace." The one "You should'vebeenthere!"Gunthersaid."lt wasuufuckabelievable. into nothing. Smashedto dust. It dissolved sideof the craterjust disappeared. glowed!Craters,machines,everything.My And for a reallong time everything flickering.I thoughtit wasgoingto burn it started to overload was close visor so "Who dealtthis mess?" his cards. He picked up nuh." out. It was "l'm in." his head. ducked Krishnagrinnedshylyand "l've died and goneto Hell." Hiro scowleddown at I'riscards. iust "Tradeyou," Anya said. "No, I deserveto suffer." They were in Noguchi Park by the edgeof the central lake, seatedon A kneebouldersthathadbeencarvedto lookwater-eroded. artfullyscattered sailboat toy somebody's side, arrd high forestof baby birchesgrew to one mazily Honeybees lake. floited near the impact cone at the centerof the browsedtl'reclover. "And then, just as the wall wascrumbling,this crazyRussianbitch-" Anya ditcheda trey. "Watch what you sayabout crazyRussianbitches." "-goes zooming up olt l-rerl-ropper ." "l siw it on television,"Hiro said."We all did. It wasnews.This guywho worksfor Nissantold me the BBC gaveit thirty seconds."He'd brokenhis nosein karatepractice,when he'd flinchedinto his instructor'spunch, and gavehim a tfuecontrastof squarewhite bandagewith shaggyblackeyebrows surly, piraticalappearance. Gunther discardedone. "Hit me. Matl, you didn't seeanything.You didn't feel the groundshakeafterward." "fust what was lzmailova'sconnectionwith the BriefcaseWar?" Hiro asked."Obviouslynot a courier.Was she ir-rthe supplyend or strategic?" Gunther shrugged. "Half of "You do rememberthe BriefcaseWar?" Hiro saidsarcastically. Earth's military elitestaken out in a singleday?The world pulled back terroristsrevealedasglobal from the brink of war by bold action?Suspected heroes?" War quitewell. He hadbeennineteen the Briefcase Guntherremembered Geothermalprojectwhen the whole Finlandia a on working the time, at world had gone into spasmand very nearlydestroyeditself. It had been a major factorin his decisionto ship off the planet."Can't we evertalk about anythingbut politics?I'm sickand tired of hearingaboutArmageddon." t'H.rl aren-'tyou supposedto be meeting with Hamilton?" Anya asked suddenly. He giancedup at the Earth. The eastcoastof South Americawas iust

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crossingthe duskterminator."oh, hell, there'senoughtime to play out the hand." Krishnawon with three queens.The deal passedto Hiro. He shuffled quickly, and slapPedthe cardsdown with angiy little punchesof his arm. "Okay," Anya said,"what'seatingyou?" , H.,looked up angrily,then down againand in a muffled voice,as if he had_abruptly gonebashfulas Krishna,said,"l'm shippinghome.', "Home?" "You mean to Earth?" "Are you crazy? ryit! everythingaboutto go up in flames?why?,, "BecauseI am so fuckingtired of the Moon-.It hasto be the ugliest place in the universe." "U-gly?"Anya lookedelaboratelyaboutat the terracedgardens, the streams that beganat the top leveland fell in eight_misty waterfillsbeforereaching the central-pondto be recirculatedagain,the gracefullywinding pathwaysl Peoplestrolledthroush greatlooping-rosebushJs and pastto*.rr"oi forsythia with the dreamlikeskimmingstridethat mad. -oonralking so like motion underwater'Otherspoppedin and out of the officetunnels,"pruredto watch the finchesloop and fly, tendedto bedsof cucumbers.At the midlevelstraw market, the tentswhere offduty hobby capitalistssold factorysystems,grass baskets,orangeglassplperweightsand .o.rrr., in postint.rprltiu. dance and the meme analysisof Elizabethanpoetry, were a fumbie of brave silks, turquoise,scarlet,and aquamarine."l think it looksnice. A little crowded, maybe,but that'sthe pioneeraesthetic.,' "lt looks like a shoppingmall, but that's not what I'm talking about. " la't - He gropedfor words."lt's like-it's what we'redoing to this world thatbothersme. I mean,yg're diggingit up, scattering g rb^gJ^bout,ripping the mountainsapart,and for wh-at?""Money," Anya said."consumer goods,raw materials, a future for our children.What'swrongwith that?" "we're not buildins future, we'rebuilding weapons. " _a "There'snot so much as a handgunon the"Moon. It's an intercorporate developmentzone. Weaponsare illegalhere.,, "You knowwhat I mean.All thosebomberfuselages, detonationsystems, and missilecasingsthat get built here,and shipp.dio lo* Errih oruit. Let,s ^ not pretendwe don't know what they'refor." "So7" Anya said_ sweetly."we live in the real world, we,renone of us nalveenoughto believeyou can havegovernments without armies.Why is it worsethat thesethingsare beingbuilt here ratherthan elsewhere?,' "It's the short-sighted, egocentriigreedof whatwe'redoi"fthrigrip., -.r Haveyou peekedout on the s.ttface-lately and seenthe *ry?t;, i.ing ,ipp.a open' torn apart,and scattered about?There are still plac"swhereyou can gaze upon a harsh_ beautyunchangedsince the daysou, ,n..Jor, *.r. swingingin trees.But we're hashingthem. In a generation,two at most, therewill be no morebeautyto the Moon than thereis to any other garbage dump."

l0

]'lichaelSwanwick

"You've seenwhat Earthboundmanufacturinghasdone to the environment," Anya said."Moving it off the planetis a goodthing, right?" "Yes, but the |!l6sn-" There'snothing here to harm." "Doesn't evenhavean ecosphere. They glaredat eachother. Finally Hiro said,"I don't want to talk about it," and sullenlypickedup his cards. Five or six handslater,a womanwanderedup and plumpedto the grassby Krishna'sfeet. Her eye shadowwasvivid electricpurple, and a crazysmile burned on her face. "oh hi," Krishna said. "Does everyonehere know componentof the Centerfor Self-Replicating SallyChang?She'sa research me." like Technologies, The ottrersnodded.Gunthersaid,"GuntherWeil. Bluecollarcomponent of GenerationFive." She giggled. Cun[nii blinked."You'recertainlyin a goodmood." He rappedthe deck with his knuckles."l'll stand." "l'm on psilly,"shesaid. "One card." in someof that. Did "Psilocybin?"Gunther said."l might be intere-sted backin my room' factories you growlt or *icrofactureit? I havea coupleof software?" the -.y6. I could divertone if you'd like to license Sally Chang shookher head, laughinghelplessly.Tears ran down her cheeks. "Well, when you comedown we can talk aboutit. " Gunther squintedat his cards."This would makea greathand for chess'" "Nobodyplayschess,"Hiro oid t.otttfully- "l-!t ? gam: for computgrs-." Gunthei iool th. pot with two pair. He shuffled, Krishna declined the cut, and he began dealing out cards' "So anyway' this crazy Russian lady-" knockedher back Out of nowhere,Changhowled.Wild gustsof laughte-r on her heelsand bent hei fot*ard again.The delightof discoverydancing i' t.t eyes,shepointeda fingerstraightat Gunther. "You're a robot!" she cried. "Bag pardon?" "You're a machine,an auto"Yo".riranothingbut a robot," sherepeated. You haveno free maton. Look at ylurselfl Nothing but itim,tlus-respo_nse. to will at all. There'snothilg there. You couldn't performan originalact " saveyour life. -,,ttt yeah?"Gunther glancedaround, lookingfor inspiration-A little though it.washard to tell from here-was boy-i1 *igttt be Pyotr N"ahfees, of shrimploaf to the carp' "Suppose scraps feeding water, the [yifr..dg.1f be an original.t.t." i- pit.hedlou 'f.^gfiing, into the lake?That would ,h. shookher head. "Typical primatebehavior'A perceived threatis met with a displayof mock aggression'"

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Gunther laughed. "Then, when that fails,the primatefallsbackto a displayof submission. Appeasal.The monkeydemonstrates his harmlessness-yousee?" "H.y, this reallyisn't funny," Gunthersaidwarningly."In fact, it's kind _ of insulting." "And so backto a displayof aggression." Gunther sighedand threw up both his hands."How am I supposedto react?Accordingto you, anythingI sayor do is wrong." "Submissionagain. Back and forth, back and forth from aggression to ,,Just submission and backagain."Shepumpedher arm asif it were, 'ilton. like a little machine-you see?It's all automaticbehavior. " "Yr-y, Kreesh-you're the neurobiowhatever here, right? put in a good word for me. Get me out of this conversation.,, Krishnareddened.He would not meet Gunther'seyes.,,Ms. Chang is very.highly regardedat the Center, you see. Anything she thinks about thinking is worth thin-kingabout." The woman watchj him avidly, eyes glistening,pupi_lssmall. "l think m_albewhat she means,though,'is tlat we'reall basicallycruisingthroughlife. Like we'reon autopilot.Nlt iustyou specifically,but all of us." He appealedto her directly.'tes?" "No, no' no, no." Sheshookher head."Him specifically. " 'l giveup." Guntherput his cardsdown, and laybackonihe graniteslab so he could stare.up through the roof glassat the waning Earthl When he closedhis eyes,he could seelzmailova'shopper,rising. It was a skimpy device,little more than a platform-and-chair rtop a clustlr of four bottlesof waste-gas propellant,and a set of smart legs. He saw it lofting up as the explosionblossome$, _1eeqi1gbriefly to hover high over the ciatei, like a hawkatopa thermal. Handsby side,the red-suited"figure ,rt, *ri.hing with what seemedinhuman calm. In the reflectedlight sh"eburnedasbrigf,tas a star.In an appallingway, shewasbeautiful. Sallychang huggedher knees,rockingbackand forth. Shelaughedand . laughed. Beth Hamilton waswired for telepresence. She flipped up one lens when Guntherenteredher office,but kepton-movinghei rr*s and legs.Dreamy little ghost motions that would be picked up"and -rgnii.d l;, factory somewhere overthe horizon."You'rc lrt. rgrin," shesafr with no particulai emphasis. at leasta twingeof realitysickness . Most peoplewould haveexperienced dealingwith two separate surroundsat once. Hamilton wasone of th. ,rr. few who could split her awareness betweentwo disparaterealitieswithout loss of efficiencyin either. "I called you in to discussy;;; il"re with GenerationFive- Specifically,to discussthe possibilityof you.itr"sfer to anotherplant." "You mean Earthside. " "You see?"Hamilton said. "you're not as stupid as you like to make

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yourselfout to be." She flipped the lens down again, stoodvery still, then hand and ran througha complexseriesof finger iiR.a a metal-gauntleted movements."Well?" "Well what?" "Tokyo, Berlin, BuenosAires-do any of thesehold magicfor you?How " aboutToronto?The right move now could be a big boostto your career. "All I want is to stayh.r., do my iob, anddrawdownmy salary,"Gunther saidcarefully."l'm not lookingfor a shotat promotion,or a big raise,or a lateralcareer-tracktransfer.I'm htpPy right where I am'" "You'vesuregot a funny wayof showingit." Hamiltonpowereddown her her nose.To one sidestood glovesand slippJdher handsfree.Shescratched f,e, *ork tabie, a polishedcube of black granite.Her peeceerestedthere, alongsidea sprayol.opp.t crystals.At her thought,it put Izmailova'svoice onto Gunther'schiP. behavior "lt is with deepesf regretthatI mustalertyou to the unprofessional the complaint,to Listening it began. components," p.tronn.l your of of one Gunther .*p.ii.r,"ed a totally u.,e*pectedtwinge of distressand, more, of ihat Izmailovahad daredjudgehim so harshly.He wascareful resentment it to let show. not -ltrr.rponsible, of a bad attitude." and possessed insubordinate,careless, 'lsh. doesn'tseemto like me much." Hamiltonsaidnothing. grin. He fakeda "But this isn't enoughto . . ." His voicetrailedoff. "Is it?" "Normally,Weillit wouldbe. A demoiock isn't'iusta techon retainer,' as you so quaintly put it; thosegovelnmentlicensesaren't easyto get' And you may not be-awareof it, but you hav-every Poor efficiency.ratingsto t.gi" *ith. Lots of potential, no follow-through. Frankly, you've been a diippointment. Ho*.u.r, lucky for you, this lzmailovadame humiliated Dorr'Srkri, and he'slet us know that we'reunder no particularpressureto her." accommodate "lzmailovahumiliatedSakai?" Hamilton staredat him. "Weil, you'reoblivious,you know that?" "Right, okay' Then he rememberedIzmailovabrant on nuclearenergy. I got it now." ",,So here'syour choice.I can write up a reprimand,and it goesinto youl p.rrnr.,..,t fift, ,long with Izmailova'scompiaint'Or you can takea lateral into the hrrthrid., ,ni I'll #e to it that theselittle things aren't logged " corporatesYstem. "ln that caseit It wasn',tmuch of a choice.But he put a goodfaceon itlookslike you'restuckwith me." "For the moment, Weil. For the moment'" he was He wasbackon the surfacethe next two daysrunning. The first day road, the kept to he or,.. agrin hauling fuel rodsto ChatterieeC. -f.hit time went he day and the reactor*"', ,"f.r.led exactlyon schedule.The second in been had that rods all the way out to Triesneckerto pick Yp :9*e old over argued people temporarytorrg. for six months*hil. the Kerr-McGee

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whetherthey should be reprocessed or dumped. Not a bad deal for him, becausealthoughthe sunspotcycle was on the wane, there was a surface advisoryin effectand he wasdrawinghazardousduty pay. When he gotthere,a techreptelepresenced in from somewhere in France to tell him to forgetit. There'dbeenanothermeeting,and the decisionhad onceagainbeendelayed.He startedbackto Bootstrap with the new a capella versionof The Threepenny Operaplayingin his head. It soundedawlully sweetand reedyfor his tastes,but that was what they were listeningto up home. Fifteen kilometersdown the road, the UV meter on the dashjumped. Gunther reachedout to tap the meterwith his finger.It did not reipond. ryilh a freezingsensationat the backof his neck,he glanced,tp at the roof of the cab and whispered,"Oh, no." "The RadiationForecastFacilityhasjust intensifiedits surfacewarningto " the trucksaidcalmly."This is dueto an unanticipated a Most Drasticstatus, flare storm, onset immediately.Everyonecurrently on the surfaceis to proceedwith all hasteto shelter.Repeat:Proceedimmediatelyto shelter." "l'm eightykilome[615 f1s6-" The truck was slowingto a stop. "Becausethis unit is not hardened, excessive fortuitousradiationmay causeit to malfunction.To ensurethe continuedsafeoperationof thisvehicle,all controlswill be frozenin manual mode and this unit will now shut off." With the releaseof the truck'smaskingfunctions,Gunther'shead filled with overlappingvoices.Staticwashedthroughthem, makingnonsenseof what they weretrying to say: ooastic

Stoous-Repeat:* +**lt This isooeth.Thoo S o o f a c e o o d o o o o rhya o o o h o o o i u s t i o o u e o o aM o o e e n o o o g r a d o o o t oM o o t t Doooticoodvis**+*+G Draooic Statoo. Aoo u nits ond persooooooare

et off tooosurfaceooGo ddamn oou, are yoo lis to find sheltoooimm tening? Find soolter. D ediatelo. Maximom ox on' t try to oot oock to posuoo ooenty minooe Boohhap.oooo foo, ifll ooond ooolter * s. iooedo fty you. oooten, toore o otely. * ** Thioois too recor throoofactorieoonoo oor dedovoice ofoohe Radi froooyour preooot atio o oForecast Facioit lo ootoon. Aoe you oist y.oouooto an unprooioo aroog, youoooofoff.z Wei oo o solo flare,oooe suo o oskopf Ao oisoone, Nio o oo, f a c e a d v o o o o o o h a sb e e n flfloolunaooMoooos upgradeooooMost Dras tooctooal. Weil!soet me

ooail,

are you there? C ooooon, good ooddy, gi oooa ve hoooo ooko, S o orgo oi-gaooyooo abra, o o o o ogrounoooig asses htoow. oodon't wanooto h**+ you've stoyedobe o ono oto furno oo o the I o g h t o oo h o e l oo o i o o o u t t oomeo on here?o rio of n ow. Evooyoo.!Anyoody onow woooe Mikhaoo i oo C'mon,oMisha, dono tooou get coy on us. So uoo us with ooor voice, h e o o ?W o o o o t o o r d E z

"Beth! The nearestshelteris backat_Weisskopf-that's half an hour at top speedand I've got an advisoryhereof twentyminutes.Tell me what to do!i'

t4

]rlichael Swanwick

But the first sleetof hard particleswascoming in too hard to make out anything more. A hand, his apparently,floatedforwardand flicked off the radio relay.The voicesin his headdied. The cracklingstaticwent on and on. The truck sat motionless,half an hour from nowhere,invisibledeathsizzlingand poppingdown throughthe their seals,and cab roof. He pu[ his helmetand gloveson, double-checked unlatchedthe ddor. It slammedopen. Pagesfrom the op manual flew away,and a glovewent that Eurydice tumbling gaily acrossthe surface,chasingthe pink ftszzy-dice biscuitsin an wheat A handful of in night Sweden. last him given that had gone, the tin after drawing were powder and to dash turned opentin on the Gunther to depressurize. forgotten He'd decompression. them. Explosive dangerous-a so basic-so made having at astonishment frozein dismayed mistake. Then he wason the surface,headtilted back,staringup at the sun. It was angrywith sunspots,and one enormousand unpredictedsolarflare. I'm goingto die, he thought. For a long, paralyzinginstant,he tastedthe chill certaintyof that thought. He wasgoingto die. He knew that for a fact, knew it more surelythan he had everknown anythingbefore. In his mind, he could seeDeath sweepingacrossthe lunar plain toward that stretchedto infinity in every him. Death wasa blackwall, featureless, direction.It slicedthe universein half. On thissidewerelife, warmth,craters and flowers,dreams,mining robots,thought, everythingthat Gunther knew something?Nothing?The wall or could imagine.On the bther side . But it was bearing gaveno hint. It was unreadable,enigmatic,-absolute. [o*n on him. It wasso closenow that he could almostreachout and touch it. Soonit would be here.He would passthrough,andthen he would know. With a starthe brokefree of that thought,and jumped for the cab. He scrabbledup its side. His trance chip hissing,rattling and-crackling,he yankedthe magneticstrapsholding Siegfriedin place,grabbedthe spooland control pad, and iumpedoverthe edge. He landedjarringly, f.ll to his knees,and rolled under the trailer. There wasenoughrhi.ldiig *rapped aroundthe fuel rodsto stopany amount of hard radialtion-no matteiwhatits source.It would shelterhim aswell from the sun as from his cargo.The trancechip fell silent, and he felt his iaws relaxingfrom a clenchedtension' Safe. It wasdarkbeneaththe trailer,and he had time to think. Evenkickinghis rebreatherup to full, and offlining all his suit peripherals,he didn't have a shelter. enougho*yg.r 'r"as to sit out the storm. So okay. He had to get to a shelter was there and_ away kilometers fifteen only clorest, Weisikopf goal. his be would That plant there. ffr.-bly the i5 in Workingby feel,he found the steelsupportingstruts,and usedSiegfried's of the trailer.It wasclumsy, magneticrtrrp, to attachhimselfto the underside

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difficult work, but at lasthe hung face-downoverthe road.He fingeredthe walker'scontrols,and sat Siegfriedup. Twelve excruciatingminuteslater, he finally managedto get Siegfried downfrom the roof unbroken.The interiorwasn'tintendedto hold rnything half so big. To get the walkerin he had first to cut the door free, and then rip the chair out of the cab. Discardingboth items by the roadside,he squeezed Siegfriedin. The walkerbent overdouble,reconfigured, reconfigured-again, and finallymanagedto fit ihelf into the space.Gently,delicately, Siegfriedtook the controlsand shiftedinto first. With a bump, the truck startedto move. It wasa hellishtrip. The truck, neverfastto beginwith, walloweddown the road like a cast-ironpig. Siegfried's opticswerebent over the controls, and couldn't be raisedwithout ferkingthe walker'shandsfree. He couldn't look aheadwithout stoppingthe truck first. He navigatedby watchingthe roadpassunderhim. To a crudedegreehe could align the truck with the treadmarks scrollingby. Wheneverh! wandered off the track, he worked Siegfried'shand controls to veer the truck back,so that it driftedslowlyfrom sideto side,zig-zagging its waydown the road. Shadowsbumping and leaping,the road flowed toward Gunther with dangerous monotony.H-eiiggledand vibratedin his makeshiftsling.After a while his neck hurt with the effort of holding his headbackto riatch the glaringroaddisappearing into shadowby the front axle, and his eyesached from the crawling repetitiveness of what they saw. The truck kicked up dust in passing,and the smallerparticlescarried enoughof a staticchargeto cling to his suit. At irregularintervalshe swiped at the fine greyfilm on his visorwith his glove,srnearingit into long, tirin streaks. - He beganto hallucinate.Theyweremild visuals,oblongpatchesof colored light that movedin his visionand went awaywhen he sh-ookhis headand firmly closedhis eyesfor a concentrated moment.But everymoment'srelease flom-the pressure of _visiontemptedhim to keephis eyesclosedlonger,apd that he could not affordto do. tt put him in mind of the lasttime he had seenhis mother,and what she had saidthen. That the worstpartof being a widow wasthai everyday her -before, iife begananew, no betterthan the day the pain still fr"rh, h", husband'sabsencea physicalfact shewasno closerto acceptingthan ever. It waslike_beingdead,shesaid,in that nothing everchang;d." Ah God, he thought,this isn't worth doing. Then , ,o.k the sizeof his headcameboundingtowardhis helmet.Frantichands ferkedat the controls, and Siegfriedskewedthe truck wildly, so that the rock jumped ,*ry ,r,d missedhim. Which put an end to thatline of thought. He cuedhis peecee.Saintlamel' lnfirmary.n-. nn. It did.'t help. Come on, you bastard,he thought.You cando it. His armsanclshoulders ached,and his backtoo, when he gaveit any thought.perversely enough,

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Michael Swanwick

one of his legshad goneto sleep.At the anglehe had to hold his headto watchthe road,his mouth tendedto hangopen.After a while, a quivering motion alertedhim that a small puddle of salivahad gatheredin the curve of his faceplate.He wasdrooling.He closedhis mouth, swallowingbackhis spit, and staredforward.A minute laterhe found that he wasdoingit again. Slowly, miserably,he drovetowardWeisskopf. The G5 Weisskopfplant was typical of its kind: A white blister-dometo moderatetemperatureswingsover the long lunar day, a microwaverelay units presence, anda hundredsemiautonomous towerto bringin supervisory to do the work. Gunther overshotthe accessroad,wheeledbackto catch it, and ran the truck right up to the side of the factory.He had Siegfriedswitch off the engine, and then let the control pad fall to the ground. For well over a minute he simplyhung there,eyesclosed,savoringthe end of motion. Then he kickedfree of the straps,and crawledout from under the trailer. Staticscattingand stutteringinsidehis head,he stumbledinto the factory. In the muted light that filteredthroughthe dome covering,the factory wasdim asan underseacavern.His helmetlight seemedto distortasmuch as it illumined. Machinesloomedcloserin the centerof its glare,swelling up asif seenthrougha fisheyelens.He turnedit off, and waitedfor his eyes to adjust. slenderas ghosts,moving After a bit, he could seethe robotassemblers, them. They swayed had activated with unearthlydelicacy.The flare storm raised,they danced Arms other. lightly out of syncwith each like seaweed, in time to randomradio input. lineslay the remainsof half-builtrobots,lookingflayed On the assembly Their carefulfrettingsof copperand silvernerveshad been and eviscerated. exposedto view and randomlyoperatedupon. A long arm iointed down, electricfire at its tip, and madea metal torsotwitch. They were blind mechanisms,most of them, powerfulthingsboltedto the floor in assemblylogic paths. But there were mobile units as well, weavingdrunkenlythroughthe factorywith and iacks-of-all-trades, overseers eye. sun-maddened A suddenmotion madeGuntherturn just in time to seea metalpuncher swiveltowardhim, slamdown an enormousarm and put a hole in the floor by his feet. He felt the shockthroughhis soles' punch He dancedback.The machinefollowedhim, the diamond-tipped slidingnervouslyin and out of its sheath,its movementsas tremblingand dainty as a newborncolt's. "Easy there, baby," Gunther whispered.To the far end of the factory, on the craterwall pointedto an iron door. The greenarrowssupergiaffixed ih.lt.t. Gunther bicked awayfrom the punch, edginginto a serviceaisle betweentwo rowsof machinesthat rippledlike grassin the wind. The punch pressrolled forward on its trundle. Then, confusedby that

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field of motion, it stopped,hesitantlyscanningthe ranksof robots.Gunther froze. At last,slowly,^lumberingly, the metalpuncherturned away. Gunther ran. Staticroaredin his head.Grey shadowsswamamongthe distantmachines,li-kesharks,sometimes comingcloser,sometime,,...iing. The staticloudened.Up and down the factoryweldingarcswinkedon at the assembler tips, like tiny stars.Ducking, running, spiining, he reachedthe shelterand seizedthe airlockdoor. Even throughtiir glorl, the handlefelt cold. He turned it. The airlockwassmall and round. He squeezed throughthe door and fit himselfinto the inadequate spacewithin, -iking himselfa'ssmallaspossible. He yankedthe door shut. Darkness. He switchedhis helmetlamp backon. The reflectedglareslammedat his eyes'far too intensefor sucha confinedarea.Foldedkriees-to-chin into the roundnessof the lock he felt a wry comradeship with Siegfriedbackin the truck. The inner lock controlsweresimplicityitself.The door hingedinward,so that air pressureheld it shut. Tf"t-. was a ya.k bar which,"*h* pulfed, would blqqdoxygeninto the airlock. When pressureequalized,the inner door would open easily.He yankedthe bar. The floor vibratedas somethingheavywent by. The shelterwassmall, iust largeenoughto hold a cot, a chemicaltoilet and a rebreatherwith spareoxytanks.A singleoverheadunit providediight and heat. For comforttherewasa blanket.Fo, ,*.rsement, ih.r. were locketsizededitionsof the Bible and the Koran,placedthereby impossibiy'dista,rt missionarysocieties.Even empty,therewasnot much spaceinthe shelter. It wasn'tempty. A woman, frowningand holdin_g up a protectivehand, cringedfrom his helmet lamp. "Turn that thing off;' shesaid. He obeyed.In the softlight that ensuedhe saw:starkwhite flattop, pink scalpvisiblethroughthe sides.High cheekbones. Eyelidslifd slightiy,^like wings,by carefullysculptedeyeshadow.Dark lips, full mouth. ft-e had to admirethe characterit took to makeup a faceso carefulty,onty-to hide it beneatha helmet.Then he sawhe.ed and orang. st,rdil'volga suit. It waslzmailova. To coverhis embarrassment, he took his time removinghis glovesald helmet. Izmailovamovedher own helmetfrom the cot to make ioo-, and he satdownbesideher. Extendinga hand,he stifflysaid,,,we,u. -.ibefore. My namei5-" "[ know. It's writtenon your suit." "Oh yeah.Right." For an uncomfortablylong moment, neither spoke.At last lzmailova

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MichaelSwanwick

clearedher throatand brisklysaid,"This is ridiculous.There'sno reasonwe should-" CLANG. Their headsjerkedtowardthe door in unison.The soundwasharsh,loud, metallic.Guntherslammedhis helmeton, grabbedfor his gloves.Izmailova, into her trance alsosuitingup as rapidlyasshecould, tenselysubvocalized "What it?" is chip: said, Methodicallysnappinghis wrist latchesshut one by one,__Gunther his words, muffled helmet the because Then, "l think it's a metal-punch." he repeatedthem over the chiP. CLANG. This secondtime, they werewaitingfor the sound.Now there could be no doubt. Somethingwastrying to breakopen the outer airlock door. "A what?!" "Might be a hammerof someVpe, or a blacksmithunit. f ust be thankful it's not"a laserfig." He held up his handsbeforehim. "Give me a safety check." She turned his wristsone way, back,took his helmet in her handsand gaveit a twist to testits seal."You pass."Sheheld up her own wrists."But what is it trying to do?" Her glove,,i.t. sealedperfectly.one helmetdog had.a bit of give in it, but not"enoughto breachintegrity.He shrugged."lt's deranged-it could want anythin!. It might evenbe trying to repaira weakhinge." CLANG. "lt's tryingto get in here!" "That's anotherpossibility,Y€s." Izmailova'suoiceroseslightiy."But evenscrambled,therecan't possibly be any programsin its memoryto makeit do that. How can randominput make it act this waY?" "lt doesn'twork iike that. You'rethinkingof the kind of roboticsthey had when you werea kid. Theseunits are stateof the art:They don't manipulate instructions,they manipulateconcepts.See,that makesthem more flexible' You don't have'to programin everylittle stepwhen you want one to do somethingnew. You just give it 2 goal-" CLANG. ,,-lllqs, to Disassemble a RotaryDrill. [t's got a bank of availableskills, and Unbolting and btoss Manipulation, which it then fits like Cutting "various until it hasa path that will bring it to the togetherin "or,figur"ations of talking now' talkingto keephimself sake f; the go"rt."He wastalking "normally out fine. But when one of thesethings works Fro* panic. "Which level- See?So f[3[-" conceptual the on malfunctions,it doesso ,,Sothat it decideswe'rerotarydrills that needto be disassembled." "Uh . . yeah." CLANG. ,,Sowhat do we do when it getsin here?"They had both involuntarily space' risen to their feet, and stoodfacing the door' There was not much

Griffin'sEgg

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and what little therewasthey filled. Gunther wasacutelyawarethat there wasnot enoughroom here to eitherfight or flee. "l don't know aboutyou," he said,"but I'm goingto hit that suckerover the headwith the toilet." She turned to look at him. CLA- The noisewas cut in half by a breathy,whooshingexplosion. Abrupt, total silence."lt's throughthe outer door," Gunther saidflatly. They waited. Much later, Izmailovasaid, "ls it possibleit's gone away?" "l don't know." Gunther undoggedhis helmet, knelt and put an ear to the floor. The stonewasalmostpainfullycold. "Maybethe explosiondamagedit." He could hear the faint vibrationsof the assemblers, the heavier rumblingsof machinesrovingthe factoryfloor. None of it soundedclose. He silentlycountedto a hundred.Nothing. He countedto a hundredagain. "It's gone." Finally he straightened. They both satdown. Izmailovatookoffher helmet,and Guntherclumsily beganundoing his gloves.He fumbled at the latches."Look at me." He laughedshakily."l'm all thumbs.I can'tevenhandlethis,I'm sounnerved." "Let me help you with that." Izmailovaflippedup the latches,tuggedat his glove.It camefree. "Where'syour other hand?" Then, somehow,they wereeachremovingthe other'ssuit, tuggingat the latches,undoingthe seals.They beganslowlybut spedup with eachlatch undogged,until they wereyankingand pulling with frantic haste.Gunther openedup the front of lzmailova'ssuit, revealinga red silk camisole.He slid his handsbeneathit, and pushedthe cloth up overher breasts.Her nipples werehard. He let her breastsfill his handsand squeezed. Izmailovamadea low, groaningsoundin the backof her throat.Shehad Gunther'ssuit open.Now shepusheddown his leggings and reachedwithin to seizehis cock. He wasalreadyerect.She tuggedit out and impatiently shovedhim down on the cot. Then she was kneelingon top of him and guidinghim insideher. Her mouth met his, warm and moist. Half in and half out of their suits,they madelove. Gunther managedto struggleone arm free,and reachedwithin lzmailova'ssuit to run a hand up her long backand overthe backof her head.The shorthairsof her buzz cut stungand tickledhis palm. Sherodehim roughly,her fleshslipperywith sweatagainsthis. "Are you coming yet?"she murmured. "Are you coming yet?Tell me when you're aboutto come."Shebit hisshoulder,the sideof his neck,his chin. his lower lip. Her nailsdug into his flesh. "Now," he whispered.Possiblyhe only subvocalized it, and shecaughtit on her trancechip. But then she clutchedhim tighterthan ever,as iT she weretrying to crackhis ribs, and her whole body shudderedwith orgasm. Then he cametoo, ridingher passiondowninto spiralingdesperation, ecstasy and release. It wasbetterthan anythinghe had everexperienced before.

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pushed Afterward,they finally kickedfree of their suits.They-shovedandthem, beneath from out blanket the pulled th; ihl;g, on trt. cot. iunther lay They them' of both the it about ,r,a *itfr lzmailova'shelp *taip.d together,relaxed,not sPeaking. "He listenedto her breathefor a while. The noisewas soft' When she in the hollow turnedher facetowardhim, he could feel it, a warm little tickle beside stranger This room. the oit i, throat. The smell oi her permeated him. here?"he Gunther felt weary,warm, at ease."How long haveyou been '" ' ' asked."Not here in the shelter,I mean, but "Five days." .r ,, r "That little." He smiled."Welcometo the Moon, Ms' Izmailova"' ,,Ekatarina,"shesaidsleepily."call me Ekatarina." road Ptolemaeus Whooping,theysoaredhigh andsouth,overHerschel'The "This returning' always U.r,irrra [o,rUl.d belowthem, winding out of sig}t, you into takingme out is great!"Hiro crowed."This is-l should'vetalked here a yearago." eastward'The Gunther checkedhis bearingsand throttleddown, sinking formation. Two days other two hopp.*, rtr*d to tril own, followedin tight mandatoryrecoop' [rJ prrr.d ,in.. ih. flrr. storm and Gunther, still on soon as the surface ir;J ;r;"rised to gu,d. his friendsinto the highlandsas your safety *r, drop"p.d."We're coming in now, !.ettertriplecheck ;#"ty hrrr,.sier. You aoing okaybackthere, Kreesh?" "l am quite comfortable,Yes'"

fi;,il; ffi;;;irr.

BayCompt.y landingpad' ;;'down on the Seething rr I ^l^J about ,..*d downandthefirslo'ihe surfa"e.He bounded

lookingfor new vantage like a collie off its leash,chasingupslopea'd down, day, but y-ouknow ooints."l can'tbelievei'* her.I I worl out this wayevery mean'" firsttime I've actuallybeenout here.Physically,I i,r,rri rrii;,h; "Watch yo,r, footing,;;Cunther wained."This isn't like telepresence-if carryyou out'" you br.rk ilrg, itff UZup t9 Krishna and me to ,,1trust you. Man, anybody*ho .rn get caughtout in a flarestorm,and end up nailing-" "H.y, watchYourlanguage,*tY?" ,,Everybody',i,lrrd thZ stJry. i r,t.rr,, we all thought yo.uwele dead,and -ihey'll be talling abo.utit a.hundred then they found the two of you asleep. his laughter'"You're a yearsfrom now." Hiro waspracticailychokingon legend!" "I can'tbelieve "f ust giveit a rest." To changethe subiect,Gunthersaid, wasa Seething-B-a{.oPeration The thls mess." vo,r'*r,r"ito taker ptrgb of processing a it to fed and regolith the l ttp *i*. Robotbulldorersscoopedup afterthe thorium here' and plant that restei;;-.;;rmous ,kidr. They.ry.i. transportedto the breeder be ."ough tt tt it could the output was ;tii and the tailings were railgun a for reactorby hopper. There *i, ,,o need factory. the of mountainsin the wake ;ii;-i";rtifi;;l

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"Don't be ridiculous." Hiro sweptan arm southward,towardPtolemaeus. "Therel" The crater wall caught the sun, while the lowestparts of the surroundingland werestill in shadow.The gentleslopesseemedto tower; the crateritself wasa cathedral, blazing white. "Where is your camera?"Krishnaasked. "Don't needone. I'll just takethe datadown on my helmet." "l'm not too clearon thismosaicprojectof yours,"Gunthersaid."Explain to me one more time how it's supposed to work." "Anya cameup with it. She'srentingan assembler to cut hexagonalfloor tilesin black,white, and fourteenintermediateshadesof grey.I providethe pictures.We choosethe one we like best,scanit in blackand white, screen for valuesof intensity,and then havethe assembler lay the foor, one tile per pixel. It'll look great-come by tomorrowand see." "Yeah, I'll do that." Chatteringlike a squirrel,Hiro led them awayfrom the edgeof the mine. They boundedwestward,acrossthe slope. Krishna'svoicecameoverGunther'strancechip. It wasan old groundrat trick. The chips had an effectivetransmission radiusof fifteenyards-you could turn off the radio and talk chip-to-chip,if you were closeenough. "You soundtroubled,my friend." He listenedfor a secondcarriertone, heard nothing. Hiro was out of range."lt's lzmailova.I sortsf-" "Fell in love with her." "How'd you know that?" They werespacedout acrossthe risingslope,Hiro in the lead.For a time neitherspoke.There wasa calm, confidentialqualityto that sharedsilence, like the anonymousstillnessof the confessional."Pleasedon't take this wrong,"Krishnasaid. "Take what wrong?" "Gunther, if you taketwo sexuallycompatiblepeople,placethem in close proximity,isolatethem and scarethe hell out of them, theywill fall in love. That'sa given.It's a survivalmechanism,somethingthatwaswiredinto your basicmakeuplong beforeyou wereborn. When billionsof yearsof evolution sayifs bondingtime, your brain doesn'thavemuch choicebut to obey." "H.y, come on overhere!" Hiro criedoverthe radio. "You've got to see this." "we're coming," Gunthersaid.Then, overhis chip, "you makeme out to be one of SallyChang'smachines." "In somewayswe are machines.That'snot so bad. We feel thirstywhen we need water,adrenalinepumps into the bloodstreamwhen we need an extraboost of aggressive energy.You can't fight your own nature. What would be the point of it?" "Yeah,but . ." "Is this greator what?"Hiro wasclamberingovera boulderfield. "lt just goeson and on. And lookup there!"Upslope,they sawthat what they were climbing overwasthe spillagefrom a narrowcleft entirelvfilled wittr boul-

22

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ders. They were huge, as big as hoppers,some of them large as prefab oxysheds."Hey, Krishna,I beenmeaningto askyou-just what is it that you do out thereat the Center?" "l can't talk about it. " "A*, comeon." Hiro lifteda rockthe sizeof his headto his shoulderand shovedit away,like a shot-putter.The rocksoaredslowly,landedfar downslopein a white explosionof dust. "You're amongfriendshere. You can trust us." Krishnashookhis head.Sunlightflashedfrom the visor."You don't know " what you'reasking. Hiro hoisteda secondrock,biggerthan the first. Cuntherknewhim in this mood, nasty-faced and grinning."My point exactly.The two of us know zip You could spentthe next ten hourslecturingus, and we neurobiology. about couldn'tcatchenoughto compromisesecurity."Anotherburstof dust. "You don't understand.The Centerfor Self-Replicating Technologiesis for a fraction back on Earth reason. The lab be done work could herefor a projects move here that sponsors only of what a lunar facility costs.Our " they'regenuinelyafraidof. "So what cdn you tell us about?fust the open stuff, the video magazine stuff. Nothing secret." "Well . . . okay."Now it wasKrishna'sturn. He pickedup a small rock, in wound up like a baseballplayerand threw. It dwindledand disappeared the distance.A puff of white sproutedfrom the surface."You know Sally functions." Chang?She hasiust finishedmappingthe neurotransmitter They waited. When Krishna addednothing further, Hiro dryly said, ttWow.tt

"Details,Kreesh.Someof us aren'tso fastto seethe universein a grain of sandas you are." "lt shouldbe obvious.We'vehad a completegeneticmap of the brain for almosta decade.Now add to that Sally Chang'schemical raP, and it's to beinggiventhe keysto the library.No, betterthan that. Imagine analogous thatyou'vespentyour entirelife within an enormouslibraryfilled with books in a languageyou neither read nor speak,and that you've just found the " dictionaryand a picturereader. of how "So what areyou saying?That we'll havecompleteunderstanding the brain operates?" With chemical "We'll havecompletecontroloverhow the brainoperates. therapy,it will be possibleto makeanyonethink or feel anythingwe want. We will havean immediatecure for all nontraumaticmentalillness.We'll passion,creativity-bring them up, damp be able to fine-tuneaggression, You can seewhy our sponsorsare so afraid the same. be all it'll down, them " produce. might research our what of "Not really,no. The world could usemore sanity,"Gunther said. "l agree.But who definessanity?Many governmentsconsiderpolitical This would openthe doorsof the for mentalincarceration. dissenigrounds brain, illowing it to be examinedfrom the outside.For the first time, it

Griffin'sEgg

23

would be possibleto discoverunexpressed rebellion.Modesof thoughtcould be outlawed.The potentialfor abuseis not inconsiderable. "Consideralsothe military applications. This knowledgecombinedwith someof the new nanoweaponry might producea berserker gas,allowingyou to turn the enemy'sarmiesupon their own populace.Or, easier,to throw them into a psychoticfrenzyand let them turn on themselves. Citiescould be pacifiedby renderingthe citizenrycatatonic.A secondary, internalreality could then be created,allowingthe conquerorto use the massesas slave " labor.The possibilities are endless. They digestedthis in silence.At last Hiro said, "leez, Krishna,if that's the opengoods,what the hell kind of stuffdo you haveto hide?" "l can'ttell you." A minute later, Hiro washaring off again.At the foot of a nearbyhill he found an immenseboulderstandingatilt on its smallend. He dancedabout, trying to get goodshotspastit without catchinghis own footprintsin them. "So what'sthe problem?"Krishnasaidoverhis chip. "Th. problemis, I can't arrangeto seeher. Ekatarina.I've left messages, but shewon't answerthem. And you know how it is in Bootstrap-it tikes a realeffortto avoidsomebody who wantsto seeyou. But she'smanagedit. " Krishnasaidnothing. "All I want to know is, just what'sgoingon here?" "She'savoidingyou." "But why? I fell in love and shedidn't, is that what you'retelling me? I mean, is that a crockor what?" "Without hearingher sideof the story,I can't really sayhow she feels. But the oddsareexcellentshefell everybit ashardasyou did. The difference is that you think it's a goodidea,and shedoesn't.So of courseshe'savoiding you. Contactwould iust makeit moredifficult for her to masterher feelingi for you." "Shit!" An unexpected touch of wrynessenteredKrishna'svoice. "What do you want?A minute ago you werecomplainingthat I think you'rea machine. Now you'reunhappythat lzmailovathinksshe'snot." "H.y, you guys!come overhere.I've found the perfectshot.you've got to seethis." Thgr turnedto seeHiro wavingat them from the hilltop. "l thoughtyou were leaving,"Gunther grumbled."You saidyou were sick of the-Moon, andgoing-away and nevercomingback.So how comeyou'reupgradingyour digsall of a sudden?" "That wasyesterday! Today,I'm a pioneer,a builderof worlds,a founder of dynasties!" "This is gettingtedious.What doesit taketo get a straightanswerout of you?" Hiro boundedhigh and strucka pose,armswide and a little ridiculous. He staggered a bit on landing."Anya and I are gettingmarried!"

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MichaelSwanwick

Gunther and Krishnalookedat each other, blank visor to blank visor. Forcingenthusiasminto his voice,Gunther said,"H"y, no shit?Really! Congratu-" A screamof statichowled up from nowhere.Gunther winced and cut down the gain. "My stupidradio i5-" One of the othertwo-they had movedtogetherand he couldn'ttell them apartat this distance-waspointingupward.Gunther tilted backhis head, to look at the Earth. For a secondhe wasn'tsurewhat he waslookingfor. Then he sawit: a diamondpinprickof light in the middle of the night. It waslike a small,brightholein reality,somewhere in continentalAsia."What the hell rs that?" he asked. " Softly,Hiro said,"l think it's Vladivostok. By the time theywerebackoverthe SinusMedii, that firstlight had reddened and faded away,and two more had blossomed.The news fockeyat the Observatorywasworking overtimesplicingtogetherreportsfrom the major newsfeedsinto a montageof rumor and fear. The radio was full of talk abouthits on Seouland BuenosAires.Thoseseemedcertain.Strikesagainst Panama,Iraq, Denver,andCairoweredisputed.A stealthmissilehad flown low over Hokkaidoand been deflectedinto the Sea of fapan. The Swiss Orbitalshad lost somefactoriesto fragmentationsatellites.There was no trendedin and thoughmostsuspicions asto the sourceaggressor, agreement one direction,Tokyo deniedeverything. Gunther was most impressedby the sound feed from a British video who saidthat it did not matterwho had fired the firstshot,or why. essayist, "Who shall we blame?The SouthernAlliance, Tokyo, GeneralKim, or possiblysomeGrey terroristgroup that nobodyhas everheard of before?In a worldwhoseweaponswerewiredto hair triggers,the questionis irrelevant. When the first deviceexploded,it activatedautonomousprogramswhich 'a Gorshovhimself launchedwhat is officiallylabeled measuredresponse.' programs week'sthree chose this prevented it. His tactical could not have innocent-and were certainly mostlikely aggressors-atleasttwo of which Human beingshad no sayover it. launcheda response. 'measured responses.' "Thosethreenationsin turn had their own reflexive just beginningto learn. Now we will pausefor The resultsof which we are five days, while all concernedpartiesnegotiate.How do we know this? Abstracts of all major defenseprogramsareavailableon any public datanet. They are no secret.Opennessis in fact what deterrenceis all about. "We havefivedaysto averta warthatliterallynobodywants.The question is, in five dayscan the military and political powersseizecontrol of their Will they?Given the pain and angerinvolved, own defenseprogramming? the traditionalhatreds,nationalchauvinism,and the natural reactionsof thosewho number loved onesamongthe alreadydead,can thosein charge overcometheir own naturesin time to pull backfrom final and total.war? Our bestinformedguessis no. No, they cannot. "Good night, and may God havemercyon us all."

Griffin's Egg

They flew northwardin silence.Even when the broadcastcut off in midword,nobodyspoke.It wasthe end of the world, and therewasnothing they could lnt that did not shrink to insignificancebeforethat fact. They simplyheadedhome. The land aboutBootstrapwasdottedwith graffiti, greatblockletterstraced out in boulders: KARL OPS-EINDHOVEN'49 andLOUISE MCTIGHE ALBUQUERQUE NM. An enormouseye in a pyramid. ARSENAL woRLD RUGBY CHAMPS with a crown over it. coRNpoNE. pi LambdaPhi. MOTORHEADS. A giantwith a club. Coming down over them, Gunther reflectedthat they all referredto placesand thingr in the world overhead,not a one of them indigenousto the Moon. What had alwaysseemedpointlessnow struckhim as unspeakably sad. It wasonly a shortwalk from the hopperpadto the vacuum garage. They didn't botherto summona jitney. The garageseemedstrangelyunfamiliarto Gunther now, thoughhe had passed throughit a thousandtimes.It seemedto float in its own riystery,as if eve_rything had beenremovedand replacedby its exactdouble,rendering it differentand somehowunknowable.Row upon row of parkedvehiclei were_slanted by typewithin the paintedlines.Ceilinglightssirainedto reach the floor, and could not. 'Boy, is this placestill!" Hiro'svoiceseemedunnaturallyloud. It wastrue. In all the cavetnousreachesof the garage, not a singleremote or robot serviceunit stirred.Not so much m , pi.sure-leaksnifflr moved. "Must be becauseof the news,"Gunthe, -utt red. He found he wasnot readyto speakof the war directly. To the back of the garage,five airlocks stoodall in a row. Abovethem a warm, yellowstripof ri"dow shonein the rock. In the room beyond,he could seethe ou.rri., moving about. Hiro wavedan arm, and the small figurewithin leanedforwardto wave back.They trudgedto the nearestlock and waited. Nothing happened. After a few minutes,g.y steppedbackand awayfrom the lock to peer up through the window. The overseerwas still there, moving unhurriedli. "!.y!" Hiro shoutedover openfrequency."you up there!Ar. yo,, on the iob?" The man smiled,noddedand wavedagain. "Then openthe goddamneddoor!" Hiro strodeforward,and with a final, noddingwave,the overseer bent over his controls. "Vh, Hiro," Gunthersaid,"there'ssomethingodd about. . .,, The door explodedopen. It slammedopenso hardand fastthe doorwashalf torn off its hinges.The air within blastedout likea chargefrom a cannon.For a momentthe garage -A was filled with loosetools, partsof vacuum suits and shredsof cloth. wrenchstruckGunther a glancingblow on his arm, spinninghim around and knockinghim to the floor. up in shock.Bits and piecesof things hung suspended for a - He staredlong, surrealinstant.Then, the air fled, they begai to sloivly,iro*., down.

Michael Swanwick are you his arm throughthe suit. He got up awkwardly,massaging all right?Kreesh?" "Oh my God," Krishnasaid. Gunther spun around. He saw Krishna crouchedin the shadowof a flatbed,over somethingthat could not possiblybe Hiro, becauseit bent the wrong way. He walkedthroughshimmeringunrealityand knelt beside Krishna.He stareddown at Hiro's corpse. opened Hiro had beenstandingdirectlybeforethe doorwhenthe overseer blast the caught the corridorwithin first. He had it without depressurizing straighton. It had lifted him and smashedhim againstthe sideoi a flatbed, snrppinghis spineand shatteringhis helmet visor with the backlash.He must havedied instantaneously. "Who's there?"a woman said. A iitney had enteredthe gacrgewithout Gunther'snoticing it. He looked up in time to seea secondenter,and then a third. Peoplebeganpiling out. Sbonthereweresometwentyindividualsadvancingacrossthe garage.They brokeinto two groups.One headedstraighttowardthe locksand the smaller groupadvancedon Gunther and his friends.It lookedfor all the world like i military operation."Who's there?"the woman repeated. Gulther lift"d his friend'scorpsein his armsand stood."lt's Hiro," he saidflatly."Hiro." suitslike They floatedforwardcautiously,a semicircleof blank-visored so many kachinas.He could make out the corporatelogos. Mitsubishi. Westinghouse.Holst Orbital. Izmailova'sred-and-orange -suit was among them, and a vivid Mondrianpatternhe didn't recognize.The womanspoke again,tensely,warily."Tell me how you'refeeling,Hiro'" It wasBeth Hamilton. "That'snot Hiro," Krishnasaid."lt's Gunther. That'sHiro. That he's carrying.We were out in the highlandsand-" fli5 voice crackedand collapsedin confusion. "ls that you, Krishna?"someoneasked."There'sa touch of luck. Send him up front, we're going to needhirn when we get in." Somebodyelse slappedan arm over Krishna'sshouldersand led him away. "Dmitri, is that you? Ou.t the radio,a clearvoicespoketo the overseer. Signe Ohmstede.I'm your you, Dmitri? don't It's Signe.You rememberme, friend." "Sure I rememberyou, Signe.I rememberyou. How could I everforget my friend?SureI do." "Oh, good. I'm so hrppy. Listencarefully,Dmitri. Everything'sfine." Gunth"t.-hin..d his radioto send."The hell it is! That fool Indign"antly, uP therg-t" suit grabbedCunther'sbadarm and shook A burly man in a Westinghouse "This is serious,damn you' We don't growled. him. "Shut the fuck up!" ie havethe time to babYYou." them. "For God's sake,Posner,he's iust Hamilton shoved'between

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sssp-" She stopped."Let me takecareof him. I'll get him calmeddown. |ust give us half an hour, okay?" The otherstradedglances,nodded,and turnedaway. To Gunther'ssurprise,Ekatarinaspokeover his trancechip. "l'm sorry Gunther," she murmured.Then shewasgone. He wasstill holding Hiro's corpse.He found himselfstaringdown at his friend'sruined face.The fleshwasbruisedand aspuffu-lookingas an overboiled hot dog. He couldn't look away. "Come on." Beth gavehim a little shoveto gethim going."Put the body in the back of that pick-up and give us a drive out to the cliff. " At Hamilton'sinsistence, Guntherdrove.He found it helped,havingsomething to do- Handsafloaton the steeringwheel,he staredaheadlookingfor the Mausoleumroadcut-off. His eyesfelt scratchy,and inhumanly dry. "There was a preemptivestrikeagainstus," Hamilton said. "sabotage. We're just now startingto put the piecestogether.Nobodyknew you were out on the surfaceor we would'vesentsomebodyout to meetyou. It's all beensomething of a shambleshere." He droveon in silence,cushionedand protectedby all thosemilesof hard vacuumwrappedabouthim. He could feel the presence of Hiro's corpsein the backof the truck, a constantpsychicitch betweenhis shoulderbiades. But so long ashe didn't speak,he wassafe;he could hold himselfalooffrom the universethat held the pain. It couldn'ttouch him. He waited,but Beth didn't add anythingto what she'dalreadysaid. Finally he said,"sabotage?" "A softwaremeltdownat the radiostation.Explosionsat all the railguns. Three guysfrom Microspacecraft Applicationsboughtit when the Boitsovij Kot railgun blew. I supposeit was inevitable.All the military industryup here,-it's not surprisingsomebody wouldwantto knockusout ofthe equation. But that'snot all. Something's happenedto the peoplein Bootstrap.Something reallyhorrible. I wasout at the Observatory when it happened.The newsiaycalledbackto seeif therewasany backupsoftwareto gei the station goingagain,and shegot nothingbut gibberish.Crazystuff. i*.rr,, really qazy. We hadto disconnectthe Observatory's remotes,becausethe operators were . . ." She wascrying now, softlyand insistently,and it wasa minute beforeshecould speakagain."Somesortof biologicaiweapon.That'sall we know." "We're here." As he pulledup to the foot of the Mausoleumcliff, it occurredto Gunther that they hadn't thoughtto bring a drilling rig. Then he countedten black nichesin the rockface,and realizedthat somebodyhad beenthinking ahead. "The only peoplewho weren't hit were thosewho were workirig at the ^ Centeror the Observatory, or out on the surface.Maybea hundredof us all told." They walked around to the back of the pick-up. Gunther waited, but

Itlichael Swanwick

Hamilton didn't offerto carrythe body.For somereasonthat madehim feel angryand resentful.He unlatchedthe gate,hoppedup on the treads,and hoistedthe suitedcorpse."Let's get this over with." Beforetoday, only six peoplehad ever died on the Moon. They walked pastthe cavesin which their bodiesawaitedeternity.Gunther knew their Dubinin, Mikami, Castillo.And namesby heart:Heisse,Yasuda,Spehalski, that the dayshouldevercomewhen now Hiro. It seemedincomprehensible therewould be too many deadto know them all by name. Daisiesand tiger lilies had beenscatteredbeforethe vaultsin such profusion that he couldn't help crushingsomeunderfoot. The enteredthe first empty niche, and he laid Hiro down uPon a stone table cut into the rock. In the halo of his helmet lamp the body looked piteouslytwistedand uncomfortable.Gunther found that he was crying, i.tg" hot tearsthat crawleddown his face and got into his mouth when he inhaled.He cut off the radiountil he had managedto blink the tearsaway. "Shit." He wiped a hand acrosshis helmet. "l supposewe ought to say something." Hamilton took his hand and squeezed. "l've never seenhim as happy as he was today. He was going to get married. He was iumping around, laughing and talking about raisinga family. And now he'sdead,and I don't evenknow what his reiigionwas." A thought occurredto him, and he turned helplesslytoward Hamilton. "What are we goingto tell AnYa?" "She'sgotproblemsof her own. Comeon, saya prayerand let'sgo. You'll run out of oxygen." I shall not "Yeah, okay." He bowedhis head."The Lord is my shepherd, want. Back at Bootstrap,the surfaceparty had seizedthe airlocks and led the overseeraway from the controls.The man from Westinghouse,Posner, window."Don't crackyour suits," lookeddownon themfrom the observation times. Whateverhit the bastards at all "Keep tight sealed them he warned. might be in the air. One whiff water, in be the Might here is still around. got that?" You and you'reout of here! "Yeah,yeah,"Gunthergrumbled."Keepyour shirton." Posner'shandfrozeon the controls."Let'sgetserioushere.I'm not letting the gravityof the situation.This isn't a picnic you in until you acknowledge understood?" tuting. If you'renot prepar.dto help,we don'tneedyou. Is_that Hamilton fullest," the to cooperate we'll "W. understand completely,and saidquickly."Won't we, Weil?" He noddedmiserably. Only the one lock had been breached,and there were five more setsof air. The city'sdesignpr"rr,riir.d doorsbetweenit andthe bulk of Bootstrap's ershad beencautious. throughthe corridors,locksand changing Overseenby Posner,theypassed theyemergedinto the city interior. Finally roomsand up the cargoescalators.

Griffin's Egg

They stoodblinking on the lip of Hell. At first, it wasimpossibleto pinpointany sourcefor the pervasive senseof gnawingat the edgeof consciousness. wrongness The parksweredottedwith people,the fill lightsat the junctureof craterwallsand canopywerebright, and the waterfallsstill fell gracefullyfrom terraceto terrace.Button quail bobbedcomicallyin the grass. Then smalldetailsintruded.A man staggered aboutthe fourth level,head jerking,armswavingstiffly.A plump womanwaddledby, pulling an empty cartmadefrom a wheeledmicrofactory stand,quackinglike a duck. Someone satin the kneehighforestby NoguchiPark,tearingout the treesone by one. But it was the still figuresthat were on examinationmore profoundly disturbing.Here a man lay half in and half out of a tunnel entrance,as unselfconscious asa dog. There, threewomenstoodin extremeposturesof lassitude,borderingon despair.Everywhere,peopledid not touch or speak or show in any way that they were awareof one other. They sharedan absoluteand universalisolation. "What shall-" Somethingslammed onto Gunther's back. He was knockedforward,off his feet. Tumbling, he becameawarethat fistswere strikinghim, againand again,and then that a lean man waskneelingatop his chest,hystericallyshouting,"Don't do itt Don't do it!" Hamilton seizedthe man'sshouldersand pulled him away.Gunther got to his knees.He lookedinto the face of madness: eyesround and fearful, expression full of panic. The man wasterrifiedof Gunther. With an abrupt wrench, the man broke free. He ran as if pursuedby demons.Hamilton staredafterhim. "You okay?"sheasked. "Yeah, sure."Guntheradjustedhis tool harness."Let'sseeif we can find the others." They walked toward the lake, staringabout at the self-absorbed figures scatteredabout the grass.Nobodyattemptedto speakto them. A woman ran by, barefooted.Her armswere filled with flowers."Hey!" Hamilton called afterher. Shesmiledfleetinglyoverher shoulder,but did not slow.Gunther knew her vaguely,an executivesupervisor for Martin Marietta. "ls everybody here crazy?"he asked. "Sure looksthat way." The womanhad reachedthe shoreand wasflingingthe blossoms into the water with greatsweepsof her arm. They litteredthe surface. "Damned waste." Gunther had come to Bootstrapbeforethe flowers;he knew the effortinvolvedgettingpermissionto plant them and rewritingthe c-ity'secologics.A man in a blue-stripedKrupp suit was running ,long the vergeof the lake. The woman, flowersgone,threw herselfinto the water. At first it appearedshe'dsuddenlydecidedto take a dip. But from the struggling,flounderingway shethrasheddeeperinto the waterit wasclear that she could not swim. In the time it took Guntherto realizethis, Hamilton had leapedforward, running for the lake. Belatedly,he startedafter her. But the man in the

l'lichael Swanwick

Krupp suit wasaheadof them both. He splashedin after the woman. An hand seizedher shoulderand then he fell, pulling her under. outstretched andchokingwhenhe emergedagain,arm acrossher chest. Shewasred-faced By then Gunther and Beth werewadinginto the lake,and togetherthey the woman calmly threegot the woman to shore.When shewasreleased, turned and walkedaway,as if nothing had happened. "Gone for more flowers,"the Krupp componentexplained."This is the third time fair Opheliathere'striedto drownherself.She'snot the only one. 'em I've beenhangingaround,hauling out when they stumblein." "Do you knowwhereeverybody elseis?Is thereanyonein charge?Somebody givingout orders?" "Do you needany help?"Gunther asked. The Krupp man shrugged."l'm fine. No idea where the othersare, though.My friendsweregoingon to the secondlevelwhenI decidedI ought 'em hearingback I'd appreciate to stayhere. If you seethem, you might tell from them. Three guysin Krupp suits." "We'll do that," Gunthersaid. Hamilton wasalreadywalkingaway. On a step just beneaththe top of the stairssprawledone of Gunther's "Sidney,"he saidcarefully."How's it going?" fellowG5 components. "l'm makingthe effort, if that'swhat you mean. I don't Sidneygiggled. 'how' " of it makesmuch difference. seethat the " "Okay. "A betterway of phrasingthat might be to askwhy I'm not at work." He stood,and in a very natural manneraccompaniedGunther up the steps. "ObviouslyI can't be two placesat once. You wouldn't want to perform major surgeryin your own absence,would you?" He giggledagain. "lt's bodies an oxymoron.Like horses:thoseclassicallybeautiful Praxitelesian excretingtheselong surrealturds." "Okay." "l've alwaysadmiredthem for squeezing somuch art into a singleimage." "Sidney,"Hamilton said."We're lookingfor our friends.Threepeoplein blue-stripedwork suits." "l've seenthem. I know iust wherethey went." His eyeswerecool and vacant;they didn't seemto focuson anythingin particular. "Can you lead us to them?" "Even a flower recognizesits own face." A gracefullywinding gravelpath led throughprivategardenplotsand croquetmalls.They followedhim down it. There werenot many peopleon the secondterrace;with the fall of madinto the caves.Thosefew who remained ness,mostseemedto haveretreated either ignoredor cringedawayfrom them. Gunther found himself staring obsessivilyinto their faces,trying to analyzethe deficiencyhe felt in each. that someterriblething Fearnestedin their eyes,andthe appalledawareness had happenedto them coupledwith a completeignoranceof its nature. "God, thesepeople!"

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Hamilton grunted. He felt he waswalkingthrougha dream.Soundsweremutedby his suit, and colorslessintenseseenthroughhis helmetvisor.It wasasif he had been subtly removedfrom the world, there and not-theresimultaneously,an with eachnew facethat lookedstraightthrough impressionthat strengthened him with mad, unseeingindifference. Sidneyturneda corner,brokeinto a trot and joggedinto a tunnelentrance. Gunther ran after him. At the mouth of the tunnel, he pausedto let his helmet adjustto the new light levels.When it clearedhe sawSidneydart down a sidepassage. He followed. At the intersectionof passages, he lookedand sawno traceof their guide. "Did you seewhich wayhe went?"he askedHamilSidneyhaddisappeared. ton over the radio. There wasno answer."Beth?" He starteddown the corridor,halted,and turnedback.Thesethingswent deep. He could wanderaround in them forever.He went back out to the terraces.Hamilton wasnowhereto be seen. For lackof anybetterplan, he followedthe path.|ust beyondan ornamental holly bush he was pulled up short by a vision straightout of William Blake. The man had discarded shirt and sandals,and woreonly a pair of shorts. He squattedatop a boulder, alert, patient, eating a tomato. A steel pipe slantedacrosshis kneeslike a staffor scepter,and he had wovena crown of sortsfrom platinum wire with a fortune'sworth of hyperconductorchips danglingover his forehead.He lookedeveryinch a kingly animal. He staredat Gunther, calm and unblinking. Gunther shivered.The man seemedlesshuman than anthropoid,crafty in its way, but unthinking. He felt as if he werestaringacrossthe eonsat GrandfatherApe, crouchedon the edgeof awareness. An involuntarythrill of superstitious awe seizedhim. Was this what happenedwhen the higher mentalfunctionswerescrapedaway?Did Archefpe lie justbeneaththe skin, waiting for the opportunityto emerge? "l'm lookingfor my friend,"he said."A womanin a G5 suit like mine? Haveyou seenher?Shewaslookingfor ill1ss-" He stopped.The man was staringat him blankly."Oh, nevermind." He turned awayand walkedon. After a time, he lost all senseof continuity. Existencefragmentedinto unconnectedimages:A man bent almostdouble, leeringand squeezinga yellowrubberduckie.A womanleapingup like a jack-in-the-box from behind an air monitor, shriekingand flappingher arms.An old friend sprawledon the g_round,crying, with a broken leg. when he tried to help her, she scrabbledawayfrom him in fear. He couldn't get near her without doing more harm. "Stay here," he said, "l'll find help." Five minutes later he realizedthat he waslost,with not the slightestnotion of how to find his way back to her again. He came to the stairsleadingback down to the bottom level. There was no reasonto go down them. There wasno reasonnot to. He went down.

He had just reachedthe bottomof the stairswhen someonein a lavender boutiquesuit hurriedby. Cunther chinnedon his helmet radio. "Hello!"The lavender suitglancedbackat him, itsvisora plateof obsidian, gone?I'm totallylost. but did not turn back."Do you knowwhereeveryone's How can I find out what I shouldbe doing?"The lavendersuit duckedinto a tunnel. Faintly, a voiceanswered , "Try the city manager'soffice." The city manager'soffice wasa tight little cubby an eighth of a kilometer and servicetunnels.It had deepwithin the tangledmazeof administrative The city manager's prime very important in the of things. neverbeen scheme dutieswere keepingthe air and water replenishedand schedulingairlock inspections,functionsany computercould handlebetterthan a man had they daredtrustthem to a machine.The room had probablyneverbeenas crowdedas it wasnow. Dozensof peoplesuitedfor full vacuumspilledout into the hall, anxiouslylisteningto Ekatarinaconferwith the city's Crisis ManagementProgram.Guntherpushedin ascloseashe could;evenso, he could barelyseeher. "-1[s locks,the farmsand utilities, and we'velockedawayall the remotes.What comesnext?" Ekatarina'speeceehung from her work harness,amplifyingthe CMP's silent voice. "Now that elementarycontrol has been established,second prioritymustgo to the industrialsector.The factoriesmustbe lockeddown. The reactorsmustbe put to sleep.There is not sufficienthuman supervisory presenceto keepthem running. The factorieshave mothballingprograms availableupon request. "Third, the farmscannottolerateneglect.Fifteenminuteswithoutoxygen, and all the tilapia will die. The calimari are even more delicate.Three immediately.Double mustbe assigned agriculturalcomponents experienced components.Advisorysoftware that number,if you only haveinexperienced is available.What are your resources?" "Let me get backto you on that. What else?" "What aboutthe people?" a man askedbelligerently."What the hell are you worryingabout factoriesfor, when our peopleare in the statethey're rnr Izmailovalookedup sharply."You're one of Chang'sresearchcomponents,aren'tyou?Why areyou here?Isn'tthereenoughfor you to do?" She from sleep."All of you! What areyou lookedabout,asif abruptlyawakened waiting for?" "You can't put us off that easilylWho made you the little brass-plated We don't haveto takeordersfrom you." general? shuffleduncomfortably,not leaving,waitingto taketheir The bystanders Their suitswereasgoodasidenticalin this crush,their other. from each cue They lookedlike somanyambulatoryeggs. expressionless. and helmetsblank the instant,readyto fall into acceptanceor on balanced mood The crowd's

Griffin's Egg

angerwith a featherweight's push. Guntherraisedan arm. "General!"he said loudly. "PrivateWeil here!I'm awaitingmy orders.Tell me what to do." Laughterrippled through the room, and the tensioneased.Ekatarina said,"Take whoever'snearestyou, and startclearingthe aff ictedout of the administrative areas.Guide them out towardthe open,wherethey won't be so likely to hurt themselves. Wheneveryou get a room or corridoremptied, lock it up tight. Got that?" "Yes, ma'am." He tappedthe suit nearesthim, and its helmetdippedin a curt nod. But when they turned to leave,their way wasblockedby the crush of bodies. "You!" Ekatarinajabbeda finger."Go to the farmlocksand foam them shut;I don't want any chanceof gettingthem contaminated.Anyonewith experiencerunning factories-that's most of us, I think-should find a remote_and getto work shuttingthe thingsdown. The CMP will help direct you. If you havg nothing elseto do, buddy up and work at clearingout the corridors.I'll call a generalmeetingwhen we'veput togethera more comprehensive plan of action." She paused."What haveI left out?" Surprisingly,the CMP answered her:"There aretwenty-three childrenin the city, two of them seven-year-old prelegalsand the restfive yearsof age or younger,offspringof registered-permanent lunar components.Standing directivesare that childrenbe givenspecialcareand protiction. The thirdl levelchapel_can be convertedto a carecenter.Word shouldbe spreadthat asthey are found, the childrenare to be broughtthere.Assignone reliable individualto oversee them." "My God, yes." Sheturnedto the belligerentman from the center, and snapped,"Do it. " He hesitated,then salutedironicallyand turnedto go. That brokethe logiam.The crowdbeganto disperse. Guntherand his coworker-it turnedout to beLizaNagenda,anotheiground-ratlike himselfset to work. In afteryearsGunther wasto rememberthis periodas a time when his life entereda dark tunnel. For long, nightmarishhours he and Liza shuffled from office to storageroom, strugglingto move the afficted out of the corporateareasand into the light. The afflicteddid not cooperate. The first few roomsthey enteredwereempty. In the fourth, a distraughtlookingwoman wasfurio.uslygoingthrougtr drr*.r, and Flesand fliniing their contentsaway.Trashcoveredthe floor. "lt's in heresomewhere,,;rh! saidfrantically. "what's in there, darling?" Gunther said soothingly.He had to speak loudly sohe could be,heard throughhis helmet."wha[rr. yo., looking for?,, Shetilted her h-eadup with a smileof impishdelight.Usingboth tands, shesmoothedbackher hair, elbowshigh, pushingiistraight olre,her skull, then tuckingin straystrandsbehindhei eari. "lt d-oesn't m"atter, becauseI'm sureto find it now. Two scarabs appear,and betweenthem the blazingdisk

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MichaelSwanwick

of the sun, that'sa goodomen, not to mentionbeingan analogyfor sex.I've had sex,all the sexanyonecould want, buggeredbehind the outhouseby the lizard king when I was nine. What did I care?I had wings then and thoughtthat I could fy." Gunther edgeda little closer."You're not makingany senseat all." "You know, Tolstoysaidtherewasa greenstickin the woodsbehindhis housethat once found would causeall men to love one another. I believe in that greenstick as a basicprincipleof physicalexistence.The universe existsin a matrixof four dimensionswhich we canperceiveand sevenwhich peaceand brotherhoodas a sevenwe cannot,which is why we experience dimensionalgreenstickphenomenon." "You've got to listento me." "Why? You gonnatell me Hitler is dead?I don't believein that kind of crap." "Oh h.ll," Nagendasaid. "You can't reasonwith a flick. fust grab her armsand we'll chuck her out." It wasn'tthat easy,though. The woman wasafraidof them. Whenever her, sheslippedfearfullyaway.If they movedslowly,they they approached could not cornerher, and when they both rushedher, she leaptuP over a deskand then down into the kneehole.Nagendagrabbedher legsandpulled. The woman wailed,and clutchedat the kneesof Nagenda'ssuit. "Get offa me," Liza snarled."Gunther,get this crazywomanoffmy damn legs." "Don't kill me!" the woman screamed."l've alwaysvoted twice-you know I did. I told them you werea gangster,but I waswrong. Don't takethe oxygenout of my lungs!" when Gunther th.y got the woman out of the office, then lost her agar_n with Nagenda corridor the down turned to lock the door. Shewent fluttering had to startall they and office, in hot pursuit.Then shedoveinto another over again. It took over an hour to drive the woman from the corridorsand release her into the park.The nextthreewent quicklyenoughby contrast.The one after that *ri diffi"ult again, and the fifth turned out to be the first woman they had encountered,wanderedback to look for her office. When they'd broughther to the openagain,Liza Nagendasaid,"That'sfour flicksdown and threethousandeight hundredfifty-eightto go'" "leslq-" Guntheib.grn. And then Krishna'svoice soundedover his clarity. "Everyoneis to go to the trance chip, stiffly and with exaggerated meeting.Repeat:Go to the centrallake imm.dirt.ly for an organizational lake immediately.Go to the lake now." He wasobviouslyspeakingover a jury-riggedtransmitter.The soundwasbadandhis voiceboomedandpopped on the chip. "All right, okay,I got that," Liza said."You can shut up now." "PleasJgo to ih. Lk. immediately. Everyoneis to go directly to the ggnhgl-"

"Sheesh." By the time they got out to the parklandsagain,the open areaswerethick

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with people. Not just the suited figuresof the survivors,either. All the afflictedwere emergingfrom the cavesand corridorsof Bootstrap.They walkedblindly, uncertainly,towardthe lake, as if newly called from the grave.The groundlevel wasfilling with people. "Sonofabitch,"Gunther saidwonderingly. "Gunther?"Nagendaasked."What'sgoing on?" "lt's the trancechips! Sonofabitch,all we had to do wasspeakto them over the chips. They'll do whateverthe voice in their headstells them to do." The land aboutthe lakewasso crowdedthat Gunther had troublespotting any other suits.Then he saw a suitedfigure standingon the edgeof the secondlevel wavingbroadly.He wavedbackand headedfor the stairs. By the time he got to level two, a solid group of the unafflicted had gathered.More and more came up, drawn by the concentrationof suits. Finally Ekatarinaspokeover the openchannelof her suit radio. "There'sno reasonto wait for us all to gather.I think everyoneis close enoughto hearme. Sit down, takea little rest,you'veall earnedit. " People easeddown on the grass.Somesprawledon their backsor stomachs,fJlly suited.Most just sat. __'Bya fortunate accident,we've discovereda meansof controlling our afflictedfriends."There waslight applause."But thereare still many problems beforeus, and they won't all be solvedso easily.We've all seenthe obvious.Now I musttell you of worse.If the war on Earthgoesfull thermonuclear,we will be completelyand totally cut off, possiblyfor decades. " A murmur passedthroughthe crowd. "What doesthis mean?Beyondthe immediateinconveniences-noluxuries, no more silk shirts,no new seedstock,no new videos,no way home for thoseof us who hadn'talreadydecidedto stay-we will be losingmuch that we requirefor survival.All our microfacturingcapability.o-.r from the SwissOrbitals.Our waterreserves are sufficienlfoi a yeai,but we lose minute quantitiesof watervaporto rust and corrosionand to the vacuum everytime somebodygoesin or out an airlock, and thosequantitiesare necessary for our existence. "But we can survive.We can processraw hydrogenand oxygenfrom the regolith,and burn them to producewater.We alreadymakeour own air. We can do without most nanoelectronics. We can thrive and prosperand grow, evenif Earth . evenif the worsthappens.But to do so r".tll need our full manufacturingcapability,andfull supervisory capabilityaswell. We m-ustnot only restoreour factories,but find a way to restoreour people. There'll be work and more for all of us in the daysahead." Nagendatouchedhelmetswith Gunther and muttered,"What a crock." "Come on, I want to hearthis." "Fortunately,the CrisisManagementProgramhascontingencyplansfor exactlythis situation.Accordingto its records,which may be incomplete,I havemore military commandexperiencethan any othei functiona[.Do., anyonewishto challengethis?"Shewaited,but nobodysaidanything.,,We

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will go to a quasimilitarystructurefor the durationof the emergency.This purposes.There will be no privilegesafforded is strictlyfor organizational the officers,and the military structurewill be dismantledimmediatelyupon " resolutiono[ our presentproblems.That'sparamount. She glanceddown at her peecee."To that purpose,I am establishing officers,consistingof CarlosDiazbeneathme a triumvirateof subordinate Rodrigues,Miiko Ezumi, and Will Posner.Beneaththem will be nine for a cadreof no more than ten individuals." officers,eachresponsible to CadreFour, BethHamilton's Shereadout names.Guntherwasassigned group.Then Ekatarinasaid,"We're all tired. The gangbackat the Center procedure,a kitchenand sleepingspaces haveriggedup a decontamination of sorts.CadresOne, Two, andThreewill put in four morehourshere,then pull down a full eight hourssleep.CadresFour throughNine may return now to the Centerfor a meal and four hoursrest." Shestopped."That's it. Go get someshut-eye." A raggedcheerarose,fell flat, and died. Gunther stood.Liza Nagenda gavehim a friendly squeezeon the butt and when he startedto the right With yankedhis arm and pointedhim left, towardthe serviceescalators. his waist. around slid an arm easyfamiliarity,she He'd knownguyswho'd sleptwith Liza Nagenda,and they all agreedthat hysterical,ludicrouslyemotional.But what she was bad news,possessive, the hell. It waseasierthan not. They trudged off. Therewastoo much to do. They workedto exhaustion-it wasnot enough. for the CMP and They riggeda systemof narrow-bandradiotransmissions ran a microwavepatch back to the Center, so it could direct their efforts conmore efficiently-it wasnot enough.They organizedand rearranged stantly.But the load wastoo greatand accidentsinevitablyhappened. Half the surviving railguns-small units used to deliver raw and semimaterialsoverthe highlandsand acrossthe bay-were badlydamprocessed agedwhen the noondaysun buckledtheir aluminum rails;the sunscreens had not beenput in placein time. An unknown number of robot bulldozers lost. It washard had wanderedofffromthe stripminesand werepresumably to guesshow many becausethe inventoryrecordswerescrambled.None of the food storedin Bootstrapcould be trusted;the Center'smealshad to be harvesteddirect from the farmsand takenout through the emergencylocks. farmermishandledher remote,and ten aquaculturetanks An inexperienced nine thousandfingerlingsacrossthe surboiled out into vacuumgeysering face.On Posner'sorders,the remotehandlerrigs were hastilypackedand movedto the Center.When uncrated,most werefound to havedamaged rockerarms. There weresmallvictories.On his secondshift, Guntherfound fourteen balesof cotton in vacuum storageand setan assemblerto sewingfutonsfor the Center.That meantan end to sleepingon barefloorsand madehim a local herofor the restof thatday.There werenot enoughtoiletsin the Center;

Griffin's Egg

Diaz-Rodriguesorderedthe flare storm sheltersin the factoriesstrippedof theirs.Huriel Carzadiscovered a talentfor cookingwith limited resources. But they werelosingground.The afflictedwereunpredictable, and they were everywhere.A dementedsystemsanalyst,obeyingthe voicesin his head,dumpedseveralbarrelsof lubricatingoil in the lake.The waterfilters clogged,and the streamshad to be shutdown for repairs.A doctorsomehow managedto strangleherselfwith her own diagnosticharness.The city's ecologicswerebadlystressed by randomvandalism. Finally somebodythoughtto rig up a voiceloop for continuoustransmission. "I am calm," it said."I am tranquil.I do not want to do anything.I am happywhereI am." Gunther wasworkingwith Liza Nagendatrying to get the streamsgoing again when the loop came on. He lookedup and saw an uncanny quiet sp-read over Bootstrap.Up and down the terraces,the flicksstoodin postures of completeand utter impassivity. The only movementcamefrom the small number of suitsscurryinglike beetlesamongthe newly catatonic. Liza put her handson her hips. "Terrific. Now we'vegot to feed them." "H.y, cut me someslack,okay?This is the firstgoodnewsI've heardsince I don't know when." "lt's not goodanything,sweetbuns. It's just more of the same." Slt. was right. Relievedas he was,Gunther knew it. One hopelesstask hasbeentradedfor another. He-waswearilysuitingup for his third daywhen Hamilton stoppedhim and said,"Weil! You know any electricalengineering?" "Not really,no. I mean, I can do the wiring for a truck, or mayberig up a microwaverelay, stuff like that, but "It'll haveto do. _D1opwhat you'reon, and help Krishnasetup a system for controllingthe f icks. Someway we can handlethem individually." Tb.t- set-up shop in Krishna'sold lab. The remnantsof old security standards still lingered,and nobodyhad beenallowedto sleepthere.Consequently,the roomwaswonderfullyneatandclean,all crafted-in-orbit laboratory equipmentwith smooth,anonymoussurfaces.It wasa throwbackto a time beforeclutter and madnesshad takenover. If it weren'tfor the newtunnel smell,the_raw_tang of cut rockthe air carried,it would be possibleto pretendnothing had happened. Guntherstoodin a telepresence rig, directinga remotethroughBootstrap's apartments. They werelike so many unconnected cellsof chaos.He entered one and found the wordsBUDDHA : CoSMIC INERTIA scrawledon its wall with what lookedto be human feces.A womansaton the futon tearing handfulsof battingfrom it and flingingthem in the air. Cotton coveredthi room like a freshsnowfall.The nextapartmentwasemptyand clean,and a microfactorysatgleamingon a ledge."l herebynation^lirc you in the name of the People'sProvisionalRepublicof Bootstrap,and of the oppressed masses everywhere,"he saiddryly. The remotegingerlypickedit up. "you done with that chip diagramyet?"

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"lt will not be long now," Krishnasaid. They were building a prototypecontroller.The idea was to code each peecee,so the CMP could identifuand speakto its owner individually.By range transmission steppingdown the voltage,they could limit the peecee's to a meterand a half so that eachafflictedpersoncouldbe givenindividualized orders.The existingchips, however,were high-strungSwissOrbital and couldn't handleoddballpoweryields.They had to be thoroughbreds, replaced. "l don't seehow you can expectto getany usefulwork out of theseguYs, You can'thopeto getcoherent though.I mean,whatwe needaresupervisors. thoughtout of them." Bent low over his peecee,Krishnadid not answerat first. Then he said, "Do you know how a yogi stopshis heart?We lookedinto that when I was in gradschool.We askedYogi Premanandif he would stophis heartwhile wired up to our instruments,and he graciouslyconsented.We had all the latest brain scanners,but it turned out the most interestingresultswere recordedby the EKG. "We found that the yogi'sheartdid not as we had expectedslow down, but ratherwentfasterand faster,until it reachedits physicallimits andbegan to fibrillate.He had not slowedhis heart;he had spedit up. It did not stop, but went into spasm. "After our tests,I askedhim if he had knownthesefacts.He saidno, that they weremostinteresting.He waspoliteaboutit, but clearlydid not think our findingsvery significant." "So you'resaying . . ?" is that they havetoo much going on "The problemwith schizophrenics in their heads.Too many voices.Too many ideas.They can't focustheir attentionon a singlechain of thought. But it would be a mistaketo think them incapableof complexreasoning.In fact, they'rethinking brilliantly. Their brainsare simply operatingat such peakefficienciesthat they can't organizetheir thoughtscoherently. I'Whrt the tranci chip doesis to provideone more voice, but a louder, more insistentone. That's why they obey it. It breaksthrough that noise, providesa focus,servesas a matrix alongwhich thoughtcan crystallize." roomdeepin the adminisThe remoteunlockedthe doorinto a conference row atopthe conference neat a in waited microfactories Eight tunnels. trative door behindit. "You the left, locking and turned, ninth, the It added table. may be unnecessary. know," Gunther said,"all theseelaborateprecautions It may never anymore. the air in not be may Bootstrap used on was Whatever somethittg." or water in the been It could've the air. in havebeen "Oh, it's thereall right, in the millions. We're dealingwith an airborne schizomimeticengine.It's designedto hangaroundin the air indefinitely." "A schizomimeticengine?What the hell is that?" In a distractedmonotone,Krishnasaid, "A schizomimeticengineis a impact.It not only incastrategicnonlethalweaponwith high psychological

Griffin's Egg

pacitatesits targetvectors,but placesa disproportionately heavyburden on the enemy'smanpowerand materialsupportcaringfor the viciims. Due to the particularqualityof the effect,it hasa profoundlydemoralizinginfluence on thoseexposed to the victims,especially thoseinvolvedin their &r.. Thus. it is particularlydesirable asa strategic weapon." He might havebeenquoting from an operationsmanual. Gunther ponderedthat. "Calling the meetingover the chips wasn't a mistake,wasit? You knewit would work.You knewtheywould obeva voice speakinginsidetheir heads." "Yes. tt

"This shit wasbrewedup at the Center, wasn'tit? This is the stuff that you couldn't talk about." "Someof it." Gunthe_r powereddown his rig and flippedup the lens."God damn you, __ Krishna!God damn you straightto Hell, you stupidfucker!" Krishnalookedup from his work, bewildered."Have I said something wrong?" "No! _ fo, you haven'tsaida damnedthing wrong-you've justdrivenfour thousand.people out of their fuckingminds,is all! Wakeup and takea good look at what you maniacshavedonewith your weapons,erearch!" "lt wasn'tweaponsresearch,"Krishnasaidmildly. He drewa long, involuted line on the schematic."But when pur. ,.i.arch is funded"ty the m_ilitary,the military will seekout military applicationsfor the research. That'sjust the way it is." "what's the difference? It happened.you're responsible." Now Krishnaactuallysethis peeceeaside.He spbkewith uncharacteristic fire. "Gunther, we needthis information.Do you realizethat we are trying to run a technologicalcivilization with a brain that was evolvedin'thE neolithic?I am perfectlyserious.We'reall trappedin the old hunter-gatherer programs,and they are of no use to usany-ore. Take a look aI what's happeningon Earth. They'rehip-deepin a war that nobodymeantto start and nobodywantsto fight and it's .ui' -oney that nobodycan stop.The type of thinking that put us in this corner is not to our benefit. It has to change.And that'swhat we are workingtoward-taming the human brain. Harnessing it. Reiningit in. "Granted,our researchhasbeenturnedagainstus. But what's on€ more weaponamongso many?If neuroprogrammers hadn'tbeenavailable,some$ing elsewould havebeen used.IVlustardgasmaybe,or plutonium dust. For that matter,they could'vejust blown a hole in ihe'.".,opy andlet us all " strangle. "That's self-iustifuing bullshit, Krishna!Nothing can excusewhat you,ve . done." - Quietly, but with conviction,Krishnasaid,"You will neverconvinceme that our researchis not the mostimportantwork we could possiblfbe doing today.we must seizecontrol of this monsterwithin ou, ,kullr.'we must

Michael Swanwick

changeourwaysof thinking."His voicedropped."The sadthing is thatwe cannot changeunlesswe survive.But in order to survive,we must first " change. They workedin silenceafterthat. dreamsto find that the sleepshiftwasonly half Guntherawokefrom restless over. Liza wassnoring.Careful not to wakeher, he pulled his clotheson and paddedbarefootout of his niche and down the hall. The light wason in the common room and he heardvoices. Ekatarinalookedup when he entered.Her facewaspaleand drawn.Faint circleshad formedunder her eyes.She wasalone. "Oh, hi. I wasjust talkingwith the CMP." She thoughtoff her peecee. "Have a seat." He pulled up a chair and huncheddown over the table. Confrontedby her, he found it took a slightbut noticeableeffortto draw his breath."So. How are thingsgoing?" "They'll be tryingout your controllerssoon.The firstbatchof chipsought to be coming out of the factoriesin an hour or so. I thought I'd stayup to seehow they work out." "lt's that bad, then?" Ekatarinashookher head,would not look at him. "H.y, come on, here you are waitingup on the results,and I can seehow tired you are. There must be a lot riding on this thing." "More than you know," shesaidbleakly."l've iust been going over the numbers.Things are worsethan you can imagine." him so He reachedout and took her cold, bloodlesshand. She squeezed tightly it hurt. Their eyesmet and he sawin hersall the fearand wonderhe felt. Wordlessly,they stood. "l'm nichingalotte,"Ekatarinasaid.Shehad not let go of his hand,held it so tightly, in fact, that it seemedshewould neverlet it go. Gunther let her lead him away. They madelove, and talkedquietly aboutinconsequentialthings,and made love again. Gunther had thought she would nod off immediatelyafterthe first time, but shewastoo full of nervousenergyfor that. "Tell me when you're aboutto come," she murmured. "Tell me when you'recoming." He stoppedmoving. "Why do you alwayssaythat?" the question.Then Ekatarinalookedup at him dazedly,and he repeated "Because I'm frigid'" laugh. shelaugheda deep,throaty "Hah?" She took his hand, and brushedher cheekagainstit. Then she ducked her head,continuingthe motionacrossher neckand up the sideof her scalp. He felt the short,pti.kly hair againsthis palm and then, behindher ear,two bumps under the skin where biochips had been implanted: 9.e of those wouldbe her trancechip andthe other. . "lt's a prosthetic,"sheexplained.

Griffin's Egg

{l

Her eyesweregreyand solemn."lt hooksinto the pleasurecenters.When I needto, I can turn on my orgasor a thought.That way we can always ?t come at the sametime." She movedher hips slowly beneathhim as she spoke. "But that meansyou don't reallyneedto haveany kind of sexualstimulation at all, do yol?.Yog can triggeran orgasmat will. while you'reriding on a bus. Or behinda desk.You could iust turn that thing on and co-e foi hoursat a time." Shelookedamused."l'll tell you a secret.When it wasnew, I usedto do stuntslike that. Everybodydoes.one outgrowsthat sortof thing quickly." With more than a touch of stungpride, Gunthersaid,,,Th.ri*hrt am I doing.here? If you'vegot that thing, what the hell do you needme for?" He startedto draw awayfrom her. She pulled him down atop her again."you're kind of comforting,"she said."ln an argumentative way. Come here." He got rr\Lr.rr-^to LrJhis rrrr,ru(rrr futon alru and began Dggall garnenng gatheringup 5uL back up me piecesof the pleces of hts his sutt. suit. Ltza Li satup sleepilyand gawkedat him. "So," stti said."li's like that. is it?" "Yeah, well. I kind of left somethingunfinished.An old relationship. " Warily, he extendeda hand. "No hardGelings,huh?,, Ignoring his hand, she stood,nakedand ingry. "you got the nerve to standtherewithout evenwiping my smileoffyolrdick firstand sayno hard feelings? Asshole!" "Aw, come on now, Liza, it's not like that." "Like hell it's Russianice queen, 1ot! Yo-ugot a shotat that white-assed and I'm history.Don't think I don't know all abouther." "l washopingwe could still be, you know, friends." "Nice trick, shithead. " Sheballedher fist and hit him hard in the _ center of his chest.Tearsbeganto form in her eyes."You iust slink r*y. I'm tired of lookingat you." He left. But did not sleep.Ekatarinawasawakeand ebullientover the first reports cqTing in on the new controllersystem."They're working!,'she cried. *They're working!" She'd pulled on a silk camisole,and str?deback a'd forth excitedly,nakedto the waist.Her pubic hair wasa white flame, with almostinvisibletrails of smallerhairsreachingfor her navel and caressing the sweetinsidesof her thighs.Tired ashe *nJ, Gunther felt new desirefor h.la]l r y93ry, washed-oJt*"y, he wasf,rppy "whooh!" She kissedhim hard, not r.**iiy, and called,rpthe cMp. "Rerun all our earlierproiections.lVe're putting Q our afflictedcomponents backto work. Adiust all work schedules. " "As you direct." "How doesthis changeour long-rangeprospects?" The programwassilentfor severalr..indr, processing. Then it said,.,you are aboutto entera necessary but verydang.rtm stage"of recovery.you are

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highhigh-stabilitysituationto a high-prospects going from a low-prospects grow quickly instabilityone. With leisureyour unafflictedcomponentswill dissatisfiedwith your government." "What happensif I iust stepdown?" " "Prospects worsendrastically. Ekatarinaduckedher head."All right,what'slikelyto be our mostpressing new problem?" "The unafflictedcomponentswill demandto know more about the war on Earth. They'll want the mediafeedsrestoredimmediately." "l could rig up a receivereasilyenough,"Gunthervolunteered."Nothing fancy,but . ." "Don't you dare!" "Hah? Why not?" "Gunther, let me put it to you this way:What two nationalitiesare most here?" heavilyrepresented "Well, I guessthat would be Russiaand-oh." "Oh is right. For the time being,I think it's bestif nobodyknowsfor sure who's supposedto be enemieswith whom." She askedthe CMP, "How shouldI respond?" "Until thi situationstabilizes,you haveno choicebut distraction.Keep and then organizewar crime their mindsoccupied.Hunt downthe saboteurs trials." no trials. We're all in this "That's out. No witch hunts, no scapegoats, together." "Emotionlessly, the CMP said,"Violenceis the left hand of government. You are rashto dismissits potentialswithout seriousthought." "l won't discussit." "Very well. If you wish to postponethe use of force for the present,you Locatingand identifuing couldhold a h,tnifor the *.rpbn usedott Bootstrap. implicatinganybody. withoutnecessarily energies it would involveeveryone's asmeaningan eventualcurewaspossible, It would alsobe widelyinterpreted " thus boostingthe generalmoralewithout your actuallylying. already, times many iir.aty, ,I if thls weresomethingshehad goneover shesaid,"ls therereallyno hope of curing them?" though, it cannotbe "Apyihilg is possible.In light of presentresources, consideredlikely." Ekatarina thought the peeceeoff, dismissingthe gM.P She sighed' "Maybe that'swha"tr. o,rghtto do. Donkey up a hunt for the weapon.We ought to be able to do somethingwith that notion'" Furrled, Gunthersaid,"But ii wasone of Chang'sweaPons'wasn'tit? A schizomimeticengine, right?" "Where did you hear that?"shedemandedsharply'"Well, Krishnasaid . . . he didn't act like . . . I thought it waspublic knowledge." Ekataiina'sfacehardened."Program!"shethought' The CMP camebackto life. "Ready'"

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43

"Locate KrishnaNarasimhan,unafflicted,Cadre Five. I want to speak " Ekatarinasnatchedup her pantiesand shorts,and with him immediately. furiouslybegandressing."Where are my damnediandals?Program!Tell " him to meet me in the common room. Right away.', "Received. " To Gunther'ssurprise,it tookoveran hour for Ekatarinato browbeatKrishna into submission_. {i-nally,though, the youngresearchcomponentwent to a lockbox,identifiedhimselfto it, and unsealedthe storageareas."lt's not all that secure,"he saidapologetically. "lf our sponsors kne* how oftenwe just left open so we could get in and out, they'd-well, nevermind." _everything He lifted a flat, palm-sizedmetal rectanglefrom a cabinet."This is the most likely meansof delivery.It's ,n ,rro-l bomb. The biologicalagents are loadedhere,and it's-triggered by-snapping this backhere.It's;ot enlugh pressurein it to spewthe agentsfifty feet straightup. Air currentsdo tf,e rest." He tossedit to Guntherwho stareddownat the thing in horror. "Don't worry, it's not armed." He slid out a slim drawerholdingrow upon gleamingrow of slim chrome cylinders."Thesecontainthe enginesthemieluel.Theyie oflthe-shelfnanoweaponry.Stateof the art stuff, guess."He ran a fingertipover them. _l *We've programmedeachto producea differentmix of ieurltransmitters. Dopamine,phencyclidine, norepinephrine, acetylchol i ne, met-enkephali n, substance P, serotonin-there'sa heftysliceof Heavenin here,2nd-" hs tappedan emptyrpac.e-"righthereis our missingbit of Hell.,' H. frowled, and muttered,"That's curious.why are there trio cylindersmissing?,, "what's that?" Ekatarinasaid."l didn't catchwhat you just 'l ,ria.t ':oh, nothing important. u-, listen, it might heip if y-t.a a few .. biologicalpathwayschartsand showedyou the"chemicalunderfipnings of thesethings." "Never mind that. fust keep it sweetand simple. Tell us about these " schizomimetic engines. It took over an hour to explain. The enginesweremolecule-sized chemicalfactories,much like the assem.. blersin a microfactory.They had beenprovidedby the military, in th. hope chang'sgroupwould comeup with a mistingweaponthat coufdbe sprayed path to causethem to changetheir loyalty.Guntherdozed i" tl army-'s off brieflywhile Krishnawasexplainingwh/that *r, i-possible, and woke up sometimeafterthe tiny engineshad madetheir way into the brain. "lt's real]ya falseschizophrenia," Krishnaexplainld.,,Trueschirtphrenia is a beautifullycomplicatedmechanism.Whai theseenginescreate is more like a bargain-basement knockoff.They seizecontrolof ti. brain chemistry, and start-P-umpingout dopamineand a few other neuromediators. It,s not an actualdisorder,per se.They just keepthe brain hopping.;'H. .oughed. "You see." "okay," Ekatarinasaid."okay. you sayyou can reprogram thesethings. How?"

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engines.They're like "We use what are technicallycalled messenger neuromodulators-theytell the schizomimeticengineswhat to do." He slid open anotherdrawer,and in a flat voicesaid,"They're gone." "Let'skeepto the topic, if we may.We'll worryaboutyour invenJorylater. engines.Can you brew up a lot of them, to Tell us aboutthesemessenger tell the schizomimeticsto turn themselvesoff?" in the Swiss First,thesemoleculeswerehand-crafted "No, for two reasons. Orbitals;we don't havethe industrialplant to createthem. Secondly,yoY_ can't teil the schizomimeticsto turn themselvesoff. They don't have off than actualmachines.You can reconswitches.They'remore like catalysts but . . ." He stopped,and a chemicals, different produce to them figure "Damn." grabbedup his peecee'and a He his eyes. into came look dlstant Then besideit, a listing of wall. one on appeared chart pathways chemical with scrawledbehavioral covered chart another Th; ,r.*of,rr,.iionr. major wall' the on up slammed data more and More symbols. "Uh, Krishna . ?" "Oh, go away,"he snapped."This is important'" ,,You ttti"t you might be able to come up with a cure?" "Cure? No. Somethingbetter.Much better'" Ekatarinaand Gunther lookedat each other. Then she said, "Do you needanything?Can I assignanyoneto help you?" engines.Find them for me'" "l needthi messenger "How? How do we find them?Where do we look?" ,,Sally chang," Krishnasaidimpatiently."She must havethem. Nobody elsehad ,...rrli' He snatchedup r tigttt pen, and beganscrawlingcrabbed formulaeon the wall. "l'll get her for you. Program!Tell-" ,,Chr-ng',a flick," Gunth"erremindedher. "She wascaughtb_ytheaerosol of bomb." \f,lhi.h shemust surelyhavesetherself.A neatway of disposin-g She'd her. running was evidencethat might'veled to whatevergovernment havebeen the first to go mad. Ekatarinapinched f,., ,ror., wincing. "l've been awaketoo long," she ,,All right, I understand. perma-a_ssigned Krishna,from now on you_'re said. me know if Let leader. nently to reiearch.The CMP will notify your cadre off'" weapon Find-Te a way to turn this damned you n..d any support. ^h! you "l'm yanking ignori'g the way rht,tggedher off, shesaidto Gunther, you to want fio* Cidre Four. From-now on, you reportdirectlyto me. I engines." find Chang. Find her, and find thosemessenger when he'd last had a remember He couldn't bone-weaV. was Gunther good .ight ho,ttJ sleep.But he managedwhat he hoped was a confident grin. "Received." could. A madwomanshouldnot havebeenableto hide herself.SallyChang it was that NJ;at shouldhavebeenableto evadethe CMP's notice,now The did. hookedinto a gro;i1g numberof afflictedindividuals.Sallychang

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45

CMP informed Gunther that none of the flicks were awareof Chang's whereabouts.It accepteda directiveto have them all glanceabout for hir once everyhour until shewasfound. In the westtunnels,wallshad beentorn out to createa spaceas largeas any factoryinterior.The remoteshad beenreturned,and werenor *arrned by almosttwo hundredflicksspacedso that they did not impingeupon each other'sfieldsof instruction.Gunther walkedby them, throughthi CMp's whisperingvoices:"Are all bulldozersaccountedfor? If so . . . Clear away any malfunctioningmachines;they can be placed. . . for vacuum-welded duston the uppersurfaces of the rails. . . reductiontemperature, then look to seethat the oxygenfeedis compatible. . ." At the far end a singlesuit sat in a chair, overseerunit in its lap. "How'sit going?"Guntheras[ed. "Absolutelytop-notch."He recognized Takayuni'svoice.They'd worked in the Flammaprionmicrowaverelaystationtogether."Most of the factories are up and running, and we're well on our way to having the railguns operativetoo. You wouldn't believethe kind of efficiencieswe're g.tting here." "Good, huh?" Takayunigrinned;Gunther could hear it in his voice."lndustriouslittle buggers!" Takayunihadn't seenChang. Gunther movedon. Somehourslaterhe foundhimselfsittingwearilyin NoguchiPark,lookir-rg at the torn-_up dirt wherethe kneehighforesthad been.Not r r".ilit g hrj begnspared;the silverbirch wasextinctasa lunar species. Deadcarpfllated belly-upin the oil-slickedcentrallake;a chain-linl f.n.. circledit now, to keepout the flicks.There hadn'tbeenthe time yet to begincleaningup the litter, and when he lookedabout, he sawtrash.u.ry*f,.re. It *ri ,id. tt remindedhim of Earth. He knew it was tirye t9 get going, but he couldn't. His head sagged, touchedhis chest,and jerkedup. Time had passed. A flickerof motion madehim turn. Somebodyin a pastellavenderboutique suit hurriedby. The womanwho had directedhim to the city controller'sofficethe otherday. "Hello!" he called."l found everybodyjlst where you said.Thanks.I wasstartingto get a little spooked. " The lavendersuit turnedto look at him. Sunlightglintedon blackglass. A s!fl, long minute later, shesaid,"Don't mention ilt," and started,i,ry. _l'T lookingforsallychang. Do youknowher?Haveyou seenher?She's a flick, kind of a -little woman, flamboyant,usedto favor bright clothes, electricmakeup,that sort of thing." "I'm aftaidI can'thelp you." Lavenderwascarryingthreeoxytanksin her "Iot_ might try the strawmarket,though.Lotso?brightclothes there." 1l*s.. She duckedinto a tunnel openingand disappeared withii. Guntherstaredafterher distractedly, then ihook his head.He felt sovery, very tired.

Michael Swanwick

The strawmarketlookedasthough it had been through a storm. The tents had beentorn down, the standsknockedover, the goodslooted.Shardsof orangeand greenglasscrunchedunderfoot.Yet a rack of ltalian scarves worth a year'ssalarystooduntouchedamid the rubble.It madeno senseat all. Up and down the market, flicks were industriouslycleaninguP. They stoopedand lifted and swept.One of them wasbeingbeatenby a suit. Gunther blinked. He could not reactto it as a real event.The woman cringedunder the blows, shriekingwildly and scuttlingawayfrom them. and within the shadowof its rainbow One of the tentshad beenre-erected, silks,four othersuitsloungedagainstthe bar. Not a one of them movedto help the woman. asif he'd been "Hey!" Gunthershouted.He felt hideouslyself-conscious, lines or any play memorized without middle of a the into thrust abruptly "Stop that!" was. in it role what his notion plot of or ideaof the The suit turnedtowardhim. It held the woman'sslim arm captivein one glovedhand. "Go away,"a male voicegrowledoverthe radio"What do you think you're doing?Who are you?" The man wore a suit, oneof a dozenor soamongthe unafficted.But Cunther Westinghouse scorchmark on the abdomenpanel. ,""ognir.d a brown, kidney-shaped "ps5ns1-is that you?Let that woman go." "She'snot a woman," Posnersaid."Hell, look at her-she's not even human. She'sa flick." Gunther sethis helmetto record."l'm tapingthis," he warned'"You hit that womanagain,and Ekatarinawill seeit all. I promise." Posnerreleasedthe woman. She stood dazedfor a secondor two, and control. She bent to pick up a then the voice from her peeceereasserted broom, and returnedto work. Switchingoff his helmet, Gunther said,"Okay. What did shedo?" Indignantly,Posnerextendeda foot. He pointedsternlydown at it. "She peed all over my boot!" ' The suitsin ihe tent had beenwatchingwith interest.Now they roared. "Your own fault, Willl" one of them calledout. "l told you you weren't schedulingin enoughtime for personalhygiene." "Don't *otty abouta little moisture.It'll boil off next time you hit vacuum!" But Gunther was not listening.He staredat the flick Posnerhad been AnYl earlier.Her mouth andwonderedwhy he hadn'trecognized mistreating waspurseJ,h.r facesquinchedup tight with worry,asif therewerea key in the tack of her head that had been wound three times too many. Her shoulderscringedforwardnow, too. But still. "l'm sorry, Anya,"he said."Hiro is dead.Therewasn'tanythingwe could do." oblivious,unhappy' She went on sweePing,

Griffin's Egg ++*

He caughtthe shift'slast jitney backto the Center.It felt goodto be home again.Miiko Ezumi haddecidedto loot the outlyingfactoriesof their oxygen and watersurpluses, then carveda showerroom from the rock.There wasa long line for only threeminutes'use,and no soap,but nobodycomplained. Some peoplepooledtheir time, showeringtwo and three together.Those waitingtheir turns iokedrowdily. Gunther washed,grabbedsomecleanshortsand a Glavkosmos tee-shirt, and paddeddownthe hall. He hesitated outsidethe commonroom, listening to the gangsittingaroundthe table,discussing the morecolorfulflicksthey'd encountered. "Have you seenthe Mouse Hunter?" "Oh yeah,and Ophelia!" "The Pope!" "The Duck Lady! "Everybodyknowsthe Duck Lady!" They werelaughingand happy.A warm senseof communityflowedfrom the room, what Gunther'sfatherwould havein his sloppy-sentimental way calledCemiitlichkeit.Gunther steppedwithin. . Liza Nagendalookedup, all gumsand teeth,and froze.Her jaw snapped shut. "Well, if it isn't lzmailova'spersonalspy!" "What?"The accusation tookGunther'sbreathaway.He lookedhelplessly aboutthe room. Nobodywould meethis eye.They had all fallen silent. Liza'sfacewasgreywith anger."You heardmel It wasyou that rattedon Krishna,wasn'tit?" "Now that'sway out of linel You've got a lot of fucking gall if-" He controlledhimselfwith an effort.Therewasno sensein matchingher hysteria with his own. "lt's noneof your business whatmy relationship *ith lr-rilova is or is not." He lookedaroundthe table. "Not that any of you deserveto know, but Krishn-a's workingon a cure. If anythingI saidor did helpedput him backin the lab, well then, so be it. " She smirked."So what'syour excusefor snitchingon Will posner?" "l ngygl-"

"We all heardthe story!You told him you weregoingto run straightto your preciousIzmailovawith your little helmetvids." "Now, Liza," Takayuni began.She slappedhim away. "Do you know what Posnerwasdoing?"Gunthershooka fingerin Liza's face. "Hah?Do you?He wasbeating Anyal He wasb-eating Anya right out in the open!" "So what?He'sone of us, isn't he?Not a zoned-out,dead-eyed, ranting, droolingflick!" "You bitch!" Outraged,Guntherlunged atLiza acrossthe table."l'll kill you, I swearit!" Peoplejerkedbackfrom him, rushedforward,a chaosof motion. Posnerthrust himselfin Gunther'sway, armsspread,jaw set and manly. Guntherpunchedhim in the face.Posnerlookedsurprised,and fell

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back.Gunther'shand stung,but he felt strangelygoodanyway;if everyone elsewascrazy,then why not him? "You just try itl" Liza shrieked."l knew you werethat type all along!" Takayuni grabbedLiza awayone way. Hamilton seizedGunther and yankedhim the other. Two of Posner'sfriendswere holding him back as well. "l've had aboutall I can takefrom you!" Gunther shouted."You cheap cunt!" "Listento him! Listenwhat he callsmel" Screaming,they wereshovedout opposingdoors. "It's all right, Gunther." Beth had flung him into the first niche they'dcome to. He slumpedagainsta wall, shaking,and closedhis eyes."lt's all right now." But it wasn't.Guntherwassuddenlystruckwith the realizationthat with the exceptionof Ekatarinahe no longerhad any friends.Not real friends, It wasasif everyonehad been closefriends.How could this havehappened? Thosewho weren'tactuallymad werestill monsters. turnedinto werewolves. "l don't understand." Weil?" Hamiltonsighed."What don't you understand, "The way people-the way we all treat the flicks. When Posnerwas beatingAnya, therewerefour othersuitsstandingnearby,and not a one of them somuch aslifteda fingerto stophim. Not one!And I felt it too, there's no usepretendingI'm superiorto the restof them. I wantedto walk on and pretendI hadn't seena thing. What's happenedto us?" Her hair wasshortand darkabouther plain round Hamilton shrugged. schoolwhen I wasa kid. One yearwe had face."l went to a prettyexpensive enriching.You know? to be personally that'resupposed oneof thoseexercises We weredividedinto two groups-Prisonersand Guards. A life experience. areaswithout permissionfrom a couldn'tleavetheir assigned The Prisoners guard,the Guardsgot betterlunches,stufflike that. Very simplesetof rules. I wasa Guard. 'em "Almost immediately,we startedto bully the Prisoners.We pushed 'em 'em, in line. What was amazingwas that the kept around, yelled at us fiveto one.We didn't evenhave They outnumbered it. us do let Prisoners a one of them complained.Not a But not we did. things for the authority do this. They playedthe game. you can't no, said and one of them stoodup "At the end of the month, the proiectwasdismantledand we had some studyseminarson what we'd learned:the rootsof fascism,and so on. Read ,o-" Hanlah Arendt.And then it wasall over.Exceptthat my bestgirlfriend neverspoketo me again. I couldn't blame her, either. Not after what I'd done. "What did I reallylearn?That peoplewill playwhateverroleyou put them in. They'll do it without knowing that that's what they'redoing. Take a minority, tell them they're special,and make them guards-they'll start playingGuard."

Griffin's Egg

"So what's the answer?How do we keepfrom getting caught up in the roleswe play?" "Damnedif I know, Weil. Damnedif I know." Ekatarinahad movedher nicheto the far end of a new tunnel. Herswasthe only room the tunnel served,and consequently shehad a lot of privacy.As Gunther steppedin, a statickyvoice swam into focus on his trance chip. reportedshock.In Cairo, governmentofficialspledged It cut off. "Hey! You'verestored-" He stopped.If radioreceptionhadbeenrestored, he'd haveknown. It would havebeenthe talk of the Center.Which meant that radio contacthad neverreally beencompletelybroken.It was simply being controlledby the CMP. Ekatarinalookedup at him. She'dbeencrying,but she'dstopped."The SwissOrbitalsare gone!" she whispered."They hit them with everything from softbombsto brilliant pebbles.They dustedthe shipyards. " The scopeof all thosedeathsobscuredwhat shewassayingfor a second. He sankdown besideher."But that mean5-" "There'sno spacecraft that can reachus, yes. Unlessthere'sa ship in transit,we'restrandedhere." He tookher in his arms.Shewascoldand shivering.Her skinfelt clammy "How long has it beensinceyou'vehad any and mottled with gooseflesh. sleep?"he askedsharply. "f ggn'1-"

"You'rewired,aren'tyou?" "l can't affordto sleep.Not now. Later." "Ekatarina.The energyyou get from wire isn't free. It's only borrowed from your body.When you comedown, it all comesdue. If you wire yourself up too tightly, you'll crashyourselfright into a coma." "l haven'tbeen-" She stalled,and a confused,uncertainlook entered her eyes."Maybe you'reright. I could probablyusea little rest." The CMP cameto life. "CadreNine is buildinga radioreceiver.Ezumi " gavethem the go-ahead. "Shit!" Ekatarinasatbolt upright. "Can we stopit?" "Moving againsta universallypopularprojectwould costyou credibility you cannotaffordto lose." "Okay, so how can we minimizeths-" "Ekatarina,"Gunther said."Sleep,remember?" "ln a sec,babe." She pattedthe futon. "You just lie down and wait for me. I'll havethiswrappedup beforeyou can nod off " Shekissedhim gently, lingeringly."All right?" "Yeah, sure." He lay down and closedhis eyes,just for a second. When he awoke,it wastime to go on shift, and Ekatarinawasgone. It was only the fifth day since Vladivostok.But everythingwas so utterly changedthat timesbeforethen seemedlike memoriesof anotherworld. In

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a previouslife I wasGuntherWeil, he thought.I lived and workedand had a few laughs.Life waspretty good then. He wasstill lookingfor SallyChang,thoughwith dwindlinghope. Now, wheneverhe talked to suitshe'd ask if they neededhis help. Increasingly, they did not. The third-level chapelwas a shallowbowl facing the terracewall. Tiger liliesgrewaboutthe chancelareaat thebottom,andturquoiselizardsskittered over the rock. The children were playinga ball in the chancel.Gunther Ryoheilomato. stoodat the top, chattingwith a sad-voiced to dance.They were playing began ball and put away the The children smile.From abovetheywere with a them watched London Bridge.Gunther closingin on itself.Slowly, and unfolding flower so many spotsof color, a one of the childrenmoved Not well. too dancing the smiiefaded.They were were Their expressions sulking. out of step,lost her place,or walkedaway to turn away. had inhuman. Gunther intense,self-absorbed, "The CMP controlsthem," Iomatosaid."l don't havemuch to do, really. I go through the vids and pick out gamesfor them to play, songsto sing, to keepthem healthy.SometimesI havethem draw." little exercises "My God, how can you standit?" Iomato sighed."My old man was an alcoholic.He had a pretty rough life, and at somepoint he starteddrinking to blot out the pain. You know what?" "lt didn't work." "Yah. Made him evenmore miserable.So then he had twice the reason to getdrunk. He kepton trying,though,I'vegotto,givehim that..Hewasn't the sort of man to give up on somethinghe believedin iust becauseit wasn'tworkingthe way it should." Gunther saidnothing. "l think that memotyit the only thing keepingme from justtakingoff my helmetand ioiningthem." The CorporateVideo Center was a narrow run of offices in the farthest usewas tunnel ,.aches,whererawfootagefor advertsand incidentalbusiness Earth. on centers vid better-equipped to squirted being before processed fickering left flatscreens off slapping to office, ofn.. passed from bunther sincethe disaster. It wasunnervinggoingthroughthe normallybusyroomsand finding lq one. The desks,r,j.i,rtte-ted *oik stationshadbeenabandonedin purposeful dirrrrry, as though their operatorshad merelysteppedout for a breakand would'be back riomentariiy. Gunther found himself spinningaround to noises.With eachmachine confronthis shadow,and f inchingat unexpected was twice as lonely as being It grew. his back at he turned off, the ril.n.. out on the surface. He douseda last light and steppedinto the gloomy}all. T_wosuitswith interwovenH-and-A logos loo*ed up out of the shadows.He iumped in shock. They were emp-ty,of course-there were no Hyundai Aerospace

Griffin's Egg

5l

components amongthe unafflicted.SomeonehadsimplyIeftthesesuitshere in temporarystoragebeforethe madness. The suitsgrabbedhim. "Hey!" He shoutedin terrorastheyseizedhim by the armsand lifted him off his feet. One of them hookedthe peeceefrom his harnessand snapped it off' Beforehe knew what was happeninghe'd been sweptdown a iliort flight of stairsand througha doorway. "Mr. Weil." He wasin a high-ceilingedroom carvedinto the rockto hold airhandling equipmentthat hadn'tbeenconstructed yet.A high stringof temporrry*orf lampsprovideddim light. To the far sideof the room a suit sit b.lrind t dgtk,flankedby two more,standing.They all woreHyundaiAerospace suits. There wasno way he could identifi,them. The suitsthat had broughthim in crossedtheir arms. "What's goingon here?"Gunther asked."Who are you?" "You arethe lastpersonwe'dtell that to." He couldn;ttell which one had spoken.The voicecameoverhis radio,madesexless and impersonalby an electronicfilter."Yt. Weil, you standaccusedof crimesagainstyou, f"ilot citizens.Do you haveanythingto sayin your defense?" "What?" Gunther lookedat the suitsbeforehim and to eitherside. They from eachother,and he wassudYetg perfectlyidentical,indistinguishable denly afraid of what the peoplewithin might feel free to do, armoredas they were in anonymity."Listen, you'vegot no right to do this. There'sa governmentalstructurein place, if you'vegot any complaintsagainstme.,, "Not everyoneis pleasedwith Izmailova;sgovernment,"the ludgesaid. "But shecontrolsthe CMP, and we couldiot run Bootstrapwitf,out the CMP controllingthe flicks,"a secondadded. "we simplyhaveto work around perhapsit wasthe judge;per6aps !r..." it wasyet anotherof the suits.Gunther couldn'i tell. "Do you wish to speakon your own behalf?" ,,okay, "what exactlyam I- chargedwith?" Gunther askeddesperately. maybeI've donesomethingi,ro.,g, I'll entertainthat possibility.But maybe you just don't understand-y situation.Haveyou considered ihrt?" Silence. "I mean, just what are you angryabout?Is it posner?Because I'm not sorryabout that. I wo1-tapologize.You can't mistreatpeoplejust because they'resick.They'restill people,like anybodyelse.They havet'heirrights.,' Silence. "Bu,tif you think I'm somekind of a spyor something,that I'm running around and rattingon peopleto Ek-to izmailour, r."ll that'ssimply noi true. I mean, I talk to her, I'm not aboutto pretendI don,t, but I'm not her spyor anything.she doesn'thaveany spies.Sh. do.r.,'t needany! She'sjust trying to hold thingstogether,that'sall. "Jesus,you don't know what she'sgone through for you! you haven't seenhow much it takesout of her! She'dlike notii.,g b.tt , than to quit. But shehasto hangin therebecause-" An eeriedarkIlectronicgabblerose

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up on his radio, and he stoppedas he realizedthat they were laughingat him. "Does anyoneelsewish to speak?" One of Gunther'sabductorssteppedforward."Your honor, this man says that flicksare human. He overlooksthe fact that they cannotlive without our supportand direction.Their continuedwell-beingis boughtat the p-rice of oui Lnceasinglabor. He standscondemnedout of his own mouth. I petitionthe court to makethe punishmentfit the crime'" The judgelookedto the right, to the left. His two companionsnodded, and steppedback into the void. The deskhad been set up at the mouth of what *ri to be the air intakeduct. Guntherhad just time enoughto realize leadingsomeonein a G5 suit identicalto his this when they reappeared, own. "We could kill you, Mr. Weil," the artificial voice crackled."But that would be wasteful-Every hand, everymind is needed.We must all pull togetherin our time of need." ttt. G5 stoodaloneand motionlessin the centerof the room. "Watch." Two of the Hyundaisuitssteppedup to the G5 suit. Four handsconverged on the helmet seals.With praiticedefficiency,they flickedthe latchesand lifted the helmet. It happ.ttid soswiftlythe occupantcould not havestopped it if he'd tried. Beneaththe helmet wasthe fearful,confusedfaceof a flick. "sanity is a privilege,Mr. Weil, not a right. You are ggilty as charged. However,we arenot cruelmen. Thisoncewe will let you off with a warning. times.At your next offense-be it only so minor a But theseare desperate thing as reportinj this encounterto the Little General-we may be forced to d[pensewith Ih. for*rlity of a hearing."The ludgepaused."Do I make myselfclear?" Reluctantly,Cunther nodded. "Then you may leave." On the way out, one of the suitshandedhim back his peecee. Five people.He wassurethereweren'tany more involvedthan that. Maybe one or two more, but that wasit. Posnerhad to be hip-de.p in this thing, he wascertainof that. It shouldn'tbe too hard to figureout the others. He didn't daretakethe chance. At shift'send he found Ekatarinaalreadyasleep.Shelookedhaggardandunhealthy.He knelt by her, and gentlybrushedher cheekwith the backof one hand. Her eyelidsflutteredoPen. "Oh, hey. I didn't -.rtt to wakeyou. |ust go backto sleep,huh?" Shesmiled."You're sweet,Gunther,but I wasonly takinga nap anyway' again."You're I've got to be up in anotherfifteenminutes." Her eyesc_losed lying to me, feeding the Snly o.," I'can reallytrust anymore.Everybody's

Griffin's Egg

me misinformation,keepingsilentwhen there'ssomethingI needto know. You're the only one I can count on to tell me things." You have enemies,he thought. They call you the Little General,and they don't like how you run things.They'renot readyto move againstyou directly,but they haveplans.And they'reruthless. Aloud, he said,"Go backto sleep." "They'reall againstme," she murmured."Bastardsonsof bitches." for the new airhanThe next day he spentgoingthroughthe servicespaces dling system.He found a solitaryflick'snestmadeof shredded vacuumsuits, but afterconsultationwith the CMP concludedthat nobodyhad lived there for days.There wasno traceof SallyChang. If it had beenharrowinggoingthroughthe sealedareasbeforehis trial, it wasfar worsetoday.Ekatarina's enemieshad infectedhim with fear.Reason told him they werenot waitingfor him, that he had nothingto worry about until he displeased them again.But the hindbraindid not listen. Time crawled.When he finally emergedinto daylightat the end of his shift, he felt light-headedlyout of phasewith reality from the hours of isolation.At firsthe noticednothingout of the ordinary.Then his suit radio wasfull of voices,and peoplewerehurryingabouteverywhich way. There wasa h"ppy buzz in the air. Somebodywassinging. He snaggeda passingsuit and asked,"What's going on?" "Haven'tyou heard?The war is over.They'vemadepeace.And there'sa ship comingin!" The LakeGenevahad maintainedtelevisionsilencethroughmostof the long flight to the Moon for fearof long-rangebeamweapons.with peace,however,they openeddirecttransmission to Bootstrap. Ezumi'speoplehadthe flickssewtogetheran enormouscottonsquareand hackawaysometrailing vinesso they could hang it high on the shadowed sideof the crater.Then, with the fill lightsoff, the videoimagewasprojected. Swissspacejacks tumbled beforethe camera,grinning, all denim and red cowboyhats. They were talking about their escapefrom the hunter-seeker missiles,brashyoung voicesrunning one over the other. The top officers were assembledbeneath the cotton square. Gunther recognizedtheir suits.Ekatarina'svoiceboomedfrom newly erectedloud"When are you coming in? We haveto makesurethe spaceport speakers. field is clear. How many hours?" Holding up five fingers,a blond woman said,"Forty-five!" "No, forty-three!" "Nothing like that!" "Almost forty-five!" AgainEkatarina's voicecut into the tumult. "What'sit like in the orbitais? " We heardthey were destroyed. "Yes. destroved!"

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"V.ry bad, very bad, it'll take years[s-" "But most of the peopleals-" "We weregivensixorbitswarning;mostwentdownin lifting bodies,there wasa big evacuation." "Many died, though.It wasverybad." Just below the officers,a suit had been directingseveralflicks as they assembled a cameraplatform.Now it wavedbroadly,and the flicksstepped away.In the Lake Cenevasomebodyshouted,and severalheadsturned to stareat an offscreentelevisionmonitor. The suit turnedthe camera,giving them a slow, panoramicscan. said,"What's it like there?I seethat someof you One of the spacejacks are wearingspacesuits,and the restare not. Why is that?" Ekatarinatook a deepbreath."There havebeensomechangeshere." There wasone hell of a partyat the Centerwhen the Swissarrived.Sleep were juggled,and savefor a skeletoncrew overseeing the flicks, schedules everyoneturnedout to welcomethe dozennewcomersto the Moon. They vodka.Everyonehad storiesto dancedto skiffle,and drankvacuum-distilled tell, rumorsto swap,opinionson the likelihoodthat the peacewould hold. Gunther wanderedawaymidwaythroughthe party.The Swissdepressed him. They all seemedso young and freshand eager.He felt batteredand He wantedto grabthem by the shoulders and shake cynicalin their presence. them awake. laboratories. Wherethe he wanderedthroughthe locked-down Depressed, Viral ComputerProjecthad been,he sawEkatarinaand the captainof the LakeGenevaconferringovera stackof cratedbioflops.They bent low over Ekatarina'speecee,listeningto the CMP. "Have you considerednationalizingyour industries?" the captainasked. "That would give us the plant neededto build the New City. Then, with a few hardwiredutilities,Bootstrapcould be managedwithout anyonehaving to setfoot insideit." Gunther was too distantto hear the CMP's reaction,but he saw both women laugh. "Well," said Ekatarina."At the very leastwe will have to renegotiatetermswith the parentcorporations.With only one ship functional, people can't be easilyreplaced.Physicalpresencehas becomea of it." valuablecommodity.We'd be foolsnot to takeadvantage Eventually, there wandering aimlessly. into shadow, passed deeper He on, faster Krishna's, but spoken was One he heard voices. and wasa light ahead, and more forcefullythan he wasusedto hearingit. Curious,he stoppedjust outsidethe door. Krishnawas in the centerof the lab. Beforehim, Beth Hamilton stood noddinghumbly. "Yes, sir," she said."l'll do that. Yes." Dumbfounded, Gunther realizedthat Krishnawasgivingher orders. Krishnaglancedup. "Weil! You're iust the man I was about to come lookingfor." "l am?"

Griffin's Egg

"Come in here, don't dawdle." Krishna smiled and beckoned,and Gunther had no choicebut to obey.Krishnalookedlike a younggod now. The forceof his spiritdancedin his eyeslike fire. It wasstrangethat Gunther had nevernoticedbeforehow tall he was."Tell me whereSallyChang is." "l dsn'1-l mean,I can't,l-" Hs stoppedandswallowed."l think Chang must be dead."Then, "Krishna?What'shappenedto you?" "He's finishedhis research,"Beth said. "l rewrotemy personalityfrom top to bottom," Krishnasaid. "l'm not half-crippledwith shyness anymore-have you noticed?"He put a hand on Gunther'sshoulder,and it wasreassuring, warm, comforting."Gunther, I won't tell you what it tookto scrapetogetherenoughmessenger enginesfrom tracesof old experiments to try this out on myself.But it works.We've got a treatmentthatamongotherthingswill serveasa universalcurefor everyone in Bootstrap.But to do that, we needthe messenger engines,and they'renot here. Now tell me why you think SallyChang is dead." "Well, uh, I've beensearchingfor her for four days.And the CMP has been looking too. You've been holed up here all the time, so maybeyou don't know the flicksaswell asthe restof us do. But they'renot verybig on planning.The likelihoodone of them could activelyevadedetectionthat long is practicallyzilch. The only thing I can think is that somehowshe made it to the surfacebeforethe effectshit her, got into a truck and told it to drive as far as her oxygenwould take her." Krishnashookhis head and said, "No. It is simply not consistentwith SallyChang'scharacter.With all the bestwill in the world, I cannotpicture " He slid open a drawer:row upon row of gleaming her killing herself. cannisters."This may help. Do you rememberwhen I saidtherewere fwo cannisters of mimetic enginesmissing,not just the schizomimetic?" "Vaguely." "l've been too busy to worry about it, but wasn'tthat odd?whv would Chang havetakena cannisterand not usedit?" "What wasin the secondcannister?"Hamilton asked. "Paranoia,"Krishnasaid. "or rathera good enough chemical analog. Nory,paranoiais a raredisability,but a fascinating one. It's characterized by an elaborate but internallyconsistent delusionalsystem.The paranoidpatient functionswell intellectually,and is lessfragmentedthan i schizophrenic. Her emotionaland socialresponses are closerto normal. She'scapableof concertedeffort. In a time of turmoil, it's quite possiblethat a paranoid individualcould eludeour detection." "Okay, let'sget this straight,"Hamilton said."War breaksout on Earth. Ch_anggetsher orders,teys in the softwarebombs, and goesto Bootstrap with a cannisterfull of madnessand a little syringeof paranoia-r,o, it doesn'twork. It all falls apart." "How so?" "Paranoiawouldn't inoculateher againstschizophrenia.How doesshe protectherselffrom her own aerosols?" Gunther stoodtransfixed."Lavender!"

Michael Swanwick *f*

They caughtup with SallyChangon the topmostterraceof Bootstrap.The top level was undeveloped.Someday the corporatebrochurespromised-fallow deerwould grazeat the edgeof limpid pools,and ottersfrolic in the streams.But the soil hadn'tbeenbuilt up yet, the wormsbroughtin or the bacteriaseeded.Therewereonly sand,machines,and a few unhappy opportunisticweeds. Chang'scamp wasto one sideof a streamhead, beneatha fill light. She startedto her feetat their approach,glancedquicklyto the sideand decided to brazenit out. A signreadingEMERGENCY CANOPY MAINTENANCE STATION had beenweldedto a strutsupportingthe stream'svalvestem.Under it were a shortstackedpyramidof oxytanksand an aluminum storagecratethe size of a coffin. "Very clever,"Beth mutteredoverGunther'strancechip. "She sleepsin the storagecrate,and anybodystumblingacrossher thinksit's just spareequipment." The lavendersuit raisedan arm and casuallysaid,"Hiya, guys.How can I help you?" Krishnastrodeforwardand took her hands."Sally, i1'5ms-Krishna!" "Oh, thankGod!" Sheslumpedin his arms."l've beenso afraid." "You're all right now." "l thoughtyou werean Invaderat first, when I sawyou coming up. I'm so hungry-l haven'teatensinceI dorr'tknow when." She clutchedat the sleeveof Krishna'ssuit. "You do know aboutthe Invaders,don't you?" "Maybe you'd betterbring me up to date." quicklyto Gunther They beganwalkingtowardthe stairs.Krishnagestured and then towardChang'sworksuitharness.A cannisterthe sizeof a hip flask engines! hungthere.Guntherreachedoverandpluckedit off. The messenger He held them in his hand. To the other side, Beth Hamilton pluckedup the near-full cylinderof paranoia-inducing enginesand madeit disappear. did not notice. Sally Chang, deepin the explicationof her reasonings, ". . . obeyedmy orders,of course.But they madeno sense.I worriedand worriedaboutthat until finally I realizedwhat wasreallygoing on. A wolf caught in a trap will gnaw off its leg to get free. I beganto look for the wolf. What kind of enemyjustifiedsuchextremeactions?Certainlynothing human." "Sally," Krishnasaid,"l wantyou to entertainthe notionthat the conspiracy-for wantof a betterword-may bemoredeeplyrootedthanyou suspect. That the problemis not an externalenemy,but the workingsof our own brain. Specificallythat the Invadersare an artifactof the psychotomimetics you injectedinto yourselfbackwhen this all began." "No. No, there'stoo much evidence.It all fits together!The Invaders bothphysically,which wasaccomplished themselves neededa wayto disguise psychologically, which wasachievedby the general by the vacuumsuits,and

Griffin's Egg

madness.Thus, they can move undetectedamong us. Would a human enemy have convertedall of Bootstrapto slavelabor?Unthinkable!They can readour minds like a book. If we hadn't protectedourselveswith the schizomimetics, they'dbe ableto extractall our knowledge,all our military researchsecrets..." Listening,Gunther couldn't help imaginingwhat Liza Nagendawould sayto all of this wild talk. At the thoughtof her, his jaw clenched.fust like one of Chang'smachines,he realized,and couldn't help being amusedat his own expense. Ekatarinawaswaitingat the bottomof the stairs.Her handstremblednoticeably, and therewasa slightquaverin her voicewhen shesaid,"What's all this the CMP tellsme aboutmessenger engines? Krishna'ssupposed to have come up with a cure of somekind?" "We'vegot them," Gunthersaidquietly,happily.He held up the cannister. "[t's over now, we can heal our friends." "Let me see,"Ekatarinasaid. She took the cannisterfrom his hand. "No, wait!" Hamilton cried,too late. Behindher, Krishnawasarguing with Sally Chang about her interpretations of recenthappenings.Xiithei had noticedyet that thosein front had stopped. "Standback." Ekatarinatooktwo quickstepsbackward.Edgily,sheadded, "l don't mean to be difficult. But we're going to sort this all out, and until we do, I don't want anybodytoo closeto me. That includesyou too. ' Gunther." - Flicksbegqngathering.By onesand twostheywanderedup the lawn, and then by the dozen.By the time it wasclearthat Ekatarinahad calledthem up via the CMP, Krishna,Chang, and Hamilton wereseparated from her and Gunther by a wall of people. Chang stood very still. Somewherebehind her unseenface, she was rev-ising her theoriesto includethis new event.Suddenly,her handsslapped at her suit, grabbingfor the missingcannisters.She lookedat Krishnaand with a trill of horror said,"You're one of theml" "of courseI'm n6[-" Krishnabegan.But shewasturning,stumbling, fleeingbackup the steps. "Let her go," Ekatarinaordered."We've got more seriousthingsto talk about." Two flicksscurriedup, lugginga smallindustrialkiln betwelnthem. The_fsetit down, and a third pluggedin an electriccable.The interiorbegan to glow. "This cannisteris all you'vegot, isn't it? If I wereto autoclave"it, therewouldn't be any hope of replacingits contents. " "lzmailova,listen,"Krishnasaid. "l am listening.Talk." Krishnaexplained,while Izmailovalistenedwith armsfoldedand shoulderstilted skeptically.when he wasdone,sheshookher head."It's a noble f9lly, but folly is all it is. You want to reshapeour minds into something alien to the courseof human evolution.To turn the seatof thought into a

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MichaelSwanwick

jetpilot'scouch.This is your ideaof a solution?Forgetit. Oncethisparticular box is opened,there'll be no putting its contentsback in again.And you haven'tadvancedany convincingargumentsfor openingit. " "But the peoplein Bootstrap!"Gunther objected."They-" Shecut him off. "Gunther, nobodylifteswhat'shappenedto them. But if andethically the restof us mustgiveup our humanityto payfor a speculative dubiousrehabilitation. . . well, the price is simply too high. Mad or not, they'reat leasthuman now." "Am I inhuman?"Krishnaasked."If you tickle me, do I not laugh?" "You're in no positionto judge.You'verewiredyour neuronsand you're stonedon the novelty.What testshaveyou run on yourself?How thoroughly haveyou mappedout your deviationsfrom human norms?Where are your figures?"These were purely rhetoricalquestions;the kind of analysesshe meanttook weeksto run. "Even if you checkout completelyhuman-and I don't concedeyou will!-who's to saywhat the long-rangeconsequences are?What'sto stopus from drifting,stepby incrementalstep,into madness? No, this is Who decideswhat madnessis?Who programsthe programmers? impossible.I won't gamblewith our minds." Defensively,almostangrily, sherepeated,"l won't gamblewith our minds." "Ekatarina,"Gunthersaidgently,"how long haveyou beenup?Listento yourself.The wire is doing your thinking for you." without responding. She waveda hand dismissively, "fust as a practicalmatter," Hamilton said, "how do you expectto run You say Bootstrapwithout it? The setupis turning us all into babyfascists. you'reworriedaboutmadness-whatwill we be like a yearfrom now?" "The CMP assures sls-" "The CMP is only a program!"Hamilton cried. "No matterhow much interactivityit has, it's not flexible.It has no hope. It cannot iudgea new thing. It can only enforceold decisions,old values,old habits,old fears." Abruptly Ekatarinasnapped."Get out of my face!"she screamed."Stop it, stopit, stopit! I won't listento any more." "Ekatarina-" Gunther began. But her hand had tightenedon the cannister.Her kneesbent asshebegan a slow genuflectionto the kiln. Gunther could seethat she had stopped her up and had donethis to her, speeding listening.Drugsand responsibility bewildeiingher with conflictingdemands,until shestoodtremblingon the brink of collapse.A goodnight'ssleepmight have restoredher, madeher capableof being reasonedwith. But therewasno time. Words would not stopher now. And shewastoo far distantfor him to reachbeforeshedestroyed the engines.In that instanthe felt sucha strongoutwellingof emotiontoward her as would be impossibleto describe. "Ekatarina,"he said."I love you." She half-turnedher headtowardhim and in a distracted,somewhatirritatedtone said,"What ?t€ you-" He lifted the bolt gun from his work harness,leveledit, and fired.

Griffin's Egg

Ekatarina'shelmet shattered. Shefell. "l shouldhaveshotto justbreachthe helmet.That would havestoppedher. But I didn't think I wasa goodenoughshot. I aimedright for the centerof her head." "Hush," Hamilton said. "You did what you had to. Stop tormenting yourself.Talk aboutmore practicalthings." He shookhis head,still groggy.For the longesttime, he had been kept on betaendorphins,unableto feel a thing, unableto care.It waslike being swathedin cotton batting.Nothing could reachhim. Nothing could hurt him. "How long haveI beenout of it?" " A day." "A day!" He lookedaboutthe austereroom. Blandrockwallsand laboratory equipmentwith smooth,noncommitalsurfaces. To the far end, Krishna andChangwerehunchedovera swipeboard, arguinghappilyandimpatiently overwritingeach other'sscrawls.A Swissspacejack came in and spoketo their backs.Krishnanoddeddistractedly, not lookingup. "l thought it was much longer." "Long enough. We've alreadysalvagedeveryoneconnectedwith Sally Chang'sgroup, and gottena goodstarton the rest.Prettysoonit will be time to decidehow you want yourselfrewritten." He shookhis head,feelingdead."l don't think I'll bother,Beth. I just don't havethe stomachfor it. " "We'll give you the stomach." "Naw, I don't . . ." He felt a blacknauseacomewelling up again.It was cyclic; it returnedeverytime he wasbeginningto think he'd finally put it down. "l don't want the fact that I killed Ekatarinawashedawayin a warm flood of self-satisfaction. The ideadisgustsme." "We don't wantthat either." Posnerled a delegationof seveninto the lab. Krishnaand Chang roseto face them, and the group broke into swirling halves."There'sbeenenoughof that. It's time we all startedtaking responsi-Hamilton bility for the consequences of-" Everyonewastalkingat once. madea face. "Startedtakingresponsibility for-" Voicesrose. "we can't talk here," shesaid. "Take me out on the surface." T!t*y drovewith the cabinpressurized, due weston the SeethingBay road. Ahead,the sun wasalmosttouchingthe wearywallsof Somm.iing crater. Shadowclept down from the mountainsand cratertops,yearningtowardthe radiantlylit SinusMedii. Gunther found it achinglybeautiful.He did not wantto respondto it, but the harshlinesechoedthe lonelyhurt within him in a way that he found oddly comforting. Hamilton touchedher peecee."Putting on the Ritz" filled their heads.

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"What if Ekatarinawas right?" he saidsadly."What if we're giving up everythingthat makesus human?The prospectof being turned into some kind of big-domedemotionless supermandoesn'tappealto me much." Hamilton shookher head."l askedKrishnaaboutthat, and he saidNo. He saidit waslike . wereyou evernearsighted?" "Sure,asa kid." "Then you'll understand.He saidit waslike the first time you cameout of the doctor'soffice after being lased. How everythingseemedclear and 'tree' resolved vivid and distinct.What had oncebeena blur that you called itself into a thousandindividualand distinctleaves.The world was filled detail.There werethingson the horizon that you'd never with unexpected seenbefore.Like that." "Oh." He staredahead.The diskof the sunwasalmosttouchingSommering. "There'sno point in goingany farther." He powereddown the truck. Beth Hamilton lookeduncomfortable.She clearedher throat and with brusqueenergysaid, "Gunther, look. I had you bring me out here for a reason.I want to proposea mergerof resources." "A what?" "Marriage. " I It took Gunther a secondto absorbwhat she had said. "Aw, no don't . . ." "l'm serious.Gunther, I knowyou think I've beenhardon you, but that's I sawa lot of potentialin you, and that you weredoingnothing only because with it. Well, thingshavechanged.Give me a sayin your rewrite,and I'll do the samefor you." He shookhis head."This is iust too weird for me." "lt's too late to usethat as an excuse.Ekatarinawasright-qrs'vs sitting opportunityhumanthe mostdangerous on top of somethingverydangerous, gotten out. Earth is has Word the bag, though. It's out of ity facestoday. verybriefly,we can us. Briefly, be watching They'll horrifiedand fascinated. it's small. Five years controlthis thing. We can help to shapeit now, while from now, it will be out of our hands. "You havea goodmind, Gunther, and it's aboutto get better.I think we agreeon what kind of a world we want to make.I want you on my side." "l don't know what to say." "You want true love?You got it. We can makethe sexas sweetor nasty as you like. Nothing easier.You want me quieter,louder, gentler' more We can negotiate.Let'sseeif we can cometo terms." assured? He saidnothing. Hamilton easedbackin the seat.After a time, shesaid,"You know?I've neverwatcheda lunar sunsetbefore.I don't get out on the surfacemuch." "We'll haveto changethat," Gunther said. Hamilton staredhard into his face.Then shesmiled.Shewriggledcloser to him. Clumsily, he put an arm over her shoulder.It seemedto be what

Griffin's Egg was expected of him. He coughed

6l

his hand, then pointed a finger.

"There it goes." Lunar sunsetwasa simplething. The craterwall touchedthe bottom of leapedfrom the slopesand racedacrossthe lowlands. the solardisk.Shadows Soon half the sun wasgone. Smoothly,without distortion,it dwindled.A lastbrilliant sliverof light burnedatop the rock, then ceasedto be. In the instantbeforethe windshieldadjustedand the starsappeared,the universe filled with darkness. andpoppedwith the sudden The air in the cabcooled.The panelssnapped shift in temperature. Now Hamilton wasnuzzling the sideof his neck. Her skin was slightly tackyto the touch, and exudeda faint but distinctodor. Sheran her tongue up the line of his chin and pokedit in his ear. Her hand fumbledwith the latchesof his suit. no arousalat all, only a mild distastethat bordered Gunther experienced on disgust.This washorrible,a defilementof all he had felt for Ekatarina. But it wasa chorehe had to getthrough.Hamilton wasright. All his life his hindbrain had been in control, driving him with emotionschemically derivedand randomlyapplied.He hadbeenlashedto the steedof consciousnessand forcedto ride it whereverit went, and that nightmaregallophad broughthim only pain and confusion.Now that he had controlof the reins, he could makethis horsego wherehe wanted. ContentHe wasnot surewhathe woulddemandfrom his reprogramming. passion, not love. perhaps. and almost But He wasdone Sex certainly. ment, illusion. It was grow romantic time to up. with the He squeezedBeth'sshoulder.One more day, he thought, and it won't matter.I'll feelwhateveris bestfor ine to feel. Beth raisedher mouth to his. Her lips parted.He could smell her breath. They kissed.

EVENTHE QUEEN Connie Willis

V ConnieWillislivesin Creeley, Colorado, withherfamily.Shefirstattracted attention asa writerin the late'70swith a numberof outstanding stories for the now-defunct magazine Calileo,andwenton to establish herself asoneof the mostpopularand criticallyacclaimed writersof the 1980s. ShewontwoNebulaAwards in 1982,one for hersuperbnovelette "FireWatch,"andonefor herpoignant shortstory"A Letter fromthe Clearys." A fewmonthslater,"FireWatch"wenton to win her a Hugo Awardaswell. In 1989,her powerfulnovella"The Lastof the Winnebagos" won boththeNebulaandtheHugo,andshewonanother Nebulain 1990forhernovelette "At theRialto."HerbooksincludethenovelsWaterWitchandLightRaid,written in collaboration with CynthiaFelice,FireWatch,a collection of hershortfiction, andtlreoutstandingLincoln'sDreams, herfirstsolonovel.Her mostrecentbookis a majornewsolonovel,Doomsday Book,anda newcollection,Impossible Things, will be published soon.Shehashadstories in our First,Second,Fourth,Sixth, Seventh, Eighth,andNinth AnnualCollections. Heresheprovides a wryandcontroversial examination of a technological char-rge andfundamental sosweeping thatit affectseverywomanon Earth. . .

The phonesangas I waslookingoverthe defense's motion to dismiss."lt's the universalring," my law clerk Bysshesaid,reachingfor it. "lt's probably from jail." the defendant.They don't let you usesignatures "No, it's not," I said."lt's my mother." "Oh. " Bysshereachedfor the receiver."Why isn'tsheusingher signature?" "BecausesheknowsI don't want to talk to her. Shemust havefound out what Perdita'sdone." "Your daughterPerdita?"he asked,holdingthe receiveragainsthis chest. "The one with the little girl?" "No, that'sViola. Perdita's " my youngerdaughter.The onewith no sense. "What's shedone?" "She'sjoinedthe Cyclists." Bysshelookedenquiringlyblank, but I wasnot in the mood to enlighten him. Or in the mood to talk to Mother. "l know exactlywhat Mother will Siy," I said."She'llaskme why I didn'ttell her, and then she'lldemandto know what I'm goingto do aboutit, and thereis nothing I can do aboutit, " or I obviouslywould havedone it already.

Even the Queen

Bysshelookedbewildered."Do you want me to tell her you'rein court?" "No. " I reachedfor the receiver."l'll haveto talk to her sooneror later." I took it from him. "Hello, Mother," I said. "Traci," Mother saiddramatically,"Perditahasbecomea Cyclist." "Why didn't you tell me?" " "l thoughtPerditashouldtell you herself. "Perdita!"She snorted."She wouldn'ttell me. Sheknowswhat I'd have to sayabout it. I supposeyou told Karen." "Karen'snot here. She'sin lraq." The only goodthing aboutthis whole to show it was a responsible debaclewas that thanksto lraq's eagerness my worldcommunitymemberand itspreviouspenchantfor self-destruction, mother-in-lawwasin the one placeon the planetwherethe phone service was bad enoughthat I could claim I'd tried to call her but couldn't get through, and she'dhaveto believeme. The Liberationhas freed us from all sortsof indignitiesand scourges, but mothers-in-law aren'tone of them, and I was includinglraq'sSaddams, almosthrppy with Perditafor her excellenttiming. When I didn't want to kill her. "What's Karendoing in lraq?" Mother asked. "Negotiatinga Palestinianhomeland." "And meanwhileher granddaughter is ruining her life," shesaid irrelevantly. "Did you tell Viola?" "l told you, Mother. I thoughtPerditashouldtell all of you herself." "Well, she didn't. And this morning one of my patients,Carol Chen, calledme and demandedto know what I waskeepingfrom her. I had no ideawhat shewastalkingabout." "How did Carol Chen find out?" "From her daughter,who almostfoinedthe Cyclistslast year.Her family talkedher out of it," shesaidaccusingly."Carol wasconvincedthe medical communityhad discovered someterribleside-effect of ammeneroland were coveringit up. I cannotbelieveyou didn't tell me, Traci." And I cannotbelieveI didn't haveBysshetell her I wasin court,I thought. "l told you, Mother. I thoughtit wasPerdita's placeto tell you. After all, it's " her decision. "Oh, Traci!" Mother said."You cannotmeanthat!" In the first fine flush of freedomafterthe Liberation,I had entertained hopesthat it would changeeverything-that it would somehowdo away with inequalityand matriarchaldominanceand thosehumorlesswomen deterrninedto eliminatethe word "manhole"and third-personsingularpronounsfrom the language. Of courseit didn't. Men still makemoremoney,"herstory"is still a blight on the semanticlandscape, and my mothercan still say,"Oh, Tracit" in a tone that reducesme to pre-adolescence. "Her decision!"Mother said."Do you meanto tell me you plan to stand idly by and allow your daughterto makethe mistakeof her life?"

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"what can I do? she'stwenty-twoyearsold and of soundmind." "lf shewereof soundmind shewouldn'tbe doingthis. Didn't you try to talk her out of it?" "Of courseI did, Mother." "And?" "And'l"didn't succeed.She'sdeterminedto becomea Cyclist." "Well, theremustbe somethingwe can do. Get an injunctionor hire a deprogrammer or sue the Cyclistsfor brainwashing.You're a judge,there must be somelaw you can invoks-" "The law is calledpersonalsovereignty, Mother, and sinceit waswhat madethe Liberationpossiblein the firstplace,it can hardlybe usedagainst Perdita.Her decisionmeetsall the criteriafor a caseof personalsovereign$: it's a personaldecision,it wasmadeby a sovereignadult, it affectsno one glgg-"

"What aboutmy practice? CarolChen is convincedshuntscausecancer." "Atty effecton yourpracticeisconsidered an indirecteffect.Like secondary smoke.It doesn'tapply. Mother, whetherwe like it or not, Perditahas a perfectright to do this, andwe don't haveany right to interfere.A freesociety hasto be basedon respecting others'opinionsand leavingeachotheralone. " We haveto respectPerdita'sright to makeher own decisions. All of which wastrue. It wastoo badI hadn'tsaidany of it to Perditawhen shecalled.What I had said,in a tonethat soundedexactlylike my mother's, was"Oh, Perditat" "This is all your fault,you know," Mothersaid."l toldyou you shouldn't havelet her getthat tattoooverher shunt.And don'ttell me it's a freesociety. What good is a free socieg when it allowsmy granddaughter to ruin her life?" Shehung up. I handedthe receiverbackto Bysshe. "l reallylikedwhatyou saidaboutrespecting your daughter's rightto make her own decisions,"he said.He held out my robe."And aboutnot interfering in her life." "l wantyou to research the precedents on deprogramming for me," I said, sliding my arms into the sleeves."And find out if the Cyclistshavebeen chargedwith any free-choiceviolations-brainwashing,intimidation,coercion." The phone sang,anotheruniversal."Hello, who'scalling?"Bysshesaid cautiously.His voicebecamesuddenlyfriendlier."fust a minute." He put his hand overthe receiver."lt's your daughterViola." I took the receiver."Hello, Viola." "l just talkedto Grandma,"shesaid."You will not believewhat Perdita's donenow. She'sjoinedthe Cyclists." "l know," I said. "You know?And you didn't tell me? I can't believethis. You nevertell me anythirg." "l thoughtPerditashouldtell you herself,"I saidtiredly.

Even the Queen

"Are you kidding?Shenevertellsme anythingeither.That time shehad eyebrowimplantsshedidn't tell me for threeweeks,and when shegot the lasertattooshedidn't tell me at all. Twidgetold me. You shouldhavecalled me. Did you tell GrandmaKaren?" "She'sin Baghdad,"I said. "l know," Viola said."l calledher." "Oh, Viola, you didn't!" "Unlike you, Mom, I believein telling membersof our family about mattersthat concernthem." "What did she say?"I asked,a kind of numbnesssettlingover me now that the shockhad worn off. "I couldn'tget throughto her. The phoneserviceoverthereis terrible.I got somebodywho didn't speakEnglish,and then I got cut off, and when I tried againthey saidthe whole city wasdown." Thank you, I breathedsilently.Thank you, thank you, thank you. "GrandmaKaren has a right to know, Mother. Think of the effectthis could have on Twidge. She thinks Perdita'swonderful.When Perditagot the eyebrowimplants,TwidgegluedLED's to hers,and I almostnevergot them off. What if Twidgedecidesto join the Cyclists,too?" "Twidgeis only nine. By the time she'ssupposed to gether shunt,Perdita will havelong sincequit." I hope,I addedsilently.Perditahadhadthe tattoo for a yearanda half now andshowedno signsof tiring of it. "Besides, Twidge " hasmore sense. "lt's true. Oh, Mother, how could Perditado this? Didn't you tell her abouthow awful it was?" "Yes," I said."And inconvenient.And unpleasantand unbalancingand painful.None of it madethe slightest impacton her. Shetold me shethought it would be fun." Bysshewaspointingto his watchand mouthing, "Time for court." "Fun!" Viola said."When shesawwhat I went throughthat time?Honestly, Mother, sometimesI think she'scompletelybrain-dead.Can't you haveher declaredincompetentand lockedup or something?" "No," I said,trying to zip up my robewith one hand. "Viola, I haveto go. I'm latefor court. I'm afraidthere'snothingwe can do to stopher. She's a rationaladult." "Rationall"Viola said."Her eyebrows light up, Mother. ShehasCuster's Last Standlasedon her arm." I handedthe phoneto Bysshe."Tell Viola I'll talk to her tomorrow." I zippedup my robe. "And then call Baghdadand seehow long they expect the phonesto be out." I startedinto the courtroom."And if thereare any more universalcalls,makesurethey'relocal beforeyou answer. " Bysshecouldn't get throughto Baghdad,which I took as a goodsign, and my mother-in-lawdidn't call. Mother did, in the afternoon,to askif lobotomies werelegal.

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ConnieWillis

Shecalledagainthe nextday. I wasin the middleof my PersonalSovereigntyclass,explainingthe inherentrightof citizensin a freesocietyto make completejackasses of themselves. They weren'tbuying it. "l think it's your mother," Bysshewhisperedto me as he handedme the phone."She'sstill usingthe universal.But it's local.I checked." "Hello, Mother," I said. "lt's all arranged,"Mother said. "We're having lunch with Perditaat McGregor's.It's on the cornerof Twelfth Streetand Larimer." "l'rn in the middleof class,"I said. "l know. I won't keepyou. I justwantedto tell you not to worry.I've taken " careof everything. I didn't like the soundof that. "What haveyou done?" "lnvited Perditato lunch with us. I told you. At McGregor's. " "Who is'us,'Mother?" "fust the family," shesaidinnocently."You and Viola." Well, at leastshe hadn't broughtin the deprogrammer. Yet. "What are you up to, Mother?" "Perditasaidthe samething. Can't a grandmother askher granddaughters " to lunch? Be thereat twelve-thirty. "Byssheand I havea court calendarmeetingat three." "Oh, we'll be doneby then. And bring Byssl-re with you. He can provide a man'spoint of view." Shehung up. "You'll haveto go to lunch with me, Bysshe,"I said."Sorry." "Why? What'sgoingto happenat lunch?" "l haveno idea." On the way overto McGregor's,Bysshetold me what he'd found out about the Cyclists."They'renot a cult. There'sno religiousconnection.They seem to havegrown out of a pre-Liberationwomen'sgroup," he said,lookingat his notes,"althoughthere are also links to the pro-choicemovement,the Universityof Wisconsin,and the Museumof Modern Art." "What?" "They call their group leaders'docents.'Their philosophyseemsto be a mix of pre-Liberationradicalfeminismand the environmentalprimitivism and they don't wearshoes." of the eighties.They'refloratarians "Or shunts,"I said.We pulled up in front of McGregor'sand got out of the car. "A.ty mind controlconvictions?"I askedhopefully. "No. A bunchof suitsagainst individualmembers, all of whichtheywon." " "On groundsof personalsovereignty. "Yeah.And a criminal one by a memberwhosefamily triedto deprogram wassentenced to twentyyears,and the family got her. The deprogrammer twelve." "Be sureto tell Mother aboutthat one," I said,and openedthe door to McGregor's.

Even the Queen

with a morning gloryvine twining around It wasone of thoserestaurants Ihe ma?tred's deskand gardenplots betweenthe tables. "Perditasuggested andme pastthe onions it," Mothersaid,guidingBysshe to our table. "She told me a lot of the Cyclistsare floratarians." "ls shehere?"I asked,sidestepping a cucumberframe. "Not yet." Shepointedpasta rosearbor."There'sour table." Our tablewas a wickeraffair under a mulberrytree. Viola and Twidge wereseatedon the far sidenextto a trellisof runnerbeans,lookingat menus. "What areyou doinghere,Twidge?"I asked."Why aren'tyou in school?" "l am," shesaid,holdingup her LCD slate."l'm remotingtoday." "l thought she shouldbe part of this discussion,"Viola said."Afterall, she'llbe gettingher shunt soon." "My friend Kensysaysshe isn't going to get one, like Perdita,"Twidge said. "l'm sure Kensywill changeher mind when the time comes,"Mother said."Perditawill changehers,too. Bysshe,why don'tyou sit nextto Viola?" Byssheslid obedientlypastthe trellisand satdown in the wickerchair at the far end of the table. Twidge reachedacrossViola and handedhim a " shesaid."You don't haveto wearshoes. menu. "This is a greatrestaurant," "And foot you illustrate. get you're held up a bare to if hungry She while waiting, you can just pick something."She twistedaround in her chair, pickedtwo of the greenbeans,gaveone to Bysshe,and bit into the other one. "l bet shedoesn't.Kensysaysa shunt hurts worsethan braces." "lt doesn'thurt as much as not havingone," Viola said,shootingme a Now-Do-You-See-What-My-Sister's-Ca used? Iook. "Traci, why don't you sit acrossfrom Viola?" Mother saidto me. "And we'll put Perditanext to you when shecomes." "lf shecomes,"Viola said. "l told her one o'clock," Mother said,sittingdown at the near end. "So we'd havea chanceto plan our strategybeforeshegetshere.I talkedto Carol Chen-" "Her daughternearlyjoinedthe Cyclistslast year,"I explainedto Bysshe and Viola. "Shesaidthey had a family gathering,like this, and simplytalkedto her daughter,and she decidedshe didn't want to be a Cyclist after all." She lookedaroundthe table."So I thoughtwe'ddo the samething with Perdita. I think we shouldstartby explainingthe significanceof the Liberationand the daysof dark oppression that precededi1-" "I think," Viola interrupted,"we shouldtry to talk her into just goingoff the ammenerolfor a few monthsinsteadof havingthe shuntremoved.If she comes.Which shewon't." "Why not?" "Would you? I mean, it's like the Inquisition.Her sittinghere while all of us'explain'ather. Perditamay be crazy,but she'snot stupid." "lt's hardlythe Inquisition,"Mother said.She lookedanxiouslypastme

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towardthe door. "l'm surePerdita-" She stopped,stoodup, and plunged off suddenlythroughthe asparagus. I turned around, half-expecting Perditawith light-up lips or a full-body tattoo,but I couldn't seethroughthe leaves.I pushedat the branches. "ls it Perdita?"Viola said,leaningforward. I peeredaroundthe mulberrybush. "Oh, my God," I said. It wasmy mother-in-law,wearinga blackabayahanda silk yarmulke.She swepttowardus througha pumpkinpatch,robesbillowingandeyesflashing. Mother hurried in her wakeof trampledradishes,lookingdaggers at me. I turnedthem on Viola. "lt's your grandmotherKaren,"I saidaccusingly. "You told me you didn't get throughto her." "l didn't," shesaid."Twidge,sit up straight.And put your slatedown." There wasan ominousrustlingin the rosearbor, as of leavesshrinking backin terror,and my mother-in-lawarrived. "Karen!" I said,trying to soundpleased."What on earth are you doing here?I thoughtyou werein Baghdad." "l camebackassoonasI gotViola'smessage," shesaid,glaringat everyone in turn. "Who's this?" she demanded,pointing at Bysshe."Viola's new livein?" "No!" Bysshesaid,lookinghorrified. "This is my law clerk,Mother," I said."ByssheAdams-Hardy." "Twidge, why aren'tyou in school?" "l am," Twidgesaid."l'm remoting. " Sheheldup her slate."See?Math." "l see,"shesaid,turningto glowerat me. "lt's a seriousenoughmatterto requiremy great-grandchild's being pulled out of schooland the hiring of legalassistance, and yet you didn't deemit importantenoughto notify me. Of course,you nevertell me anything,Traci." She swirled herselfinto the end chair, sendingleavesand sweetpea blossomsflying, and decapitatingthe broccoli centerpiece."l didn't get Viola'scry for help until yesterday. Viola, you shouldneverleavemessages with Hassim.His Englishis virtuallynonexistent.I had to get him to hum your signature,but the phoneswereout, soI flew me your ring. I recognized I might add," home. In the middle of negotiations, "How are negotiations going, GrandmaKaren?"Viola asked. "They weregoingextremelywell. The Israelishavegiventhe Palestinians half of |erusalem,and they'veagreedto time-sharethe Golan Heights." She turned to glare momentarilyat me. "They know the importanceof communication."She turned backto Viola. "So why are they picking on you, Viola? Don't they like your new livein?" "l am nof her livein," Byssheprotested. I haveoftenwonderedhow on earthmy mother-in-lawbecamea mediator with Serbsand Catholics and what shedoesin all thosenegotiationsessions and Croats.She takessides, and North and South Koreansand Protestants jumpsto conclusions, to listen.And misinterprets everythingyou say,refuses and wouldprobably yet shetalkedSouthAfricainto a Mandelangovernment getthe Palestinians to observeYom Kippur. Maybeshejust bullieseveryone

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into submission.Or maybetheyhaveto bandtogetherto protectthemselves againsther. Bysshewas still protesting."lnevereven met Viola till today. I've only talkedto her on the phonea coupleof times." "You musthavedonesomething,"Karensaidto Viola. "They'reobviously out for your blood." "Not mine," Viola said."Perdita's.She'sfoinedthe Cyclists." you don'tapprove because "The Cyclists? I left the WestBanknegotiations to explainthis to the of Perditajoining a biking club?How am I supposed and neitherdo I. A biking club!" presidentof lraq?Shewill not understand, "The Cyclistsdo not ride bicycles,"Mother said. "They menstruate,"Twidgesaid. There wasa deadsilenceof at leasta minute, and I thought, it's finally happened.My mother-in-lawand I areactuallygoingto be on the sameside of a family argument. "All this fuss is over Perdita'shaving her shunt removed?"Karen said finally. "She'sof age,isn't she?And this is obviouslya casewherepersonal applies.You shouldknowthat, Traci. After all, you'rea iudge." sovereignty I shouldhaveknown it wastoo goodto be true. "You mean you approveof her settingbackthe Liberationtwenty years?" Mother said. "l hardlythink it's that serious,"Karensaid."Thereareanti-shuntgroups in the Middle East,too, you know, but no one takesthem seriously.Not eventhe Iraqis,and they still wearthe veil." " "Perditais takingthem seriously. Perditawith a waveof her blacksleeve."They'rea trend, Karendismissed A few women a fad. Like microskirts.Or thosedreadfulelectroniceyebrows. wearsilly fashionslike that for a little while, but you don't seewomen as a whole giving up pantsor goingbackto wearinghats." "But Perdita.. . ." Viola said. "lf Perditawantsto have her period, I saylet her. Women functioned " perfectlywell without shuntsfor thousandsof years. Mother brought her fist down on the table. "Women also functioned perfectlywellwithconcubinage, cholera,andcorsets,"shesaid,emphasizing eachword with her fist. "But that is no reasonto takethem on voluntarily, and I haveno intentionof allowingPerdita-" "speakingof Perdita,whereis the poor child?" Karensaid. "She'll be hereany minute," Mother said."l invitedher to lunch so we this with her." could discuss "Ha!" Karensaid."So you could browbeather into changingher mind, you mean.Well, I haveno intentionof collaborating with you. I intendto listen to the poor thing's point of view with interestand an open mind. Respect,that'sthe keyword,and oneyou all seemto haveforgotten.Respect " and common courtesy. A barefootyoung woman wearinga floweredsmockand a red scarftied aroundher left arm cameup to the tablewith a sheafof pink folders.

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"lt's abouttime," Karensaid,snatchingone of the foldersawayfrom her. "Your servicehere is dreadful. I've been sitting here ten minutes." she snappedthe folder open. "l don't supposeyou haveScotch." "My nameis Evangeline,"the youngwomansaid."l'm Perdita's docent." Shetookthe folderawayfrom Karen."Shewasn'tableto join you for lunch, but sheaskedme to comein her placeand explainthe Cyclistphilosophyto you." She satdown in the wickerchair next to me. "The Cyclistsarededicated to freedom,"shesaid."Freedomfrom artificidrugsand hormones,freedomfrom the ality, freedomfrom body-controlling malepatriarchythat attemptsto imposethem on us. As you probablyalready know, we do not wearshunts." She pointedto the red scarfaroundher arm. "lnstead,we wearthis as a I'm wearingit todayto announce badgeof our freedomand our femaleness. that my time of fertility hascome." "We had that, too," Mother said, "only we wore it on the back of our skirts." I laughed. The docentglaredat me. "Male dominationof women'sbodiesbegan 'Liberation,'withgovernment regulationof abortion longbeforethe so-called finally the developmentof and control of fertility, and fetal rights,scientific This was altogether. reproductive cycle which the eliminated ammenerol, and by women's bodies, extension, all part of a carefullyplannedtakeoverof their identities,by the male patriarchalregime." "What an interestingpoint of view!" Karensaidenthusiastically. It certainlywas. In point of fact, ammenerolhadn't been inventedto for shrinkingmalignant at all. It hadbeendeveloped eliminatemenstruation properties had only beendiscovered tumors,and its uterinelining-absorbing by accident. "Are you trying to tell us," Mother said, "that men forcedshuntson women?!We had to fight everyoneto get it approvedby the FDA!" and the fetal It was true. What surrogatemothersand anti-abortionists rightsissuehad failedto do in uniting women,the prospectof not havingto menstruatedid. Women had organizedrallies,petitioned,electedsenators, andgoneto jail, all in the name beenexcommunicated, passed amendments, of Liberation. "Men wereagainstit," Mothersaid,gettingratherredin theface."And the and the Catholicchurch-" religiousright and the maxipadmanufacturers, "They knew they'dhaveto allow women priests,"Viola said. "Which they did," I said. "The Liberationhasn'tfreedyou," the docentsaidloudly. "Exceptfrom the naturalrhythmsof your life, the very wellspringof your femaleness." Sheleanedoverand pickeda daisythat wasgrowingunderthe table."We in the Cyclistscelebratethe onsetof our mensesand reioicein our bodies," shesaid,holdingthe daisyup. "Whenevera Cyclistcomesinto blossom,as

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we call it, sheis honoredwith flowersand poemsand songs.Then we join handsand tell what we like bestaboutour menses." "Water retention,"I said. "Or lying in bedwith a heatingpadfor threedaysa month," Mother said. "I think I like the anxietyattacksbest,"Viola said."When I went off the ammenerol,so I could haveTwidge,I'd havethesedayswhereI wasconvincedthe spacestationwasgoingto fall on me." A middle-agedwoman in overallsand a strawhat had come over while Viola wastalkingandwasstandingnextto Mother'schair."I hadthesemood swings,"she said. "One minute I'd feel cheerfuland the next like Lizzie Borden." "Who's Lizzie Borden?"Twidge asked. "She killed her parents,"Bysshesaid."With an ax." Karenand the docentglaredat both of them. "Aren't you supposed to be workingon your math, Twidge?"Karensaid. "I've alwayswonderedif Lizzie Bordenhad PMS," viola said."and that waSwhY-" "No," Mother said."lt washavingto live beforetamponsand ibuprofen. An obviouscaseof justifiablehomicide." "l hardly think this sort of levity is helpful," Karen said, gloweringat everyone. "Are you our waitress?" I askedthe straw-hatted woman hastily. "Yes," shesaid,producinga slatefrom her overallspocket. "Do you servewine?" I asked. "Yes.Dandelion,cowslip,and primrose." "We'll takethem all," I said. "A bottle of each?" "For now. Unlessyou havethem in kegs." "our specialstoday are watermelonsalad and choufleurgratin6e,"she said,smiling at everyone.Karenand the docentdid not smile back. "you hand-pickyour own cauliflowerfrom the patch up front. The floratarian specialis saut6edlily budswith marigoldbutter." There wasa temporarytrucewhile everyoneordered."l'll havethe sweet peas,"the docentsaid,"and a glassof rosewater." Byssheleanedoverto Viola. "I'm sorryI soundedso horrifiedwhen your grandmotheraskedif I wasyour livein," he said. "That's,o\^y,"viola said."GrandmaKarencan be prettyscary." "l justdidn'twantyou to think I didn'tlike you. I do. Like you, I mean." "Don't they havesoyburgers?" Twidgeasked. As soonasthe waitressleft, the docentbeganpassingout the pink folders r!.'9 broughtwith her. "Thesewill explainthe workingphiloslphy of the Cyclists,"she said,handingme one, "along with practicalinformationon the menstrualcycle." She handedTwidgeone. '.lt looksjustlike thosebookswe usedto getin junior high," Mothersaid, lookingat hers." 'A SpecialGift,'they werecalled,and ihev had all these

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picturesof girlswith pink ribbonsin their hair, playingtennisand smiling. " Blatantmisrepresentation. Shewasright. There waseventhe samedrawingof the fallopiantubesI rememberedfrom my middle school movie, a drawing that had always remindedme of Alien in the earlystages. "Oh, yuck," Twidgesaid."This is disgusting." "Do your math," Karensaid. Bysshelookedsick. "Did women really do this stuff?" The wine arrived,and I pouredeveryonea largeglass.The docentpursed and shookher head. "The Cyclistsdo not use the her lips disapprovingly artificial stimulantsor hormonesthat the male patriarchyhas forced on " women to renderthem docileand subservient. "How long do you menstruate?" Twidgeasked. "Forever,"Mother said. "Four to six days,"the docentsaid."lt's therein the booklet." "No, I mean,your wholelife or what?" "A womanhasher menarcheat twelveyearsold on the average and ceases menstruatingat agefifty-five." "l had my firstperiodat eleven,"the waitress said,settinga bouquetdown "At school." in front of me. "l had my lastone on the daythe FDA approvedammenerol,"Mother said. "Three hundred and sixty-fivedivided by twenty-eight,"Twidge said, " She lookedup. "That's five writing on her slate."Times forty-threeyears. " hundredand fifty-nineperiods. "That can'tbe right," Mother said,takingthe slateawayfrom her. "lt's at leastfive thousand." "And they all starton the day you leaveon a trip," Viola said. "Or get married,"the waitresssaid. Mother beganwriting on the slate. to pour everyonesomemore dandelion of the ceasefire I took advantage wine. Mother lookedup from the slate."Do you realizewith a periodof five for nearlythreethousanddays?That'sovereight days,you'dbe menstruating " solid years. "And in betweenthere'sPMS," the waitresssaid,deliveringflowers. "What's PMS?" Twidgeasked. "Pre-menshualsyndromewas the name the male medical establishment fabricatedfor the natural variationin hormonal levelsthat signalthe onsetof menstruation,"the docentsaid."This mild and entirelynormalfluctuationwas by men into a debility." Shelookedat Karenfor confirmation. exaggerated "l usedto cut my hair," Karensaid. The docentlookeduneasy. "Once I choppedoff one whole side,"Karenwent on. "Bob had to hide everymonth. And the car keys.I'd startto cry everytime I hit a the scissors red light."

Even the Queen

"Did you swellup?"Mother asked,pouringKarenanotherglassof dandelion wine. "l lookedjust like OrsonWelles." "Who's OrsonWelles?"Twidgeasked. "Your commentsreflectthe self-loathing thruston you by the patriarchy," the docentsaid."Men havebrainwashed womeninto thinkingmenstruation is evil and unclean.Women evencalledtheir menses'the curse'because they acceptedmen'sjudgment." "l calledit the cursebecauseI thoughta witch must havelaid a curseon me," Viola said."Like in 'SleepingBeauty.'" Everyonelookedat her. "Well, I did," shesaid."lt wasthe only reasonI could think of for such an awful thing happeningto me." Shehandedthe folderbackto the docent. "lt still is." "l think you were awfully brave," Bysshesaid to Viola, "going off the ammenerolto haveTwidge." "lt wasawful," Viola said."You can't imagine." Mother sighed."When I got my period,I askedmy motherif Annettehad it, too." "Who's Annette?"Twidgesaid. "A Mouseketeer," Mother saidand added,at Twidge'suncomprehending look, "on TV. " "High-rez,"Viola said. "The MickeyMouseClub," Mother said. "There was a high-rezzercalled the Mickey Mouse Club?" Twidge said incredulously. "They weredaysof dark oppression in many ways,"I said. Mother glared "Annette at me. was every younggirl's ideal," shesaidto _ Twidge. "Her hair wascurly, she had actualbteasti,her pleatedskirt was alwayspressed,an$ I.coufd not imaginethat she could have anythingso messyand undignified.Mr. Disney would never have allowedii. nna if Annettedidn't haveone, I wasn'tgoingto haveone either. So I askedmy pg1[gy-"

"What did shesay?"Twidgecut in. "Shesaideverywomanhadperiods,"Mothersaid."So I askedher. ,Even the Queenof England?'and shesaid,'Eventhe eueen.' " "Really?"Twidgesaid."But she'sso old!" "She isn'thavingit now," the docentsaidirritatedly."l told you, menopauseoccursat agefifty-five." "4rl then you havehot ffashes,"Karen said, "and osteoporosis and so much hair or-ryour upperlip you look like Mark Twain." "Who's-" Twidgesaid. "You_aresimplyreiteratingnegativemale propaganda," the doceptinterrupted,Iookingvery red in the face. "You knowwhat ['vealwayswondered?" Karensaid,Ieaningconspiratori-

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wasresponsible for ally closeto Mother. "lf MaggieThatcher'smenopause " the FalklandsWar. "Who's MaggieThatcher?"Twidgesaid. The docent,who wasnow as red in the faceasher scarf,stoodup. "lt is clearthere is no point in trying to talk to you. You've all beencompletely by the male patriarchy."She begangrabbingup her folders. brainwashed "You're blind, all of you! You don't evenseethat you'revictimsof a male conspiracyto depriveyou of your biologicalidentity,of your very womanhood. The Liberationwasn'ta liberationat all. It wasonly anotherkind of slavery!" to bring "Even if that weretrue," I said,"evenif it had beena conspiracy us under male domination,it would havebeenworth it. " "She'sright, you know," Karensaidto Mother. "Traci'sabsolutelyright. Therearesomethingsworthgivingup anythingfor, evenyour freedom,and gettingrid of your periodis definitelyone of them." "Victims!" the docentshouted."You'vebeenstrippedof your femininity, and a severalsquasl-r and you don't evencare!"Shestompedout, destroying row of gladiolasin the process. "You knowwhat I hatedmostbeforethe Liberation?"Karensaid,pouring the last of the dandelionwine into her glass."sanitarybelts." "And thosecardboardtamponapplicators,"Mother said. "l'm nevergoingto ioin the Cyclists,"Twidgesaid. "Good," I said. "Can I havedessert?" I calledthe waitressover, and Twidgeorderedsugaredviolets."Anyone I asked."Or more primrosewine?" elsewant dessert?" "l think it's wonderfulthe way you'retrying to help your sister,"Bysshe said,leaningcloseto Viola. "And thoie Modessads,"Mother said."You remember,with thoseglamand long white gloves,and orouswomen in satin brocadeeveningdresses 'Modess, .'l thoughtModesswas because. belowthe picturewaswritten, a perfume." Karengiggled."I thoughtit wasa brandof champagne!" "l don't think we'd betterhaveany more wine," I said. the nextmorning, The phonestartedsingingthe minuteI gotto my chambers the universalring. "Karen went backto lraq, didn't she?"I askedBysshe. "Yeah," he said. "Viola said there was somesnagover whetherto put Disneylandon the West Bank or not." "When did Viola call?" with her and Twidgethis mornBysshelookedsheepish."l had breakfast ing." 1'Oh." I pickedup the phone."lt's probablyMother with a plan to kidnap Perdita.Hello?" "This is Evangeline,Perdita'sdocent," the voice on the phone said' "l

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hopeyou'rehrppy. You'vebulliedPerditainto surrendering to the enslaving " male patriarchy. "l have?"I said. "You've obviouslyemployedmind control, and I want you to know we intend to file charges."She hung up. The phonerang againimmediately, anotheruniversal. "What is the goodof signatures when no one everusesthem?"I saidand pickedup the phone. "Hi, Mom," Perditasaid."l thoughtyou'dwantto know I've changedmy " mind about joining the Cyclists. "Really?"I said,trying not to soundjubilant. "l foundout theywearthis redscarfthing on theirarm. It coversup Sitting " Bull'shorse. "That is a problem,"I said. "Well, that'snot all. My docenttold me aboutyour lunch. Did Grandma Karenreallytell you you wereright?" ttYes. tt

"Gosh! I didn't believethat part. well, anyway,my docent said you wouldn't listen to her about how greatmenstruatingis, that you all kept talkingaboutthe negativeaspects of it, like bloatingand crampsand crabbiness,and I said, 'What are cramps?'and she said, 'Menstrualbleeding frequentlycauses headaches anddiscomfort,'andI said,'Bleeding?!? Nobody eversaidanythingaboutbleedingl'Why didn't you tell me therewasblood involved,Mother?" I had, but I felt it wiserto keepsilent. "And you didn't saya word aboutits beingpainful. And all the hormone fluctuationslAnybody'dhave to be crazyto want to go through that when they didn't haveto! How did you standit beforethe Liberation?" "They weredaysof dark oppression,"I said. -"_lguess!well, anyway,I quit and now my docentis really mad. But I told her it was a-caseof personalsovereignty, and she has to respectmy decision.I'm still goingto becomea floratarian,though, and I don't want you to try to talk me out of it. " "l wouldn'tdreamof it." I said. "You know, this whole thing is reallyyour fault, Mom! If you'd told me lloyt the pain part in the first place,none of this would have happened. Viola's right! You nevertell us anything!"

THE ROUND-EYED BARBARIANS L. Sprague de Camp

V L. Spraguede Camp is a seminalfigure,one whosecareerspansalmostthe entire developmentof modern fantasyand SF. For the fantasymagazineUnknown in the early 1940s,he helpedcreatea whole new modernstyleof fantasywriting-funny, whimsical,and irreverent-of which he is still the mostprominentpractitioner.His most famous books include Inst DarknessFall, The IncompleatEnchanter(with FletcherPratt),TheGIory thatWas, TheHand of Zei, Land of Unreason(with Pratt), The Towerof Zanid, and RogueQueen.His short fiction hasbeen collectedin The Continent Makers,A Cun for Dinosaur,TalesFrom Gavagan'sBar (with Fletcher Pratt),The Purple Pterodacfyls,and The Bestof L. Spraguede Camp. He has also written many acclaimedhistoricalnovels(TheBronzeGod of Rhodes,An Elephant for Aristotle)and nonfiction books(LostContinents,The AncientEngineers),including somecritical studiesof importanceto the genre,such asI'ovecraft:A Biography and Dark VaIIey Destiny:The Life of RobertE. Howard. His most recentbook is of TheHonarableBarbarian.ln the lastyearor sohe'sbeenwriting a new sequence talesabout the adventuresof ReginaldRivers,the hero of his famousstory"A Gun collectionRiversinTime. in the upcomir-rg for Dinosaur,"which will be assembled He livesin Texaswith his wife, writer CatherineCrook de Camp. In the typicallysly and witty storythat follows,he takesus sidewaysin time for a look at culturesin conflict,and a bitingly satiricversionof how thingsmight have b e e n .. .

Ho Youwen, Generalof the AdvancedImperial EasternForce, to the esteemedLi Ganjing,Directorof the EasternContinentSectionof the Barbarian RelationsBureau of the ExternalAffairsDepartmentof the Overseas and many Branchof His ImperialMaiesty'sgovernment.Health,prosPerity, SONS!

Dear old friend:This personthinksthat, besideshis formal reporton the which will follow in the next dispatch, affairof the round-eyedbarbarians, you would alsolike a personalletterto furnishbackgroundfor this turn on events.It is all very well for officialsof the Upper Mandarinateto sneerat of mighty barbarianthoughtsand deedsas of no interestto representatives their customsareoftenstrangeanddisgusting, Zhongguo.o True, barbarians' olrr the Pinyin transcription of Chinese, zh starrdsfor the soutrd of the I in iournal.

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beliefsoutlandish,their mannersappalling,and their emotionschildish.But to be realistic,barbaroustribesand nationsalsoincludemany dangerously vigorousand ingeniouspeople.It wasjustsucha toploftyattitudethat in the daysof the Sungled to the Mongol plagueand the subjectionof civilization to the rule of barbarianhordesfor a century. The sameshortsightedness threateneda century ago,when Zheng-tung wasthe Son of Heaven.A cabalof scholarsand soldierssoughtto end the voyagesof explorationand tribute gatheringbegunby the greatZhengHo. These misguidedpersonssoughtto stop all foreign contacts.They held that, sincethe Middle Kingdomhad everythingneededby civilization,such contactswould only haveadverseeffects. Luckily the cabalwasdefeated; the work of explorationand of scientific developmentinitiatedunder the accursedMongolswascontinued.Hence the explorationand conquestof this EasternContinenthasproceeded in an orderlymanner.The red-skinned barbarians, realizingthe futility of opposing the advanceof civilizationwith weaponsof wood and stone, have been offeredthe benefitsof our superiorculture. Many take advantageof this opportunityand, in anotherfewcenturies,mayhaveraisedthemselves almost to the level of civilizedhuman beings. But to return to the round-eyedbarbarians.One day this summer,this the easternsideof the Lower Mountains,in an Personwasreconnoitering areanot yet broughtunderthe benevolentswayof the Son of Heaven.I led a companyof Hitchiti infantry,armedwith our new breech-loading rifles. A scoutreportedthe approachof a forceof redskinwarriorsof the Ochuse tribe, who dwell on the shoresof the greatwaterto the south.Signaldrums and gongsalertedmy detachment. A sfri laterthis forcedebouchedfrom the trail. First camea scatteringof redskins,from their paintevidentlythe Ochuse.Afterthem rodea horseman in a steelhelmet, cuirass,and other piecesof platearmor. After him came hundredsof round-eyedmen afoot,lessimpressively armored,in the garbof Yuropiarrbarbarians, wherewiththe voyages of Admiral Xing havefamiliarizedus. Their loins werecoveredwith short,bulgingbreeches, belowwhich they eitherwent barelegged or worea kind of skintighttrouseron eachleg. Thgf bore pikes,crossbows, and firearmsof primitivetypes, obsoletein ttre -warned CelestialEmpire for a century. My redskinspieshad me of the incursionsof such peoplealongthe coastof this continent,but thesewere the first such intruderswhom I had personallyseen. Behind them, threadingtheir way through the forest,I glimpsedmany other redskins,men and women bowedbeneaththe weightof tie burdens they bore. Fartherbackyet, barelyvisibleamid the toweiingtrees,camea troop of armoredhorsemenand other men leadingunsaddledhorses. At the sightof my group,takingcoverbehind,"ocks, bushes,and hummocks,the newcomershalted.The armoredman in the lead swung off his horsewith a clankof armor and handedthe reinsto anotherrou,ldeye,who led the animal to the rear.The armoredrour-rd-eye washapded a pole, and anotherman afootjoined him in front of the array.This was

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a lean man in a long blackrobe;throughmy telescopeI sawthat he was clean-shaven. The armoredman drovethe butt of his poleinto the soil. From the upper end of this pole hung aflag; but sincethe day wasstill, therewasno wind to flutter this banner.All I could seewasthat it bore a patternof red and yellow. The armored,man then shoutedin his native gibberish.Through my skin, sharp, I sawthat he wasof mediumsize,with a sun-browned telescope features,and a full blackbeard.This, I perceived,must be one beak-nosed inhabitingthe Far WesternPeninsula,called barbarians of thoseround-eyed which Admiral Xing informedus on his returnfrom by its natives, of Yuropa The other round-eyescrowdedup Hung in reign of Wu. lands the those him. behind When the armoredman Fnishedhis proclamation,the other round-eye, the black-robedone, raisedhis hands and utteredanother unintelligible speech.I calledto the scoutFalayanearby: "O scout,you knowthe Ochusetongue.Find out whatthis be all about!" Presently Falayastoodup andshoutedin the tongueof the coastalredskins. back. This man and shouted one of the Ochuseconferredwith the armored lengthy, tedious translatingback and forth, as you can imagine,proveda business.Mankind werebetteroff if all men spakethe tongueof Zhongguo, which is afterall the speechof civilization.At lengthFalayaturnedto me, sayingin brokenZhongguo: "O General,he sayman in armor sayhe claim all this land in name of his king, Felipeof Espanya." Somewhatastonished,I told Falaya:"Ask this bold fellow, who claims landsbelongingto the Son of Heaven,who he be?" After the usualpausefor translationfrom Zhongguoto Ochuseand from Ochuseto the armoredman'sYuropiandialect,the replycameback: "He sayhe CaptainTristande Luna y Arellano,and who be we?" This persottgtu. Falayathe neededinformation,adding:"And by whose on the landsof the Son of Heavenand, leave,birbarian, do you trespass moreover,claim partsof it in the name of sometribal chieftainin the Far WesternPeninsula?" I know not how literally my wordsweretranslated,but they seemedto arousethe armoredround-eyeto a frenzy.He beganto shouta reply;but the black-robedone laid a hand on his arm. I could not hearwhat they saidat that distanss-nsf that I could have understoodtheir blather anyway.But black-robeseemedto be urgingnegotiation' At lastthe armoredround-eyefell silentand signaledblack-robeto speak. The result, translatedsentenceby sentence,was a lengthy homily. It reminded me of the endlesssermonsof that loquaciousbonze,BrotherXiaojin, whom we senthome lastyear.He couldput a hungrytigerto sleepwith Buddha. on the wisdomof the compassionate disquisitions iris'endless claim:that his an astonishing one, advanced This fello*, ih. black-robed master,a Yuropianhigh priestcalleda papa,had dividedthe world between

The Round-Eyed Barbarians

two Yuropianrulers,the kingsof Espanyaand Portugar;and this part had goneto the King of Espanya.Therewasmore, abouthow the Yuropiangod had commandedall men to love one another;and if we would but accept his theologicaldoctrines,we wereall assured of endless blissin his Yuropian Heaven.If we refusedto swallowthesemyths,we shouldall be slainby the Yuropians'weaponsand then suffereternaltormentin the YuropianHell, a fearsomeafterworldremindingme of the more eccentricafterlifeconcepts of the Tibetan Buddhists. Although this personknowsbetterthan to laugh under such seriouscircumstances, I couldnot suppress a burstof mirth. I sentbackthe message that his fafa seemedvery free in giving awayother peoples'countriesarid that in any caseall men camenaturallyunderthe dominion of the Son of Heaven. As for his theology,I wassatisfiedthat I must havedorresomethingright in a previousincarnationto haveearnedmy presentrankasa reward.I would try by correctactionand keepingmy karma cleanat leastto maintain this status,comparedto which round-eyedbarbarianswere lessthar-rworms beneathmy feet.They musthavecommittedgraveoffenses in previouslives to havebeenborn into such a lowly estate. At this the armoredman altogetherlost controlof himselfand screanrecl orders.His redskinsspreadout to the flanks,nockingtheir arrows,whilst a couple of hundred other round-eyesformed a douLle line facins us and readyingtheir primitive firearms.Theseoperatedby meansof lengthsof cord,treatedto burn slowly;I haveseenspecimens of similar*.rporl, in the ImperialWar Museum. . One round-eyepasseddown the line with a bucket of glowing coals, whereineachof invadersdippedthe end of his cord untiTit wal alight. th9 Then he clampedit to the mechanismof his gun. Meanwhilethosearmed with crossbows cockedthem. The leadershoutedsomemore, and my scout reported: "He saywe surrender or die, sir!" I replied with vulgarism a expressing my disdainfor suchprimitive inso_ _ lence. The armoredman shouted lgain, whereuponthe other round-eyes discharged their weapons.Afterthe fiist rankhadfiied and begunthe lengihy business of reloading,the secondranksteppedforth between"them and 6red in their turn. on their flanks,the redskinsshotarrows. The gunsmadeloud reportsand tremendouspuffsof smoke,wlrilsttheir musketballsand crossbow boltswhistledpastus. Sincemy peoplewerewell undercover,and thoseof the secondrank had fired blindty, b."arse of tl-re curtain of smokebeforethem, we sustainedno casualties'save a few flesh woundsamongmy Hitchiti from the arrows. when _thepall of smokehad somewhatdissipated, I said:,,Fire!,, Our rifle-sopenedup, and a numberof trespassers, both rould-eyeda1d red-skinned, fell. "Reload!"I said,and then:"Fire!" The round-eyes werestill strugglingto reload,which with firearmsof that

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archaictype is a protractedprocess.As I later learned,such a gunnerdoes well to get off twenty shotsin one ko, whereasa well-trainedsoldiercan fire a hundredtimesin that interval,if he run not out one of our breech-loaders of cartridges. were At our third volley,the intruders'redskinsfled. Half the round-eyes down;but the leaderwasstill erect,shoutingcommandsand defiance.I told the captainof my force: "Choosea sharpshooter and orderhim to woundthat armoredman in the leg. I wish him alive, and alsoa redskinwho can speakhis language." joined the So it wasdone.At the fall of the leader,the other round-eyes redskinsin flight:firsta few hereand there,then all of them. Somedropped their gunsto run faster.Behindthem the redskinportersalsodroppedtheir loadsand fled, while the horsemencanteredoff with their armor jingling. I did not commanda pursuit,knowingthat in theseforestsof immensetrees the pursuedcaneasilyslipawayandthe pursueraseasilygetlost.My Hitchiti brokefrom coverand racedawayto collectthe scalpsof the fallen foes. Later,when I had donnedmy officialrobeinsteadof my filthy uniform, and hat in place of the steelcap, I commandedthat the my peacock-feather woundedYuropian leaderbe broughtto my tent, along with his redskin scout.I alsosentmen to retrieve interpreterand our own Ochuse-speaking the baggagedroppedby the fleeingporters. This Tristande Luna appearedat the entranceto my tent with a pair of my redskinsgrippinghis arms.His armor had beenshed,and his garbwas ordinary Yuropian, with the puffed trunks and below them the skintight heavilyin the heat,limpedon his bandaged of their kind. He sweated trousers leg, and supportedhimself by a tree branch he had somehowobtained, whittleddown to a walkingstick. Now that I had a closerlook at the man, I sawthat he wasolder than I had thought.His curly blackhair and beardwere,like mine, beginningto show grar.But his stancewas still erect and his movementsyouthfully savefor his woundedleg. springy, As he neared,I becameawarethat the man had not bathedlately,if ever. Not to put too fine a point on it, he stank.I then attributedthis to the of travel,but my redskinspiesinform me that this is usualwith exigencies Yuiopians.Not only havetheya naturallystrongerbodilyodor than normal Most adhereto cleanliness. folk; tut alsothe Yuropianreligiondiscourages Islam and fudaism,creeds, western major other the whereas Christianity, of goingoverto either of valuebathingand cleanliness.Christianssuspected theseother faithsare burnedalive, as the more warlikeredskintribesdo to arousessuspicionof captivefoes.ThereforeamongChristians,cleanliness outlawedin completely are which other cults, those one of to conversion Espanya. At the entranceCaptainTristanwrenchedloosean arm, placedhis hand overhis heart,and madea low bow. This gesture,evidentlymeantasa polite and would him in his crippledstate.He staggered greeting,overbalanced

The Round-Eyed Barbarians

8l

havefallenhad not the two redskins caughthim. He did not go to his knees and touch his foreheadto the carpet,but one must make allowancesfor barbarianswho have neverbeen taughtcivilizedmanners;the full ko-tou would havebeendifficult for him in anv wav. At leastthis barbarianhad evidentlydecidedon a more urbaneapproach. His translatedwordswere: "Sir, now that I perceiveyou moreclosely,it appears that you comefrom the Great Khan of Cathay.Be this true?" Yuropianshad evidentlynot keptup with eventsin the Middle Kingdom. I told Tristan:"Two centuriespast,your impressionmight havebeen apt. But we sonsof Han expelledthe Khanslong agoand restoredthe Celestial Efpll-. to the properSonsof Heaven,now reigningas the gloriousMing. The Khanswerebut barbarianusurpers from the Gobi. Whencecameyoul' He said:"From the land that the deceased CaptainPoncediscovered and named Ia Florida. He thought it an island,but unbrokenland appearsto extendfar to the north thereof,and alsoto the westto Mexico." After a pause he continued: "Then be we in truth in the Indes?When that Italian Col6n returned from his voyages, half a centuryago,he insistedthat he had reachedthem, or at leastcome to a chain of islandsto the eastof them, whenceanother day'ssail would havebroughthim to the SpiceIslands. "B.l a shipof that fell_oyMagallanes returnedto Espanyathirty-oddyears ago.The captainthereof,Delcano,asserted thatfar to ihe westofiheseiands lies an oceansovast as to requirethreeor four monthsto sail across,and thatthe landsof the GreatKhanlie beyondit. But thisDelcanowasa Basque and thereforenot to be implicitly trusted.If this be the true Indes,that *Lr. greatlyto the advantage " of my sovran. I told him: "Your_captain Delcano is quite correct. In any case,the EasternContinent whereonwe now standis wide enoughto take a wellmounted man, with remounts,as long to ride across,i you, Magallanes found the EasternOcean.It hasnoughito do with the lani of Indial which is evenfartherthan the CelestialEmpire.And now, what is all this nonsense aboutclaimingthis land for someYuropianchieftain?" The man muttered:"So hugea worldl' Then followedanotherharangue, essentially repeatingwhat the black-robed man had saidbeforethe ,hooii,.g began. "l could betterexplainit," saidTristan, "if your men had not slain our holy father.I myselfhavesmall knowledgeof iettersand history.But what haveyou done with my woman?" "woman? we fry. -no captivewomen. There werea coupleof female bodiesin the woodsbehind your battleline. I supposethey werestr,rckby our fire beforeall your redskinsfled. What womanclaim you to h*. had?" '-Tb. daughterof a chief of the Nanipacana,"saidhe. "we fell in love and eloped." _. To straightenthis out took further questions,sincethere be nought in zhonggto exactlycorrespondingto theie concepts,saveperhapsin Li po's

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poetry.But, like CaptainTristan,I am no literaryman, familiar with such things.Besides,the matinghabitsof barbarians affordendlessamusement. Tristansaidthat he and the womanhad not only fled secretly,defyingthe wrath of the woman'sfather,but had also causedthe black-robedone to conducta rite overtheir union, accordingto his customsrenderingit permaI laterlearnedthat Tristanalreadyhad a wife somenent and unbreakable. But to be monogamous. thatYuropiansaresupposed where,notwithstanding that is no affairof ours. "Sir," saidTristan,"could you let me havesomethingto eat?We are all ridiculouslycall the redskins, for the Indians"(asthe Espanyans half-starved, although theselive halfivayround the world from the true Indians)"along the routehad fled,takingall their foodsupplieswith them beforewe arrived. Thoses4fi76nss-" revealed thatit meant thatword,but questioning Falayacouldnot translate a eunuch. Notwithstandingthe high rank of the eunuchsof the Imperial Court, the term is a deadlyinsult amonground-eyes. out, Whilst this personwasgettingCaptainTristan'smeaningstraightened "O General!" the tent. into his head guard thrust personal my Hitchiti of a in full he cried."Our scbutsreporta largeforceof Nanipacanaapproaching, " paint. war "Kwanyinsaveus!" I exclaimed,rising."Soundthe alarms!" This time thingswent more smoothlydespitethe war paint. The -newforce was led by Chief Imathla, with whom I had had dealingsand so knew personally.t nra beentrying to persuadehim voluntarilyto placehimself 11d., thl protectionof the Son of Heaven,to saveus the necessityof conqueringhim. So, when Imathlathrusthis spearinto the groundand laid his skull-ciacketbesideit, I signaledhim to advance' tent, the round-eyeTristan When he and I returnedto my headquarters with his freehandhungrily stick and still stoodthere,leaningon his walking Imathla burst ir-rtoa him,.Chief gnawingan ear of maire. At the sightof wagereda brass have [irrd.. llad he had his weaponsto hand, I would not polemicsran the cashon Tristan'slife. The round-eyeshoutedback.When down, I saidto Falaya: "Ask whetherthis speechrefersto the chief s daughter." At length Falayareported:"He sayaye, it does.This round-eyecarryoff his daugf,ter,delightof his age,and chief setout in pursuit.When his war party nJar this pli.e, they come upon daughterMihilayo wandering,losf enslaveand now flee back in flr"rt, with some Piachi whom Espanyans home. From her chief learnthat round-eyeand his men fight greatgeneral and lose. He say he happy to seescoundrelcaptive,and he know some excellenttorturesto disposeof him." Tristan, to whom his o*rt interpreterhad been feedinga translation, visibly p.i.d beneathhis swarthyskln at the mention of torture' Then he ,q,r.*a his shoulders,raisedhis chin, and assumedan attitudeof defiance,

The Round-Eyed Barbarians

as captiveredskinwarriorsare wont to do at the prospectof being burned aliveby their foes.I could not help a twingeof admirationfor his courage, barbarianthough he was.He asked: "Where be she novr,?" "Know that she is safe under her father'sprotection. __Imathla replied: Where that be is no affairof yours." "She is my lawful weddedwife!That is whoseaffairit bel Fetchher here!" "That might be a sensiblethought,O Chief, to unravelthis I suggested: " knot. "Never!" saidImathla."You know not, o General,the depthsof evil of thesepalefaces. Before-theypassedthrough our tribal lands,they had descendedgpon the Piachi tribe, whom they enslavedto furnish portersfor theirsupplies. When somePiachidefiedthepalefaces'commrnds,ihe invadersseizedthem, choppedoff their handsand feet,and castthem out to die. Othersthey strungup by the handsand affixedweightsto their feet until they expired,or forcedwaterdown their throatsuntil they burstinside." "W!y shouldthey go to so much trouble?If one wishesto kill a man, it is quickerand easierto shoothim or chop off his head." "Tb.y havea passionfor that prettyyellowmetalthat we getin ornaments by tradefrom othertribes.They would not believethat there"were no hidden storesof this metal,andthey thoughtthat by suchtreatmenttheycouldforce the Piachito revealitswhereabouts. Of couisethe PiachiarenoiNanipacana andsonot realhumanbeings,or we shouldhavefelt obligedto avelgethe*. "Twenty yearsagothe accursedErnandode Soto.rni. throughjtreating thosewho gainsaidhim in this sameferociousmanner. He also bro,-,gh? strangediseases amongstthe tribes,whereofover half of us perished.Fiad our townsbeenstill fully populated,o General,you would not havefound it so easyto passamongstus unscathed. " The round-eyewashoppingup and down on his unwoundedleg, indicat. ing an eagerness to sayhis say.I told Falayato giveTristanmy pJi*ission. The barbarianshouted: are too stupid and ignorantto appreciatethe benefitswe ^^"TEj. savages offer!They refuseto understand that by accepti"gout religionthey may live to serveus' as is only right for such lowly folk, ln returrifor the boons we bestow.Then, afte_r death,theyshallenjoy"aneternityof pleasures in Heaven, praisingthe true God." "ls that all you do in this Heaven?,'I asked. "what more is needed?we sit on clouds,play the arpa, and sing the praises of God." "F orever?" " Ayr, forever." Th-ispersoncommented:"Your YuropianGod mustgetboredwith ilcessantflattery.Our godsare more rationai;they are busy"k."pingrecords and otherwisecarryingout their dutiesin the Heavenlybur.ru.rrTr;; When this had beentranslated,Tristangavea tontemptuoussnort. But

L Sprague de Camp

he forboreto arguetheology,for which I doubt whethereither of us had enoughbook knowledge.I regrettedthat the bonzeXiao-jin wasno longer with us, havingsetout to returnto his monasteryin civilization.He would havearguedspiritualmatterswith the barbarianall dayand all the following night. Tristansaid: 1'l still demandmy wife! I rescuedher when two of my colonistswould " haverapedher and then slain her for her goldenearrings. "All the demandsin the world will not get the poor thing," saidChief Imathla."She is well quit of you." "Then fetch her here and let her chooseher own fate!" criedTristan. "Ridiculous!"cried Imathla. Thosetwain beganshoutingagain,until I roaredthem to silence.I said:"Come, honorableChief, tell me: Is the woman wherewe can reachher?" "She is under the protectionof my personalguard,"growledImathla. "Well, am I to understandthat you wish her to be happy?" "Ay., O General.That is my dearestwish, sinceher motherdied of one broughtinto our land'" theseaccursedpalefaces of thosediseases beforeher, and let her "Then why not fetchher here,setthe alternatives decide?If afterthat shebe not htppy, the fault will not be yours'" Imathlagrowleda bit, but afterfurtherargumentI talkedhim round.The fact that hJ *as alone in my tent, with rifle-bearingHitchiti standingby, may haveinfluencedhis decision. So Imathla put his headout the tent and calledto one of his warriors. After someconversein Nanipacana,the warriorsetoff at a run. Whilst we drank waited,I causedtea to be brlwed and offeredto our guests. -lmathla to the cup the returned and face, a made mouthful, a took his, while Tristan it. Hitchiti who had brought female'When nt lengththe warriorieturned,leadinga youngNanipacana an embrace' in her seized and forward limped Tristan sheenteledthe tent, Arabs, of and Yuropians by used aifection of gesture il; p;J"i-.d that one' esteemed thepr.tiittg the lips against Then Tristanpir..d his handson the woman'sshouldersand held her at argued' arm'slength.He saidsomethingsharplyto her;shereplied,tld they I asked refusing. she and demand some It soundedas if he were *akitrg Falayafor a translation. "O Garr.ral," he said,"he sayshemust coverself;sheSayno cover,too hot." hot Mihilayo was clad in the normal gtlb 9{ thesesouthernredskinsin designs reticular and earrings golden pair of weather,nr-.Iy, nakedsavefor a coming I suspectfrom a cooler ;r*.d o' h., body and limbs. Y.rropians, improper' llimate, regardsuch exposureas three:the womanMihilayo, !ll' A heateiargumentfollowedamongst-the andImathla round-eyeCritrin fristan, andthe CiiieftainImathla.Mihilayo in the tongue conversed Tristan spakein Nanipacana,whilst Mihilayo and Imathla, and Tristan brokenly. o?nrp""y", *i-ti.t' shespakealbeitsomewhat interpreters' the through havingno tonguein common,hadto communicate

Barbarians The Round-Eyed

85

At lastlmathlasaidto me:"My daughterwishesto knowif you, O General, needa wife." The questionso surprisedme that for a few heartbeatsI was unable to reply. At last I said: "l havemy NumberOne wife backat Fort Tat-ze.But shehaslong nagged me to takea secondwife, to relieveher of someof the burdensof domesticity. shesaysthat sheis too old to enjoythe act of loveany more,whereas Besides, how would I am still fully able. SupposeI did takeMihilayo as proposed; that sit with you?" Imathla grinned."l shoulddeem it a splendididea,giving me accessto the General'sear, and high standingamongstthe tribes." "Doesyour daughtertruly wish this?" "She assures me that indeedshedoes." "How aboutthat previousindissolublemarriageto CaptainTristan?" "Oh, shesaysthat is easy.His Yuropianmumbo-jumbomeansnoughtto her. If therebe any doubt on that score,the answeris simple.Slayhim and makeher a widow,freeto wedwhom shelikesunderany nation'scustoms." Accordingto what I hear,shewasnot quite correct,sinceit is saidthat in India they burn widowsalive.A wastefulcustom,I shouldsay.But I sawno point in correctingthe woman. When Tristan'sinterpreterhad given him the gist of this dialogue,the round-eyeuttereda screamof rage.Wrenchingloosefrom his guards-for he wasa powerfulman-he limped forward,grippinghis walkingstick in both handsand raisingit over his head. I know not whom he meant to bludgeonfirst Mihilayo, Imathla, or me. Beforehe got within hitting distance,however,one of my guardsfired his rifle at closerange.With a howl of frustratedfury, Tristanfell backon my Tang-dynastyrug, writhed a little, and fell still. He wasdeadfrom a bulletthat enteredhis ribsbelowthe heart, cameout his back,and puncheda hole in the canvasbehind him. I questionedImathla about Nanipacanamarriagecustoms.He told me that when a man and a woman movedinto the samehut, that wasdeemed a marriage.Therewerenoneof the processions, music,gifts,fireworks,and soforth that solemnizea weddingin civilization.Imathlasaidin Nanipacana that he gaveMihilayo to me, and that wasthat. LaterI askedmy new bridewhy shehadchosenme in lieu of her roundeye lover. That, she said, was simple. When she saw the power that Captain Tristan commandedby his thunder sticksand his armor and weaponsof thisYuropianmetal,shedecidedthat he would makea suitable sPouseand protectorof her and their children.When sheobservedthat I commandedeven greaterpower, by -y superiorthunder sticksand my well-trainedarmy, she decidedthat I should be an even more effective protector.Besides,the union would confer honor on her family, clan, and tribe. She addedthat Tristanstank;althoughredskins,as a ies,rltof smearingtheir bodieswith animalfatsto protectthemselves againstinsect bites,are alsofairly rank. Such a foresightedly practicaloutlook makesme hopeful of eventually

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raisingthe redskinsto our levelof civilization.About the emotionalYuropians I am more doubtful. Now I am back in Fort Tai-ze with two wives.My Number One carped aboutmy takinga NumberTwo whom shehad neverseen,let alonechoien for me; but that died down. A more vexingproblemis actingas judgewhen the two women daily disagreeoversomedetailof householdmanagement. Although Mihilayo is fastbecomingfluent in the languageof civilization,I fear she doesnot fully accepther positionas subordinateto the Number One. Shealsotriesto elicit from me morefrequentlove-makingthan is easy for a man of middle age. On the otherhand, ere we parted,Chief Imathladeclaredhis allegiance to the Son of Heavenand placedthe Nanipacanabeneathour benevolent protection. With this letterI shallsendsamplesof the gunsand armor of the roundeyes,to seewhetherthey havefeaturesthat might usefullybe copiedand improvedupon by our makersof armaments.I doubt that this be the case; for in thesetechniquesthe men of Espanyaseemto be about wherewe of Zhongguowere a century arrda half ago. I regretthe death of CaptainTristan de Luna, fool though he was. Had he lived, I shouldhavebroughthim backto Tai-ze.I shouldhavequestioned him aboutconditionsin Yuropaand amongstthe men of Espanyawho have landedalongthe coastsof the EasternContinentand begunto subdueand enslavethe redskins.If he provedreticent,I haveamplemeansto loosenhis tongue. But how typicallybarbarianto makesuchan unseemlyfracasoversotrivial matter a as affectionfor a woman!As I saidat the start,their customsare strange,their beliefsoutlandish,and their emotionschildish. Let us thank the divine bureaucrats that we, at least.are truly civilized!

DUST Greg Egan

v Born in 1961,Greg Eganlivesin Australia,and is certainlyin the running for the title of "Hottest New Writer" of the ninetiesto date, along with other newcomers suchasIan R. Macleod, MaureenF. McHugh, Mary Rosenblum,StephenBaxter, and Tony Daniel. Eganhasbeenveryimpressive and veryprolific in the early'90s, seemingto turn up almosteverywhere with high-qualitystories.He is a frequent contributorto InterzoneandlsaacAsimov'sScienceFictionMagazine,and hasmade salesto Pulphouse,Analog, Aurealis,Eidolon, and elsewhere.Severalof his stories haveappearedin various"Bestof the Year" series,includingthis one; in fact, he placedfwo storiesin bothour Eighthand Ninth Annual Collections,the firstauthor everto do that back-to-back in consecutive volumes.His first novel, Quarantine, has just appeared,and it wassold as part of a packagedeal that includesa second novel and a collection of his short fiction-a pretty high-powereddeal for such a new writer. He may well turn out to be one of the Big Namesof the next decade. Here he givesus an unsettlingand brilliantlyoriginalstudyof just what it is that makests human .

I open my eyes,blinking at the room'sunexpectedbrightness,then lazily reachout to placeone handin a patchof sunlightspillingonto the bedfrom a gapbetweenthe curtains.Dustmotesdrift across theshaftof light, appearing for all the world to be conjured into, and out of, existence-evokingi childhoodmemory of the last time I found this illusion so compelling,so hypnotic. I feel utterly refreshed-and utterly disinclinedto give up my presentstateof comfort.I don't knowwhy I've sleptso late,and I don't care. I spreadmy fingerson the sun-warmedsheet,and think aboutdriftingback to sleep. Something'stroublingme, though. A dream?I pauseand try to dredge up some traceof it, without much hope;unlessI'm catapultedawakeby a nightmar€,ffiy dreamstend to be evanescent. And yetI leapout of bed,crouchdownon the carpet,fiststo my eyes,faceagainst my knees,-li_lsmoving soundlessly. The shockof realizationis a palpable thing: a red lesionbehind my eyes,pulsingwith blood. Like . . . the ift"rmath of a hammer blow to the thumb-and tinged with the very same mixtureof surprise,anger,humiliation,and idiot bewilderment. Another

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childhoodmemory:I helda nail to the wood, yes-but only to camouflage my true intention.I wascuriousabout everything,includingpain. |d seen my fatheriniurehimselfthisway-but I knewthat I needed firsthandexperienceto understandwhat he'dbeenthrough. And I wassurethat it would be worth it, right up to the very last momentI rock backand forth, on the vergeof laughter,trying to keepmy mind blank, waitingfor the panic to subside.And eventually,it does-laced by one simple,perfectlycoherentthought:I don't want to be here. For a moment,this conclusionseemsunassailable, but thena countervailing voicerisesup in me: I'm not goingto quit. Not again. I sworeto myself that I wouldn't . . . and theredre d hundredgood redsonsnot toSuchas? For a start, I can't afford itNo? Wfto can't afford it? I whisper,"l knowexactlyhow much thiscost,you bastard.And I honestly don't give a shit. I'm not going throughwith it." There'sno reply. I clench my teeth, uncovermy eyes,look aroundthe room. Away from the few dazzlingpatchesof direct sunshine,everything glowssoftlyin the diffuselight: the matte-whitebrick walls, the imitation (imitation)mahoganydesk;eventhe Dali and Giger posterslook harmless, The simulationis perfect-or rather,finer-grainedthan my domesticated. "visual"acuity,and henceindistinguishable from reality-as no doubtit was the otherfour times.Certainly,none of the otherCopiescomplainedabout a lack of verisimilitudein their environments.In fact, they neversaidanything very coherent;they just rantedabuse,whined abouttheir plight, and minutesof gainthen terminatedthemselves-allwithin fifteen(subjective) ing consciousness. that I won't do the same? And me?What ever made me-him-think How am I differentfrom Copy number four? Three yearsolder. More I was,for sure. for success? More desperate stubborn?More determined? backwhen I wasstill thinkingof myselfasthe one who'd stayreal, the one who'd sit outsideand watchthe whole experimentfrom a safedistance. SuddenlyI wonder:What makesme so surethat l'm not outside?I laugh weakly.I don't rememberanythingafterthe scan,which is a bad sign,but I wasoverwrought,and I'd spentso long psychingmyselfup for "this" . Cet it overwith. I mutter the password,"Bremsstrahlung"-tn4 my last faint hope vanishes,as a black-on-whitesquareabout a meter wide, coveredin icons, in midair in front of me. appears me asif it weresolid, I givethe interfacewindowan angrythump;it resists need any more really I don't too. and firmly anchored.As if I weresolid, floor. I regret right off the lift myself convincing,but I grip the top edgeand plausible twinge the to this;the realisticclusterof effectsof exertion-down "place," "body," in to this me anchor in my right elbow-pin me to this avoid' exactlythe way I shouldbe doing everythingI can to Okay. Swallowit: l'm a Copy. My memoriesmay be thoseof a human

being, but I will neverinhabit a real body "again." Never inhabit the real originalscrapesup the moneyfor a world again. . . unlessmy cheapskate robot-in which caseI could blunderaroundlike the slowest, telepresence runs clumsiest,most neurologicallyimpairedcripple.My model-of-a-brain timesslowerthan the realthing. Yeah,sure,technologywill catch seventeen timesfasterfor me than for him. In the meanup one day-and seventeen time?I rot in this prison,jumpingthroughhoops,carryingout his precious research-while he lives in my apartment,spendsmy money, sleepswith Elizabeth I closemy eyes,dizzyand confused;I lean againstthe cool surfaceof the interface. "His" researchT I'm iust as curiousas him, aren't l? I wanted this; I did this to myself.Nobodyforcedme. I knewexactlywhat the drawbackswould be, but I thoughtl'd havethe strengthof wiII (this time, at last)to transcend them, to devotemyself,monklike,to the purposefor which l'd beenbrought into being-content in theknowledge that my otherselfwasdsunconstrained a8 ever. Pasttense.Yes, I madethe decision-but I neverreallyfacedup to the consequences. Arrogant,self-deludingshit. It wasonly the knowledgethat "1" would continue,free, on the outside,that gaveme the "couruganto go ahead-but that'sno longertrue, for me. -- Ninety-eightpercentof Copiesmadeareof the veryold, andthe terminally ill. Peoplefor whom it's the lastresort-most of whom havespentmillions beforehand,exhaustingall the traditionalmedicaloptions.And despitethe fact that they haveno other choice, 15 percentdecideupon awakeningusuallyin a matterof hours-that they just can't hack it. And of thosewho are youngand healthy,thosewho are merelycurious, thosewho know they havea perfectlyviable,living, breathingbodyoutside? The bail-outratehasbeen,so far, one hur-rdred percent. I standin the middle of the room, swearingsoftlyfor severalminutes, trying to preparemyself-although I know that the longer I leaveit, the harderit will become.I stareat the floatinginterface; itsdreimlike,hallucinatoryqualityhelps,slightly.I rarelyremembermy dreams,andI won't remember this one-but there'sno tragedyin that, is there? I don't want to be here. I don't want to be tfris. And to think I usedto find it so oftendisappointing, wakingup yet again asthe realPaulDurham:self-centered dilettante,spoiledby a *.ii,t--sired inheritance,too wealthyto-gain any_senseof purposefiorn the ordinary human struggleto survive-but insufficientlybrain-deadto devotehis life to the accumulationof evermoremoneyand power.No status-symbol luxuries for Durham: no yachts,no mansions,no bioenhancements. He indulged other grges;threw his moneyin anotherdirectionentirely. And I don't know, anymore,whathe thinksit'sdone foi htm-but I know what it's done to me. I suddenlyrealizethat I'm still starknaked.Habit-if no conceivable

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propriety-suggests that I shouldput on someclothes,but I resistthe urge. Or-reor two perfectlyinnocent,perfectlyordinaryactionslike that, and I'll find I'nr takingmyselfseriously,thinking of myselfas real. I pacethe bedroom,graspthe cool metal of the doorknoba couple of tinres,but manageto keep myselffrom turning it. There'sno point even starting to explorethis world. I can't resistpeekingout the window, though. The view of the city is flawless-everybuilding, everycyclist,everytree, is utterly convir-rcingand so it should be: it's a recording,not a simulation.Essentiallyphotographic-give or takea little computerized touchingup and filling in-and What's more, only a tiny part of it is "physically" totally predetermir-red. to me; I can seethe harborin the distance,but if I tried to go for accessible a stroll down to the water'sedge. . . Enough. lust get it over with. I prod a menu icon labeledUTILITIES; it spawnsanotherwindow in front of the first. The function I'm seekingis buriedseveralmenusdeepmyselfthat I wouldn'twant to useit, but for all that I thoughtI'd cor-rvinced I brushedup on the detailsjust a weekago, and I know exactlywhere to for all that I tried to relateonly to the one look. For all my self-deception, full well that I had who'd stay outside,deepdown, I must have ur-rderstood futuresto worry about. two separate I finally reachthe EMERGENCIESmenu, which includesa cheerful from a parachute.Bailing out is what icon of a cartoonfigure suspended afterall, I can't they call it-but I don't find that too cloyinglyeuphemistic; commit"suicide"whenI'm not legallyhuman.In fact,the law requiresthat so troublesome to anythir-rg a bail-outoptionbe available,without reference asthe "rights"of the Copy;this stipulationarisessolelyfrom the ratification of certainpurelytechnical,internationalsoftwarestandards. I prod the icon; it comesto life, and recitesa warningspiel-I scarcelypay attention.Then it says,"Are you absolutelysurethat you wish to shutdown this Copy of Paul Durham?" Nothingto it. ProgramA asksProgramB to confirmits requestfor orderly termination.Packetsof dataare exchanged. "Yes,I'm sure." A metal box, painted red, appearsat my feet. I open it, take out the parachute,strapit on. Then I closemy eyesand say,"Listen, you selfish,conceited,arrogant turd: How many timesdo you needto be told?I'll skip the personalangst; you'veheardit all before-and ignoredit all before.But whenareyou going io stopwastingyour time, your money,your en€rgy. . . when-areyou going on somethingwhich you just don't havethe to stopwastingyour life. all the evidenceto the contrary, do you After strengihto cairy through? enough,or irazy enough,to be your you're brave honeitly still believethat you: You'renot." got for news I've pig? Well, own guinea lever. release I grip the closed, still With my eyes

9l

dream. I'm nothing:a dream,a soon-to-be-forgotten My fingernailsneedcutting;they dig painfullyinto the skin of my palm. HayeI never,in a dream,fearedtheextinctionof waking?MaybeI havebut a dreamis not a life. If the only way I can reclaimmy body, reclaimmy world, is to wakeand forgetI pull the lever. After a few seconds,I emit a constricted sob-a soundmore of confusion than any kind of emotion-and open my eyes. The leverhascome awayin my hand. I staredumbly at this metaphorfor . . . what?A bug in the termination software? Somekind of hardwareglitch? Feeling-at last-truly dreamlike,I unstrapthe parachute,and unfasten the neatlypackaged bundle. Inside,thereis no illusionof silk, or Kevlar,or whateverelsetheremight plausiblyhavebeen.fust a sheetof paper.A note. Dear Paul, The night after the scanwascompleted,I lookedbackover the wholepreparatorystageof the proiect,and did a great deal of soul s.earching. And I cameto the conclusionthat-right up to the very last moment-my attitude waspoisonedwith ambivalence. with hindsight,I veryquicklycameto realize iust how foorish my qualmswere-but that was toolate for you.I couldn'tafford to ditch you, and havemyselfscannedyet again. so, what c:ouldI do? This:I put your awakeningon hold for a while, and tracked down someone who could makea few alterationsto the virtual environmentutilities.I know, that wasn't strictlylegal. . . but you know how importantit is to me that you-that we-succeed this time. I trust you'll understand,and l'm confidentthat you'llaccept the situationwith dignity and equanimity. Bestwishes, Paul I sinkto my knees,still holdingthe note,staringat it in disbelief.He can't havedone this. He can't havebeenso callous. No?who am I kidding?Too weakto be socruelto anyoneelse-perhaps. Too weak-togo throughwith this in person-certainly.But asfor makinga 9oqy, andthen-once itsfuturewasno longerftisfuture,no longeranything for him to fear-taking awayits powerto escape. It ringsso true that I hang my headin shame. Then I drop the note, raisemy head,and bellowwith all the strengthin my non-existentlungs: ..DURHAM! YOU PRICK!''

Greg Etan *+*

I think aboutsmashingfurniture.Instead,I takea long, hot shower.In part, to calm myself;in part, asan act of pettyvengeance: I may not be addingto the cheapskate's water bill, but he can damn well pay for twenty virtual minutesof gratuitoushydrodynamiccalculations.I scrutinizethe droplets for somesmallbut visibleanomand rivuletsof wateron my skin,searching aly at the boundarybetweenmy body-computed down to subcellularresolution-and the rest of the simulation,which is modeledmuch more though,they'retoo subtlefor me to crudely.If thereare any discrepancies, detect. I dress-l'm just not comfortablenaked-and eat a late breakfast.The mueslitastesexactlylike muesli,the toastexactlylike toast,but I knowthere's a certain amount of cheatinggoing on with both tasteand aroma. The detailedeffectsof chewing,and the actionsof saliva,are being fakedfrom from first principles;thereare no individual empiricalrules,not generated from the food and tonr apartby enzymes-iust a being dissolved molecules with each values,associated concentration nutrient rough set of evolving inplausible lead to "parcel" these will Eventually, of saliva. microscopic and carbohydrates, various of amino acids, creasesin the concentrations all the way down to humble sodiumand chlorideior-rs,in othersubstances similar"parcels"of gastricjuices. . . which in tum will act asinput datato the modils of my intestinalvillus cells.From there, into the bloodstream. The coffeemakesme feel alert, but also slightlydetached-as always. careof all, and whatever Neurons,of course,are modeledwith the greatest receptorsto caffeineand its metaboliteswere presenton each individual ,l.uion in my original'sbrain at the time of the scan,my model-of-a-brain should incorporat..u.ry one of them-in a simplified,but functionally equivalent,form. I closemy eyesand try to imaginethe physicalrealitybehind all this: a cubic meter ofsilent, motionlessopticalcrystal,configuredas a clusterof one of a few hundredidenticalunits in overa billion individualprocessors, on the planet.I don't evenknow what city a basementvault . . somewhere I'm in; the scanwasmadein Sydney,but the model'simplementationwould havebeencontractedout by the local nodeto the lowestbidderat the time. knife from the kitchendrawer,and drive the point I takea sharpvegetable I flick a few dropsof blood onto the tableforearm. my inio way a short for the stuff.Will the is now responsible software which exactly and wonder to the been surrendered already "die they have slowly-or off' blood cells represent to unsophisticated far too model, general-physics extrasomatic them, let alonekeepthem "alive"? If I tried to slit my wrists,whenexactlywould he intemene?I gazeat my distortedreflectionin the blade.Maybehe'd let me die, and then run the wholemodelagainfrom scratch,simplyleavingout the knife. After all, I reran all the earlierCopieshundredsof times, tamperingwith variousaspects tryingin vain to find somecheaptrick that would keep of their surroundings,

them from wantingto bail out. It mustbe a measureof sheerstubbornness that it took me-him-so long to admit defeatand rewritethe rules. I put down the knife. I don't want to performthat experiment.Not yet. I go exploring,althoughI don't know what I'm hopingto find. Outsidemy own apartment,everythingis slightlylessthan convincing;the architecture faithfullyenough,downto the ugly plasticpotof the buildingis reproduced plants,but everycorridoris deserted, andeverydoorto everyotherapartment is sealedshut-concealing, literally,nothing. I kick one door, as hard as I can; the wood seemsto give slightly,but when I examinethe surface,the paint isn't evenmarked.The model will admit to no damagehere,and the lawsof physicscan screwthemselves. There are peopleand cyclistson the street-all purelyrecorded.They're solid rather than ghostly,but it's an eerie kind of solidity;unstoppable, unswayable,they'relike infinitely strong,infinitely disinterested robots.I hitch a ride on one frail old woman'sbackfor a while; shecarriesme down the street,heedlessly. Her clothes,her skin, evenher hair, all feel the same to me: hard as steel.Not cold, though. Neutral. This streetisn't meantto serveasanythingbut three-dimensional wallpaper; when Copiesinteractwith each other, they often use cheap, recorded environmentsfull of purelydecorative crowds.Plazas,parks,open-aircaf6s; all veryreassuring, no doubt,whenyou'refightingoffa senseof isolationand claustrophobia. Thereareonly aboutthreethousandCopiesin existence-a small population,split into evensmaller,mutually antagonistic, cliquesand they can only receiverealisticexternalvisitorsif they have friendsor relatives willing to slowdowntheir mentalprocesses by a factorof seventeen. Most dutiful next-of-kin,I gather,preferto exchange videorecordings. Who wantst_ospeld an afternoonwith great-grandfather, when it burns up half a weetof yourlife?Durham,of course,hasremovedall of my communications facilities;he can't haveme blowingthe whistleon him and ruining everything. When I reach the corner of the block, the visual illusion of the city continues,far into the distance,but when I try to stepforwardonto the road, the-concretepavementunder my feet startsactinglike a treadmill, sliding backwardat preciselythe rateneededto keepme motionless,whateverpace I adopt.I backoffand try leapingoverthis region,but my horizontalvelocity dissipates-withoutthe slightestpretenseof any "physical"justificationand I land squarelyin the middle of the treadmill. The peopleof the recording,of course,crossthe borderwith ease.One man walksstraightat me; I standmy ground,and find myselfpushedinto a viscosity, the air aroundme becomingpainfuilyunyielding ?o\e of increasing beforeI slip free to one side. The softwareimpeding-. fu, clearly, a seto? clumsy_patches which aims to coverevery.otrtingency-but which might not in fact be complete.The sensethat discou..ing r *ry to breach t-his barrierwould somehow"liberate"me is compellingjb,-,tcompletelyirratio-

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nal. Even if I did find a flaw in the programwhich enabledme to break through, I'doubt I'd gain anythingbut decreasingly realisticsurroundings. The recordingcan only contain completeinformationfor points of view within a certain,finitezone;all thereis to "escape to" is a rangeof coordinates wheremy view of the city would be full of distortionsand omissions,and would eventuallyfade to black. I stepbackfrom the corner,half dispirited,half amused.What did I expect to find? A big door at the edgeof the model, markedEXIT, through which I could walk out into reality?Stairsleadingmetaphoricallydown to some of the underpinnings of this world, whereI could boilerroom representation throw a few switchesand blow it all apart?Hardly. I have no right to be dissatisfied with my surroundings; they'repreciselywhat I ordered. It's earlyafternoonon a perfectspringday;I closemy eyesand lift my face to the sun. Whatever I believeintellectually,there'sno denying that I'm beginningto feel a purely physicalsenseof integrity,of identity. My skin soaksup the warmth of the sunlight.I stretchthe musclesin my arms,my shoulders,ffiy back;the sensationis perfectlyordinary, perfectlyfamiliarand yet I feel that I'm reachingout from the self"in my skull" to the restof me, binding it all together,stakingsomekind of claim. I feelthe stirringsof an erection. Existenceis beginningto seduceme. This body doesn'twant to evaporate.This body doesn'twant to bail out. It doesn'tmuch care that there'sanother-"more 1sa1"-ysrsionof itselfelsewhere.It wantsto retain its wholeness.It wantsto endure. And this may be a travestyof life, now-but there'salwaysthe chanceof Durhamto restoremy communications improvement.MaybeI canpersuade facilities;that would be a start.And when I getboredwith holovisionlibraries; and, if any of them deignto meet me, the ghostsof databases; newssystems; speeds catch until processor the senilerich? I could havemyselfsuspended up with reality-when peoplewill be able to visit without slow-down,and robotsmight actuallybe worth inhabiting. telepresence I open my eyes,and shiver.I don't know what I want anymore-the chanceto bail out, to declarethis bad dream over . . or the chanceof virtual immortality-but I haveto acceptthat there'sonly one way that I'm goingto be givena choice. I Ly quieily, "l won't be your guineapig. A collaborator,yes.An equal then you're partner.If you want cooperation,if you want meaningful-data, going to haveto treat me like a colleague,not a pieceof fucking apparatus. Understood?" A window opensup in front of me. I'm shakenby the sight, not of his ugly face,but of the room behindhim. It's only my study-and l.wandered throughthe virtual equivalent,disinterested, iust minutesago-but this is still my first glimpseof the real world, in real time. I move closerto the window, in ihe hop. of seeingif there's anyone else in the room with doesn't the perspective him-E/ izabeth?_-butthe imageistwo-dimensional, change.

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He emitsa brief, high-pitchedsqueak,then waitswith visibleimpatience replay. while a second,smallerwindow givesme a slowed-down "Of courseit's understood.That wasalwaysmy intention. I'm just glad anddecidedto stopsulking.We canbegin you'vefinallycometo your senses wheneveryou'reready." I try to look at thingsobjectively. EveryCopy is alreadyan experiment-in perception,cognition,the naA sub-cellularmathematicalmodel of a specifichuture of consciousness. man body is a spectacularfeat of medical imaging and computing technology-but it's certainlynot itselfa human being.A lump of gallium arsenicphosphideawashwith laserlight is not a memberof Homosapiensso a Copy manifestlyisn't "human" in the currentsenseof the word. The real questionis: What doesa Copy have in commonwith human beings?Information-theoretically? Psychologically? Metaphysically? And from thesesimilaritiesand differences, what can be revealed? The StrongAI Hypothesisdeclaresthat consciousness is a propertyof certainalgorithms,independent of their implementation.A computerwhich manipulates datain essentially the samewayasan organicbrainmustpossess essentially the samementalstates. Opponentspoint out that when you modela hurricane,nobodygetswet. when you model a fusion power plant, no energyis produced.When you model digestionand metabolism,no nutrientsare consumed--no real digestiontakesplace.So whenyou modelthe human brain, why shouldyou expectreal thoughtto occur? _ It depends,of course,on what you meanby "real thought." How do you characterize and comparethe hypotheticalmentalstatesof two systems which are, physically,radicallydissimilar?Pick the right parameters, and you can get whateveransweryou like. If consciousness is definedpurely in termsof physiologicalevents-actual neurotransmitter moleculescrossingsynapses betweenreal neurons-then those who opposethe Strong AI Hypothesis win, effortlessly. A hurricanerequiresrealwind and actualdropsof rain. If consciousness is defined,instead,in information-processing terms-fhis set of input dataevokesthat setof outputdata(and,perhaps,i certainkind of internal representation)-thenthe StrongAI Hypothesisis almosta tautology. - Personally,I'm no longerin a positionto quibble. Cogitoergosum. Bul if I can't doubt my own consciousness, I can't expectmy testimony-the output -of a mere computerprogram-to persuadethe confirmed skeptics. insistedthat my inheritedmemoriesof experiencing -Eu9"if I passionately biologicalconsciousness werequalitativelyindistinguishable -outburstfrom my present condition,the listenerwould be freeto treatthis as nothing but a computer's(eminentlyreasonable)prediction of whatmy original wouldhaye yaid, had he experiencedexactlythe samesensoryinput mhy model-of-abrain hasreceived(andthus beentrickedinto believingthat he wasnothing

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but a Copy).The skeptics would saythat comprehensive modelingof mental statesthat might havebeendoesnot requireany "real thought" to havetaken place. Unlessyou drea Copy, the debateis unresolvable. For me, though-and for anyonewilling to grantme the samepresumptionof consciousness that they grant their fellow humans-the debateis almostirrelevant.The real point is that thereare questionsaboutthe natureof this conditionwhich a Copy is infinitelybetterplacedto explorethan any human being. I sit in my study,in my favoritearmchair(althoughI'm not at all convinced that the textureof the surfacehas been accuratelyreproduced).Durham on my terminal-which is otherwisestill dysfunctional.It's odd, but appears I'm alreadybeginningto think of him as a bossylittle diinn trappedinside the screen,ratherthan a vast,omnipotentdeitystridingthe hallsof Reality, pulling all the strings.Perhapsthe pitch of his voice has somethingto do with it. Squeak.Slow-motionreplay:"Experimentone, trial zero. Baselinedata. Time resolutionone millisecond-systemstandard.fust count to ten, at intervals,as nearas you can judgeit. Okay?" one-second instrucI nod, irritated.I plannedall this myself,I don't needstep-by-step be any cues there can't during the experiments, His image vanishes; tions. from real time. I count. Already,I'm provingsomething:my subjectivetime, I'm sure, will differ from his by a factorvery closeto the ratio of model time to real time. Of course,that'sbeenknowneversincethe firstCopiesweremadeandeventhen, it waspreciselywhateveryonehadbeenexpecting-but from I can no longerthink of it as a "trivial" result. my currentperspective, The diinn returns.Staringat his facemakesit harder,not easier,to believe that we haveso much in common. My imageof myself-to the extentthat sucha thing existed-wasnevermuch like my true appearance-andnow, in defenseof sanity,is movingevenfurtheraway. Squeak."Okay. Experimentone, trial numberone. Time resolutionfive milliseconds.Are you ready?" ttYes."

He vanishes.I count:"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.Eight. Nine. Ten." Squeak."Anything to report?" just I shrug. "No. I mean, I can',thelp feeling slightly apprehensive, knowingthat you're screwingaroundwith my . . . infrastructure.But apart from that, nothing." version His eyesno longer glazeoverwhile he'swaitingfor the speeded-up of my reply;eitherhe'sgaineda degreeof self-discipline-or, more likely, he'sinterposedsomesmarteditingsoftwareto concealhis boredom. We're running a control, reSqueai."Don't worry aboutapprehension. member?" I'd rathernot. Durham hasclonedme, and he'sfeedingexactlythe same sensoriumto my clone, but he'sonly makingchangesin the model'stime

resolutionfor one of us. A perfectlyreasonable thing to do-indeed, an essentialpart of the experiment-but it's still somethingI'd prefernot to dwell on. Squeak."Trial numbertwo. Time resolutionten milliseconds." I countto ten. The easiest thing in the world-when you'remadeof flesh, when you'remadeof matter,whenthe quarksand the electronsjustdo what comesnaturally.I'm not built of quarksand electrons,though.I'm not even built of photon5-l'p comprisedof the datarepresented by the presenceor absenceof pulsesof light, not the light itself. A human beingis embodiedin a systemof continuouslyinteractingmatte_r-ultimately, fieldsof fundamentalparticles,which seemto me incapable of being anythingother than themselves. I am embodiedin a vastiet of finite, digital representations of numbers.Representations which are purely conventions.Numberswhich certainlycan be interpretedas describingaspectsof a modelof a human bodysittingin a room . . . but it's hardto seelhat meaningasintrinsic,asnecessdD). Numberswhosevaluesarerecomputedaccordingto reasonable, "physical, but only approximately " equations-for equallyspacedsuccessive valuesof the model'snotionaltime. Squeak."Trial numberthree.Time resolutiontwentymilliseconds." "One. Two. Three." So, when do I experienceexistence? During the computationof these variables-or in the brief interludeswhen they sit in memory,unchanging, doing nothing but representing an instantof my life? When both stagesare takingplacea thousandtimesa subjective second,it hardlyseemsto matter, but very squeak."Trial numberfour. Time resolutionfifty milliseconds." Am I the data?the processthat generatesit? The relationshipsbetween the numbers?A// of the above? "One hundredmilliseconds. " I listento my voiceasI count-as if half expectingto beginto noticethe encroachmentof silence,to startperceivingthe gapi in myself. "Two hundredmilliseconds. " A fifth of a second."One. Two." Am I strobingin and out of existence r9*, at fivesubjective hertz?"Three.Four. Sorry,i just-" An intensewave of nauseapasses throughme, but I fight it down. "Five. Six. seven.Eight. Nine. Ten." The diinn emitsa brief, solicitoussqueak."Do you want a break?" "No. I'm fine. Go ahead."I glancearoundthe sun-dappled room, and laugh. What will he do if the controland the subiectiustgive two different replies?I try to recallmy plansfor sucha contingency,but I can't remember them-and I don't much care.It's his problemnow, not mine. Squeak."Trial number seven.Time resolutionfive hundred milliseconds." I count-and the truth is, I feel no different.A little uneasy,yesbut factoringout an-ymetaphysicalsqueamishness, everythingatout my experienceremainsthe same.And "of course"it does-beca,rsenothing is

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is only being fully being omitted, in the long run. My model-of-a-brain describedat half-second(modeltime) intervals-but each descriptionstill includesthe effectsof everythingthat "would have happened"in between. Perhapsnot quite as accuratelyas if the completecycle of calculations wasbeing carriedout on a finer time scale-but that'sirrelevant.Even at behaveonly roughlylike their millisecondresolution,my models-of-neurons neuronsbehaveonly roughlylike anyone originals-just asany one person's else's.Neuronsaren't precisioncomponents,and they don't need to be; brainsare the mostfault-tolerantmachinesin the world. " "One thousandmilliseconds. What'smore, the equationscontrollingthe modelare far too complexto of calculatingthe solutions,vastarrays solvein a singlestep,so in the process of partial resultsare being generatedand discardedalong the way. These partial results imply-even if they don't directly represent-eventstaking completedescriptions.So in a place within the gapsbetweensuccessive i.r,r., the intermediatestatesarestill beingdescribed-albeit in a drastically recodedform. "Two thousandmilliseconds." "One. Two. Three. Four." If I seemto speak(andhearmyselfspeak)everynumber, it's becausethe effectsof havingsaid"three"(andhavingheardmyselfsayit) are implicit in the detailsof calculatinghow my brain evolvesfrom the time when I've iust said"two" to the time when I've iust said"four." " "Five thousandmilliseconds. "One. Two. Three. Four. FiYe." In any case,is it so much strangerto hear wordsthat I've never"really" spoken,than it hasbeento hearanythingat all sinceI woke?Millisecond samplingis far too coarseto resolvethe full rangeof audibletones.Sound values-which in this world by fluctuationsin air pressure isn'irepiesented profilel power specira: couldn-'tchangefastenough-but in termsof audio a label; number here, a of intensityveisusfrequency.Twentykilohertzis iust pressure waves nothing can actuallyoscillafeat that rate. Real earsanalyze power sPecpre-existing into componentsof variouspitch; mine are fed the patch in trum ualuesdirectly, pluckedout of the non-existentair by a crude the model. "Ten thousandmilliseconds." "One. Two. Three." My senseof continuityremainsas compellingas ever.Is this experience from the final, completedescriptionof my brain . . or arisingin retrospect is it ei-rergingfrom the partialcalculationsasthey'rebeingperformed?What would happenif someoneshut down the whole computer,right now? I don't know what thatmeans,though.In any termsbut my own' I don't know when "right now" is. "Eight. Nine. Ten." Squeak."How are you feeling?"

Dust

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Slightlygiddy-but I shrugand say,"The sameasalways."And basically, it's true. Aside from the unsettlingeffectsof contemplatingwhat might or might not have been happeningto me, I can't claim to haveexperienced anythingout of the ordinary.No alteredstates of consciousness, no hallucinations, no memoryloss,no diminution of self-awareness, no realdisorientation. "Tell me-was I the control, or the subject?" Squeak.He grins. "l can't answerthat, Paul-l'm still speakingto both of you. I'll tell you one thing, though:the two of you are still identical. There weresomeverysmall, transitorydiscrepancies, but they'vedied away completelynow-and wheneverthe two of you werein comparablerepresentations,all firing patternsof morethan a coupleof neuronswerethe same." by this- and my clonemustbe, too-although - I'm curiouslydisappointed I have no good reasonto be surprised. I say,"What did you expect?Solvethe samesetof equationstwo different ways, and of courseyou get the same results-give or take some minor differences in round-offerrorsalongthe way. You musf. It's a mathematical certainty." Squeak."Oh, I agree.Howevermuch we changethe detailsof the way the model is computed,the stateof the subject'sbrain-whenever he has one-and everythinghe saysand does-in whateverconvolutedrepresentation-musf matchthe control.Any otherresultwould be unthinkable." He writeswith his finger on the window:

(l+2)+)-l+(Z+3) I nod. "So why bother with this stageat all? | know-l wanted to be rigorous,I wantedto establishsolid foundations.All that naive Principia stuff. But the truth is, it's a wasteof resources.Why not skip the bleeding obvious,and get on with the kind of experimentwherethe answerisn't a foregoneconclusion?" Squeak.He frowns."I didn't realizeyou'd grownso cynical,so quickly. AI isn'ta branchof puremathematics; it'san empiricalscience.Assumptions 'obvious' haveto betested.Confirmingthe so-called isn'tsucha dishonorable thing-,is it? Anyway, if it's all so straightforward, what do you haveto fear?,' I shakemy head."I'm not afraid;I justwantto getit overwith. Go ahead. Provewhateveryou think you haveto prove,and then we can move on.', Squeak."That's the plan. But I think we shouldboth get somerestnow. I'll enableyour communications-for incomingdataonly." He turns away, reachesoff-screen,hits a few keyson a secondterminal.Then he turnsbackto me, smiling-and I know exactlywhat he'sgoing to say. just deletedone of you. Couldn't afford to keep Squeak."By the ryay, I you both running, when all you'regoingto do is lazearound." I smilebackat him, althoughsomethinginsideme is screaming."which one did you terminate?" Squeak."What differencedoesit make?I told you, they were identical. And you'restill here, aren'tyou?whoever yo,r rt.. whicLever you were.,,

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outsidesincethe dayof the scan,but it doesn'ttake Threeweekshavepassed me long to catchup with the stateof the world; mostof the fine detailshave been renderedirrelevantby subsequentevents,and much of the ebb and flow has simply canceleditselfout. Israeland Palestinecame closeto war again,over allegedwatertreatyviolationson both sides-but a foint peace rally brought more than a million peopleonto the glassyplain that usedto wereforcedto backdown. Former US be ferusalem,and the governments is still fightingextraditionto Palau,to facecharges President Martin Sandover arisingfrom his role in the bloodycoupd'dtat of thirty-five;the Supreme ruling which had grantedhim immua long-standing Court finally reversed nity from all foreignlaws,and for a day or two thingslookedpromisinga whole new set of delaying but then his legalteam apparentlydiscovered hascomeand gone,with challenge leadership another In tactics. Canberra, journalist this ashighdrama; described undeposed. One Minister the Prime percent; unemployment half fallen a Infation has you to be there. I guess had has risenby the sameamount. I scanthroughthe old newsreportsrapidly,skimmingover articlesand scenesthat I probablywould havestudiedscrupulously,had fast-forwarding "fresh." I feel a curioussenseof resentment,at having"missed" they been so much-it's all here in front of me, now, but that'snot the sameat all. And yet, shouldn'tI be relievedthat I didn't wastemy time on so much only goesto show ephemeraldetail?The veryfactthat I'm now disinterested how little of it reallymattered,in the long run. Then again, what does?People don't inhabit geologicaltime. People inhabit hoursand days;they haveto careaboutthingson that time scale. Peopleinhabit hoursand days.I don't. I plug into realtime holovision,and watcha sitcomflashby in lessthan squeal.A gameshow.A two minutes,the soundtrackan incomprehensible war movie. The eveningnews. It's as if I'm in deepspace,rushingback broadcasts-andthis image towardthe Earththrougha seaof Doppler-shifted is strangelycomforting:my situationisn't so bizarre,after all, if real people with the worldasI am. in much the samerelationship could find themselves Nobodywould claim that Dopplershift or time dilation could rendersomeone lessthan human. Dusk falls over the recordedcity. I eat a microwavedsoyaprotein stewwonderingif there'sany goodreasonnow, moral or otherwise,to continue to be a vegetarian. I listen[o musicuntil well aftermidnight.TsangChao, Michael Nyman, Philip Glass.It makesno differencethat eachnote "really" lastsseventeen "really" timesaslongasit should,or thatthe audioROM sittingin the playe,r no microstructure,or that the "sound" itselfis being fed into my possesses that bearsno resemby a computerizedsleight-of-hand model-of-a-brain of Glass'sMishima The climax hearing. process of ordinary to the blance heartthe hook through grappling like a me still seizes If the computationsbehind alt fftfswere performedover millennia, by

t0l

peopleflicking abacusbeads,would I still feel exactlythe same?It's outrageousto admit it-but the answerhasto be yes. What doesthat sayabout real time, and real space? I lie in bed, wondering:Do I still want to wakefrom this dream?The questionremainsacademic,though;I still don't haveany choice. "l'd like to talk to Elizabeth." Squeak."That's not possible." "Not possible? Why don't you iust askher?" Squeak."l can't do that, Paul. Shedoesn'tevenknow you exist." I stareat the screen."But . . . I wasgoingto tell her! As soonas I had a Copy who survived,I wasgoing to tell her everything,explaineverything-" Squeak.The diinn saysdrily, "O, so we thought." "l don't believeit! Your life's greatambition is finally being fulfilledand you can't evenshareit with the one woman . . ." Squeak.His faceturns to stone."l reallydon't wish to discussthis. Can we get on with the experiment,please?" "Oh, sure.Don't let me hold thingsup. I almostforgot:you turnedfortyfive while I slept,didn't you?Many hrppy 1sfu1n5-butI'd betternot waste too much time on congratulations. I don't want you dyingof old agein the middle of the conversation." Squeak."Ah, but you'rewrong. I took someshortcutswhile you sleptshut down ninety percentof the model, cheatedon mostof the rest.You got six hours sleepin ten hours'real time. Not a bad job, I thought." "You had no right to do that!" Squeak."Be,practical.Ask yourselfwhat you'd havedone in my place." "lt's not a ioke!"I can sensethe streakof paranoiain my anger;I struggle to find a rationalexcuse."The experimentis worthlessif you're goin!"to interveneat random. Precise,controlledchanges-that'sthe wholl point. You haveto promiseme you won't do it again." Squeak."You'rethe onewho wascomplainingaboutwaste.Someonehas to think aboutconservingour dwindlingresources." "Promiseme!" squeak. He shrugs."All right. You have my word: no more ad hoc " intervention. Conservingour dwindling resources? What will he do, when he can no longeraffordto keep_me running?Storeme until he can raisethe moneyto startme up again,of course.In the long term, setup a trustfund; it would only haveto earn enoug_h to run me part time, at hrst:keepme in touch with the world, staveoff excessive culture shock. Eventua[ly,computing technologyis sureto transcendthe currenthurdles,and once'againentera phaseof plummetingcostsand increasingspeed. Of course,all thesereassuring plansweremadeby a man with two futures. will he really want to keepan old copy running, when he could save his moneyfor a death-bed scan,and "his own" immoitality?r don't know. And I may not be sureif I want to survive-but I wishthe choicecould be mine.

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We start the secondexperiment.I do my bestto concentrate,although I'm angryand distracted-and very nearlyconvincedthat my dutiful introspectionis pointless.Until the modelitselfis changed-not iustthe detailed certaintythat the subjectand way it's computed-it remainsa mathematical If the control will end up with identicalbrains. the subjectclaimsto have experiencedanythingout of the ordinary,then so wiII the control-proving that the effectwasspurious. And yet, I still can't shrugoff any of this as "trivial." Durham wasright aboutone thing: there'sno dishonorin confirmingthe obvious-and when it's as bizarre, as counterintuitiveas this, the only way to believe it is to experienceit firsthand. This time, the model will be describedat the standardresolutionof one millisecond,throughout-but the order in which the statesare computed will be varied. Squeak."Experimenttwo, trial number one. Reverseorder." I count, "One. Two. Three." After an initial leap into the future, I'm now travelingbackwardthrough real time. I wish I could view an external eventon the terminal-some entropicclich6 like a vasebeing smashedand dwell on the fact that it wasme, nolthe image,that wasbeing rewound . . . but that would betraythe differencebetweensubjectand control. Unless the control was shown an artificiallyreversedversionof the samething? Reversedhow, though, if the vasewasdestroyedin real time? The control would have to be run separately,after the event. Ah, but even the subiect would haveto seea delayedversion,becausecomputinghis real-time-first but model-time-finalstatewould requireinformationon all his model-timeearlierperceptionsof the brokenvase. leapinto the future, and the "Eight. Nine. Ten." Anotherimperceptible diinn reappears. Squeak."Trial number two. Odd numberedstates,then even." In externalterms,I will count to ten . . . then forgethavingdoneso, and count again. And from my point of view?As I count, onceonly, the externalworldregions evenif I can't seeit-is fickering backandforth betweentwo separate portions, into seventeen-millisecond up chopped been have which of time, and interleaved. So which of us is right?Relativity may insist upon equal statusfor all referenceframes . . . but the coordinatetransformationsit describesare spacetime smooth-possiblyextreme,but alwayscontinuous.One observer's be sliced it can't another-but of in the eyes can be stretchedand deformed cards. deck of like a then shuffled and like a loaf of bread, "Every tenth state,in ten sets." If I insistedon being parochial,Ild haveto claim that the outsideworld wasnow rapidly cycling through fragmentsof time drawn from ten distinct periods.The troubleis, this alligedlyshudderinguniverseis home to all the they must-in someobiective,absolute pro".rr", that implement.tt", "ttd togetherin unbrokencausalflow, or I bound ,.1r.-be running smoothly,

r03 wouldn'tevenexist.My perspective is artificial,a contrivancerelyingon an underlying,continuousreality. "Every twentiethstate,in twenty sets." Nineteenepisodes of amnesia,nineteennew beginnings.How can I swallow such a convolutedexplanationfor ten perfectlyordinarysecondsof my life? "Every hundredthstate,in one hundredsets. " I've lost any real feelingfor what'shappeningto me. I just count. "Pseudo-random " orderingof states. "One. Two. Three." Now I am dust. Uncorrelatedmomentsscattered throughoutreal time. Yet the pattern of my awarenessremains perfectly intact: it finds itself, assembles itselffrom thesescrambledfragments.I've beentakenapartlike a puzzle-but my dissectionand shufflingare transparent figsaw to me. On their own terms,the piecesremainconnected _ low? Through the factthat everystatereflectsits entiremodel-timepast? Is the jigsawanalogywrong-am I more like the fragmentsof a hologiam? But in each millisecondsnapshot,do I recall and reviewall that's gone before?Of coursenot! In eachsnapshot,I do nothing. In the computations betweenthem, then?Computations that dragme into the pastandtire future at random-wildly addingand subtracting experience, until it all cancelsout in the end-or rather,all addsup to the very sameeffectas ten subjective secondsof continuity. "Eight. Nine. Ten." Squeak."You're sweating. " "Both of me?" Squeak.He laughs."What do you think?" "Do me a favor.The experimentis over. Shut down one of ms-ssnhsl or subject,I don't care." Squeak."Done." "Now there'sno needto concealanything,is there?So run the pseudorandomeffecton me again-and stayon-line.This time, lou countto ten." Squeak.He shakeshis head."Can't do it, Paul.Think aboutit: You can't be computednon-sequentially when pastperceptions aren'tknown." of course;the brokenvaseproblemall overagain. n. I say,"Recordyourself, yo then, and usethat." He seemsto find the requestamusing,but he indulgesme; he evenslows down the recording,so it laststen of my own secondi.I waich his blurred lips and jaws,listento the droneof white noise. Squeak."Hrppy now?" "You did scrambleme, and not the recording?,, Squeak."Of course.Your wish is my commind." "Yeah?Then do it again." He grimaces,but obliges. "Now, scramblethe recordirg." It looksjust the same.Of course.

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"Again." Squeak."What's the point of all this?" "f ust do it. " I'm convincedthat I'm on the vergeof a profoundinsight-arising, not but from the "obvifrom any revelatoryaberrationin my mentalprocesses, "inevitable" relationshipbepermutations of the fact that the wildest ous," perfectly intact. I've accepted me leave tween model time and real time years-but the experienceis the near certaintyof this, tacitly, for twenty be. never could provocativein a way that the abstractunderstanding out of has to be shaken It needsto be pushedfurther, though. The truth me. "When do we move on to the next stage?" Squeak."Why so keenall of a sudden?" "Nothing'schanged.I iust want to get it overand done with." Squeak."Well, lining up all the other machinesis takingsomedelicate negotiations.The networkallocationsoftwareisn't designedto accommodate whims aboutgeography.It's a bit like goingto a bankand askingto deposit somemoney . . . at a certainlocationin a particularcomputer'smemory. peoplethink I'm crazy." Basically,-momentary pang of empathy,recallingmy own anticipationof I feel a thesedifficulties.Empathyvergingon identification.I smotherit, though; we'retwo utterly differentpeoplenow, with differentproblemsand different goals,and the stupidestthing I could do would be to forgetthat. saveyou Squeak."l could suspendyou while I finalizethe arrangements, the boredom,if that'swhat you want." I have a lot to think about, and not just the implicationsof the last experiment.If he getsinto the habitof shuttingme downat everyopportunity, I'l[ "soon" find myselffacedwith decisionsthat I'm not preparedto make. "Thanks.But I'd ratherwait." I walk around the block a few times, to stretchmy legsand switch off my mind. I can't dwell on the knowledgeof what I am, everywakingmoment; helps if I did, I'd soongo mad. There'sno doubtthat the familiarstreetscape run on granted and for myself take me lets nature, me forget-y bLarre autopilotfor a while. eventhe gigarichtend factfrom rumor, but apparently Itt hardto separate realismover Power favoring to live in relativelymundane surroundings, set themselvesup as reportedly have fantasies.A few models-of-psychotics Copieshave most but foot, hand and dictatorsin opulentpalaces,waitedon to convince want you desperately If aimed for an illusion of continuity. the worst suggest, your memories as person yourselfthat you are the same (with cons), mod antiquity virtual a around itri"g to do would be to swan II. Ramses or pretendingto be Cleopatra I certai"nlydon't bilieve that I "am" my original, but . . ' why do I believethati existaf aII?What givesme my senseof identity?Continuity. in causeand ffict, but I'm not sure Once I wouldhavedragged Consistency.

t05 that I still can. The causeand effectthat underliesme bearsno resemblance whatsoever to the patternof my experience-notnow, and leastof all when the softwarewas_dragging me backand forth throughtime. I can'tdenythat the computerwhich runs me is obeyingthe real-Iimephysicallaws-and I'm surethat, to a real-timeobserver, thoselawswouldpiovidea completely satisfactory explanation for everypulseof laserlight thatconstitutes my world, m-yflesh, my being. Ald yet . . . if it makesio perceptibledifferenceto me whetherI'm a biologicalcreature,embodiedin realcelisbuilt of realproteins built of realatomsbuilt of realelectronsand quarks. . or a randomiytimescrambledset of descriptions of a crude model-of-a-brain . . . then surely the patternis all, and causeand effectare irrelevant.The whole experiencl might just as well havearisenby chance. Is that conceivable? Supposean intentionallyhaywirecomputersatfor a thousandyearsor more, twitching from stateto statl in the swayof 1-,othring but electricalnoise.Might it embodyconsciousness? In real time, the answeris: probablynof-the chanceof any kind of coherence arisingat randombeingsosmall.Realtime, though,is only one possiblereference frame;what aboutall the others?If the statJsih. *rihin. passedthroughcan be re-orderedin time arbitrarily(with somestates omitted-perhaps rnosfomitted,if needbe)then who knowswhat kind of elaborateordermight emergefrom the chaos? Is that fatuous?As absurd,asempty,asclaimingthat everylarge-enough quantityof rock--contiguousor not-contains Mlchelang.lt', 6avid, ^id everywarehouse_ full of paint and canvascontainsthe c6mpleteworks of Rembrandtand Picasso-not in any merelatentform, awaitingsomeskilful fotg.l to physicallyrearrangethem, bfi solelyby virtue oiiti potential redefinitionof the coordinatwof space-time? For a statueor a painting,yes,it's a hollow claim-where is the observer who perceives the paint to be in contactwith the canvas,the stonefigureto be suitablydelineatedby air? If the patternin questionis nof an isolatedobject,though, but a self_ containedworld,completewith at leastone observer to join ,ti ifr" dots. . . There'sno doubtthat ifs possible.l've done it. l'veaisembiedmyself and my world-effortlessly-from the dust of randomly scatter.d ,t"t.r, from apparentnoisein time.-specially contrivednoise,admittedly-but given 1ea,l enoughof the real thing, there'sno reasonto believethat some subsetof it wouldn't include patterns,embodyrelationships, as complexand coherent as the oneswhich underlyme. I return to the apartment,fightingoff a senseof giddiness and unreality. Do I still want to bail ouf? No. Nol i still wish that lie'd never .r"rla mebut how can I declarethat I'd happilywakeand forgetmyself-*ake a.d "reclaim"my life-y!.n alreadyI;u. co-e to an insigit thai he neverwould havereachedhimself? The diinn lookstired and frayed;all the beggingand bribery he must have beenthrough to set this up seemsto havetllen"its toll.

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Squeak."Experimentthree, trial zeto.Baselinedata. All computations clusternumberfour six two, Hitachi Supercomputer performedby processor Facility,Tokyo." "One. Two. Three." Niceto knowwhereI am, at last. Nevervisitedlapan before."Four. Five. Six." Andin my own terms,I still haven't.The viewout th.ewindow is Sydney,notTokyo. Why shouldI deferto external descriptions? "Seven.Eight. Nine. Ten." tTrirl numberone. Model partitionedinto fivehundredsections, Squeak. clusters,distributedglobally." run on five hundredprocessor Five only for the crudelymodeledexternal clusters. I count. Five hundied my body-and mostto the brain, of course. to world;all the restareallocated inforrnationflow that grantsme motor the I lift my hand to my eyes-and of thousandsof kilometersof optical tens control and sight now traverses cable.This intioducesno perceptibledelays;eachpart of me simplyhibernateswhen necessary,waiiing for the requisitefeedbackfrom around the is onething, but fhisi-spurelunacy, world. Moderatelydistributedprocessing computationallyandeconomically.I mustbe costingat-leasta hundredtimes as much as usual-not quite five hundred,sinceeachcluster'scapacityis only beingpartlyused-and tny model-timeto real-timefactormustbe more like fifty than seventeen. Squiak. "Trial number two. One thousandsections,one thousandclusters." Brain the sizeof a planet-and hereI om, counting to.te_n.I recallthe perennial-naive and'paranoid-fear that all the networkedcomputersof givebirth to a globalhypermindlhe *orld might or. dry spontaneously intelligenceon F,arth-I don't fut I a*, ,l*"ost certainiy,ih. firstplanet-sized feel much like a digital Caia, though. I feel like an ordinaryhuman being sittingin an ordinaryarmchair. S{ueak. "Trial ,,,r-b., three. Model partitionedinto fifty sectionsand twentytime sets,implementedon one thousandclusters." "One. Two. ThreL." I try to imaginethe outsideworld in my terms,but it's almostimpossible.Not only arn-I scatteredacross!h9 slobe, but widely of ,lprrrt.d *rihin., are simulianeouslycomputing differentmoments my model-time. Is the distancefrom Tokyo to New York now the length of Has the planet been shrunk to the size of my skull-and corpuscallosum? to banishedfrom time altog.th.t, exceptfor the fifty points that contribute my notion of the Present? seemsnonsensical-butin somehypo: transformation Sucha pathological planetis virtuallyfrozenin time and whole the eyes, thetical,pr". trru?l.r', this poinJof view is perfectlyvalidthat d."lrr., n.tttiuity flat a, , plr,.rk.. deformation,but no cutting continuous permits Relativity but mine is not. jt and ffict' Influences cause fot allow must Beca,rse and pasting. Why? velocity;chop up finite a at point to point from trru.ling -,rri be loializ.d, and rearrangeit, and the causalstructurewould fall apart' rpr..+i-e -' Jb..ruer, though, who has no causalstructure?A Wh"t if you're "r,

107

self-aware patternappearingby chancein the random twitchesof a noise machine,-your time coordinatedancingback and forth through causally "real time"? why shouldyou be declareda second-iassbeilg, respectable with no right to seethe universeyour way?What fundamentaldifferenceis therebetweenso-calledcauseand effect,and any otherinternallyconsistent patternof perceptions? Squeak."Trial numberfour. Model partitionedinto fifty sections; sections and statespseudo-randomly allocatedtb one thousandclusters." "One. Two. Three." I stop counting, shetchmy arms wide, stand.I wheel around once, to examinethe room, checking rngthat it's still iintact,complete.Then I whisper, "This is dust. AII dust. This room, this moment, is scatteredacross'the planet,scattered acrossfive hundredsecondsor more-dn d yet it remains whole.Don't you seewhat that means?" The diinn reappears, frowning,but I don't givehim a chanceto chastise me. "Listen!If I can assemble myself,this room-if I can constructmy own coherentspace-timeout of nothing but scatteredfragments,-ittunwhat makesyou think that you're not doiig the veryEameth"ing? "lmagine . . a u.niverse completelywithout structure,without topology. No space,no time; just a setof randomevents.I'd call them 'isolated,'i'ut that'snot the right word; there'ssimply no suchthing as distance.perhaps I shouldn'tevensay'random,'since thai makesit souni likethere'ssomekind of natural order in which to considerthem, one by on., ,nJ find the'r random-but thereisn't. "What are theseevents? We'd describethem aspointsin space-time, and assignthem coordinates-times-andplaces-bui if that's not p.r*itt.d, what'sleft?Valuesof all the fundamentalparticlefields?frrfryb.Ju.n that,s assumingtoo much. Letk justsaythat eacheventis a collectionof numbers. 'NoY, i{ th9 patternthat is me could pick itselfout from the backgrounj noise of all the other eventstaking_ place on this planet . . . the"nwhy shouldn'tthe patternwe think of rs ihl universe'assemble itself,find itseli in exactlythe same way?" The diinn's expression hoversbetwee.alarm and irritation. squeak."Paul . . . I don't see.the point of a.y of this. Sface_time is a construct;the real universeis nothingtut a ,., of disconnectfl euelts . it's all just metaphysical waffle.An unfalsifiablehypothesis. What expla'atory valuedoesit have?what differencewould it make?,' w9 perceive- we inhabif-one arrangement _"what difference?of the set of events.But why shouldthat arrangement be unique?ThJre'sno reasonto believethat the patternwe'vefoundis the only coherentwayof orderingthe dust' There must be billionsof other uniuerses coexistingwith us, madeof the verysamestuff-iust differentlyarrarrged. If I can perceiveeventsthousandsof kilometersand hundredrof sec6ndsapartto be rial-Uy"ide and simultaneous, therecould be worlds,and creatures, built rro- *nat we,d "p

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Greg Egan

think of as points in space-timescatteredall over the galaxy,all over the universe.We're one possiblesolutionto a giantcosmicanagram. . . but it would be ludicrousto think that we'rethe only one." Squeak."So whereare all the left-overletters?If this primordial alphabet soup really is random, don't you think ifs highly unlikely that we could structurethe whole thing?" That throwsme, but only fot a moment."We haven'tstructuredthe whole thing. The universeis random, at the quantum level. Macroscopically,the it decaysinto uncertainty-We've patternseemsto be perfect;microscopically, the lowestlevel. The anagram to down randomness of sweptthe residue like randompixelsthan ranmore are blocks building ,nriogy', flawed;the pixels,you couldconstruct random of number Givena sufficient dom l-etters. the randomness inspection, close under you liked-but virtuallyany image " would be revealed. Squeak."None of this is testable.How would we ever observea planet Let alonecommuacrossthe universe? whoseconstituentpartswerescattered what you'resaying that doubt I don't inhabitants? nicatewith its hypothetical down to a universe the grind hasa certain-putely mathematical-validity: ways other in rearranged be could fine enoughlevel, and I'm surethe dust are worlds rearranged that mak.-,, *u.h senseas the original. If these pins." of though, it's all angelson the heads inaccessible, _ I've visitedanotherworld!" "How can you Jaythat?l'vebeenrearranged! Squeak."liyo,r did, it wasan artificialworld;created,not discovered." "Found, prtt.rr,, createda pattern. . . there'sno real differencg." was.dueto the Squeak."Paul, you know that everythingyou expeTienced other worlds. invoke to way'your model was programmed;there'sno need in completely itr. rtrt. of your btai.t it .u.ry moment can be explained of time and space'" termsof thisarrangement "Of courselYorir patternhasn'tbeenviolated;the computersdid exactly any lessvalid, what wasexpectedofihem. That doesn'tmakemy Persp-ective are only there th"rgh Stop thinking of explanations,causesand effects; internal an had pattirns. The scatt.r.? .u.nis that formed my exPerience computers' the in the actionsof everybit asrealasthe consistency consistency of it' " all provide didn't computers the perhaps And Squeak."What do You mean?" "th. gaps,in experimentone. What 6lled them in? What wasI madeof, when th! pto.erroi, *.ren't describingrne?Well ' ' ' it's a big universe' Plentyof events-nothing Plelty of dustto be me, inbetweendescriptions. with your planetor your do nothing,to maybe computers, to do'with your with of whiclrto constructten ,..ottdt of experience'consistent ;*h-;.ri that had gonebefore-and everythingyet lo .9T:." eierythi"g a Squuaf.The diiin looks seriouslyworried now. "Paul, listen:you're more' Copy in a virtuai enuironmentunder computercontrol. Nothing provethat ybur internalsenseof spaceand nott i"g less.Theseexperiments your statesatecomputed,your memories But expected. time is invariant-as

t09 haveto be what they would havebeenwithout manipulation.You haven't visitedany otherworlds,you haven'tbuilt yourselfout of fragments of distant " galaxies. I laugh. "Your stupidityis . . . surreal.What the fuck did you createme for, if you'renot evengoingto listento me?We'vestumbledonto something of cosmicimportance!Forgetaboutfartingaroundwith the detailsof neural models;we haveto devoteall our resources to exploringthis further.We've had a glimpseof the truth behind . . . everything: space,time, the lawsof physics.You can't shrugthat off by sayingthat my stateswereinevitable." Squeak."Control and subjectare still identical." "Of. coursethey are, you moron! That's the I screamwith exasperation. whole point! Like accelerationand gravif in GeneralRelativity,it's the equivalentexperience of two differentobservers that blowsthe old paradigm apart." Squeak.The diinn mutters,dismayed,"Elizabethsaidthis would happen. She saidit wasonly a matterof time beforeyou'd losetouch." I stareat him. "ElizabethTYou saidyou hadn'teventold her!" Squeak."Well, I have.I didn't let you know, because I didn't think you'd want to hear her reaction." "Which was?" Squeak."She wantedto shut you down. She said I was . . seriously disturbed,to eventhink aboutdoingthis. Shesaidshe'dfind help for me.i' "Yeah?Well, what would sfteknow?Ignoreher!" Squeak.He frowns apologetically,an expressionI recognizefrom the inside,and my guts turn to ice. "Paul, maybeI shouldpauseyou, while I think things over. Elizabeth doescareabout me, more than I realized.I shouldtalk it throughwith her again." "No. oh, shit, no." He won't restartmefrom thispoint. Evenif he doesn't abandonthe proiect,he'll go back to the scan,and try somethingdffirent, to keepme in line. Maybehe won't performthe firstexperiments it 4U-the oneswhichgaveme this insight.The oneswhich mademe who I am. Squeak."Only temporarily.I promise.Trust me." "Paul. Please. " He reachesoflscreen. "Nol" There'sa hand gripping-myforearm.I tty to shakeit off, but my arm barely moves,and a terribleachingstartsup in my shoulder.I openmy eyes,.lore them lgain.in pain. I try again, On the fifth or sixth attempt,i manageto seea facethroughwashed-outbrightness and tears. Elizabeth. Sheholdsa cup to my lips. I takea sip, splutterand choke,but then force someof the thin sweetliquid down. She says,"You'll be okaysoon.|ust don't try to move too quickly." "why areyou here?"I cough,shakemy head,wishI hadn't.i'm touched,

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Greg Egan

but confused.Why did my original lie, and claim that she wantedto shut me down, when in fact she was sympatheticenough to go through the arduousprocessof visitingme? I'm lying on somethinglike a dentist'scouch,in an unfamiliarroom. I'm in a hospitalgown; there'sa drip in my right arm, and a catheterin my urethra. I glance up to see an interfacehelmet, a bulky hemisphereof from a gantry,not far abovemy magneticaxoncurrentinducers,suspended head. Fair enough,I suppose,to constructa simulatedmeetingplacethat lookslike the room that her realbodymustbe in; puttingme in the couch, though, and giving me all the symptomsof a wakingvisitor,seemsa little extreme. I tap the couchwith my left hand. "What'sthe point of all this?You want me to know exactlywhat you'regoingthrough?Okay. I'm grateful.And it's goodto seeyou." I shudderwith relief,anddelayedshock."Fantastic,to tell the truth." I laughweakly."l honestlythoughthe wasgoingto wipe me out. The man'sa completelunatic.Believeme, you'retalkingto his betterhalf." She'sperchedon a stoolbesideme. "Paul. Try to listencarefullyto what memoriesgradually, the suppressed I'm goingto say.You'll startto reintegrate you first. To startwith, it all if I through your it'll help talk but own, on flesh You're and blood." you'renot a Copy. I stareat her. "What kind of sadisticjokeis that?Do you know how hard it was,how long it took me, to come to termswith the truth?" Sheshakesher head."lt's not a joke.I knowyou don't rememberyet, but after you made the scan that was going to run as Copy number five, you you not to run itfinally told me what you weredoing. And I persuaded yourself in its place. Finding putting until you'd tried anotherexperiment: go through. out, first hand, what if would be forcedto "And you agreed.You enteredthe virtual environmentwhich the Copy would haveinhabited-with your memoriessincethe day of the scansuppressed,so you had no way of knowingthat you wereonly a visitor." Her facebetraysno hint of deception-but softwarecan smooththat out. "l don't believeyou. How can I be theoriginal?I spokefo the original.What to believe?He wasthe Copy?" am I supposed Shesighs,but sayspatiently,"Of coursenot. That would hardlysparethe Copy any trauma,would it? The scanwasneverrun. I controlledthe puppet that playedyour'original'-softwareprovidedthe vocabularysignatureand body language,but I pulled the strings." " No interfacewindow I shaki my head, and whisper,"Bremsstrahlung. appears.I grip the couch and closemy eyes,then laugh. "You sayI agreed to tttisZWhat kind of masochistwould do that?I'm goingout of my mind! I don't knowwhat I am!" Shetakeshold of my arm again."Of courseyou'restill disoriented-but trust me, it won't lastlong. And you knowwhy you agreed.You weresick of Copiesbailing out on you. One way or another,you have to come to Spendinga few daysbelievingyou werea Copy termswith their experience. would makeor breakthe proiect:you'deitherend up truly prepared,at last,

lll

to give rise to a Copy who'd be able to cope with its fate-or you'd gain enoughsympathyfor their plight to stopcreatingthem." A techniciancomesinto the room and removesmy drip and catheter.I prop myselfup and look out throughthe windowsof the room'sswingdoors; I can seehalf a dozenpeoplein the corridor.I bellowwordlessly at the top of my lungs;they all turn to starein my direction.The techniciansays, mildly, "Your penismight stingfor an hour or two." I slump backonto the couch and turn to Elizabeth."You wouldn't pay for reactivecrowds.I wouldn't pay for reactivecrowds.Looks like you're telling the truth." People,gloriouspeople:thousands of strangers, meetingmy eyeswith suspicion or puzzlement,steppingout of my way on the street-or, more often, clearly, consciouslyrefusingto. I'll never feel alone in a crowd again; I rememberwhat frue invisibilityis like. The freedomof the city is so sweet.I walkedthe streetsof Sydneyfor a full day, exploringevery ugly shoppingarcade,everypiss-stinkinglitterstrewnpark and alley, until, with aching feet, I squeezed*y way home throughthe eveningrush-hour,to watchthe real-timenews. There is no room for doubt:I am not in a virtual environment.Nobody in the world could havereasonto spendso much money,simplyto deceive me. When Elizabethasksif my memoriesare back,I nod and say,of course. She doesn'tgrill me on the details.In fact, havinggoneover her storyso many timesin my head,I can almostimaginethe stages: my qualmsafter the fifth scan,repeatedly puttingoff runningthe model,confessing to Elizabeth aboutthe proiect,acceptingher challengeto experience for myselfjust what my Copiesweresuffering. And if the suppressed memorieshaven'tactually integrated,well, I've checkedthe literature,and there'sa 2.9 percentrisk of that happening. I havean accountfrom the database servicewhich showsthat i conrulted the very samearticlesbefore. I rereadand replayedthe newsreportsthat I accessed from inside;I found no discrepancies. In fact,I've beenreadinga greatdealof history,geography, and astronomy,and althoughI'm surprisednow and then by detailsttt"t t;a neverlearntbefore,I can'tsaythat I've comeacrossanythingthat definitely contradictsmy prior understanding. Everythingis consistent.Everythingis explicable. I - still can't stopwondering,though,what might happento a Copy who's shut down, and neverrun again. A normal human death is one-thingwoven into a much vastertapestry,it's a processthat makesperfectsense. From the internalpoint of view of a copy whosemodel is simply halted, th-ough,there is no-explanationwhatsoeverfor this "dss1["-jusf an edge where the patternabruptlyends. If t Copy could assemble itselffrom dust scattered acrossthe world, and bridgethe gapsin its existencewith dustfrom acrossthe universe.whv should

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Greg Egan

it ever come to an inconsistenfend? Why shouldn't the pattern keep on finding itself?Or find, perhaps,a largerpatterninto which it could merge? Perhapsit's pointlessto aspireto know the truth. If I wcs a Copy, and "found" this world, this arrangement of dust, then the seamwill be, must must be equally be, fawless.For the patternsto merge,both "explanations" Paul true. If I wasa Copy, then it's alsotrue that I wasthe flesh-and-blood Durham, believinghe wasa Copy. Once I had two futures. Now I havetwo pasts. Elizabethaskedme yesterday what decisionI'd reached:to abandonmy or to forgeahead,now that I know firsthandwhat'sinvolved. life'sobsession, her, and I'm not sureif I'll everseeher again. My answerdisappointed In this world. Today, I'm goingto be scannedfor the sixthtime. I can't giveup now. I can't discoverthe truth-but that doesn'tmean that nobodyelsecan. If I makea Copy, run him for a few virtual days,then terminatehim abruptly then he, at least,will know if his patternof experiencecontinues. Paul again,the "new" flesh-and-blood Again,therewill be an "explanation"; Durham will havean extrapast.Inheritingmy memories,perhapshe will repeatthe whole processagain. And again.And again. Although the seamswill alwaysbe perfect,the "explanations" growevermore"contrived,"lessconvincing, will necessarily will becomeevermore compelling. and the dust hypothesis I lie in bedin the predawnlight, waitingfor sunrise,staringinto the future down this corridorof mirrors. One thing nagsat me. I could swearI had a dream-an elaboratefable, and I don't conveyingsomekind of insight-but my dreamsareevanescent, expectto rememberwhat it was.

TWO GUYSFROMTHE FUTURE Terry Bisson

v Here'sa wild, woolly, and funny takeon the classictime-travelstory,in which two fast-talkingguysfrom the future arrivewith an Offer you Can't Refuse. . . Terry Bissonis the authorof a numberof criticallyacclaimednovelssuchasFire on the Mountain, Wyrldmaker,the popularTalking Man, which wasa finalist for the World FantasyAward in 1986, and, most recently,Voyageto the RedPlanet. In 1991,his famousstory"BearsDiscoverFire" won the NebulaAward,the Hugo Award, the TheodoreSturgeonAward, and the Asimoy'sReader'sAward-th. only storyeverto sweepthem all. Upcomingis a collection, BearsDiscoverFire and Other Stories.He liveswith his family in Brooklyn,New york.

"We are two guysfrom the future." "Yeah, right. Now get the hell out of here!', "Don't shoot!Is that a gun?" That gaveme pause;it wasa flashlight.There weretwo of them. They both woreshimmerysuits.The shortone waskind of cute.The tall one did all the talking. "Lady, we are seriousguysfrom the future," he said.',This is not a hardon.tt

"You mean a put-on," I said."Now kindly get the hell out of here." "we arehereon a missionary positionto all mankind,"he said.,.No shit is fixing to hang looseany somedaynow." "Breakloose,"-Isaid-."H.y, are you guystalkingaboutnuclearwar?,, "We are not allowedto say,"the cute one said. "The bottom line is, we have come to salvagethe art works of your posteriors,"the tall one said. "save the art and let the world go. Not a bad idea," I said.,,But, mira, it's midnight and the gallery'sclosed.come backen Ia mafiana.,, "iQud bueno!No hay mas necesidad que hablaren ingl6s."the tall one said."Nothing worsethan-tryingto communicatein a dlad'lrng.rrg.,,,he went on in Spanish."But how did you know?" "lrlt a guess,",lsaid,alsoin Spanish,and_we spokein the mothertongue _ from then on. "lf you reallyare two guysfrom ih. fut,rr., you .rn come backin the future, like tomorrowaftei we open, right?"

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Terry Bisson

"Too much dangerof Timeslip," he said. "We have to come and go betweenmidnightand four A.M., when we won't interferewith your world. Plus we'refrom far in the future, not just tomorrow.We are here to save art worksthat will otherwisebe lost in the coming holocaustby sending them through a Chronoslotto our centuryin what is, to you, the distant future." "l got that picture," I said."But you'retalkingto the wrong girl. I don't own this art gallery.I'm iust an artist." "Artistswearuniformsin your century?" "Okay, so I'm moonlightingas a securityguard." "Then it's your bosswe needto talk to. Get him heretomorrowat midnight, okay?" r'H.', her," I said."Besides,mira, how do I know you reallyare,on the a level, two guysfrom the future?" "You sawus suddenlymaterializein the middleof the room, didn't you?" " "Okay, so I may havebeendozing.You try workingtwo io-bs. outfits?" these about And how was. "But you noticedhow bad our inglds "And you," I saidthan ingl,ls worse "A loi of peoplein New York speak I Then anything." prove don't suits here on the Lower East Side, funny (l actually never heard about. once I had remembereda science-fictionstory read sciencefiction.) "You did what?"saidBorogove,the galleryowner' the next morningwhen I told her about the two guysfrom the future. "l lit a match and held it to his sleeve." "Girl, you'relucky he didn't shootyou." "He wasn'tcarryinga gun. I could tell. Thoseshimmerysuitsare pretty tight. Anyway,rh"n-l sJwthat the cloth didn't burn, I decidedI believed their story." "There'sall sortsof materialthat doesn'tburn," Borogovesaid. "And if they'rereallytwo guysfrom the future who havecomebackto savethe great art of our century,how come they didn't takeanything? She lookedaroundthe gallery,which wasfilled with giant plasticbreasts and buttocks,the work oi h.t dead ex-husband,"Bucky" Borogove'She that all of them werestill hanging-seemeddisappointed "Beatstn;," I said. "They insiston talkingto the galleryowner' Maybe you haveto signfor it or somethittg." of great disappearances "Hmmmmm. Therehavebeenseveralmysterious art lately. That's why I hired you; it was one of the conditionsin Bucky's will. In fact, I'm stiil not sure this isn't one of his posthumouspublicity stunts.What time are theseguysfrom the future supposedto show uP?" "Midnight." "Hmmmmm. Well, don'ttell anyoneaboutthis.I'll ioin you at midnight, like MacBethon the tower." "Hamlet," I said."And tomorrow'smy night off. My boyfriendis taking me to the cockFghts."

Two Guysfrom the Future

I ls

"l'll payyou time anda half," shesaid."l may needyou thereto translate. My espafiolis a little rusty." Girls don'tgo to cockfights and I don't havea boyfriend.How could I? There aren'tany singlemen in New York. I just didn't want Borogoveto think I waseasy. But in fact, I wouldn't havemissedit for the world I-wasstandingbesideher in the galleryat midnightwhen a column of air in the centerof the room beganto shimmerand glor and . . . but you've seenSfcr Trek. There they were. I decidedto call the tall one Stretcha.rd the cute one Shorty. "Bienvenidosto our century," said Borogove,in Spanish,"and to the BorogoveGallery." Her Spanishwasmore than a little iusty;turnedout she had done a month in Cuernavacain 1964."We are describedin Art TaIk magazineas" 'the trafficcontrolcenterof the DowntownArt Renaissance.' " , .'W. aretwo guysfrom the future," Stretchsaid,in Spanishthis time. He held out his arm. "You don't haveto proveanything,"saidBorogove."l can tell by the way you arrivedhere_ that you'renot from our world. But if you like, iou could showme somefuture money." "We're not allowedto carrycash,"saidShorty. "Too much dangerof Timeslip," explainedStretch.,,In fact, the only reasonwe'rehereat all is because of a specialexemptionin the Chronolawq allowingus to savegreatart worksthat otherwisewould be destroyed in t|e " coming holocaust. "Oh dear.What coming holocaust?" "we're not allowgdto !2y," saidshorty. It seemedto be the only thing he wasallowedto say.But I likedthe waytlratno matterwho he *as ialki'i to, he kept stealinglooksat me. "Don't worry about it," said Stretch,looking at his watch. ,,lt doesn,t . for_quite a while. We're buying the art.rlly to keep the prices down. lYpp.n Next month our time (lastyear,yours)we boughttwo Harings,ni , Ledesma right aroundthe corner." "Bought?"saidBorogove."Thosepaintingswerereportedstolen.,' Stretchshrugged."That'sbetweenthe galtry o*n.i, and their insurance companies.But we are not thieves.In fact . . .,, "What about the people?" I asked. "You stayout of this," Borogovewhispered, in inglds.',you,rejust here " to translate. I-ignoredher. "You know, in this comingholocaustthing. what happens to the people?" "We're not allowed-tosavepeople,"saidShorty. "No big deal," said stretch. "people all die ,ny*ry. only greatart is _ forever.Well, almostforever." "And Buckymadethe shortlist!" saidBorogove."That son of a bitch. But I'm not surprised.If self-promotion ssp-"

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Terry Bisson

"Bucky?"Stretchlookedconfused. The artistwhosework is hanging "Bucky Borogove.My lateex-husband. all aroundus here. The art you cameto savefor future generations." "Oh, no," said Stretch. He looked around at the giant tits and asses hangingon the walls. "We can't take this stuff. It would never fit through the Chronoslotanyway.We cameto give you time to get rid of it' We're herefor the earlyworksof TeresaAlgarinRosado,the PuertoRicanneoretromaximinimalist.You will hang her show next week,and we'll come back and pick up the paintingswe want." "l beg ybut pardon!"saidBorogove."Nobody tells me who will or will not hangin this gallery.Not evenguysfrom the future. Besides,who'sever heardof this Rosado?" "l didn't mean to be rude," saidStretch."lt's just that we alreadyknow threehundredthousand what will happen.Besides,we'vealreadydeposited " dollarsin your account6rst thing tomorrow. "Well, in that case ." Borogoveseemedmollified."But who is she? Do you hru. her phone numbeti Do.t she even have a phone?A lot of artists. . ." "How many paintingsare you goingto buy?" I asked' "You stayout of this!" shewhispered,in ingl6s. "But I am TeresaAlgarin Rosado,"I said. I quit my job as a securityguard.A few nighh later I wasin my apartment *h.r, I noticeda shimmeringby the sink. The air beganto glow and ' ' ' but you've seen Star Trek I barely had time to pull on nly ieans' I was a'd I usuallywork in a T-shirt and underpants. painiing ' "Reriember me, one of the two guysfrom the future?"Shortysaid, in Spanish,as soonas he had fully appeared-. "So you can talk," I said,in Spanishalso."Where'syolrt compafiero?" "lt's his night off. He's got a date." "And you'reworking?" He blushed' "lt's my night off, too. I iust-uh-uh "Couldn't let a date," I said."It's all right. I'm aboutreadyto knock off Get me one too." anyway.There'sa Bud in the refrigerator. i,yo,, you Teresa?" I call Can midnight? at work always This is my big chance. "Pleasedo. ;nst finishinga coupleof canvases. What are you looking right. be to eveiything want I iust My own ,ho*. forl" "A bud?" "A Bud is a cemezd,"I said."The top twistsoff. To the left' Are you sure I thought yo.tg,ry,arefrom the future and not thepast?"(Or iustthe cour-rtry, to mysell) "*e travelto many differenttime zones,"he said' ,,Mustbe exciting.Do you getto watchthem throw the Christiansto the lions?" "We don't go there, it's all statues,"he said. "statueswott't fit through

Two Guys from the Future

the Chronoslot.You might have beforewe quit trying."

I 17

Stretchand I broke quite a few

"My partner.Oh, and call me Shorty." It wasmy first positiveillustrationof the powerof the pastoverthe future. "So what kind of art do you like?" I askedwhile we got comfortableon the couch. "l don't like any of it, but I guesspaintingsare best;you can turn them flat. Say, this is pretty good cerveza.Do you haveany roll and rock?" I thoughthe meantthe beerbut he meantthe music. I alsohad a joint, left over from a more interestingdecade. "Your centuryis my favorite,"Shortysaid.Soonhe saidhe wasreadyfor anotherpetal. "Bud," I said."ln the fridge." "The cerveza in your centuryis verygood,"he calledout from the kitchen. "Let me askyou two questions,"I saidfrom the couch. "Sure." "Do you havea wife or a girlfriendbackthere,or up there,in the future?" "Are you kidding?"he said."Thereareno singlegirlsin the future.What's your secondquestion?" "Do you look as cute out of that shimmerysuit as you do in it?" "There'sone missing,"saidBorogove,checkingoff her list asthe workmen unloadedthe last of my paintingsfrom the rentedpanel truck and carried them in the front door of the gallery.Other workmenweretakingBucky's giant tits and assesout the backdoor. "This is all of it," I said."EverythingI've everpainted.I evenborrowed back two paintingsthat I had tradedfor rent." Borogoveconsultedher list. "Accordingto the two guysfrom the future, threeof your earlypaintingsare in the Museode Arte Inmortaldel Mundo in 2255:'TresDolores,''De Mon Mouse,'and 'La Rosadel Futuro.' Those are the three they want." "Let me seethat list," I said. "lt's iust the titles.They havea catalogwith picturesof what they want, but they wouldn't showit to me. Too much dangerof Timesplits." "Slips,"I said.We lookedthroughthe stacked canvases again.I am partial to portraits."De Mon Mouse"wasan oil paintingof the superin my building, a rastawho alwaysworeMickeyMouseT-shirts.He had a collectionof two. "Tres Dolores"wasa mother, daughter,and grandmotherI had known on Avenue B; it was a posefaked up from photographs-a sort of tampering with time in itself, now that I thought of it. But "La Rosadel Futuro"?"Never heardof it." I said. Borogovewavedthe list. "lt's on here.Which meansit's in their catalog. " "Which meansit survivesthe holocaust,"I said. "Which meansthey pick it up at midnight,afterthe openingWednesday night," shesaid.

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Terry Bisson

"Which meansI must paint it betweennow and then." "Which meansyou'vegot four days." "This is crazy,Borogove. " "Call me Mimsy," shesaid."And don'tworryaboutit. fust getto work." "There'spickledherringin the neverd,"I said, in Spar-rish. "l thoughtyou werePuertoRican,"saidShorty. "l am, but my ex-boyfriendwas)ewish,and that stuffkeepsforever." "l thoughttherewereno singlemen in New York." "Exactlythe problem,"I said."His wife wasfewishtoo." "You're sureI'm not keepingyou from your work?"saidShorty. "What work?"I saidforlornly. I had beerrstaringat a blank canvassince 10:00P.M."l still haveone paintingto finish for the show,and I haven't evenstartedit. " "Which one?" "'La Rosadel Futuro: " I said.I had the title pinnedto the top corner of the frame. Maybe that waswhat wasblockingme. I waddedit up and threw it at the wall. It or-rlywent halfivayacrossthe room. "l think that'sthe mostfamousone," he said."So you know it getsdone. Is therea blossom "A Bud," I said."ln the door of the fridge." "Maybewhat you need,"he said,with that shy,sly, futuristicsmile I was growingto like, "is a little rest." After our little rest,which wasn'tsolittle, and wasn'texactlya rest,I asked him, "Do you do this often?" "This?" "Go to bed with girls from the past.What if I'm your great-great-grandmotheror something?" "l had it checkedout," he said."She'sliving in the Bronx." "So you do! You bastard! You do this all the time." "Teresa!Mi corazrinlNeverbefore.It's strictlynot allowed.I could lose my job! It's fust that when I sawthoselittle . . ." "Thoselittle what?" He blushed."Thoselittle handsand feet. I fell in love." It was my turn to blush. He had won my heart, a guy from the future, forever. "So if you love me so much, why don't you take me backto the future with you?" I asked,afteranotherlittle rest. to paint over "Then who would paint all the paintingsyou are supposed how famousyou aregoing Teresa,you don't understand the nextthirty years? Michelangelo,and the greatAlgarinto be. Even I haveheardof Picasso, and art is not my thing. If somethinghappenedto you, the Timeslipwould throw off the whole historyof art." "Oh. How about that." I couldn't seemto stopsmiling. "So why don't vou stavhere with me."

Two Guysfrom the Future

I 19

"l've thoughtaboutit," he said."But if I stayedhere,I wouldn'tbe around to comebackhereand meetyou in the firstplace.And if I had stayedhere, we would know aboutit anyway,sincetherewould be someevidenceof it. Seehow complicatedTime is? I'm just a deliveryguy and it givesme a headache.I needanotherleaf." "Bud," I said."You know wherethey are." He went into the kitchen for a cervezdand I called out after him: "So you'regoingto go backto the futureandlet me die in the comingholocaust?" "Die? Holocaust?" "The one you'renot allowedto tell me about.The nuclearwar." "Oh, that. Stretchis justtryingto alarmyou. It'snot a war. It'sa warehouse fire." "All this mischigosch for a warehousefire?" "lt's cheaperto go backand get the stuffthan to avoidthe fire," he said. "lt all hasto do with Timeslip insuranceor somethirg." The phone rang. "How's it going?" "lt's two in the morning, Borogove!"I said,in inglds. "Please,Teresa,call me Mimsy. Is it finished?" "l'm workingon it," I lied. "Go to sleep." "'Who wasthat?"Shortyasked,in Spanish."La Cordita?" "Don't be cruel," I said,pulling on my T-shirt and underpants."You go to sleep,too. I haveto get back to work" "Okay, but wakeme up by four. If I oversleep and get stuck[s1s-" "lf you had oversleptwe would alreadyknow about it, wouldn't we?" I said,sarcastically. But he wasalreadysnoring. "l can't put it off for a week!" said Borogovethe next day at the gallery. "Everybodywho's anybodyin the downtownart sceneis going to be here tomorrownight." "But . . ." "Teresa,I've alreadyorderedthe wine." "But . . ." "Teresa,I've alreadyorderedthe cheese.Plus, remember,whateverwe sell beyondthe threepaintingsthey'recoming for is gravy.Comprende?" "En inglds,Borogove:'r said."But what if I don't finish this paintingin time?" "Teresa,I insist,you must call me Mimsy. If you weren'tgoingto finish it, they would havearrangeda later pickup date,sincethey alreadyknow what will happen.For god'ssake,girl, quit worrying.Go home and get to work! You haveuntil tomorrownight." "But I don't evenknow whereto start!" "Don't you artistshaveany imagination?Make somethingup!" I had never been blockedbefore.It's not like constipation;when you're constipatedyou can work sitting down.

--_]

t20

Terry Bisson

I paddedand pacedlike a cagedlion, staringat my blank canvasas if I were trying to get up the appetiteto eat it. By ll:30 I had startedit and paintedit out six times. It just didn't feel right. fust asthe clockwasstrikingmidnight,a column of air nearthe sinkbegan to shimmerand . . . but you'veseenStcr Trek.Shortyappeared by the sink, one hand behind his back. "Am I gladto seeyou!" I said."l needa clue." "A clue?" "This painting.'La Rosadel Futuro.' Your catalogfrom the future hasa pictureof it. Let me seeit. " "Copy your own painting?"Shortysaid. "That would causea Timeslip for sure." "l won't copyit!" I said."l just needa clue. I'll just glanceat it." "Samething. Besides,Stretchcarriesthe catalog.I'm just his helper." "Okay, then just tell me, what'sit a pictureoft" "I don't know,Teresa. . ." "How can you sayyou love me if you won't evenbreakthe rulesto help mer "No, I meanI reallydon't know. Like I said,art is not my thing. I'm just a deliveryguy. Besids5-" he blushed."You know what my thing is." "Well, my thing is art," I said. "And I'm goingto losethe chanceof a lifetime-hell, of more than that, of artisticinmortalidad-if I don't come up with somethingprettysoon." "Teresa,quit worrying," he said. "The painting'sso famouseven I've heardof it. There'sno way it can not happen.Meanwhile,let'sdon't spend ourlast..." "Our what?Our lastwhat?Why are you standingtherewith your hand behindyour back?" This Chronolink closes He pulled out a rose."Don't you understand? know wheremy next job will take foreverafterthe pickup tonight. I don't me, but it won't be here." "So what'sthe rosefor?" "To rememberour . our . . ." He burst into tears. Girls cry hard and fast and it's over. Guys from the future are more sentimental,and Shortycriedhimselfto sleep.After comfortinghim asbest and found a cleanbrushand I could, I pulledon my T-shirtand underpants startedpacingagain.I left him snoringon the bed, a short brown Adonis without evena fig leaf. "Wake me up at four," he mumbled,then went backto sleep. I lookedat the rosahe had brought.The rosesof the future had softthorns; that wasencouraging.I laid it on the pillow next to his cheekand that was when it cameto me, in the form of a whole picture,which is how it always comesto me when it finally does.(And it alwaysdoes.) When I'm paintingand it's going well, I forgeteverything.It seemedlike only minutesbeforethe phone rang.

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"Well? How's it going?" '{Borogove, it's almostfour in the morni.g." "No, it's not, it's four in the afternoon.You'vebeenworkingall night and all day, Teresa,I can tell. But you reallyhaveto call me Mimsy." "l can'ttalk now," I said."l havea live model.Sortof." "l thoughtyou didn't work from live models." "This time I am." "Whatever.Don't let me botheryou while you'reworking;I cantell you're gettingsomewhere.The openingis at seven.I'm sendinga van for you at six." "Make it a limo, Mimsy," l said."We're makingart history." "It's beautiful,"Borogovesaid,as I unveiled"La Rosadel Futuro" for her. "But who'sthe model?He looksvaguelyfamiliar." "He's beenaroundthe art world for yearsand years,"l said. The gallerywaspacked.The showwasa hugesuccess. "La Rosa,""De Mon Mouse"and"LosTres"werealreadymarkedSOLD, andSOLD stickers went up on my other paintingsat the rate of one everytwenty minutes. Everybodywantedto meet me. I had left Shortydirectionsand cab fareby the bed, and at I l:30 he showedup wearingonly my old boyfriend'strench coat, sayingthat his shimmerysuit had disappeared into thin air while he waspulling it on. I wasn'tsurprised.We werein the middle of a Timeslip, afterall. "Who's the barefootguy in the fabulousBurberry?"Borogoveasked."He looksvaguelyfamiliar." "He's beenaroundthe art world for everand ever," I said. Shortywas looking jet-lagged.He was staringdazedlyat the wine and cheeseand I signaledto one of the caterers to showhim wherethe beerwas kept, in the backroom. At I l:55, Borogovethreweverybody elseout and turneddown the lights. At midnight, right on time, a glowingcolumn of air appearedin the center of the room, then graduallytook on the shapeof . . . but you'veseenStar Trek. It wasStretch,and he wasalone. "lly's s1s-uh-a guy from the future," Stretchsaid,startingin English and finishingen espafiol.He waswobblinga little. "l could haveswornthereweretwo of you guys,"saidBorogove."Ordid I makethat up?" shewhisperedto me, in inglds. "Could be a Tim.!!ip," saidStretch.He lookedconfusedhimself, then brightened."No problem thoughl Happensall the time. This is a light pickup. Only threepaintings!" "we haveall threeright hgJ.," saidBorogove."Teresa,why don't you do the honors.I'll checkthem offasyou handthem to thisguyfrom the future." I handedhim "De Mon Mouse." Then "Los Tres Dolores."He slipped them both througha dark slot that appearedin the air. "whoops," Stretch said, his knees wobbling. "Feel that? slight _ " aftershock.

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Shortyhad wanderedin from the backroom with a Bud in his hand. In nothingbut a raincoat,he lookedvery disoriented. "This is my boyfriend,Shorty,"I said.He and Stretchstaredat eachother tremblejust for a moment. Then blanklyand I felt the fabricof space/time it wasover. "Of course!"saidStretch."Of course,I'd recognizeyou anywhere." "Huh? Oh." Shortylookedat the paintingI washolding, the lastof the three. "La Rosadel Futuro." It was a full length nude of a short brown Adonis,asleepon his backwithout evena fig leaf, a roseplacedtenderlyon that by the the pillow by his cheek.The paint wasstill tackybut I suspected time it arrivedin the future it would be dry. "Remindsme of the day I met Mona Lisa," said Stretch."How many timeshaveI seenthis painting,and now I meetthe guy! Must feel weirdto havethe world'smost famous,you know . . ." He winkedtowardShorty's crotch. "l don't know about weird," said Shorty. "something definitely feels funny." "Let's get on with this," I said. I handedStretchthe painting and he pushedit throughthe slot, and Shortyand I lived happilyeverafter.For a while. More or less. But vou've seenI L,aveLucy.

THEMOUNTAIN TO MOHAMMED Nancy Kress

V Born in Buffalo, New York, Nancy Kressnow lives in Brockport,New York. She begansellingher elegantand incisivestoriesin the mid-seventies, and has since becomea frequentcontributorto Asimov's,F & SF, Omni, and elsewhere.Her booksinclude the novelsThePrinceof Morning Bells,TheGoldenCrove,The White Pipes,An Alien Light, and Brain Rose,and the collectionTrinity and Other Stories. Her most recentbook is the novel versionof her Hugo- and Nebula-winningstory, Beggarsin Spain. Shehasalsowon a NebulaAwardfor her story"Out Of All Them Bright Stars."She has had storiesin our Second,Third, Sixth, Seventh,Eighth, and Ninth Annual Collections. In the all-too-plausiblestorythat follows,shetakesus to a crowdedand impoverishedfuture socie$ for a look at how sometimesfollowing your consciencecan cost you all that you have . . .

"A persongivesmoneyto the physician. Maybe he will be healed. Maybe he will not be healed." -The Talmud when the securitybuzzersounded,Dr. fesseRandallwasplayinggo against his computer.Haruo Kaneko,his roommateat Downstite viai.af had taughthim the game.So far nineteenshiny blackand white stoneslay on the grid under the scannerfield. ]essefrowned;the computerhad , shotat surroundingan emptyspacein two moves,and he couldn'tsee"1.r, how to stopit. The buzzermadehim jump. Anne? But she was on duty at the hospitaluntil one. or maybe he rememberedher rotation wrong. Eagerll he crossedthe small living room to the securityscreen.It wasn't Anne. Threestoriesbelowa man stoodon the street,staringinto the monitor. He--w11 slight and fair, dressedin jeansand frayedjacketwith a knit cap pulled low on his head.The bottomsof his earswerered with cold "Yes?"]essesaid. "Dr. Randall?"The voicewaslow and rough. "Yes."

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"Could you come down here a minute to talk to me?" "About what?" "somethingthat needstalkin' about. It's personal.Mike sentme." A thrill ran throughfesse.This wasit, then. He kept his voice neutral. "l'll be right down." He turnedoff the monitorsystem,removedthe memorydisk,and carried it into the bedroom,wherehe passedit severaltimes over a magnet.In a antibiotics,sutures, gym baghe packedhis medicalequipment:antiseptics, clamps,syringes,electromedscanner,as much equipmentas would fit. in a warm peacoatbought Once, shovingit all in, he laughed.He dressed at the Army-Navystoreand put the gun, alsoboughtsecondsecond-hand hand, in the coat pocket.Although of coursethe other man would be carrying.But fesseliked the feelof it, a slightlyheavydragon his right side. thediskin the securitysystemandlockedthedoor.The computer He replaced was still pretendingto considerits move for go, althoughof courseit had decisioncapacity. near-instantaneous "Where to?" The slight man didn't answer.He strodepurposefullyaway from the building, and |esserealizedhe shouldn'thavesaidanything.He followed the man down the street,carryingthe gym bag in his left hand. Foghaddriftedin from the harbor.Bostonsmelledwetand grey,of rotting piers and dead fish and garbage.Even here, in the MorningsideSecurity -Enclaue, wherethat part of the apartmentmaintenancefeesleft over from to keepthe streetsclean. Yellow lightsgleamedthrough the went security gloom, stackedtwelvestorieshigh but crammedclosetogether;eveninsurablescouldn'taffordto heat much space. Where they weregoingtherewouldn'tbe any heat at all. |essefollowedthe slight man down the subwaysteps.The guy paid for boih of them, a pieceof quixoticdignitythat made|essesmile. Under the lightshe got a betterlook:The man wasolderthan he'd thought,with webbed linesatouttdthe eyesand long, thin lips oververybadteeth.Probablyhadn't God, everhad dentalcoveragein his life. What had beenin his genescan? what a system. "Whai do I call you?"he saidastheywaitedon the platform.He kepthis voicelow, just in case. "Kenny." "All right, Kenny," fessesaid,and smiled.Kennydidn't smileback.fesse told himselfit wasridiculousto feelhurt; this wasn'ta socialvisit. He stared at the tracksuntil the subwaycame. At this hour the only otherriderswerethreehard-lookingmen, two black and one white, and an even harder-lookingHispanic girl in a low-cut red dress.After a minute fesserealizedshewasunder the controlof one of the black men sittingat the other end of the car. ]essewascarefulnot to look at her again.He couldn'thelp beingcurious,though.Shelookedhealthy.All fou, Jf them lookedhealthy,asdid Kenny,exceptfor his teeth.Maybenone

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of them were uninsurable;maybethey just couldn't find a job. Or didn't want one. It wasn'this placeto fudge. That wasthe whole point of doing this, wasn'tit? The other two times had goneas easyas Mike saidthey would. A deltoid sutureon a younggirl woundedin a knife fight, and burn treatmentfor a babyscaldedby a pot of boiling waterknockedoff a stove.Both times the families had been so grateful, so respectful.They knew the risk fessewas taking. After he'd treatedthe babyand left antibioticsand analgesics on the patheticexcusefor a kitchencounter,a boardlaid acrossthe non-functional radiator,the young Hispanicmother had grabbedhis hand and coveredit he'd turnedto smile at her husband,wantingto with kisses.Embarrassed, saysomething,wantingto makeclear he wasn'tjust anothersporadicdogooderwho happenedto have a medicaldegree. "l think the systemstinks.The insurancecompaniesshouldneverhave beenallowedto denyhealthcoverage on the basisof genescans for potential disease, and employersshouldneverhavebeenallowedto keepcostsdown hiring. If this werea civilizedcountry,we'd havenational by health-based healthcareby now!" The Hispanichad staredbackat him, blank-faced. "Some of us are trying to do better,")essesaid. It wasthe samething Mike-Dr. MichaelCassidy-had saidto ]esseand Anne at the end of a long drunkeneveningcelebrating the halfivaypoint in all their residencies. Although, in retrospect,it seemedto fessethat Mike hadn't drunk very much. Nor had he actuallysaidvery much outright. It was all implication,probing maskedas casualphilosophy.But Anne had understood, and refusedinstantly."God, Mike, you couldbe dismissed from the hospital!The regulationsforbid residents from exposingthe hospitalto the threatof an uninsuredmalpracticesuit. There'sno money." Mike had smiled and twirled his glassesbetweenfingersas long as a pianist's."Doctorsare free to treatwhomeverthey wish, at their own risk, evenuninsurables. Carter v. Sunderland." "Not while a hospitalis payingtheir malpracticeinsuranceasresidents, if the hospitalexercisesits right to so forbid. lanissonv. Lechcheyko." Mike laughedeasily."Then forgetit, both of you. It's just conversation." Anne said,"But do you personallyrisk-" "lt's not right," fessecut in-couldn't sheseethat Mike wouldn'twant to incriminatehimselfon a thing like this?-"that so much of the population can'tgetinsurance.Everyyeartheyaddmoregenescan pre-tendency barriers, and the poor slobshaven'tevengot the diseases yet!" His voicehad risen.Anne glancednervouslyaroundthe bar. Her profile waslovely,a serenecurvingline that remindedfesseof thoseKoreanscreens in the expensive shopson CommonwealthAvenue.And shehad lovelylegs, lovely breasts,lovely everything.Maybe, he'd thought, now that they were neighborsin the MorningsideEnclave.

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"Another round," Mike had answered. Unlike the father of the burned baby, who neverhad answeredJesseat all. To coverhis slightembarrassment-themotherhad beenso effusivefessegazedaround the crampedapartment.On the wall were photographs in cheapplasticframesof peoplewith masses of blackhair, all lying in bed. protest.The subjects fessehad readaboutthis:It wasa sortof mute, powerless had all beenphotographed on their deathbeds.One of them wasa beautiful girl, her eyesclosedand her hand flung lightly overher head, as if asleep. The Hispanicfollowedfesse'sgazeand loweredhis eyes. "Nice," fessesaid."Good photos.I didn't know you peoplewereso good with a camera." Still nothing. Later,it occurredto fessethat maybethe guy hadn'tunderstoodEnglish. The subwaystoppedwith a long screechof equipmenttoo old, too poorly maintained.There wasno money.Boston,like the restof the country,was broke.For a secondfessethoughtthe brakesweren'tgoingto catchat all and his heartskipped,but Kenny showedno emotionand so fessetried not to, either.The car finally stopped.Kenny roseand fessefollowedhim. They were somewherein Dorchester.Three men walkedquickly toward them and fesse'sright hand crepttowardhis pocket."This him?" one said to Kenny. "Yeah," Kennysaid."Dr. Randall,"and fesserelaxed. probaIt madesense,really.Two men walkingthroughthis neighborhood must know what organization good was better. Mike's idea. Five a bly wasn't it wasdoing. The men walkedquickly. The neighborhoodwas better than fessehad imagined:small row houses,everythird or fourth one with a bit of frozen But the windowswerebarred, lawn in the front. A few evenhad flowerboxes. and overall hung the greyfog, the dankcold, the pervasivesmell of garbage. The housethey enteredhad no flowerbox.The steelfront door, tripleIocked,openeddirectlyinto a living room furnishedwith a saggingsofa,a TV, and an ancientdaybedwhosefoamcastheadboardflakedlike dandruff. On the daybedlay a child, her eyesbright with fever. selftakeover,a vanished.fessefelt his professional Sofa,TV, headboard ascleanand freshasplunginginto cool water.He knelt by the bed sensation and smiled.The girl, who lookedaboutnine or ten, didn't smileback.She had a long, sallow,sullenface,but the long brown hair on the pillow was beautiful:clean,lustrous,and well-tended. "lt's her belly," saidone of the men who had met them at the subway. fesseglancedup at the note in his voice,and realizedthat he must be the child'sfather.The man'shandhembledashe pulledthe sheetfrom the girl's lower body. Her abdomenwasswollenand tender. "How long has shebeen this way?" "Since yesterday," Kenny said,when the fatherdidn't answer. "Nausea?Vomiting?"

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"Yeah. Shecan'tkeepnothingdown." fesse'shandspalpatedgently.The girl screamed. Appendicitis.He fust hoped to hell peritonitishadn't set in. He didn't want to deal with peritonitis.Not here. "Bring in all the lamps you have, with the brightestwatt bulbs. Boil qzs[sr-" He looked,tp. The room wasvery cold. "Doesthe stovework?" The fathernodded.He lookedpale.fessesmiledand said,"I don't think it's anythingwe can't cure, with a little luck here." The man didn't answer. fesseopenedhis bag, his mind racing.Laserknife, sterileclamps,scaramine-he coulddo it evenwithout nursingassistance providedtherewasno peritonitis.But only if . . . the girl moanedand turnedher faceaway.There weretearsin her eyes.fesselookedat the man with the samelong, sallow faceand brown hair. "You her father?" The man nodded. "l needto seeher genescan." The man clenchedboth fistsat his side.oh, God, if he didn't have the officialprintout . . sometimes, burnedthem. fessehad read,uninsurables One woman, furious at the paperthat would foreverkeepher out of the middle class,had mailed hers, srnearedwith feces,and packagedwith a plasticineexplosive,to the president.There had beenheadlines,columns, petitions. . . and nothing had changed.A country fighting for its very economicsurvivaldidn't hesitateto expendfront-linetroops.If therewasno genescan for this child, |essecouldn'tusescaramine,that miracleimmunesystembooster,to which about 15 percentof the populationhad a fatal reaction.Without scaramine,undertheseoperatingconditions,the chances of post-operative infection were considerablyhigher. If she couldn't take scaramine The fatherhandedJesse the laminatedprint-out,with the deeplyembossed sealin the uppercorner.fessescannedit quickly.The necessary RB antioncoglne on the eleventhchromosomewaspresent.The girl wasnot potentially allergicto scaramine.Her name wasRosamund. "9k"y, Rose,"fessesaidgently. "I'm going to help you. In just a little while you'regoingto feel so much better.. . ." He slippedthe needlewith anesthetic into her arm. Shejumpedand screamed, but within a minute she wasout. fessestrippedawaythe bedclothes,despitethe cold, and told the men how to boil them. He spreadBetadineover her distendedabdomenand poised the laserknife to cut. The hallmarkof his parents'life had beencaution. Don't fall, now! Drive carefully! Don't talk to strangers!Born during the Depression-the other one-they investedonly in Treasurybondsand their own one-sixthacreof suburbanreal estate.When the marchingin Selmaand Washingtonhad turned_ to killing in Detroit and Kent State,they shooktheir headssagely: See?We said so. N_ogood comesof getting involvedin things that ioit concernyou. Jesse's fatherhad held the samefob for thirty y."ti; his mother

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consideredit immoral to buy anythingnot on sale.They waiteduntil she wasover forty to havefesse,their only child. At sixteen,Jessehad despised them; at twenty-four,pitied them; at twentyeight,his presentage,lovedthem with a despairing gratitudenot completely freeof contempt.They had missedso much, daredso little. They lived now in Florida,retiredand happyand smug."The p€nsisn"-they calledit that, as if it were a famous diamond or a wellJoved estate-was inflated by Collapsepricesinto providinga one-bedroombungalowwith beigecarpets and a pool. In the pool'splacid,artificiallyblue waters,the Randallsbeheld chlorinedvisionsof triumph. "Even after we retired,"fesse'smother told " him proudly,"we didn't haveto go backward. "That'swhat comesfrom thrift, son," his fatheralwaysadded."And hard todaycouldn't do the samething." work. No reasonthesedeadbeats looked their around tiny yard at the plasticducks lined up like fesse headstones, the fanaticallytrimmed hedge,the blue-and-whitestripedawning, and his armsmadecuriousbeatingmotions,as if they werelashedto his side."Nice, Mom. Nice." "You know it," she said, and winked roguishly.fessehad lookedaway Bostonhad loomed large in his beforeshe could seehis embarrassment. mind, compellingand vivid and hecticas an exoticdisease. There wasno peritonitis.fesseslicedfree the spoiledbit of tissuethat had appendix.As he closedwith quick, suremovements,he been Rosamund's hearda click. A camera.He couldn'tlook away,but out of a suddenrush of euphoriahe said to whoeverwas taking the picture, "Not one for the gallerythis time. This one'sgoinglo live." a massivedoseof scaraWhen the incisionwasclosed,fesseadministered mine. Carefullyhe instructedKennyand the girl'sfatheraboutthe medicawhich, since to maintain asepsis tion, the little girl's diet, the procedures "l'm they werebound to be inadequate,madethe scaramineso necessary. night, on duty the nextthirty-sixhoursat the hospital.I'll returnWednesday you'll either have to come get me or give me the address,I'll take a taxi 2nd-" The father drew in a quick, shakybreath like a sob. ]esseturned to him. "She'sgot a strongfightingchance,this procedureisn't-" A woman explodedfrom a backroom, shrieking. "No, no, noooooo. ." Shetried to throw herselfon the patient.fesse lungedfor her, but Kenny wasquicker.He grabbedher aroundthe waist, pinning her armsto her sides.She fought him, wailing and screaming,as he draggedher back through the door. "Murderer, babykiller, nsssssss-" " "My wife," the fatherfinally said."She doesn't. . doesn'tunderstand. Probablydoctorsweredevilsto her, fessethought.Godswho deniedpeople He felt a surgeof quiet the healingthey could haveoffered.Poorbastards. pride that he could teachthem different. The fatherwent on looking at Rosamund,now sleepingpeacefully.)esse couldn't seethe other man'seyes.

The Mountainto Mohammed

,rr,

Backhome at the apartment,he poppedopena beer.He felt fine. Was it too late to call Anne? It was-the computerclock said 2:00a.na.She'dalreadybe sackedout. In sevenmorehourshis own thirty-six-hourrotationstarted.but he couldn't sleep. He satdownat the computer.The machinehadn'tmovedto surroundhis emptysquare afterall. It musthavesomethingelsein mind. Smiling,sipping at his beer,fessesatdown to match wits with the Koreancomputerin the ancientfapanesegamein the waningBostonnight. Two dayslater, he went back to check on Rosamund.The rowhousewas deserted,boardsnaileddiagonallyacrossthe window.fesse'sheartbeganto pound.He wasafraidto askinformationof the neighbors;men in darkclothes keptgoingin and out of the housenextdoor,their eyescold. Jesse went back to the hospitaland waited.He couldn'tthink what elseto do. Four rotationslaterthe deputysheriffwaitedfor him outsidethe building, unableto passthe securitymonitorsuntil fessecamehome. COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS

SUFFOLKCOUI,ITY

SUPERIOR COURT

To lesseBo_beg Randallof Motni.gtid. S.fytiy ^ =Fn. Apart-@thi dr RoseGocekof Bostonwithin our Countyof Suffolkhavebeg,tnin-.lion ;f T6rt afinst you returnablein the Superio,court holden at Boston within our County of Suffolkon october 18, 200+,in which action damages areclaimedin the sum offfiws' TORT AND/OR COI{TRACT FOR MALPRACTICE as will more fully appearfrom the declarationto be filed in saidCourt whenand if saidactionis enteredtherein: wE COMMAND You, if you intendto makeany defenseof said action,thaton saiddateor within suchfurthertime asthe lawallowsyou causeyour written appearance to be enteredand your written,nr*.i o, otherlawfulpleadings to be filed in the officeof the Clerkof the Court to which said writ is returnable,and that you defendagainstsaid action according to law. Hereoffail not at yourperil,asotherwise saidjudgmentmaybe entered againstyou in saidactionwithoutfurthernotice. witness,LawrenceF. Monast.trll,_ErQui*,at Boston,the fourth day of Marchin four. Alice P. McCarren Clerk

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fesselookedup from the paper.The deputysheriff,a soft-bodiedman with small, light eyes,lookedsteadilyback. "But what . . . what happened?" The deputylookedout over fesse'sleft shoulder,a gesturemeaninghe wasn'tofficiallysayingwhat he wassaying."The kid died.The one they say " you treated. "Died? Of what?But I went back. . . ." He stopped,filled with sudden sickeninguncertaintyabouthow much he wasadmitting. The deputywenton staringoverhis shoulder."You wantmy advice,Doc? Get yourselfa lawyer." Doctor,lawyer,Indianchief,fessethoughtsuddenly,inanely.The inanity somehowbroughtit all home. He wasbeingsued.For malpractice.By an uninsurable.Now. Here. Him, fesseRandall.Who had beenonly trying to help. "They'redying of cold "Cold for this time of year,"the deputyremarked. and Southie.Even Dorchester and in Roxbury and malnutritiondownthere, " give break. us a the goddamnweathercan't fessecouldn't answer.A wind off the harbor flutteredthe paperin his hand. "Theseare the facts,"the lawyersaid. He lookedtired, a small man in a dusty office lined with second-handlaw books."The hospitalpurchased In doingso, it entered for its staff,includingresidents. malpracticecoverage into a contractwith certainobligationsand exclusionsfor each side. If a the contractis not in forcewith specificincidentfallsundertheseexclusions, teg"td to that incident. One such exclusionis that residentswill not be couet.dif they treatuninsuredpersonsunlesssuchtreatmentoccurswithin groundsto assumethat the hospitalsettingor the residenthas reasonable you describedto sucha p.rron is insured.Thoseare not the circumstances me.tt

that the law bookswerefalling off "No," fessesaid.He had the sensation and brown glaciers. the top shelves,slowlybut inexorably,like small gree_n Outside,he had the samesensationaboutthe topsof buildings' "Therefore,you are not coveredby any malpracticeinsurance.Another setof facts:Over the lastfive yearsjury decisionsin malpracticecaseshave legislaaveraged -rr. 85 percentin favorof plaintiffs.Insurancecompaniesand drawn still are However, Randall. Dr. insurables, up of rnrd. iuries tures finds general c-itizenry the educated Most of general citizenry. by lot from the percent b9 65 to likely are did. They always duty. Juries waysto getout of fury o, -or. uninsurablis.It;s the lastplacethe havenotsstill wield much real power,and they use it. " "You're sayingI'm dead,"fessesaidnumbly. "They'll find me g,uilty." The little it*y.t lookedpained."Not'dead,' Doctor. Convicted-ps5ft death.The hospiprobably.But convictionisn'tdeath.Not evenprofessional you can still right-but that have you-they dismiss not may or irl *ry they go, are however suits, malpractice And elsewhere. your training finish

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groundsfor denialof a medicallicense.You can still be a not of themselves doctor." "Treatingwho?"fessecried. He threw up his hands.The booksfell slightly faster."If I'm convictedI'll have to declarebankruptcy-there's no way I could pay a jury settlementlike that! And evenif I found anotherresidency at some third-ratehospitalin Podunk,no decentpractitionerwould ever acceptme asa partner.I'd haveto practicealone,without moneyto setup morethan a hole-in-the-corner officeamongGod-knows-who.. . and even that'sassumingI can find a hospitalthat will let me finish. All becauseI wantedto help peoplewho are gettingshit on!" The lawyertook off his glasses and rubbedthe lensesthoughtfully with a tissue."Maybe," he said,"they'reshittingback." "What?" "You haven'taskedabout the specificcharges,Doctor." "Malpractice!The brat died!" The lawyersaid,"Of massivescaramineallergicreaction." The angerleechedout of fesse.He went very quiet. "She wasallergicto scaramine,"the lawyersaid."You failedto ascertain " that. A basicmedicalquestion. "1-" The wordswouldn't come out. He sawagainthe laminatedgenescan chart, the detailedanalysisof chromosomeI I. A cameraclicking, recordingthat he wasthere.The hystericalwoman, the mother, exploding from the backroom: noooooooooo.. . The fatherstandingfrozen, his eyes downcast. It wasn'tpossible. Nobodywould kill their own child. Not to discreditone of the fortunate ones,the haves,the insurables, the employables. . . . No onewoulddo that. The lawyerwaswatchinghim carefully,glasses in hand. fessesaid,"Dr. Michael Cassidy-" and stopped. "Dr. Cassidywhat?"the lawyersaid. But all fessecould see, suddenly,was the row of plasticducks in his parents'Florida yard, lined up as preciselyas headstones, garishhideous yellow as they marchedundeviatinglywhereverit wasthey were going. "No," Mike Cassidysaid."l didn't sendhim." They stoodin the hospitalparkinglot. Snowblew from the east.Cassidy wrappedboth armsaroundhimselfand rockedback and forth. "He didn't come from us. "He saidhe did!" "I know. But he didn't. His group must have heard we were helping illegally,gottenyour name from somebody-" "But why?"fesseshouted."Why frameme?Why kill a child just to frame me7l'm nothing!" Cassidy'sface spasmed.fessesawthat his horror at fesse'spositionwas real,-his sympathygenuine,and both useless. There was nothing Cassidy could do.

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"l don't know," Cassidywhispered.And then, "Are you going to name me at your malpracticetrial?" fesseturnedawaywithout answering,into the wind. Chief of SurgeryfonathanEberhartcalled him into his office just before fessestartedhis rotation.Before,not after. That was enoughto tell him everything.He wasgettingverygoodat discovering the whole from a single clue. "Sit down, Doctor," Eberhartsaid. His voice, normally austere,held unwilling compassion. fesseheardit, and forcedhimselfnot to shudder. "l'll stand. " "This is very difficult," Eberhartsaid, "but I think you aireadyseeour position.It's not one any of us would havechosen,but it's what we have. This hospitaloperatesat a staggering deficit. Most patientscannot begin to cover the costsof modern technologicalhealth care. Stateand federal governments with enormousdebt.Without insurancecomareboth strapped paniesand the privatephilanthropicalsupportof a few rich families,we would not be ableto openour doorsto anyoneat all. If we loseour insurance rating 1479-"

"l'm out on my ass,"fessesaid."Right?" Eberhartlookedout the window. It was snowing.Once fesse,driving throughOceanviewSecurityEnclaveto pick up a date,had seenEberhart building a snowmanwith two small children, probablyhis grandchildren. Even rolling lopsidedglobesof cold, Eberharthad had dignity. "Yes, Doctor. I'm sorry.As I understandit, the factsof your caseare not " in legaldispute.Your residencyhere is terminated. "Thank you," fessesaid,an odd formalitysuddenlyreplacinghis crudeness."For everything." Eberhartneitheranswerednor turnedaround.His shoulders,framedin the grey window, slumpedforward.He might, fessethought, have had a For which, of course,he would be suddenadvancedcaseof osteoporosis. fully insured. He packedthe computer last, fitting each piece carefully into its original packing.Maybethat would raisethe pricethat SecondThoughtswaswilling to give him: Look, almostnew, still in the original box. At the last minute he decidedto keepthe playingpiecesfor go, shovingthem into the suitcase with his clothesand medicalequipment.Only this suitcasewould go with him. When the packingwasdone, he walkedup two fights and rang Anne's bell. Her rotationendeda half hour ago.Maybeshewouldn'tbe asleepyet. She answeredthe door in a looseblue robe,toothbrushin hand. "|esse, hi, I'm afraidI'm reallyfss[-" He no longerbelievedin indirection."Would you havedinner with me tomorrow night?" "Oh, I'm sorry,I can't," Anne said.She shiftedher weightso one bare

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sochildishit hadto beembarrassment. footstoodon top of the other,a gesture Her toenailswereshiny and smooth. "After your next rotation?"fessesaid.He didn't smile. ,'l don't know when l-" "The one after that?" Anne wassilent. Shelookeddown at her toothbrush.A thin pristineline of toothpastesnakedover the bristles. "I just wantedto be sure." "Okay," fessesaid,without expression. "Jesse-" Anne calledafter him, but he didn't turn around. He could alreadytell from her voicethat shedidn't reallyhaveanythingmore to say. If he had turned it would havebeenonly for the sakeof a lastlook at her toes,polishedand shinyasgo stones,and therereallydidn't seemto be any point in looking. He movedinto a cheaphotel on BoylstonStreet,into a room the sizeof a supplyclosetwith triple lockson the door and barson the window, where his moneywould go far. Everymorning he took the subwayto the Copley Squarelibrary, renteda computercubicle, and wrote lettersto hospitals acrossthe country. He also answeredclassifiedads in the New England lournal of Medicine,thosethat offeredpracticeout-of-countrywherea license was not crucial, or low-payingmedical researchpositionsnot too many peoplemight want, or supervised In the afternoons assistantships. he walked grubby Dorchester, looking for streets of Kenny. The lawyer representing the Mr. and Mrs. StevenGocek,parentsof the deadRosamund,wouldgivehim Neitherwould his own lawyer,he of the collapsingbooksand no addresses. in whom fessehad alreadylost all faith. clientele, desperate never Kenny on the cold streets. He saw March, The lastweekof an unseasonable warmwind blewfrom the south, andkeptup. Crocuses anddaffodilspushedup betweenthe sagging buildings. chasingeachotheracrossthe garbage-laden Childrenappeared, streets,crying raucously.Rejections camefrom hospitals,employers.fessehad still not told his parentswhat had happened.Twice in April he pickedup a public phone,andtwicehe sawagainthe plasticducksmarchingacross the artificial lawn, and somethinginsidehim slammedshut so hard not eventhe phone number could escape. One sunny day in May he walkedin the Public Garden. The city still maintainedit fairly well; foreign tourist traffic made it profitable.fesse countedthe number of well-dressed foreignersversusthe number of ragged The ratioequaledthe survivalratefor uninsureddiabetics. streetBostonians. "H.y, mister,help me! Please!" A terrifiedboy, ten or eleven,grabbedfesse'shand and pointed.At the bottomof a grassy knoll an elderlyman lay crumpledon the ground,his face twisted. "My grandpa!He just grabbedhis chestand fell down! Do something! Pleasel"

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fessecould smellthe boy'sfear,a stinklike rich loam. He walkedoverto the old man. Breathingstopped,no pulse,color still pink. . . . No. This man wasan uninsured.Like Kenny, like StevenGocek.Like Rosamund. "Grandpa!"the child wailed."Grandpa!" fesseknelt. He startedmouth-to-mouth.The old man smelledof sweat, of old flesh.No bloodmovedthroughthe body."Breathe,dammit,breathe," fesseheardsomeonesay,and then realizedit washim. "Breathe,you old fart, you uninsureddeadbeat,you stinkingingrat€,breathe-" The old man breathed. He sentthe boyfor moreadults.The child tookoff at a deadrun, returning twentyminuteslaterwith uncles,father,cousins,aunts,mostof whom spoke somelanguagefessecouldn't identifu.In that twentyminutesnone of the touristsin the Gardenapproached well-dressed fesse,standingguardbeside moaned softly, stretchedfulland carefully who breathed the old man, away,their faces him and then glanced at grass. tourists The lengthon the tightening. The tribe of family carriedthe old man awayon a homemadestretcher. )esseput his hand on the arm of one of the youngmen. "lnsurance?Hospital?" The man spatonto the grass. fessewalkedbesidethe stretcher,monitoringthe old man until he wasin his own bed. He told the child whatto do for him, sinceno one elseseemed to understand.Later that day he went back,carryinghis medicalbag, and gavethem the lastof his hospitalsupplyof nitroglycerin.The oldestwoman, who had been too busy issuingordersabout the stretcherto pay Jesseany attentionbefore,stoppeddeadand jabberedin her own tongue. "You a doctor?"the child translated. The tip of his ear,fessenoticed,was Accident?Ritualmutilation?The earhadhealedclean. missing.Congenital? "Yeah," fessesaid."A doctor." behind a door. The old woman chatteredsome more and disappeared he wasleaving, photos. As no deathbed There were walls. at the gazed fesse the woman returnedwith ten incrediblydirty dollar bills. "Doctor," shesaid,her accentharsh,and when shesmiled|essesawthat all her top teethand mostof her bottomonesweremissing,the gum swollen with what might havebeenearlysignsof scurvy. "Doctor," shesaidagain. He movedout of the hotel just as the last of his money ran out. The old found him a room in somebodyelse's man's wife, Androula Malakassas, The housewasnoisyat all hours,but rambling,dilapidatedboardinghouse. cousin brought home an old, Androula's large. and clean was room the multi-positionaldentistchair, probablystolen,and )esseusedthat for both chemotherexaminingandoperatingtable.Medicalsubstances-antibiotics,

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apy, IV drugs-which he had thoughtof as the hardestneedto fill outside of controlledchannels,turnedout to bethe easiest. On refection,he realized this shouldn'thavesurprisedhim. In fuly he deliveredhis firstbreechbirth, a primaparawhoselaborwasso long and painful and bloodyhe thoughtat one point he'd loseboth mother and baby.He lost neither,althoughthe new mothercursedhim in Spanish and spitat him. Shewastoo weakfor the salivato go far. Holdingthe warmassed,nine-poundbabyboy, fessehad hearda cameraclick. He cursedtoo, but feebly;the sharpthrill of pleasurethat piercedfrom throatto bowelswas too strong. In Augusthe lostthreepatientsin a row, all to conditionsthat would have neededelaborate,costly equipmentand procedures:renal failure, aortic aneurysm,narcoticoverdose. He wentto all threefunerals.At eachone the familyandfriendscleareda little spacefor him, in which he stoodsurrounded by respectand resentment.When a knife fight brokeout at the funeral of the aneurysr, the family hustledfesseawayfrom the danger,but not so far awaythat he couldn'ttreatthe loser. In September a Chinesefamily,recentimmigrants,movedinto Androula's sprawlingboardinghouse. The woman wept all day. The man roamed Boston,lookingfor work.Therewasa grandfather who spokea little English, havinglearnedit in Pekingduring the brief periodof Americanindustrial expansioninto the PacificRim beforethe Chinesegovernmentconvulsed and the Americaneconomycollapsed.The grandfather playedgo. On evenings when no one wantedfesse,he sat with Lin Shujen and movedthe polishedwhiteandblackstonesoverthe grid, seekingto encloseemptyspaces without losingany pieces.Mr. Lin took a long time to considereachmove. In October,a weekbeforefesse's trial, his motherdied. Jesse's fathersent him mongytg fly home for the funeral,the first money|essehad accepted flom his family sincehe'd finally told thern he had left the hospital.Aft.t the funeral fessesat in the living room of his father'sFlorida houseand listenedto the elderlymournersrecalltheir youthsin the vanishedprosperity '50s '60s. of the and "Plentyof jobsthen for peoplewho'rewilling to work." "Still plentyof jobs.fust nobody'swilling any more." "Want-everything handedto them. If you askme, this collapse'llproveto be a good in the long run. Weed out the weaklingsand-the [ary." lhing "lt was the sixtieswe got off on the wrong track, with Lyndon ]ohnson and all the welfareprograms-" Thev didn't look at fesse.He had no ideawhathis fatherhadsaidto them abouthim. Backin Boston,stinkingunderIndian summerheat,peoplethrongedhis room. Fractures,cancers,allergies,pregnancies, punctures,deficiencies, imbalances. They wereresentfulthathe'dgonea*r/ for fivedays.He should be here;they neededhim. He wasthe doctor.

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The first day of his'trial,|essesawKennystandingon the courthousesteps. Kennywore a cheapblue suit with loafersand white socks.fessestoodvery still, then walkedover to the other man. Kenny tensed. "l'm not goingto hit you," fessesaid. Kenny watchedhim, chin lowered,slightbody balancedon the ballsof his feet. A fighter'sstance. "l want to asksomething,"fessesaid."lt won't affectthe trial. I just want to know.Why'd you do it?Why did they?I knowthe little girl'strue genescan showed98 percentriskof leukemiadeathwithin threeyears,but even how could you?" Kennyscrutinizedhim carefully.fessesawthatKennythoughtfessemight be wired. EvenbeforeKennyanswered, fesseknewwhat he'd hear."l don't know what you'retalkingabout, man." "You couldn'tget insidethe system.Any of you. So you broughtme out. If Mohammedwon't go to the mounl2in-" "You don't makeno sense,"Kenny said. "Was it worth it? To you?To them?Was it?" Kennywalkedaway,up the courthousesteps.At the top waitedthe Goceks, who weresuingfessefor two million dollarshe didn'thaveandwasn'tinsured for, and that they knewdamn well they wouldn't collect.On the wall of their deathbedpicture,a little house,whereverit was,probablyhung Rosamund's hair. face and beautiful plain, sallow girl with a fessesawhis lawyertrudgeup the courthousesteps,carryinghis briefcase. climbedin parallelseveral Anotherlawyer,with an equallyshabbybriefcase, made a white empty steps men the courthouse feet away. Betweenthe two space. fesseclimbed,too, hopingto hell this wouldn'ttaketoo long. He had an infectedcompoundfemoralfracture,a birth with potentialerythroblastosis fetalis,and an elderlyphlebitis,all waiting. He was especiallyconcerned about the infectedfracture, which neededcareful monitoring becausethe man'sgenescanshoweda tendencytowardweakT-cell production-The guy wasa daylaborer,foul-mouthedand ignorantand brave,with a wife and two wasdeterminedto kids.He;dbrokenhis legworkingillegalconstruction. Jesse give him at leasta fightingchance.

THECOMINGOF VERTUMNUS lan Watson

V One of the most brilliant innovatorsto enterSF in many years,Ian Watsonwrites fiction that is typified by its vivid and highly original conceptualization.He sold his first story in 1969, and attractedwidespreadcritical attentionin l97l with his first novel, The Embedding.His novel The lonah Kit won the British ScienceFiction Awardand the BritishScienceFictionAssociation Awardin 1976 and!977, respectively. Watson'sother booksinclude Alien Embassy,Miracle Visitors,The Martian lnca, UnderHeaven'sBridge(coauthoredwith Michael Bishop),Chekhov's lourney, Deathhunter,The Gardensof Delight, eueenmagic,Kingmagic, The Bookof the River, The Bookof the Sfcrs, and The Bookof Being, the collectionsThe Very SIow Time Machine, Sunstroke,SIowBirds, andEvilWater. As editor, his booksinclude the anthologiesPicturesat an Exhibition,Changes(coeditedwith Michael Bishop), andAfterliues(coeditedwith PamelaSargent).His most recentbooksare the collection Stc/in'sTeardropsand the novelThe Fliesof Memory.He hashad storiesin our First and Fifth Annual Collections.Watsonliveswith his wife and daughterin a small villagein Northhamptonshire, England. In the complex,suspenseful, anddeliciouslyparanoidnovellathatfollows,Watson demonstrates, with typicalingenuityand inventiveness, that the bestconspiracies are thosethat go way back . . .

Do you know the Portraitof lacopoStrada,which Titian paintedin I 567or so? Bathedin goldenlight,this paintingshowsusa rich connoisseur displaying a nudefemalestatuette which is perhapseighteenincheshigh. oh yes,iulf beardedSignorStradais prosperour-in his blackvelvetdJubl.t, his cerise satinshirt, and his erminecloak.He holdsthat voluptuouslittle Venuswell away from an unseenspectator.He gazesat that spectatoralmost shiftily. Stradais exposing his Venusto view,yit he'salsowithholdingher proprietorially so as to whet the appetite. With her feetsupported on his opgnright hand,andher backrestingacross his left palm, the sculptedwomanlikewiieleansawayasif in complicitywith Strada.How carefully.hisfingers-wraparound hei. one firrgei eclipsesa breast'Anotherteasesher neck. Not that her charmsaren'tori disphy. Her handsare held high, brushingher shoulders.Her big-navelledb"liy ,nd

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mons venerisare on full show. A slight crossingof her kneeshints at a helpless,lasciviousreticence. Shearousesthe desireto acquireand to handleher, a yearningthat is at oncean artisticand an eroticpassion.Almost,sheseemsto be a homuncuvesselby the likesof a Paracellus-a tiny womanbredwithin an alchemist's sus,who had died only sometwenty-fiveyearspreviously. I chosethis portrait of facopo Stradaas the coverfor my book, Aesthetic of the implications My firstchapterwasdevotedto an analysis Concupiscence. of this particularpainting. . . facopoStradawasan antiquarywho spentmany yearsin the employof the Habsburgcourt, firstat Viennaandthen at Prague,asKeeperof Antiquistatuary. gemsand coinsaswell asclassical ties.He procuredand catalogued Coins wereimportantto the HabsburgHoly Roman Emperors,because coins bore the portraitsof monarchs.A collectionof coins was a visible of God-anointedrulers.Backon ChristmasDay in the year 800 genealogv ih. Pop" had crownedCharlemagneasthe first "Emperorof the Romans." The Church had decidedit no longerquite had the clout to run Europe politicallyaswell asspiritually.This imperialconcoction-at timesheroic, at other timeshiccupingalong-lasted urrtil 1806.That waswhen the last soasto thwart withoutsuccessor Holy RomanEmperor,FrancisII, abdicated presided Emperor the they say, Napoleonfrom grabbingthe title. By then, as holy. nor Roman, not ovei piecemealacreswhich wereneitherarrempire, of Emperor, the title hiiacked had the Habsburgdynasty Of course,effectively to be elective. which wassupposed Historyhastendedto viewthe Habsburgcourt of RudolphII at Praguein the late 1570sand 80sas wonky, wacky,and weird:an excellentwatering hole for any passingnut-cases,such as alchemists,hermeticoccultists,or " Not astrologers-whoof course,back then, were regardedas "scientists. Tycho tool Reveredastronomer that true sciencewasn'twell represented, Brahe burst his bladderwith fatal result at Rudolph'scourt, due to that that no one might be excusedfrom tabletill Emperor'seccentricinsistence his CaesarianMaiestyhad finishedrevelling. Botanistswere very busy classifuingplants there, and naturalistswere taxonomizingexoticwildlife (of which many specimensgracedRudolph's zoo)-just ai Stradahimselftried to imposeorderand methodologyupon ancientVenuses. that his Stradaresignedand quit Praguein 1579, perhapsin ir_ritation adviser another of those than Rudolph over less sway held criteiia aesthetic . . . Archimboldo Giuseppe collection-namely art Imperial the on My troublesbeganwhen I receiveda phonecall at Central St. Martin's Schoolof Art in CharingCrossRoad,whereI lecturedpart-timein History of the Same.The callei*nr one fohn Lascelles.He introducedhimselfas to ThomasRumboldWright. Oil magnateand art the UK personalassistant thoughslightly voicehada youthfullyengaging, collectoi,no less.l,ascelles's prissytimbre.

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Was I the Jill Donaldsonwho had written Aesthetic Concupiscence? I who had featuredscintillatinglyon Art Debateat Eight on Channel4 TV? Mr Wright would very much like to meet me. He had a propositionto make. Might a car be sentfor me, to whiskme the eighty-oddmilesfrom London to the North Cotswolds? What sortof proposition? Acrossmy mind there flasheda bizarreimageof myselfas a diminutive Venus sprawlingin this oil billionaire'sacquisitive,satin-shirted arms. For of coursein my book I had cleverlyput the stiletto-tipped boot into all such as he, who contributedto the obscenelunacyof art prices. MaybeThomasRumboldWright wasseekinga peculiarform of recompensefor my ego-puncturing stilettostabs,sincehe-capricious bachelorwascertainlymentionedonce in my book . . . "What sortof proposition?" "l've no idea," saidLascelles,boyishlyprotestinginnocence. I waited.However,Lascelles wasverygoodat silences, whereasI am not. "Surelyyou must havesomeidea,Mr. Lascelles?" "Mr Wright will tell you, Ms. Donaldson. " Why not? Why not indeed?I had alwaysrevelledin paradoxes, and it TY$ be_quiteparadoxical-not to mentionconstitutinga ielicious pieceof fieldwork-for Jill Donaldsonto acceptan invitation from Thomas R. Wright, lavisherof untold millions upon old canvases. o-ne 9f my prime paradoxes-in my "stratagemsof Deceit" chapterinvolveda comparisonbetweenthe consumptionof sensualfine art, and of visual Porn_ograpby I perpetratedan iconographyof the latter basedupon interviewsI conductedwith "glamour" photographers on the job. N;, t didn't seeit asmy missionto deconstruct male-oriintedsexism.Not a bit of it. That would be banal. I came to praiseporn, not to bury it. Those sumptuousnudes in oils of yore were the buoyant, respectaLle porn of their day.What we needednowadays, I enthused-tonguein cheek,several tonguesin cheekindeed-were issues of Penthoutu-nginne entirelypainted by latterdayMasters,with tits by the Titians of today,-uuluas by veroneses, pubesby populistPoussins. . . Ha! of Big ! *T buying a little flat in upper Bloomsbury,with the assistance BrotherRobertwho wasa bank managerin Oxford. Plump sanctimonious Bob regarded this scl_ap of propertyasagood investment.Indeed,but for his support,I couldhardly_have coped.Crowdedwith booksandprints,on which I squandered too much, Chez Donaldsonwasalreadydistinctlycramped.I coyld.hold a yar\ in it-so long as I only invited a dozen peopleand we spilledon to the landing. Evenamidstslumpand eco-puritanism, Londonpropertypricesstill bore a passingresemblancg to Impressionist price-tags.Per-hapilco-puritanism actuallysustainedhigh prices,sinceit seemedthat oneo,tjht to be penalized forwishingto live.fairlycentrallyin a city, contributingtoihe ,.*nj. burden and resources and powerdemando[ megalopolis, anI whatnot.

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The Eco Well, we were definitelyinto an era of radicalrepressiveness. friendly, thirdWas lifestyle one's environmentally bandwagonwasrolling. world friendly, future friendly?The no-smoking,no-car,no-red-meat,nostraitjacketwas tightening;and while I frilly-knickers,sackcloth-and-ashes might haveseemedto be on that sideethicallyas regardsthe conspicuous of megamillionson paintings,I simplydid not buy the package. squandering Perhapsthe fact that I smokedcigarettes-ohpenalizedsin!-accounted in part for my antipathyto the Goody-Goodies.Hence my naughtinessin consciousness exalting(tonguesin cheek)sucha symptomof unrecorrstructed as porn. Paradox,paradox.I did like to provoke. How many lovershad sucha tearawayasmyselfhad by the ageof thirtyone?fust three, in fact;one of them anotherwoman, a paintingstudent. Peter,Annie, andPhil. No oneat the moment.I wasn'texactlyoutrageous in privatelife. Peterhad been the prankster,the mercurialone. For his "God of the into tl-recorrtoursof bizarreGothic Deep" exhibitionhe wired fish skeletons in tanksof water.Goldfishwerethe congregawhich he displayed cathedrals, tiops-was this art, or a joke?Severallesssavouryanarchisticexploitsfinally me with Peter-about the time I decideddefinitivelythat I disenchanted reallywasan art historianand a critic (thoughof capriciousspirit). windows,to collectme couldhavewiped Sendinga Mercedes,with darkened regarded this as a Happening. I out my streetcred. Personally, the linesthat maybe doubt-along of a twinge Mind you, I did experience Peter not (Phil? Definitely Annie? )to confide I oughtto phonesomeone "something . ." I didn't me . happens to in case *hei. I wasbeingtaken,iust frisson. a certain added dalger do so, yet the spiceof supposed When my dobrbellrang,the radiowasbemoaningthe deathof coralreefs, blanchedleprousby the extinctionof the symbioticalgaein them.-Thiswas sad,of .ourr., tragic;yet I didn't intendto scourgemyselfpersonally,asthe in the programmeseemedto feel wasappropriate. participants Th; driver provedto be a Dutchmar-rcalled Kees,pronounc€dCase, who "did things"for Rumby-as he referredto ThomasRumboldWright. Athletic-lookingand bearded,courteousand affable,Casewore ieans,Reefor this boks,and an of.n-rl..ked checkedshirt. No uniform or peaked-cap next to sit I should so that driver, *ho opined the front door of the Merc the radiated Case isolation. him companionably,not behind in splendid similar in dressed I was easynegligenceof a culturedbodyguard-if-need-be. informa"lr"*yI.,being determinednot to doll myselfup in awe for the grand to weartrainerswith designernameson them. encounter-though I ref,rsed in Texas,he perAlthoughWright maintaineda corporatel-readquarters sonallyfalo.rredLir E,ttopeanbastion,BexfordHall. This had recentlybeen exteniedby the additionof a mini-mock-Tudorcastlewing to househis art had featured in evenhighersecurity.The Sunday Timescolour supplement photosof tl-,irfail of rti. (Oia it comecompletewith a dungeon,I wondered?)

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The mid-fune weatherwas chilly and blustery-either typical British summercapriceor a Greenhousespasm,dependingon your ideology. As we were headingout towardsthe motorway,we soon passedone of thosehoardingsfeaturinga giantposterof Archimboldo'sportraitof Rudolph II as an assemblyof fruits, vegetables, and flowers.Ripe pearnose;flushed round cheeksof peachand apple;cherryand mulberryeyes;spikychestnut huskof a chin; corn-earbrows,and so on, and so on. The EmperorRudolphasVertumnus,Romangodof fruit trees,of growth Who caredaboutthat particularsnippetof art historical and transformation. info? Acrossthe portrait'schestsplashedthe Eco message,WE ARE ALL PART OF NATURE. This waspart of that massiveand highly successful campaignexploitingArchimboldo's"nature-hs2d5"-2 Green propaganda campaignwhich absolutelycaughtthe eyein the mostpersuasive style. Thesepostershad beenadorningEuropeand Americaand whereverelse for the bestpart of two yearsnow. Indeed,they'd becomesuch a radiant emblem of eco-consciousness, such a part of the mental landscape,that I dotrbtedtheywould everdisappear from our streets. Peopleevenworeminiaturesas badges-asthough true humanity involvedbecominga garlanded bundle of fruit and veg,with a caulifower brain, perhaps. Caseslowedand staredat that hoarding. "Rudolph the red-nosed,"I commented. Somewhatto my surprise,Casereplied,"Ah, and RudolphlovedArchimboldo'sjokesso much that he madehim into a Count! Senseof humour's sadlymissingthesedays,don't you think?" My drivermusthavebeenboningup on his art history.The Greenposter campaignwascertainlyaccompanied by no backgroundinfo aboutthe artist whoseimagestheywererippingoff-or perhapsoneoughtto say"recuperating" for the presentday . . . ratherasan ad agencymight exploitthe Mona Lisa to promotetampons.(Why is shesmiling . . . ?) "Thosepaintingsweren'tiust jokes,"I demurred. "No, and neither are thoseposters. " Caseseemedto loathe those, as though he would like to tearthem all down. He speededup, and soonwe reachedthe motorway. Under the driving mirror-where idiots usedto hang woolly dice, and wherenowadayspeopleoften hung plasticapplesor p""lr, either sincerely or elsein an attemptto immunize their vehiclesagainstecovandals-there dangleda little model . . . of a rathercomplex-looking spacestation.The modelwasmadeof silver,or wasat leastsilver-plated. Ii swungto and fro as we drove.At times, when I glancedthat way, I confusedreai-viewmirror with model so that it appeared as if a gleamingfuturisticcraftwaspursuing us up the M40, bankingand yawingbehind us. Down wheremy left hand restedI found power-controls for the passenger seat.So I raisedthe leatherthrone-yes indeed,I was sitting on a dead animal'shide, and no wonderthe windowsweresemi-opaque fiom outside. I loweredthe seatand reclinedit. I extrudedand recessed the lumbarsupport.

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Now that I'd discovered this box of tricks,I iust couldn'tsettleon the most restfulpositionfor myself.Supposingthe seathad been inflexible,there'd havebeenno problem.Excessive I felt fidgety. tech, perhaps? "Do you mind if I smoke?"I askedCase. "Rumby smokesin this car," washis answer,which didn't quite confide his own personalfeelings,unlessthe implicationwasthat thesewerelargely irrelevantamongstWright'sentourage. Caseignoredthe 60-mile-an-hourfuel-efficiencyspeedlimit, though he droveverysafelyin this cushionedtankof a car. He alwayskeptan eyeopen well aheadand well behind as if consciousof possibleinterception,by a police patrol, or-who knows?-by Green vigilantekidnappers. Broadway,and BexfordHall wasin the trianglebetweenStow-on-the-Wold, rolling,breezy, through the wooded river valley cutting Winchcombe,setin a uplands. sheep-grazed The housewas invisiblefrom the leafuside road, being maskedby the high, wire-tippedstoneboundarywall in goodrepair,andthen by trees.Case openedwrought iron gateselectronicallyfrom the car-apparently the head gardenerand family lived in the high-pitchedgatehousealongside-and we purredup a winding drive. Lawnswith topiaryhedgesfrontedthe mullion-windowedhouse.Built of softgoldenlimestonearounda courtyard,ChezWright somewhatresembled a civilian castleevenbeforehis additionof the bastioned,bastard-architectural art wing. A helicopterstoodon a concreteapron.A Porsche,alagrsat, and variouslesserbeastswere parkedin a row on gravel.A satellitedish gracedthe rearslate-tiledroof, from which Tudor chimneysrose. The sun blinkedthrough,thoughcloudsstill scudded. And so-catching a glimpseen routeof severalpeopleat computerconthroughto fohn soles,scrutinizingwhatwereprobablyoil prices-we passed office,wherethe casualpilesof glossyart booksmainly caughtmy Lascelles' eye. Havingdeliveredme, Caseleft to "do things" Lascelleswas tall, willowy, and melancholy.He favoureddark mauve corduroytrousersand a multipocketedpurpleshirt loadedwith many Pens, hues On accountof the ecclesiastical not to mentiona clip-onwalkie-talkie. I imaginedhim asa sortof secularcourt chaplainto Wright. His smilewas a p,rried,wistfulaffair,thoughtherewasthat boyishlilt to his voicewhich had misledme on the phone. His silenceswerethe truer self. He pouredcoffeefor me from a percolator;then he radioednewsof my arrival.It seemedthat peoplecommunicatedby personalradioin the house. In reply he receiveda cracklysplutterof Texan which I hardly caught. Lascellessatand scrutinizedme while I drank and smokeda cigarette;on his littereddeskI'd notedan ashtraywith a cherootstubcrushedin it. Lascellessteepledhis hands.He wascataloguingme: a new personcollected-at leastpotentially-by his non-royalmaster,as he himself must once havebeencollected.

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Woman. Thirty-one. Mesomorphicbuild; though not exactlychunky. Tight curly brownhair croppedquiteshort.Violet vampSmallhigh breasts. iric lipstick.Passably callipygianass. Then in bustledRumby-as I simply had to think of the man thereafter. Rumby was a roly-polyfellow attiredin crumpledbronzeslacksand a floppy buff shirt with lots of pocketsfor pens,calculator,radio. He wore scruft trainers,thoughI didn't suppose that he joggedaroundhis estate.His white complexionsaidotherwise.His facewasquizzicallyowlish,with large spectacles-frames of mottledamber-magni8,inghis eyesinto brown otbr; and his thinning featheryhair wasrebellious. He beamed,almost tangibly projectingenergy.He pressedmy flesh quickly. He drew me along in his slipstreamfrom Lascelles' officedown a walnut-panelledcorridor.We entereda marble-floored domedhall which housedgleamingspotlitmodels.Somein perspexcases,othershanging.Not modelsof oil-rigs,oh no. Modelsof a Moon base,of spacecraft, olspace stations. Was Rumbya little boy at heart?Wasthis his den?Did he playwith these toys? "What do you think aboutspace?"he askedme. Mischiefurgedme to be contrary,yet I told him the truth. "Personllly,"I assuredhim, "l think that if we cop out of spacenow, as lookshighly likely, then we'll be lockedup here on Mother Earth for ever after eatinga diet of beansand being repressively good with 'Keep off the Crass'signseverywhere. oh dear,we mustn'tmessup Mars by goingthere the way we messed,rp Earth! Messup Mars, for Christ'ssake?It's iead to startwith-a desertof rust. I think if we can graball thosecleanresources and free energyin space,we'd be crazyto hide in our shell instead.But there'sneopuritanismfor you." Rumbyrubbedhis hands."And if Creenpropaganda losesus our launch windorvof the next fifty yearsor so, then we'velost foreverbecausewe'll havespentall our spunk.I knewyou'd be simpatico,lill.l've read Aesthetic Concubinestwice." "Concupiscence, actually,"I remindedhim. "Let's call it Concubines.That'seasierto say." Alreadym_y,lifeand mind werebeingmutatedby Rumby . . . "So how did you extrapolate my viewson spacefrom a book on the art market?"I asked. He tappedhis brow. "l pickedup on your anti-repressive streakand the perverse way you think. Am I right?" "Didn't you regardmy bookas a bit, well, rude?', "l don't intend to takethingspersonallywhen the future of the human race is at stake.It is, you know. It is. Green pressures are going to nix everyo-ne'sspacebudget.Do you know they'repressingto limiithe number of rocketlaunchesto a measlydozen per year worli-wide becauseof the exhaustgases? And all thosewould have to be Earth-Resources-relevant. Loony-tuneenviron-mentalistsl There'sa religious fervourspreading like clap

in a cathouse.It's screwingthe world'sbrains."How colourfullyhe phrased things.Was he trying to throw me off balance?Maybehe wasobliviousto otherpeople'sopinions.I gazedblandlyat him. "lill," he confided,"l'm partof a pro-space pressure groupof industrialists surveys.Do you know, in one calledThe StarClub. We've commissioned recentpoll forty-fiveper cent of thosequestionedsaid that they'd happily 'science' if they could live in a more natural giveup quoteall the benefitsof We know Can you believesuch scuzzbrains? world without radioactivity? how fastthis Eco gangreneis spreading.How do we disinfectit? Do we use You might aswell reasonwith a hippo in heat." rationalscientificargument? "Actually, I don't seehow this involvesme . . ." "We'IIneedto usesometricks.So,comeandviewthe Wright Collection." steeldoor into his climate-controlled He took me througha security-coded sanctumof masterpieces. Roomafterroom. Rubens.Goya.Titian. And otherlesserluminaries. . . . till we cameto the door of an inner sanctum. I half expectedto find the Mona Lisa herselfwithin. But no . . . piscineportrait.A figuremade On an easelsat. . a totallypornograPhic, of many fishes(alongwith a few crustaceans). A femalefigure. nakedwoman,red lobsterdildo clutchedin one octopusA spread-legged hand, friggingherself.A slippery,slithery,lubriciousVenus composedof Prawnlabia,with legs eelsand catfishand trout and a scoreof otherspecies. and feelersaspubic hair . . . The long suckeryfingersof her otheroctopushand teaseda pearl nipple . . . The paintingjust had to be by Archimboldo.It wasverycleverand, mm, It alsooozedlust and perversity. persuasive. "So how do you like her?"askedRumby. "That lobster'srathera nippy notion," I said. "lt isn't a lobster,"he correctedme. "It's a cookedfreshwatercrayfish." if you happento drool overall those'We "She's,well, fairly destabilizing are part of Nature' posters." "itightl And Archimboldopainteda dozensuchporn portraitsfor private EmperorRudolph." consumptionby c:razy "He did?" This wasastonishingnews. "l've laid handson them all, though they aren'tall here." Rumbydirectedme to a tablewherea portfoliolay. Openingthis, I turned men made overa dozenlargeglossycolour reproductions-ofmasturbating and spurting nuts hairy large with men fruits, autumnal and of mushrooms . leaves lettuce and marrows of ladies composed lesbian licking of seed; "You researched all the backgroundbio on Strada,fill. Nobody knows whatsortof thingsour friendArchy might havebeenpaintingbetween1176 and I587 beforehe went backhome to Milan, hmm?" "I thought he was busy arrangingfestivalsfor Rudolph. Masquesand tournamentsand processions."

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"That isn't c// he wasarranging.Rudy wasfairly nutty." uoh, I don't know if that'squite fair to Rudolph . . ." "What, to keepa chainedlion in the hall? To sleepin a differentbed everynight?His mania for exotica!Esoterica!Erotica!A pushoverfor any passingmagician.Bizarrefoibles.LoopyasKing Ludo of Bavaria-yet with real power.The power to indulge himself-secretly-in orgiesand weird " erotica,therein vastRatzenCastlein Prague. I wonderedaboutthe provenance of thesehithertounknownpaintings. To which, Rumby gavea very plausibleanswer. When the Swedesunderthe commandof von WrangelsackedPraguein 1648astheir contributionto the Thirty Years'War,theypillagedthe imperial collections.Thus a sheafof Archimboldosendedup in Skoklosters Caitle at Bilsta in Sweden. "Skoklosters S/off. Kind of evocativename, huh?" When QueenChristinaconvertedto Catholicismin 1654and abdicated the Swedishthrone, shetook many of thoselootedart treasures with her to Romeitself-wi$ th-eexceptionof so-calledGermanart, which shedespised. In her eyes,Archimboldowaspart of Germanart. However,in the view of her catechist(who was a subtlepriest),those pornpaintingswerea differentkettleof fish.The Vaticanshould locked-away takechargeof thoseand keepthem subrosa.Painterswereneverfingeredby the Inquisition,unlike authorsof the writtenword. Bonfiresof metElylewd materialwere never an issuein an era when clericsoften liked a fuck. Nevertheless, such paintingsmight serveas a handy blackmailtool against HabsburgEmperorswho felt temptedto act too lenientlytowardsProtestants in their domains.A blot on the Habsburgscutcheon,suggesting a strainof lunacy. The cardinal-diplomat to whom the paintingswereconsigneddeposited them for safe keepingin the crypt at a certaln enclosedJolvent of his patronage. There,_a_s it happened,theyremaineduntil discovered by a private collectorin the 1890s.By then the conventhad fallen on hard timei. Our collectorrelievedthe holy mothersof the embarrassing secretheritagein return for a substantial donation. . . "lt's a watertightstory,"concludedRumby, blinking owlishlyat me. ,,of courseit's alsoa completelie . . ." The dirty dozenArchimboldoswereforgeriesperpetrated in Holland within the pastcoupleof years,to Rumby'trp.Lifi"ations,by a would-besurrealist. I staredat the fishy masturbatress, fascinated. "They're fine forgeries,"he enthused."painted on antique oak board preciselyelevenmillimetresthick. Two baselayersof white lead,chalk,and charcoalslack. . ." He expatiatedwith the enthusiasmof a petrochemist conductingan assayof crude.The-accuracy of the lipid rnd proteincomponents.The pigmentsconsistingof azurite,yellow lead, maLchite . . . Mr oil seemedto know rathera lot aboutsuclraspects of oil painting. He wavedhis handimpatiently."Point is, it'li standup r.tnd",X-Iay, infra-

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forgerywith seriousmoney red, most sortsof analysis.This is perfectionist Europe, behind it. Oh yes,sponsored in book, prints,postcards, exhibition mediascandal. . . ! ThesenaughtyArchiesaregoingto fuck all thoseGreen Fascists in the eyeballs.Here'stheir patronsaintwith his pantsdown. Here's what red-nosedRudy reallygot off on. Nobody'llbe ableto gazedewy-eyed at thosepostersany more, drooling about the sanctityof nature. Thfs is nsfuls-red in dildo and labia.A fish-fuck.Their big imagecampaignwill blow up in their faces-ludicrously,obscenely.Can you beatthe powerof with an anti-image!We'll havedonesomean image?Why yes,you thing reallypositiveto savethe spacebudget.You'll write the intro to the art book, fenny, in your inimitablestyle.Scholarly-but provocative." "l will?" "Yes, becauseI'll pay you threequartersof a million dollars." A flea-biteto Rumby, really . . . wasprobablyten timesthat. Or more. The budgetfor this wholeescapade Would that representthe output of one singleoil well for a year?A month . . . ? I reallyhad no idea. on the face Asidefrom our crusadefor space,smearingeggconspicuously of the ecofreaksmight materiallyassistRumby'sdaily businessand proveto by pumpingout the be a soundinvestment,sincehe profitedso handsomely resources. planet'snon-renewable "And becauseyou want to sockGreenFascism,fill. And on accountof perverse'" how this is so splendidly,provocatively he right? Was he right, or was He wascertainlydifferentfrom the kind of man I'd expectedto meet. the ObviouslyI mustn'tspill the beansin the nearfuture. Consequently but bank, Zurich name in a my in deposit held on bulk of my feewould be to me five yearsafter publicationof Arwould only becomeaccessible . . chimboldoErotico. Until then I would needto lead roughlythe samelife asusual-plus the needto defendmy latestopusamongstmy peersandon TV and in magazines and whereverelse.Rumby-or ChaplainLascelles-wouldcertainlystrive to ensurea mediacircus,if nonesuchburgeonedof its own accord.I would be Rumby'sfront woman. I liked the threequartersof a million aspect.This showedthat Rumbyhad subtlety.One million would havebeena blatantbribe. I alsoliked Rumby himself. I had indeedbeencollected. And that 750K (asBrotherBob would count it) wasn'tby any meansthe I aPProved. only consideration. As to my fallbackposition,shouldthe schemebe-ahem-rumbled . . . well, pranksquestionmundanerealityin a revolutionarymanner,don't they just? That wasa line from Peter,which I half believed-though not enoughto stagea diversionin the NationalGalleryby strippingmy blouseoff, as he hai wished,while Peterglueda distemperycanineturd to Gainsborough's

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painting,White Dogs,so as to question"conventions."I'd balkedat that proposedescapade of Peter'sten yearspreviously. This wasa politicalprank-a blow againstan insidious,powerfulkind of repression; almost,even,a blow for art. Thus, my defence. I took a copy of the erotic podfolio backwith me to Bloomsbury to gazeat for a few days;and to keepsafelylockedup when I wasn'tlookingat it. f ust aswell that Phil wasn'tinvolvedin my immediatelife thesedays,thoughwe still saweachother casually.I'm surePhil'santennaewould havetwitched if he hadstill beensleepingwith a strangely furtiveme. Beingart critic for the SundayTimeshadseemedto imbuehim with the passionr olan investigative iournalist.fust as soon as ArchimboldoEroticoburst upon the scene,no doubt he would be in touch . . . I would needto tell liei to a former lover and ensurethat "in touch" remaineda phrasewithout physicalsubstance. AlreadyI could envisionhis injured, acquisitiveexpr.riion as he rebuked me for not leakingthis greatart scoopto him p.rro.rrlly. ("But why not, Jill? Didn't we sharea greatdeal?I must sayI think it's damnedqueerthai you didn't breathea wordaboutthis!Very Deculiar,in fact.It makeime positively -But suspicious . . . This isn't somekind of revengeon your part, is it? *hv, why?") And what wouldAnnie think?Shewaspaintingin Cornwallin a women's artistic commune, and her last letter had been friendly . . . If I hadn,t offendedher with my porn paradoxes, then attaching-y nr-. to a glossy volume of fish-frigsand spurtingphallic mushroomsoughtn'tto mak--e too much difference,unlessshehad becomeradically..pr.riiu. of late . . . In otherwords,I waswonderingto what extentthis'escapade would cause a hindwardsreconstruction of my own life on accountoi the duplicity in which I'd be engaging. And what about the future-in five yearstime-when I passedGo and becamethree quartersof a dollar millionairess? What rouid I do with all that money?Decampto ltaly?Quit the Londongrimeand buy a farmhouse near Florence? In the meantimeI wouldn't be ableto confidethe truth to any intimate friend. I wouldn'tbe ableto affordintimacy.I might become,o,n. pursedsmile equivalentof ChaplainLascelles, though oi a longerleash. MaybeRumby had accuratelycalculatedtlrat he wasgettinga bargain. To be sure,the-shape_of *y immediatefuturealr some"what?ependld o1 the impactof the book,the exhibition,the extentof the hoo-ha. . . p.rro.,ally, I'd give the book as much impact as I could. After all, I did like to

provoke.

I returnedto BexfordHouse a week later, to staytwo nights and to sort through_Rumby's stockof materialaboutArchimboldo,Ridolph, and the PragueCourt. I have a good readingknowledgeof Germrn, Fr.r,.h, and Italian,thoughI'm not conversationally fluent In thosetongues.Any bookI

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neededto takeawaywith me wasphotocopiedin its entiretyby Lascelleson machine.Pop in a book-within five mia high-speed,auto-page-turning nutesout poppedits twin, collatedand bound. The machinecost twenty thousanddollars. A weekafterthat, Casedroveme to the docklandsairport for a ratherlux commuterflight with him to Amsterdam,whereI examinedall the other Archimboldo"originals";althoughI didn't meetthe forgerhimself,nor did I evenlearn his name.The paintingswerestoredin threelocations:in the apartmentof Rumby'schosenprinter,Wim Van Ewyck,in that of the gallery ownerwho would host the show,Geertde Lugt, and in a lockedroom of the entire the Galerij Boschitself. In the eventof prematurecatastrophe, House) Bexford (minus at masturbatress fishy the work corpusof controversial masse. out en wouldn't be wiped What about the printerdidn't needto be in on the conspiracy. Presumably impressed on me' as Case the galleryowner?Maybe;maybenot . . This, Lugt de Miinheer did to-nor *rr i subjectwhich shouldn'tevenbe aluded so much as hint. The other elevenArchimboldoswereevenmore stunningat full sizein the framethan in colour reproduction.And alsomore . . . apPalling? I returnedto Bloomsburyto write twentylargepagesof introduction.Less SinceI wasbeing would havebeenskimpy;morewouldhavebeenexcessive. fastidiouslyattentiveto everynuanceof the text, the writing took me almost three*..kr, with five or six drafts.("Put somefeelinginto it," Rumby had "Smearsomevaginaljelly on the words.") counselled. The taskdone, I phonedBexfordHall. Casedrovethe Merc to London the sameeveningto courierthe pagespersonally.Next day,Rumtryphoned to pronounce himself quite delighted. He only suggesteda f9w microchanges.We wererolling. Our exhibitionwould openin_the Galerii Bosch on the first of September,coincidingwith publicationof the book. And of courr. irnust attendthe privateshowingon the lastdayof Augustas it were.(l did hope the varnishwastotally dry!) the vernissage, our party-consisting of Rumby and Caseand Amsterdam, in While that hotel Grand Hotel Krasnopolskybecau-se myself-the Lascellesand fish. I pig raw for a bit of a was Rumby and restaurant, boasteda fapanese wasn'tcomplaining. We arriveda dayearlyin caseRumbyhad anylast-minutethoughtsabout of the layoutof the ,ho*, or Caseaboutits securityaspects. -Sothe morning canal a tree-lined fronted which Bosch, the Galerii at us saw the tlrirty-first not far fio* wheredozensof antiqueshopsclusteredon the routeto the big art museums. The high neck gableof the building, ornamentedwith two bounteous of fruits and vegetables-shades sculptedciassicalriaidensamidst ""r.rd.ta hoistingbeam,thoughI doubted indeed!-incorporated of Archimboldo, particllar ihrt ,ny cratedpaintingshad entired the loft of the gallery-by-that three blanking-the currently were blinds ti-.."Venetian lolg route for a were which of transoms and uprights windows-the adjacentgrounJ-floor

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backedby discreetsteelbars,asCasepoirrtedout; and alreadyMijnheer de Lugt, a tall blond man with a bulbousnose,had three muscularfellows loungingaboutin the large,spot-litexhibitionroom. One in a demureblue and moon-faced,obviouslyo[ securityuniform-he was golden-skinned typesworelight suitsand chunky The other Germanic Indonesianancestry. trainers. A high pile of copiesof ArchimboldoEroticostood in one corner for the mediapeople,museumdirectors, presentation that eveningto the guests: mavericks. Particularly the mediapeople. and cultural mandarins quailed. heart And my thisexhibition? Despiteall the gloss,mightn'tsomeonepromptlydenounce not offend. Holland, where in itself would the obscenity We werein liberal "Hoax!"? Yet wouldn'tsomeonecry type perhapsenthusiastically Worse, mightn't someinspiredavant-garde applaudthis exhibitionas an ambitiousjape? beneatha suaveexterior.He blewthat De Lugt seemeda tadapprehensive snozzleof his a number of timeswithout obviousreason,as though determined to be squeaky-clean. "Ms. Donaldson,wouldyou signa copyof the bookfor me asa souvenir?" l-reasked.When I had obliged,he scrutinizedmy signatureasif the scrawly autographmight be a forgery. MaybeI wassimplybeingparanoid.But I wasdamn gladof this dry run amongstthe exhibits. Caseconferredwith the securitytrio quietlyin Dutch. They smiled;they nodded. The wet run that evening-lubricatedby champagneto celebratethe resurrectionof long-lostworksof a bizarremaster,andcontemporary of Rabelaiswent off quite as well as could be expected. A youngred-haired womanin a severe blackcocktaildresswalkedout along with her escortin shockandrage.Shehadbeenwearingan Archimboldoecobadgeas her only form of jewellery,with the word Arft printedupon it. A fat bluff beardedfellow in a dinner jacket,with an enormousspotted cravatinsteadof bow tie, got drunk and beganguffawing.Tearsstreamed down his hairy cheekstill Casediscretelypersuaded him to stepoutsidefor an airing. Rumby wasbombardedby questions,to which he would grin and reply, "lt's all in the book.Takea copy!"One of the greatart finds,yes.Castsquite a new light on Archimboldo,that emotionallycomplexman. So why had Mr. Wright sprungthis surpriseon the art world by way of a privategallery?Ratherthan lendingthesepaintingsto somemajor public museum? "Ah now, do you reallysuppose your big museumwould haveleaptat the chanceof showingsuchcontroversial material,LadiesandGentlemen?Some big city museumwith its reputationto think about?Of course,I'll be perfectly delightedto loan this collectionout in future . . . "

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I was quizzedtoo. Me, in my new purplevelvetcouturierpant-suit. Geert De Lugt smiled and noddedapprovingly,confidently.Naturally Rumby would havepaid him handsomelyfor use of his gallery,yet I was becomingconvincedthat Mijnheer De Lugt himself was innocentof the deception.He had merelyhad stagenervesearlier. We stayedin Amsterdamfor anotherfivedays.Pressand mediaduly obliged with publicity,and I appeared on Dutch and GermanTV, both with Rumby and without him. So many peopleflockedto the Galerij Boschthat our Securityboyshad to limit admittanceto thirty peopleat any one time, while a coupleof tolerantpolicehung aboutoutside.Our booksoldlike hot cakes to the visitors;and by now it wasin the bookshops too. ("At this rate," joked Rumby, "we'll be makinga fuckingprofit.") During sparehours, I wanderedround town with Case.Rumby mainly stayedin his suiteat the Krasnapolsky in phoneand fax contactwith Bexford and Texas,munchingsushi.I nurseda fancythat ChaplainLascelles might perhapslugubriouslybe visitingthe RedLight Districtto let his hair and his pantsdown, but he certainlywasn'tgettinghigh on anydope.Me, I preferred the fea-marketon Waterlooplein,whereI pickedup a blacklaceshawland a slightlyfrayedKhasmirirug for the flat backin Bloomsbury. I noticeda certainitem of graffition numerouswalls:OnzeWereldis onze Ark. "Our world is our Ark," translatedCase. Sometimesthere was only the word Arfr on its own writ even largerin I couldn'tbut recallthe badgeworn by that pissed-offwoman spray-paint. at No . . . mortally offended.Obviously, the party in the gallery. Pissed-off? punning,mispronounced Arft wasa passionate, allusionto . . . who elsebut jester? EmperorRudolph'scourt When I mentionedthis graffitoto Rumby, he almostgrowledwith glee. "Ha! So whatdo you do in this fuckingarkof theirs?You hide, anchored all your major resources, then you can't by gravity-till you'vesquarrdered get to anyplaceelse.Sucksto arks." We all few backto Englandon the Sunday.At sevenA.M. on the Monday the phonebullied me awake. Lascelleswascalling. Late on the Sundaynight, a van had mounted the pavementoutside Galerij Bosch.The drivergrabbeda waitingmotorbikeand spedoff. Almost demolishingthe whole frontageof at once the van explodeddevastatingly, there'dbeena hell of a lot of ielliedpetrol the building.As well asexplosives, in that van. Fireworks,indeed!The gallerywasengulfedin and phosphorus flames.So werepartof the streetanda coupleof trees.Eventhe canalcaught fire, and a nearbyhouseboatblazed,thoughthe occupantshad beencalled awayby someruse.The two securityguardswho werein the galleryon night shift died.

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And of courseall the Archimboldoshad beenburnt, thoughthat seemed a minor aspectto me right then . . . Casewascomingprontoto pick me up. Rumby wantedus to talk faceto facebeforethe media swarmed. Two hourslater. I wasat BexfordHall. Case,and I met togetherin a book-linedupstairsstudy, Rumby,Lascelles, furnishedwith buffleatherarmchairsupona russetPersiarlcarpet.The single largewindow, composedof stonemullions, seemedsomewhatat oddswith ceilingwhich featuredscrollsand roses,with cherthe ltalianateplasterwork the bossof an electrifiedchandelier.MaybeRumby putti supporting ubsand from in someother housebecauseit wasthe right had boughtthis ceiling size,andhe likedit. The roomsmelledof cheroots,andsoonof my Marlboro too. "Let's dismissthe financialsideright away," commencedRumby. "The paintir-rgs weren'tinsured.So I'm not obligedto make any kind of claim. Hell, do I needto? The book will be the only record-and your fee stays no that the paintingsthemselves secure,Jill. Now, is it to our disadvantage arrangedthe torchingof longerexist?Might someonehint that we ourselves art expertscould sticktheir fingersin the pie? the gallerybeforeindependent I think two tragicdeathssayno to that. Thosepoor guyshad no chance.T. So,ghastlyasthis is, it could RumboldWright isn'tknownfor assassinations. if it smearsthe ecofreaks, the covenanters be to our advantage-especially of the Ark." What a slur on the ecofreaks that they might destroynewly discovered of art for ideologicalreasonsin a desperate masterpieces effort to keepthe When peoplesawanyArchimboldo artistpurefor exploitationby themselves. badgeor posternow, they might think, Ho-ho. . . I wasthinkingaboutthe two deadguards. Lascelleshad beenliaisingwith Holland. "The Dutch police are puzzled,"he summarized."ls this an outburstof A fewyearsagosomepeoplereviveda groupcalledthe SKGart-terrorism? 'City Art Guerillas'who causedstreetand gallerytrouble. They so-called neverkilled anyone.Even if the coupleon that houseboatwerekept out of harm'sway to makethe attackers seemmore benign,De Lugt'stwo guards . . . were just slaughtered "Then what abouttheseArk people?The loony fringeof the Dutch Eco movementhavegonein for destructive industrialsabotage-butagain,they haven'tcausedany deaths.This is more like the work of the German Red Column, though it seemsthey haven'toperatedin Holland recently.Why do so now?And why hit the gallery?" "To hurt a notedCapitalist,in the only way they could think of?" asked " Rumby. "No, I don't buy that. It's got to be tl-reEcofreaks. "The ecologymovementis very respectable in Holland." Rumby grinnedwolfishly."Mightn't be, soon." "Ecologyis governmentpolicy there."

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How much more newsworthythe destructionmadethosenaughtypaintings! How convenientthat they were now beyondthe reach of sceptical specialists. "l don't suppose,"said I, "one of your allies in the Star Club might conceivablyhavearrangedthis attack?" Drop a ton of lead into a pond. "Future of the human race,"I addedweakly."Big motivation." Rumby wrestleda cherootfrom his coat of many pocketsand lit it. "You can forgetthat idea. Let'sconsidersafety.Your safety,Iill." I supposehe couldn't avoid making this sound like a threat, however benevolently intentioned-or makingit seemasif he wishedto keepmy free spirit incommunicadoduring the crisis. . . "Someonehasbombedand murderedruthlessly,"saidRumby. "I'm safe here." "Yes, you are," Caseassuredhim. "But you, fill, you live in somelittle scumbagflat in any old streetin London. I'd like to invite you to stayhereat Bexfordfor a weekor two until thingsclarify." "Actually, I can't," I told him, with silly stubbornness. "l havea couple of lecturesto give at St. Martin'son Thursdry." "Screwthem. Cancelthem." "And it isn't exactlya scumbagfat. " "Sorry-you know what I mean." "At leastuntil there'sa communiqud,"Lascelles suggested to me. "Then " know dealing It's we'll what we're with. only sensible. "Don't be proud," saidRumby. He puffed.The cherubsabovecollected " a tiny little bit more nicotineon their innocenthands."Please. nicotine from And somemore me too. "You don't needto feedsomegoddamcat, do you?" askedRumby. "No . . ." In fact I loathed cats-selfish, treacherouscreatures-but Rumby probablywouldn't havecaredone way or the other. In the event,I stayedat Bexford.Until Wednesdayafternoon.No news emergedfrom Holland of any communiqud. Could the attackersnot have known about thosetwo guardsinsidethe gallery?So now theywereashamed, andpoliticallyreluctant,to claim credit? and napalm and Unlikely. You don't assemblea vanloadof explosives phosphorus, makesurethere'sa getawaymotorbikewaiting,and bail out the withoutcheckingeverythingelseaboutthe occupants of a nearbyhouseboat, targettoo. Lascelleswas stonewallingqueriesfrom the media. ("Mt. Wright is shocked.He grievesat the two deaths.He has no other comment at present. .") Stubbornly,I insistedon beingdriven backto Bloomsbury. My little flat had beenburgled.My CD playerand my TV were missing. Entry wasby way of the fire escap€door, which had been smashedoff its none too sturdyhinges.Otherwise,therewasn'tmuch damageor mess.

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I hadn't wishedCaseto escortme upstairs;thus he had alreadydriven away.Of courseI couldhavereachedhim on the Merc'scar phone.Yet this wasso ordinarya burglarythat I simplyphonedthe police.Then I thumbed the Yellow Pagesfor an emergencyrepairservicewhich waswilling to turn up within the next six hours. The constablewho visitedme presentlywasa West Indian. A coupleof other nearbyflats had also been brokeninto the day beforefor electrical goods,sohe said.WasI awareof this?He seemedto be pitchinghis questions towardselicitingwhetherI might perhapshaverobbedmyselfso asto claim insurance. "Fairly neat break-in,Miss, all thingsconsidered. " "Exceptfor the door." "You're lucky. Somepeoplefind excrementspreadall overtheir homes." "Did that happenin the other flatsthat wereburgled?" "Not on this occasion.So you reportedthis justassoonasyou cameback 5ro''.'_2,' "From the Cotswolds. " "Nice part of the country,I hear.Were you therelong?" "Threedays." "Visiting friends?" "My employer."Now why did I haveto saythat? Blurt, blurt. "Oh, so you live here, but your bossis in the Cotswolds?" "He isn't exactlymy boss.He wasconsultingme." The constableraisedhis eyebrowsuggestively. Obviouslyhe believedin keepingthe suspectoff balance. "You do havea lot of expensive bookshere, Miss," washis next tack. Y9r, rowsof glossyart books.Why hadn'tthosebeenstolen-apart from the fact that they weigheda ton? "l don't supposethe burglarswereinterestedin art," I suggested. He pulled out a Botticelli,with library markingson the spine,from the shelf. "This is from a collegelibrary," he observed. "l teachthere. I lectureaboutart." "l thoughtyou saidyou werea consultant ." By the time he left, I washalf-convinced that I had burgledmyself,that I habituallythievedfrom libraries,and that I wasa call-giil who had been supplyingsexua-l favoursto Mr. X out in the country.Wouid thesesuspicions be enteredin the police_computer? Did I havethe energyto do anything aboutthis?No, it wasall so . . tentative.Did I want to seemparanoid? Bert the Builder finally turned up and fixed the door for a hundredand thirteen pounds . . . which of coursethe insurancewould be covering. Otherwisethe iob would havecostjust sixty,cash. I did manageto look over my lecturensfss-6n Titian and Veronese. I microwaveda madrasbeef curry with pilau rice; and went to bed, fed up.

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The phone rang. It wasPhil. He'd beencallingmy numberfor days. Theseweird long-lostArchimboldos!Why hadn't I told him anything? And the terroristattack!What had happened? Could he come round? "Sorry, Phil, but I've fust had my CD and TV nicked.And the helpful visitingconstablethinks I'm a hooker." I wasglad of the excuseof the burglary. Towardsmid-morningmy phonestartedringing,anda coupleof Press sleuths turnedup in person,pursuingthe art bombingstory;but I stonewalled, and escapedin the direction of St. Martin's where, fortunately,no reporters lurked. At four in the afternoonI steppedout from the factory-likefrontageof the art schoolinto a CharingCrossRoadaswarmwith tourists.Beneatha grey the fumy air waswarm. A sallowMiddle Easternyouth in checked overcast someEnglishLanshirt and jeanspromptlyhandedme a leafletadvertising guageAcademy. "l alreadyspeakEnglish," I informedthe tout. He frownedmomentarily as if he didn't understand.No pointsto the Academy. "Then you learncheaper," pursuingme alongthe pavement. he suggested, "Do not botherthat lady," interrupteda tall blond youngman dressed in jacket and slacks. a lightweightoff-white "No, it's all right," I assured-y would-beprotector. "lt is not all right. Any trashis on our streets.They are not safe." He waved,and a taxi pulled up almost immediately.The young man openedthe door, plungedhis hand insidehis jacket,and showedme a small pistolhiddenin his palm. Was he someurbanvigilantecrusaderpledgedto what was I justdidn't understand rescuedamselsfrom offensiveencounters? happening. "Get in quickly,"he said,"or I will shootyou dead." HeIp, I mouthed at the Arab, or whatever. In vain. Did anyonenoticeme beingabducted? I did asPrinceCharmingsuggested. into that taxi? Or only seea handsomeyoungman hand me enthusiastically The driverdidn't look round. "Keepquiet,"saidthe youngman. "Put theseglasses on." He handedme such as someonewith a glasses black as night equippedwith side-blinkers, eyeailmentmight wear.Only, thesewereutterlydark;I rarehypersensitive couldn'tseea thing throughthem. We drovefor what seemedlike half an hour. Eventuallywe drew up-and might havetime to Passon by-before my waited,perhapssothat passers-by me from the cab. Quickly he guidedme arm in arm up abductorassisted somesteps.A door closedbehind us. Traffic noisegrewmute. We mounted a broad flight of stairs,and enteredan echoingroom-

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into a straight-backed armchair.Immediatelyonehand whereI waspressured pressedunder my nose,and anotheron my jaw, to forcemy mouth open. "Drink!" Liquid poureddown my throat-some sweetconcoctionmaskinga bitter undertaste.I gaggedand splutteredbut had no choiceexceptto swallow. What had I drunk?What had I drunk? "l needto seethe eyes,"saida sombre,if somewhatslobberyvoice."The truth is in the eyes."The accentwasGermanic. A hand removedmy glasses. I found myselfin a drawingroom with a dustyvarnishedfloor and double oak doors.A small chandelierof dull lustresshone.Thick blue brocade curtainscloakedtall windows,which in any eventappeared to be shuttered. A dustsheet coveredwhat I took to be a babygrandpiano.An oblongof less fadedrose-and-lilywallpaper,over a marblefireplace,showedwheresome paintinghad hung. On a chaiselonguesata slim elegantgrizzle-hairedman of perhapssixty kitted out in a well-tailoredgreysuit. A walkingcanewaspressed between his knees.His handsopenedand closedslowlyto revealthe chasedsilver handle.A secondmiddle-agedman stoodnear him: stouter,bald, wearing a long purple velvetrobe with fur trimmingswhich at first I thought was gown.This man'sfacewasjowlyandpouchy.He looked someexoticdressing like Goeringon a badday. His eyeswereeerie:bulgy,yet brightasif he was on cocaine. My abductorhad stationedhimselfdirectlybehind me. On a walnut tablelay a copyof ArchimboldoErotico, openat my introduction. Shit. "My apologies, " said the seatedgent, "for the manner of your coming here, Miss Donaldson."He gesturedat the book. "But you owe me a profound apology-and restitution.Your libelsmust be corrected." The fellow in the robemovedcloser,to stareat me. His fingerswiggled. "What libels?" I asked,rather deeplyscared.These peoplehad to be nutters,possessed by somezanyfanaticalmotive.Well-heeled,well-groomed nutterswere maybethe really dangeroussort. What had I drunk? A slow poison?Would I soonbe beggingfor the antidote? "Libels againsta certainHoly RomanEmperor,Miss Donaldson.Thus, libelsagainstthe Habsburgdynasty. . . which may yet be the salvationof Europe,and of the world.V.ry untimelylibels."The gentraisedhis cane and slashedit to and fro as if decapitating daisies."l am sureyou will see reasonto denounceyour fabrications publicly "What fabrications?" upon my book, - Hestoodup smoothlyandbroughthis canedownsavagely though his expression remainedsuaveand polite. I jer[ed, imaginingthat canestrikingme instead. "These!Theseobscenities wereneverpaintedby Rudolph'scourt artist!"

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"But," I murmured,"the looting of Prague. . . Skoklosters Castle. . . QueenChristina'schaplain. . " He sighed."Lies. All lies. And I do not quite know why. Let us discuss art and history,Miss Donaldson." "She is deceitful,"saidthe fellow in the robe,alwayspeeringat me. "She " hasa guilty conscience. "Who are you?" I asked."The local mind-reader?" The stoutman smiledunctuously. "Herr Vossis my occultist,"explainedthe gent. "Oculist?You mean, optician?" "My occultistlMy pansophist. The holder of the keysto the Unknown. And my namehappensto be Heinrichvon Habsburg,MissDonaldson. . ." "Oh...," Isaid. "l shallnot burdenyour brain with genealogy, exceptto saythat I am the living heir to the Holy Romanthrone." Genealogyindeed."l thought,"saidI, "that your Romanthronecouldn't be inheritedby virtue of blood-" divine right. What the Electors He cut me short. "You misunderstand give.God finallyvestedthis title theirs, but to rightly God's, wasn't bestowed And sacredhistory." instead. in the Habsburgfamily. Let us discussart to do, while the keeperof the keys This, His Royal Heinrich proceeded contemplatedme and my guardhoveredbehind me. Rudolphand his fatherMaximilianbeforehim had beenastute,benevolent rulers,who aimed to heal discordin ChristianEuropeby uniting it under Habsburgrule. They lived noble and honourablelives,as did Count Giupossessed a precisepoliticaland fantasias seppeArchimboldo.His supposed metaphysicalsignificancein the contextof the Holy Roman throne. The aestheticharmonyof naturalelementsin the Yertumnusand in the other portraitheadsbespokethe harmonywhich would blessEurope under the benificentleadershipof the Houseof Austria. . . lawohl, I thought. the Habsburgswould rule like the elementsthemselves, Ever-present, both microcosmand macrocosm-boththe politicalworld, and naturetoo. depictedas Habsburgheadswrought Archimboldo'scycle of the seasons, of Wintry, Vernal, Summery, and Autumnal ingredients,confidedthat season. Habsburgrule wouldextendeternallythroughtime in oneeverlasting of Hercules, Under the secularand spiritualguidanceof thosedescendants the Houseof Habsburg,the GoldenAge would returnto a united Europe. Right on. In due courseof time, this happyculminationhad almostcome to pass. by Nostradamus, The "Great King," as predicted, naY, proPagandized loomedon the horizon. unitedwith the Houseof Lorraine,and when Marie When the Habsburgs was AntoinettebecameQueenof France,the Houseof Habsburg-Lorraine

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within a generationof dominion overEurope-had the FrenchRevolution not intervened. What a pity. Throughoutthe nineteenthcenturythe Houseattemptedto regroup.However, the upheavalsattendingthe end of the First World War toppled the from power,usheringin chaos. . . Habsburgs Shame. Now all Europewasrevivedand reuniting,and its citizenswereevermore awarethat the microcosmof Man and the macrocosmof Nature were a unity. Yet lacking,os yet, a head. A Holy Roman Imperialhead. of the monarchyin Hungarywasone possibleacecard, Early restoration though other cardswerealso tuckedr.tpthe imperial sleeve. . . Archimboldo'ssymbolicportraitswere holy ikonsof this goldendream, especiallyin view of their ecoinjectioninto the Europeanpsyche.Those paintingswereprogrammingthe peoplewith a subconscious expectation,a hope, a longing,a secretsenseof destiny,which a restoredHabsburgHoly Roman Empire would fulfill. "Now do you seewhy your obscenities are such a libelousblasphemy, Miss Donaldson?" Good Cod. "Do you mean to tell me that you're behind the Archimboldo ecocampaign?"I askedHis ImperialHeinrich. "The powerof symbols,"remarkedVoss,"is verygreat.Symbolsare my " speciality. Apparentlythey weren't going to tell me whetherthey simply hoped to exploitan existing,serendipitous mediacampaign-or whethersomeloyal Habsburgmole had actively persuadedthe ecofreaksto plasterwhat were effectivelyHabsburgheads-in fruit and veg, and flowersand leaves-all over Europeand America. "You brokeinto my flat," I accusedthe man behind me. "Looking for somedirt that doesn'texistbecausethe eroticpaintingsare genuine!" Blondieslappedme sharplyacrossthe head. "Martin! You know that is unnecessary!" H. von H. held up his hand prohibitively-for the moment, at least. "You brokemy doordown," I mutteredovermy shoulder,thinkingmyself reprieved,"and you stole my CD and TV iust to make the thing look plausible.I bet you burgledthoseother flats in the neighbourhoodtoo as a " deception. Martin, on his own? Surelynot . . There must have been othersinvolved.The taxi driver . . . and whoeverelse. . . "Actually, we brokeyour door afterthe burglaa," boastedMartin. "we " enteredwith more circumspection. voss smiledin a predatoryfashion."with secretkeys,as it were."

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Others.Others... They had blown up the GalerijBosch!They hadburnedthosetwo guards todeath... I shrank. "l seethat the magnitudeof this is beginningto dawn on your butterfly mind," saidthe Habsburg."A unitedEuropemustbe savedfrom pollution. Ecologicalpollution, of course-a Holy Roman Emperoris as a force of nature.But moralpollutiontoo." "How about racial?"I queried. "l'm an aristocrat,not a barbarian,"remarkedHeinrich. "The Naziswere contemptible.Yet plainly we cannot haveMoslems-Turkish heathensinvolvedin the affairsof Holy Europe.We cannothavethosewho besieged our Vienna in 1683succeeding now by the backdoor." of centurieslong past. . . Rumbyand his scienceStar Oh, the grievances Club suddenlyseemedlike such fohnnies-Come-Lately indeed. Science versusimperialmagic. . . with ecomysticism in the middle... "l just can't believeyou're employinga friggingmagicianto gain the throne of Europe!" "Language,Miss Donaldson!"snappedthe Habsburg."You arecorrupt." Vosssmoothedhis robeas though I had mussedit. "You're a creatureof your time, Miss Donaldson,"said H. von H. " "WhereasI am a creationof the centuries. "Would that be The Centuriesof Nostradamus?" Yes,that wasthe title of rigmarole. that volume of astrological "l mustn't forgetthat you're educated,by the lights of today. Tell me, what do you supposethe Centuriesof the title refer to?" "Well, years.A long time, the future." "Quite wrong.Theresimplyhappento be a hundredquatrains-versesof four lines-in eachsection.You'reonly half educated.And thus you blunder. How much did your Americanart collectorpay you for writing that introduction?" ObviouslyRumby would havepaid me something. . . I wouldn't have written thosepagesfor nothing . . . "Three thousanddollars,"I improvised. "That doesn'tsoundverymuch, considering the evil intent. Is Mr Wright beinghoaxedtoo?" Again, he slammedthe caneon to my book. andtwisted fash of agonyseared acrossmy back.I squealed An astonishing round-but Martin washolding no cane. He washolding nothing at all. With a grin, Martin displayedhis empty pawsfor me. Vossgiggled,and when I lookedat him he winked. It wasasthoughthat openvolumewassomevoodoodoll of myselfwhich the Habsburghad fust chastised. The Habsburglashedat my wordsagain,and I cried out, for the sudden pain wasintense-yet I knew therewould be no mark on me.

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Vosslickedhis lips. "Symbolicresonances, Miss Donaldson.The power of symbolicactions." What drug had beenin that liquid I swallowed? I didn't feel disorientedsavefor nervesand dread-yet I must be in somevery strangestateof mind to accountfor my suggestibility to pain. "We can continuethusfor a while, Miss Donaldson."Heinrich raisedhis caneagain. "Wait." Was three quartersof a million dollarsenoughto compensate for being given the third degreeright now by crazy,ruthlessmurderers-who could torture me symbolically,but effectively? I experienced an absurdvisionof myselfattemptingto tell the WestIndian detective-constable that actuallymy flat had beenbrokeninto by agentsof a Holy Roman Emperor who hoped to take over Europe-and that I was seekingpolice protectionbecausethe Habsburgscould hurt me agonizingly by whippingmy words. Was I mad, or wasI mad? The room seemedluminous,glowingwith an inner light. Everydetailof furniture or draperywasintenselyactual. I thought that my senseof reality had neverbeenstronger. 'loka-y," I admitted,"the paintingswereall forgeries.They weredone in Holland,but I honestlydon'tknowwho by. I neveimet him. i ,,.u., learned his name.Rumby-N{q. Wright-hates the ecologylobbybecause theyhate spaceexploration,and he thinksthat'sour only hope.I havea friend at the Sunday Times. I'll tell him everything-about how the paintingswere a prank. They'll love to print that! wright will have eggon hi, fr..-. " "What a treacherous moderncrcatureyou are," th. Hrbrburg saidwith casualcontempt;and I squirmedwith shameand fear. "Justwatchfor next weekend's paper,"I promised. "At this moment," saidVoss,"she believesshe is going to do what she says-and of courseshe knowsthat our Martin can find l'rer.if she breaks her word He peered. "Ah: she'srelievedthat you cannot reachher from a with the whippingcane. "And shewonderswhetherMartin would reallykill her, and thus loseus her testimony ." No, he wasn't -realingmy mind. He wasn't!He wasreadingmy face, muscles.He could do so becauseeverythingwasso real. More peering. "She feelsa_paradoxical affectionfor her friend . . . Rumby. Soliclarity, aswell _asgreed. defi1itg loyalty." If only I hadn'tcalledhi- nu-by. Y.:,. 1 If only I'd iustcalledhim Wright. It wasall in the words.Vosswasn'treadirig my actual thoughts. must be retrainedin her

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What did he mean?What did he mean? "She must be conditionedby potentsymbols,Voss." "fust so, Excellency. " "Thus shewill not wish to betrayus. Enlightenher, Voss.Showher the real depth of history,from wherewe come. Your juice will be deepin her now." Numbnesscreptover me, as Vossloomedcloser.The sheerpressureof his approachwasparalyzingme. "Wait," I managedto squeak. "Wait?" echoedH. von H. "Oh, I havewaitedlong enoughalready.My family has waitedlong enough.Through the French Revolution,through the Communistintermezzo. . The Holy RomanEmpirewill reviveat this presentcusp of history-for it has alwaysremainedin being, at leastas a stateof mind. And mind is what matters,Miss Donaldson-as Rudolph knew,contraryto your pornographic lies!Ah yes,my ancestoravidlysought the symbolickey to the idealworld. Practitioners of the symbolic,hermetic artsvisitedhim in PragueCastle-though he lackedthe loyal servicesof a Voss. . ." The Habsburgslid his caneunderthe dustsheet of the piano,and whisked the cloth off. Seatinghimselfon the stool,he threwopenthe lid of the baby grand with a crash.His slim, manicuredfingersstartedto play plangent, mournful Debussyish chordsin which I could almostfeel myselfbegin to drown. Vosscroonedto me-or sang-in somedialectof German and I couldn'tmovea muscle.SurelyI wasshrinking-or elsethe drawingroom wasexpanding.Or both. Vosswasbecomingvast. I wasa little child again-yet not a child, but rathera miniatureof myself. When I wason the brink of puberty,lying in bed just prior to driftingoff to usedto happento me. sleep,this samedistortionof the senses The music lamented. And Vosscroonedmy lullaby. body A beardedman in blackvelvetand cerisesatinheld my nudeparalyzed in his hands.He held the wholeof me in his hands-for I wastiny now, the heightof his forearm. Drapedover his shoulderswasa lavishermine cloak. I wasstiff, unmoving. He placedme in a niche, ran his fingertipdown my belly, and tracedthe cleft betweenmy thighs. He steppedback. Then he left. I wasin a greatgloomyvaultedchamberhousingmassivecupboardsand The slit windowsin the thick stonewall were gratedso as to strongboxes. deter any slim catburglars.Stackedseveraldeeparound a broad shelf, and likewisebelow, were mythologicaland Biblical oil paintings:Tintorettos, Titians, by the look of them . . . Neitherthe lightingnor the decorwereat

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all in the spiritof any latter-daymuseum.Herewasart astreasure-well and truly lockedup. Daysand nightspassed. Weeksof staticsolitudeuntil I wasgoing crazy.I would havewelcomed any changewhatever,any newcomer.My thoughtsloopedarounda circuit of Strada,death in Amsterdam,Habsburgs,with the latter assumingever more significance-andnecessity-with eachmentalswing. Eventuallythe door opened,and in walkeda figurewho madethe room shine.For his faceand hair weremadeof a hundredspringtimeflowers,his collar of white daisies,and his clothesof a hundredlush leaves. He stoodand gazedat me throughforal eyes,and with his rosebudlips he smiledfaintly. He simplywent away. A seasonpassed,appallingin its sheerduration. I saw daisies stars beforemy eyes,in an unendingafterimage. Then in walkedglowingSummer.His eyeswereripe cherries.His teeth werelittle peas.Plumsandberriestangledin his harvest-hair;and hisgarment wasof wovenstraw. And he too smiled,and went awayin turn. And anotherseasonpassed. . . . . till rubicundAutumn madehis appearance. He wasa more elderly fellow with an oatenbeard,a fat pearof a nose,mushroomears,clustersof grapesinsteadof locksof hair. His chin was a pomegranate. He wore an overripeburstfig as an earring.He winkedlecherously,and departedeven as I tried to cry out to him throughrigid lips, to stay. For next cameWinter, old and gnarled,scabbedand scarred,his nosea stumpof rottedbranch,his skin of fissuredbark, his lips of jutting bracketfungus. Winter stayedfor a longergrumbly time, though he no more reachedto touch me than had his predecessors. His departure-the apparentend of this cycleof seasons-plungedme into despair.I wasas cold as marble. Until one day the door openedyet again, and goldenlight bathedmy prisonchamber. Vertumnushimselfadvanced-the fruiful God, his cheeksof ripe apple and peach,headcrownedwith fruit and grain,his chesta mightypumpkin. His cherryand blackberryeyesglinted. Rudolph! He reachedfor me. oh to be embracedby himl To be warmed. He lifted my paralyzednakedbody from its dustyniche. The crashwhich propelledme back into the drawingroom might almost havebeencausedby his droppingme and letting me shatter. For a moment I thoughtthat this wasindeedso. Yet it wasmy trancewhich had beenshattered. A policemanwas in the room. An armed policeman,crouching. He pannedhis gun around.Plainly I wasthe only otherpersonpresent.

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The crashmust havebeenthat of thosedoubleoak doorsflying open as he burstin. Footsteps thumped,elsewhere in the house. Voicescalled. "Empty!" "Empty!" Severalother officersspilledinto the room. "You all right, Miss?" I could move my limbs-which were clothedexactlyas earlier on, in jeansand maroonpaisleysweater.I wasn'ttiny and naked,afterall. I stared around.No sign of von Habsburgor Vossor Martin. "You all right, Miss?Do you understandme?" I noddedslowly.I still felt feeble. "Shewasjustsittinghereall on her own," commentedthe officer,putting his pistolaway."So what'shappening?"he demandedof me. How did they know I washere? "l was . . . forcedinto a taxi," I said. "l wasbroughthere, then given somedrug." "What sortof drug?Why?" "lt mademe . dream." "Who broughtyou here?" "A man calledMartin He's the HabsburgEmperor'shit-man . . . The drug wasconcoctedby a magician. . . How could I tell them suchthings?How could I explainabout Rudolph . ? (And how could I deny Vertumnus, who had almost Vertumnus rekindledme...?) "They were trying to get me to deny things I wrote about the painter Archimboldo. ." "About a painterT" I tried to explainaboutthe pictures,the bombingin Amsterdam,and how slidawayof itsown accord-for the my flathadbeenburgled.My explanation sakeof sheerplausibility,and out of logicalnecessityl-fromany Habsburg connexion,and into the ecofreakchannel. that the Greenswho bombedthat The officerfrowned."You're suggesting galleryalsokidnappedyou?There'sno one here now." "They must haveseenyou comingand run away.I'm quite confused." "Hmm," saidthe officer."Come in, Sir," he called. his In walkedPhil: chunky,dapperPhil, velvetjacketedand suede-shoed, rich glossybrown hair brushedback in elegantwaves,as ever. It wasPhil who had seenme pushedinto the taxi; he who had noticedthe gleamof gun from right acrossthe streetwherehe had beenloiteringwith intent outsidea bookshop,waiting for me to emergefrom St. Martin's so that he could bump into me. He'd managedto grabanothertaxi and follow. He'd seenme hustledinto that housein North London,wearingthoseblack

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" It took about an hour for him to stir up the armed posse-an "goggles. had passedbeforemy eyes. hour, during which four seasons The fact that Phil and I werelong-term"friends"and that he turnedout to be a "journalist"-of sorts-irked the police.The abduction-by persons unknown,to a vacanthouse,whereI simplysatwaitingpatiently-beganto . . . for the sakeof publicity.Nor-given the seemdistinctlystage-managed Amsterdamconnection-did my mentionof drugshelp matters.Calling out armedpolicewasa seriousmatter. We wereboth obligedto answerquestionsuntil latein the eveningbefore we could leavethe policestation;and eventhen it seemedasif we ourselves might still be chargedwith someoffence.However,thosedeathsin Amsterdam lent a greatercredenceto what I said. Maybe there was something seriousbehind this incident. . I, of course,was "confused."Thus, early on, I was given a blood test, aboutwhich the policemadeno furthercomment;therecouldn'thavebeen any evidenceof hashor acid in my system. I neededto stay"confused"until I could get to talk to Rumby. PeevedPhil, of course,insistedon talking to me over late dinner in a pizzeria-we wereboth starvingby then. I lied quitea lot; and refrainedfrom any mentionof Habsburgs or the Star Club. The Archimboldopaintingshad all been genuine. Rumby was an upfront person.Euro Ecofreaksmust havebombedthe gallery.Must have abductedme. Blondie Martin; elderlyman, name unknown;stout man, nameof Voss,who worea strangecostume.Germanspeakers. f ustthe same as I'd told the police, five or six times over. The kidnappershad tried to persuademe to denouncewhat I had written becausemy wordswere an insult to Archimboldo,emblemof the Greens.They had druggedme into a stupor-from which I recovered with surprisingswiftness. Rescuehad come too soonfor much elseto transpire. Phil and I weresharinga tuna, anchovy,a nd prawnensembleon a crispy base,and drinking red wine. "lt's quite somestory,fill. Almost front-pagestuff." "l doubt it." "The Eco connection!Bombing,abduction. . . I'd like to run this by Freddyon the newsdesk." "You're an art critic, Phil-and so am I. I don't want some cockeyed blatherin the papers." "lill," he reproached me, "I've justspentaII eveningin a policestationon you." accountof "l'm gratefulyou did what you did, Phil. Let'sstopit there." "For Christ'ssake,you could still be in dangerlor . . aren't you, after all?Was this a publicitystunt?Was it stagedby Wrighf?You'rein deep,but you want out now?Why would he stagesuch a stunt?If he did . . . what reallyhappenedin Amsterdam?" Dear God, how his antennaeweretwitching."No, no, no. It couldn'tbe a stuntbecause the only witnessto it wasyou, andthat wasquiteby chance!"

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"By chance,"he mused. as though maybeI might have spiedhim from an upperwindowin St. Martin'sand promptlyphonedfor a kidnapper. "Look, Phil, I'm confused.I'm tired. I needsleep." Into the pizzeriasteppeda stout, bald man wearinga dark blue suit. He walkingstick.Goeringon a night out. His bulgy flourisheda silver-tipped with pain, jerking eyesfixedon mine. He swishedthe stick,and I screamed againstthe table,spillingboth our wines. "lill !" Phil managedto divertthe redtide with his papernapkinat the sametime ashe reachedout towardsme. Other customersstaredagog,and the manager hastenedin our direction.Were we engagedin someviciousquarrel?Wine drippedon to the floor tiles. Vosshad vanished.I slumpedback. "Sorry,"l saidto the manager."l had a bad cramp." The managerwaveda waiterto ministerto the mess.Otherdinersresumed munching their pizzas. "Whateverhappened?" whisperedPhil. "A cramp.]ust a cramp." havetrailedus to the policestationand Could one of thoseHabsburgers hung aroundoutsidefor hours,keepingwatchtill we emerged? Had I truly seenVoss,or only someonewho resembledhim? Someone thatpainrefex?That agonizing andwhoseactiontriggered whoseappearance hallucination. . . Phil took me backto the fat in a taxi. I had no choicebut to let him come up with me-in casethe placewasinfested. It wasn't.Then it took half an hour to getrid of my friend,no matterhow I claimed.By the time I phonedRumby'sprivatenumberit much tiredness wasaftereleven. Him, I did startto tell about the Habsburgs. He wasbrevityitself."Sty no more," -y rich protectorcut in. My Rumby Daddy. "Staythere.I'm sendingCasenow. He'll phonefrom the car iust as soonashe'soutsideyour place.Make quite sureyou seeit's him beforeyou openyour door." I dozedoff soundlyin the Merc. When I arrivedat Bexford,Rumby had waitedup to quiz me and pump me-attended by Case,and a somewhat wearyLascelles. I got to bed around four . . . . . . leavingRumbyaiming to do someseriousphoning.Had Big Daddy Not exactly.Rumbyalwaysenioyeda few beenbreakingout the benzedrine? hours advantageover us local mortals.So as to staymore in synch with Americantime-zoneshe habituallyroseverylateof a morning.A night shift satellitelink. In andtransatlantic duo alwaysmannedthe computerconsoles that sense,Bexfordnever really closeddown. I'd alreadygatheredthat crisis was somewhatof a staff of life around

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Rumby-who seemedto cook up his own personalsupplyof benzedrine internally.During my previoustwo-daysojourn,there'dbeenthe incident of the microliteaircraft.Thanksto a CotswoldAir Carnival,microliteswere overflyingBexfordat a fewhundredfeetnow andthen. Rumbytookexception and had Lascelles tryingto takeout a legalinjunctionagainstthe organizers. Simultaneously, there'dbeenthe businessof the starlings.Affrontedby thosemicrolite pterodactyls, and seekinga new air-basefor their sorties,a hordeof the quarrelsome birdstook up residence on the satellitedish. Their weightor their shit might distortbits of informationworth millions. What to do? After taking counselfrom an avian welfareorganization,Rumby despatched his helicopterto collecta heapof Frenchpdtardfirecrackers from Heathrowto stringunderneaththe gutters.So my stayhad beenpunctuated by random explosivefarts . . . I wokeat noon, and Rumbyjoinedme for breakfast in the big old kitchenantiquity retrofittedwith stainless steeland ceramichobs.A largeTV setwas tuned to CNN, and an ecologistwasinveighingabout rocketexhaustsand the ozoneholes. "Each singleshuttlelaunch releases a hundredand sixty-thre e thousand kilogramsof hydrogenchloridethat convertsinto an atmosphericmist of hydrochloricacid! So now they'rekindly promisingto changethe oxidizer of the fuel-the ammonium perchloratethat producesthis vast cloud of pollution-to ammonium nitrate in5[s2d-" As soonas I finishedmy croissant,Rumby scuttledthe cooks-a couple of local women-out to pick herbsand vegetables. He blinkedat me a few times. "Any more sightingsof flowerpotmen?or Habsburgs?" he enquired. "That isn't funny, Rumby. It happened." He nodded."l'm afraidyou'vebeengivena ringbinder,fill. " "Come again?" "l've beentalkingto one of my bestchemistsover in Texas.Sally has a busymind. Knowsa lot aboutpharmaceuticals." He consultedscribblesin a notebook."The ring in question'sa molecularstructurecalledan indole ring , . . These rings bind to synapses in the brain. Hence, ring-binder. They'repsychotomimetic-theymimic psychoses. Your little petswill probably stayin placea long time insteadof breakingdown. Seemsthere;sa lot of covert designerdrug work going on right now, aimed at cooking up chemicalsto manipulatepeople'sbeliefs.Sally had heardrumoursoion. drug code-namedConfusion-and anotherone called Persuasion, which seemsto fit the bill here. It's the only explanationfor the hallucinationwhich camefrom within you, of course,onceyou weregiventhe appropriate prod." "l do realizeI washallucinatingthe . . . flowerpotmen. you mean this can continue. . . indefinitely?" "You flashedon for a full encorein that pizzaparlour,right?Whiplash!

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Any fraughtscenesin future involvingold Archy could do the same.Media interviews,that sort of thing-if you disobeythe Habsburgview of Archy. Though I guessyou mustn'tspill the beansaboutthem publicly." "They told me so. How did I get awaywith tellingyou last night?" "They were interruptedbefore they'd finished influencing you." He grinned."l guessI might be high enoughin the hierarchyof your loyalties to outranktheir partialhold on you. Media or Presspeoplewouldn'tbe, so you'd be advisedto follow the Habsburgpartyline with them. Maybeyou could resistat a cost." 'iOf what?" "Pain, inflictedby your own mind. Distortionsof reality.That'swhat Sally says.That'sthe word on thesenew ring-binders.They bind you." The more I thoughtaboutthis, the lessI liked it. "How many peopleknow about thesepersuaderdrugs?"I askedhim carefully. "They haven'texactlyfeaturedin Nelrsweek.I gatherthey'rea bit experimental. Sally has an ear for rumours. She'spart of my researchdivision. Runs a search-teamscanningthe chemistryjournals.Whatevercatchesthe applications,mainly." eye.Any tips of future icebergs.New petrochemical He spokeas if icebergsstartedout fully submerged,then graduallyrevealed "She helpeddig up dataon the correctpaint chemistryfor the themselves. Archies." How frank he wasbeing. Apparently.And how glib. "So how would a Habsburgmagician gethispawson prototypepersuader drugs?"I demanded. Rumby lookedrueful. "Hell, maybehe is a magician!Alchemyprecedes chemistry,don't they say?" "ln the samesensethat Icarusprecedes a iumbo iet?" One of the cooksreturnedbearingan obesemarrow. Impulsetook me to the kitchengarden,to broodon my own. The sun had finally burned through persistenthaze to brighten the rows of cabbages, majesticcauliflowers,and artichokes,the rhubarb,the leeks.An ancient brick wall backedthis domain, trussesof tomatoesrangedalong it. Rooks cawed in the elms beyond, prancing about those raggedystickneststhat of the branches. seemedlike diseases A I'd met reallybeen Heinrich von Habsburg? whom gent Had the old Merely world stage? on the to step in the wings waiting Emperor Holy Roman circumstances? becausehe told me so, in persuasive masqueradWhat if that trio in the drawingroom had reallybeenecofreaks pulling the wool over my eyes,trying to bamboozleme ing as Habsburgs, into confession? Did puritanicalecofreakshave the wit to stagesuch a show? How much more likely that the StarClub, with its presumedaccessto

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cutting-edgepsychochemistry-anda penchantfor dirty tricks?-was responsiblefor the charade,and for my drugging! Whether Rumby himselfknew so, or not. Wipe me out asa reliablewitnessto my own partin the prank?Eliminate me, by giving me an ongoingneryousbreakdown? Would that invalidatewhat I'd written? Ah no. The slur would be upon ecologists . . . And maybe,at the sametime,fesfthat persuader drug?Give it a field-trial on a highly suitabletestsubject,namelymyself?The Club'ssubsequent aim might be try similar persuasion on influentialecofreaks to altertheir opinions or to make them seemqazy In my case,of course,they wouldn'twish to turn me into an eco-groupie . . . Thus the Habsburgconnectioncould haveseemedlike a fertile ploy. Was therea genuine,elderlyHeinrichvon Habsburgsomewhere in Germany or Austria?Oh, doubtlesstherewould be . . . The vegetablegardenbeganslithering,pulsing,throbbing.Ripe striped marrowsthumpeduponthe ground,greatgreengonads.Tomatoestumesced. Leekswerewaxywhite candleswith greenflameswrithinghigh. Celeryburst from earth, sprayingfeatheryleaves.Sproutsjangled.Cauliflowerswere nakedbrains. The gardenwastryingto transformitself,to assernble itselfinto somegiant sprawledpotentbody-of cauli brain, leek fingers,marrow organs,green leafflesh. . . I squealedand fled back towardsthe kitchen itself. Then halted,like a huntedanimal. I couldn'tgo inside-where Rumby and Caseand Lascelles plotted- . . the downfall of Nature, the rape of the planets,the bleedingof oil from Earth'sveinsto burn into chokingsmoke. junglehadstilled.lts metamorphosis Behindme, the vegetable hadhalted, reversed. If I thoughtharmoniously,not perversely, I wassafe. Yet my mind waschurning,and realitywasunstuck. In_my perception_one conspiracyoverlayedanother.One schemingplot, anotherschemingplot. Thereforeone realityoverlayedanotherrealitywith hideouspersuasiveness. Where had I just been,but in a vegetablepl'ot? I couldn't_go into that house,to which I had fled for safetyonly the night before.For from insideBexfordHall invisibletendrilsarchedoui..ror, [h. sky, bouncingup and down out of space,linking Rumby to starcrusaders who-wereplayingwith my_mind-and to whom he might be reportingmy conditionevennow, guilefullyor innocently. On the screenof the skyI spieda futureworldof ConfusionandPersuasion, wheredevotedfanaticsmanipulatedmoodschemicallysothatNaturebecame a multifold creatureevokinghorror-since it might absorbone into itself, mind-meltingly,one'skeenconsciousness dimming into pulsing,orgasmic dreams;and from which one could only fleein silveiships,out tJ the empty

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serenityof spacewhere no universallylinked weedsinfestedthe floating rocks,no bulgingtomatohaemorrhoids the asteroids. . . Or elseconjuringup a positivelust for vital vegetative unity! whiplashof pain to jerk I slappedmyself,tryingto summona Habsburger me out of this bizarredual vision. I must go indoors.To sanity.And beyond. The ring-binderwasclampingmore and more of me; and my mind was at war. I wasscriptingmy own hallucinationsfrom the impetusof ecofreak absurdly,and from the myth of the Holy Roman ideology, exaggerated Empire . . . I wasdreaming,wide awake. And Casestood,watchingme. "You okay,Iill?" I nodded.I shouldn'ttell him the truth. There wasno truth any more; therewasonly potentimagery,subjectto interpretation. Certainbedrockfactsexisted:the bombing,the deathsin Amsterdam,my that'swhat thosewere.The interpretationwas abduction. . . Event-images: anothermatter,dependentupon what one believed-just asart wasforever in the contextof a new epoch;and evenhistorytoo. being reinterpreted Persuasion-andConfusiontoo?-had torn me loosefrom my moorings, I synchronously. cascaded aboutme simultaneously, so that interpretations had becomea battlefieldbetweenworld-views,which differentpartsof my mind wereanimating. With dread,I sensedsomethingstirringwhich perhapshad lain dormant of self eversincehumanitysplitfrom Nature-ever sincetrue consciousness had dawnedas a sport,a freak,a biologicalaccident. . . "You sure,Iill?" You. I. Myself.Me. The independentthinking entity, namedfill Donaldson. any longer.An illusionof SelfI wasn'tthinkingquiteso independently that productiveillusion upon which civilizationitselfhad beenfoundedwasfloundering. "Quite sure,"saidI. I, I, I. Ich. Io. Ego. And filldonaldsonhastenedpasthim into the kitchen,whereone of the cookswas hollowing out the marrow. The big TV set, tuned to CNN, scoopingsignalsbouncedfrom space,shimmered.The coloursbled and reformed.The pixel pixiesdanceda new iig. The countenanceof Vertumnusgazedforth from that screen,he of the laughinglips, the ripe rubicundcheeksof peachand apple,the pear-nose' the-goldenearsof corn that werehis brows.Oh the fashing hilarity of his Oh thoselaughinglips. berry-eyes. With severalnodsof his headhe gesturedfill elsewhere. fill adopteda pan-face. She walkedthrough the corridorsof the house,to the front porch. She steppedout on to the graveldrive. Ignition keyswere in the red Porsche.

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Jill oughtto be safewith Annie in a colonyof women.RudolphVertumnus wasa male, wasn'the? A hop throughCheltenham,then whooshby motorwayto Exeterand on down into Cornwall. She would burn fuel but keepan eye out for police patrols.Be at Polmerrinby dusk . . . The Porschewasn'teven approachingCheltenhamwhen the car phone burbled,inevitably. She had beencountingon a call. A- stolenbright red Porschewould be a little obviouson the motorway.So shehad her excuselined up. Shewasgoingto visit her brother-in Oxford, in roughly the oppositedirection.She'dbe back at Bexfordthat evening. BrotherBob wasa banker.Let Rumby worry that shewasgoing to blab to him to protecther 750K investment,about which she no longer careda hoot. Let case and someco-driverhare after her fruitlesslytowardsoxford in the Merc. The voicewasn'tCase's.Or Lascelles'. Or evenRumby's. She nearlyjerkedthe Porscheoff the road. The voicewasthat of Voss. "Can you hear me, FrduleinDonaldson?" Handsshaking,.legs trembling,she guidedthe car into a gatewayopening on _toa-huge field of close-cutgoldenstubblegirt by a hawthorrr'h.ig.. A Volvo hootedin protestas it swungby. A rabbitfed. "How did you find me, Voss-?" shegasped.Horrid perspectives loomed. "They told you! They know you!" The callerchuckled. "l'T merelythe voiceof Vertumnus,Frdulein.My imageis everywhere thesedays,so why shouldn'tI be everywhere too?Are youierhaps worried aboutthe collapseof your preciousEgo, Fraulein?" How persuasive his voicewas."This hasall happened -but before,you know. The God of the Bible ruled the medievalworld, when He went into eclipseHumanity seizedHis sc_eptre. Ah, thatexaltedRenaissance Ego!How puffedup it_was! By the time of Rudolph,that sameEgowasalready"collapsing. Its confidencehadfailed.A new unity wasneeded-, bio-cosmicsocial unity. The Holy RomanEmperorRudolphsoughtto be theheadofsocietyhencethe paintingof so many regalheadsby the artistyou havelibelied. Thosebiological,botanicalheads. " "l alreadyknow this," shesaid. "He would be the head-and the people,the limbs, the organs.of one body! In the new world now a-dawninglife will be a uniti again. The Emperorwill be the head-but not a separate, egotistichead.NJr will the limbs and organsbe separate " individualiits. "You're , lelllng me whatI know!"Aye, and whatshemostfeared-namely the lossof Self. Its extinction.And what shemostfearedmight wellwin; for what is fearedis potent. "Who are you?What are you?" she cried into the phone-already sus-

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pectingthat Voss'svoice,the voiceof Vertumnus,might well be in her own waywardhead,eitherring-boundor elseplantedthereby alchemicalpotion. She slammedthe hand-setdown on to its cradleby the gearshiftlever, to calm herself.Whispers thumbedthe windowsfully open,andlit a cigarette of smokedrifted out towardsthe shorn field. A mat of goldenstubblecloakedthe broadshouldersof the land. A ghostly patternemergedacrossthe greatnetworkof dry stalks:a coat of arms. The hedgewasmerelygreenbraiding.Her car wasa shinyred bug parkedon the shoulderof a giant sprawlingbeing. window towards Angrily she pitched her cigarettethrough the passenger really the strawwasfar too might fire, though it start a field, wishing that the shortto combust. She droveon; and when the phoneseemedto burbleagain,she ignored it. till the packwasempty, Shesmoked.Shethrew out half-burnedcigarettes but no smokeeverplumed upwardsfar behind her. Half way through Cheltenham,in slow-movingtraffic, she passeda great billboard flaunting Rudolph Vertumnus. WE ARE ALL PART OF NATURE, proclaimedthe all too familiar text. the fruity Emperor Evidently unseenby other driversand pedestrians, shoulderedhis way out of the poster.A pumpkin-bellythat she had never seenbeforerearedinto view. And marrow-legs,from betweenwhich aubergine testiclesand a carrotcockdangled.Vertumnustoweredoverthe other carsand vansbehind her, bestridingthe roadway.His carrotswelledenormously. ancientGreekword. To be fuckedby a giant radish.To be Raphanidosis: radished,ravished. Vertumnuswascoming. A red light changedto green,and shewasableto slip onwardbeforethe giant could advanceto unpeel the roof of the Porscheand lift her out, homunculusJike,from her container. Even in the heart of the city, a chthonic entity was coming to life. A liberated,incarnateddeity wasbeingborn. No one elsebut fili sawit as Yet. Yet everyoneknew it from ten thousandpostersand badges-wearing its faces.Everyoneknew Vertumnusby now, deity of change variedseasonal for changewasin the air, asripe Autumn matured.The and transformation; on deathof Selfwas the horizon. When she reachedthe motorway, those triple lanes cutting far ahead of time ratherthan openedup yawningperspectives throughthe landscape of space. D..p time, in which there'dbeenno consciousmind presentat all, only of the road . and animal existence.Hence,the blankness vegetable virtue of the sovereign the which in dawn might era psychic new 3oor,, a the again-willing once Nature re-entered humanity as faded Self conscious

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demiseof dissective,alienatinglogicsand sciences,alteringthe mind-set, hypnotizingitselfinto a communalempathywith the world, whosepotent figureheadwasn'tany vague,cloudyGaea,but ratherher son Vertumnus. Every eatingof his body-of fruits and nuts and vegetables and fisheswould be a vividly persuasive communion. His royal representative would reign in Budapest, or in Prague,or Vienna. His figurehead. The phoneburbled,and this time lill did answerassheswungalongthe endlesstongueof tarmac,and throughtime. "fill, don't hangup." Rumby."l knowwhy you'veskippedout. And you must believeit ain't my fault." What washe talkingabout? "l've beenthe well-meaningpatsyin this business. I've beenthe Gorby." "who was he?" she askedmischievously.Here was a message from a differentera. "l'm fairlysureby now thatmy goddamStarClub wasbehindthe bombing and the ring-binder.Didn't trust me to be thorougftenough.The whole Archy situationwasreallya lot more seriousthan evenI saw.Thosedamn posterswere really imprinting peopleon somedeep-downlevel-not just surfacepropaganda. Theseare power-images. Fuckingservosymbols-'i "You're only fairly sure?"sheasked. "What tippedyou off?Was it somethingCase said?Or fohnny Lascelles? Somethingjohnny let slip?I mean,why did you skip?" SomethingCase or Lascelles ha-dlet slip . . . ? So Rumbywasbecoming a tad paranoidabout his own staffin casethey wereservingtwo mast Rumby himself,and someother rich gent in that secretStarClub of theirs . . . -A gent whom she had perhapsmet in that drawingroom in North London;who had canedher at a distance. . . "Comeback,Jill, andtell me all you know.I'm serious! I needto know." oh yes,shecould recognizethe authentictonesof paranoia. . . "Sorryabouttakingthe Porsche,"shesaid. "Never mind the fucking car.Where are you, Iill?', She remembered. 'l'm_going to oxford to seemy brother.He'sa bank manager." She hung up, and ignoredrepeatedcalls. Polmerrinlay in a woodedlittle valleywithin a coupleof milesof the rocky, wind-whiPpedNorth Cornwall coastline.Sheltereiby the steepplurg. fi land and by oakwood,the once-derelicthamlet of cottage,no* housed studiosand craft workshops,accompaniedby a dozensa"tellite caravans. Po!!ef, iewellery,painting,sculpting,candle-making. . . - Kidsplayed.Women worked.A fewmalecompaniJnslent an enlightened hand. Someonewastootlinga flute, and a bv)ard circledhigh overhead. A-kingfisherflashedto and fro alonga stream,one soggybank6f *hi.h ,"r, edgedby alderbuckthorn.SomebrimstonebutterfliesJt"iilflutt.red,reluctant to succumbto worn-outwingsand coolingnights.The sunsetwastrimstone too: sulphurand orangepeel.A few artylouiistsweredeparting.

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Immediatelyfill realizedthat shehad come to the wrong placeentirely. She ought to havefed to somehigh-techairporthotel with gleamingglass a space sealedmachineresembling elevators-aninorganic,air-conditioned, stationin the void. She wastoo tired to reverseher route. Red-hairedAnnie embracedfill, in surpriseand foy. Shekissedfill, hugged her. FreckledAnnie waswearingone of thoseIndian cottondresses-in green hues-with tiny mirrorssewninto it; and she'dput someextrafleshupon her once-litheframe, though not to the extentof positiveplumpness.She had also put on slim, scrutinizingglasses.Pewterrings adornedseveral fingers,with scaraband spidermotifs. One former barn was now a refectory,to which she led a dazedfill to drink lemonade. "How long hasit been,filly? Four years?You'll staywith me, of course. Shefrowned."l did hearaboutyour book-and that So what'shappening?" awful bombing.I still listento the radioall day long while I'm painting-" "fill's drugged,"saidfill. "Vertumnusis reborn.And the Holy Roman Empire is returning." "You'd Annie scrutinizedher with concern."Holy shit." Sheconsidered. betternot tell any of the others.There are kids here. Folks might worry." They whispered,as oncethey had whisperedconfidences. "Do you know the Portraitof lacopoStrada?"fill began.She found she could still speakaboutherselfin the 6rst person,historically. Presentlythere were indeed kids and mothers and a medley of other women,and a few men in the refectorytoo, sharingan earlysupPerof spiced protein,Madrasstyle,while beansand rice and saladand texturedvegetable Vivaldi playedfrom a tape-deck.The beamsof the barn werepaintedblack, and muiali of fabulous creaturesrelievedthe whitenessof the plaster:a phoenix,a unicorn,a minotaur,eachwithin a mazelikeCeltic surround,so ihrt it seemedas if so many heraldicshieldswerepoisedaround the walls. Touristswould enioy creamteasin here of an afternoon. Sulphurand copperhad clearedfrom a skythatwasnow deeplyleaden-blue, fastdarkening.V.nur and fupiter both shone.A shootingstarstreakedacross the vault of void; or wasthat a failedsatelliteburning up? Annie shareda studiowith Rosyand Meg, who would be playingchess that eveningin the recreationbarn besidethe refectory.The whole ground cottagewasstudio. Meg'swork was meticulous floor of the-reconditioned eeriefreaksratherthan anyonecomely. featuring neo-medievalminiatures of transparenthourglassbuildings set studies Rosy specializedin acrylic heads and crowdedwith disembodied deserts, within iorests,or in crysialline insteadof sand. in Now shespecialized Annie usedto paint swirling,luminousabstracts. that vortexes bloom, within bloom within largeacrylic .rnurrr., of bloom

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suckedthe gazedown into a centralfocusfrom which an eyealwaysgazed out: a cat's,a bird's, a person's.Her pictureswere like strange,exploded, organiccameras. Jill looked;fill admired.The paintingslookedat her. Obviouslytherewas a thematic empathybetweenthe three women who usedthis studio. "The consciousmind is going into eclipse,"fill remarked,and Annie smiledhesitantly. "That's a greattitle. I might useit." A polishedwoodenstairwayled up to a landingwith threebedrooms. Annie'swide bed wasof brass,with a floral duvet. Marguerites,daisies, buttercups. In the morning when fill awoke,the flowershad migratedfrom the duvet. Annie'sface,her neck,her shoulders werepetalsand stalks.Her skinwas of white and pink blossoms.Her ear wasa tulip, her nosewasthe bud of a lily, and her hair a fountainof red nasturtiums. fill reachedto peeloff someof the petals,but the flowerswerefesh, and Annie awokewith a squeakof protest.Her openeyeswereblacknightshades with white blossompupils. And filldonaldson,whosenamewasdissolving,wasthe firstto seesucha transformation as would soonpossess many men and womenwho regarded one anotherin a suitablelight as part of Nature. |illdona steppedfrom the brassbed, towardsthe window, and pulled the curtainsaside. The valleywasthick with mist. Yet a red light strobedthe blur of visiop. Spinning,this flashedfrom the roofof a policecarparkedbesidethe Porsche. Shapeless wraithsdancedin its dippedheadlightbeams.One officer was scanningthe vague,evasivecottages. A secondwalkedaroundthe Porsche, peeredinto it, then openedthe passenger door. "Hey," saidAnnie, "why did you tweakme?" Annie'sfleshwasmuch asthe night before,exceptthat fill continuedto seea faint veil of flowers,an imprint of petals. "fill just wanteda cigarette,"saidfill. "l quit a coupleof yearsago,"Annie remindedher. "Tobaccocoststoo much. Anyway,you didn't smokelastnight." "lill forgot to. Fuzz are down there. Fuzz makefill want a fag." "That braggartlycar-we ought to havedriven it miles away!Miles and miles." Yet Annie didn't soundtotallyconvincedthat shelteringthis visitor might be the bestidea. filldona pulled on her paisleysweaterar-rdjeans,and descended. Annie's paintingseyedher brightlyasshepassed by, recordingher within their petalringedpupils. She walkedoverto the police,one of whom asked: "You wouldn'tbe a MissJill Donaldson,by any chance?"The burr of his Cornishaccent. "Namesmelt," shetold her questioner."The mind submerges in a uni$

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of being. Have the Habsburgssent you?" she asked."Or was it the Star Club?" One officerremovedthe ignition keyfrom the Porscheand lockedthe car. The other steeredher by the arm into the backof the strobingvehicle. She could see no flowerson thesepolicemen.However,a pair of wax strawberries dangleddiscretely from the drivingmirror like blood-brighttesticles. For Hannah Shapero

VIGIL A LONG NIGHT'S

AT THETEMPLE Robert Silverberg

v Here'sone man'smovingcrisisof faith and conscience, playedout againstthe lush and richly evocativebackgrourrdof a societyso far in the future that our familiar world, everythingwe seearoundus, all our historyand culture,everytl'ring everyday we are, is a fading distantmemory, blurred almostto nothing by time, all but forgotten.Even in this unimaginablydistantftrture age,thouglt, somethings don't change-like the etemalquestion,What Is Truth? . . . RobertSilverbergis one of the most farnousSF writersof modem times, with dozensof novels,anthologies, and collectionsto his credit.Silverberg haswon five Nebula Awardsand four Hugo Awards.His novelsinclude Dying Inside, Lord Valentine'sCastle,The Bookof Skulls,Downwardto the Earth, Towerof Class,The World lnside, Bom with the Dead, Shadrachin the Furndce,Tom O'BedIam, Star of Cypsies,and At Winter's End. His collectionsinclude (lnfamiliar Territory, CapricornGames,Maiipoor Chronicles,The Bestof RobertSilverberg,At the ConglomeroidCocktailParty, andBeyondthe SafeZone. His most recentbooksare two rrovel-lengthexpansions of famousIsaacAsimov stories,Nightfal/ and The lJgly Little Boy, the solo novelsThe ltaceof the Waters ard Kingdomsof the Wall, ar-rda massiveretrospective collection, The CollectedSforiesof RobertSilverberg,Volume One: SecretSharers.For n-ranyyearshe editedthe prestigiousanthologyseriesNew Dimensions,and has recently, along with his wife, Karen Haber, taken over the editingof the Universe anthologyseries.His storieshaveappeared in all nine previous editiorrsof TheYear'sBestScienceFiction,a recordunmatchedby anvoneelse.He livesin Oakland.California"

The moment of total darknesswas about to arrive.Tlle Warder Diriente steppedforwardor-rtothe porticoof the temple,as he had done everynight for the pastthirty years,to performthe eveningir-rvocation. He waswearing, asalways,his brightcrimsonwarder'scassock and the tall double-peaked hat of his office, which had seemedso comicalto him when he had first seen his fatherwearingit long ago,but which he now regarded, when he thought of it at all, as simplyan articleof clothing.There wasa bronzethurible in his left handand in the right he held a tapering,narrow-necked greenvessel, sleekandsatisfiring to the touch,the firreceladopwarethatoply tfie crafts''re* of Murrha Islandwerecapableof producing.

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The night wasclearand mild, a gentlesummerevening,with the high, sharpsoundof tree-frogs in the air and the occasional bright flashof golden light from the lantern of a glitterfly. Far below, in the valley where the sprawlingimperial city of Citherionelay, the myriad lights of the far-off residentialdistrictswerestartingto come on, and they lookedlike glitterfly gleamsalso,waveringand winking, an illusion born of greatdistance. It washalf an hour'sjourneyby groundwagon from the closestdistrictsof the city to the temple.The Warder had not beendown there in months. Once he had gonetheremore frequently,but now that he wasold the city had becomean alien placeto him, di.ty, strange-smelling, discordant.The big stonetemple,massive and solidin its nicheon the hillside,with the great tawny mountainwall risingsteeplybehind it, wasall that he neededthese days:the daily round of prayerand observance and study,the companyof goodfriends,a little work in the garden,a decentbottleof wine with dinner, perhapssomequiet music late at night. A comfortable,amiably reclusive life, untroubledby anguishedquestionsof philosophyor urgentchallenges struggle. of professional hadbeendecidedfor him beforehisbirth:the postof temple His profession warderwashereditary.It had beenin his family for twelvegenerations. He wasa certaintythroughout wasthe eldestson;his elevationto the wardership for the all his childhood,and Dirientehadpreparedhimselfunquestioningly postfrom the first.Of course,somewhere alongthe wayhe had lostwhatever faith he might oncehavehad in the tenetsof the creedhe served,and that had beena problemfor him for a time, but he had cometo termswith that a long while back. The templeporticowasa broadmarbleslabrunning the entirelengthof the building along its westernface, the face that lookedtoward the city. Below the portico'shigh rim, extendingoutwardfrom it like a fan, was a gardenslopinglawn thick asgreenvelvet-a hundredcenturiesof dedicated ers had tendedit with love-bordered by grovesof ornamentalflowering shrubs.Along the north sideof the templegardenwasa streamthat sprang from somepoint high up on the mountainand flowedswiftlydownwardinto the far-off valley. There were serviceareasjust alongsideand behind the temple-a garbagedump, a little cemetery,cottagesfor the temple staffand back of those lay a tangleof wildernessforming a transitionalzone betweenthe open slopingflank of the mountainon which the templehad beenconstructedand the high wall of rock that roseto the rearof the site. Warderswere supposedto be in some semblanceof a stateof grace, that receptivityto the infinite which irreverentnovicesspeakof as "cosmic connection,"whentheyperformedthe eveninginvocation.Dirientedoubted that he reallydid achievethe full degreeof rapport,or eventhat suchrapport thatseemed but he did managea certaindegreeof concentration waspossible; focus his it was to attaining of acceptableenoughto him. His technique night when the if it was a moon, face of the scarred attentionon the ancient Pole Moon or stars, the Star. toward look otherwise to moon wasvisible,and thing wasto turn his spiritoutwardtowardthe eitherwould do: the essential

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realm wherethe greatpowersof the Upper World resided.It usuallytook him only a moment or two to attunehimselfproperlyfor the rite. He had had plenty of practice,afterall. This night ashe lookedstarward-therewasno moon-and beganto feel the familiar,faintlypricklysensation of contactawakeningin him, the giddy feelingthat he wasclimbinghis own spinalcolumn and glidingthroughhis foreheadinto space,he was startledby an unusualinterruption.A husky figurecamejoggingup out of the gardentowardthe templeand planteditself right below him at the portico'sedge. "Diriente?"he called."Listen, Diriente, you haveto come and look at somethingthat I've found." It was Mericalis,the temple custodian.The Warder, his concentration shattered,felt a sharpjolt of angerand surprise.Mericalisshouldhavehad more sensethan that. Testilythe Warderindicatedthe thurible and the celadonvessel. "oh," Mericalissaid, soundingunrepentant."You aren't finishedyet, then?" "No, I'm not. I wasonly juststarting,asa matterof fact.And you shouldn't be botheringme just this minute." "Yes, yes,I know that. But this is important.Look, I'm sorryI brokein on you, but I had a damnedgood reasonfor it. Get your ceremonydone with quickly, will you, Diriente?And then I want you to come with me. Right away." Mericalisofferedno other explanation.The Warderdemandednone. It would only be a furtherdistraction,and he wasdistracted enoughas it was. to regainsomemeasure _He attemptedwith no more than partialsuccess of calmness. "l'll finish as soonas you let me," he told the custodianirritably. "Yes. Do. I'll wait for you down here." The Wardernoddedbrusquely.Mericalisdisappeared backinto the shadowsbelowthe portico. So. Then. Startingoverfrom the beginning.The Warderdrewhis breathin deeplyand closedhis eyesa moment and waiteduntil the effectsof the intrusion had begunto ebb. After a time the janglingin his mind eased. Then oncemore he turnedhis attentionto his task,lookingup, finding the PoleStarwith practicedeaseand fixinghis eyesupon it. From thatdirection, ten thousandyearsago, the three Visitantshad come to Earth to rescue mankindfrom greatperil;or sothe Scriptures maintained.Perhaps it actually had happened.Therewasno reasonto think that it hadn'tand someto thinl that it had. He focusedthe entireintensityof his beingon the UpperWorld, casting his soul skywardinto the dark terriblegulfs betweenthe galaxies.It *r, , willed feat of the imaginationfor him: with conscious.fott he pictured himselfrov_ing the stars,a disembodied attenuated intelligenceglidinglike a bright needlethroughthe blackairlessinfinities.

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The Warderoftenfelt asthoughthereoncehad beena time when making that leaphad not requiredan effortof will: that in the dayswhen he wasnew to his priestlyoffice he had simply steppedforth and looked upward, and everythingelsehad followedasa matterof course.The light of the PoleStar on a direct had penetratedhis soul and he had goneout easily,effortlessly, coursetowardthe starof the Three. Was it so?He couldn't remember.He had been Warder for so long. He had performedthe eveninginvocation someten thousandtimesat least.Everythingwasformulaand roteby now. It was difficult now to believethat his mind had ever been capableof ascendingin one joyousbound into thoseblazingdepthsof endlessnight, or that he had everseriouslythoughtthat lookingat the starsand dumping goodwine into a stonechannelmight havesomereal and undeniableredemptivepower.The besthe could hopefor thesedayswassomeflickersome quiveringlittle stab-of the old ecstasy,while he stoodeach night beneaththe heavensin all their glory. And eventhat flicker,that tiny stab, wassuspect,a probablecounterfeit,an act of willful self-delusion. The starswerebeautiful,at any rate.He wasgratefulfor that one blessing. His faith in the literal existenceof the Visitantsand their onetimepresence of the immensityof the on the Earth might be gone,but not his awareness of Man, the maiesryof the greatvault of night. universe,the smallness Standingpoisedand steady,head thrust back, face turned toward the heavens,he beganto swingthe thurible,sendinga cloudof pungentincense swirlinginto the sky.He elevatedthe sleekgreenporcelainvessel,offeringit to the three cardinalpoints,eastand westand zenith. The reflexesof his had hold of him now: he wasfully into the ceremony'as professionalism deeplyas his skepticismwould allow him ever to get. In the grasPof the moment he would let no doubtsintrude. They would come back to him quickly enough,iust afterward. Solemnlynow he spokethe Holy Names: "Oberith . . . Aulimiath . . . Vonubius." He allowedhimselfto believethat he had madecontact. He summonedup the irnageof the Three beforehim, the angularalien figuresshimmeringwith spectrallight. He told them, as he had told them to tnrny timesbefore,how gratefulthe world wasfor all that they had done for the peopleof Earth long ago, and how eagerEarth was for their swift return from their presentsoiournin the distantheavens. For the momentthe Warder'smind actuallydid seemfreeof all questions Had they truly come of belief and unbelief.Had the Three in fact existed? starsagainin a fiery to the rise up they to Earth in its time of need?Did dayand gatherup return some to vowing done, charicltwhen their work was Warderhad no The great benevolence? in their world all the peoplesof the the Scriptures,like of word every young he believed idea. When he was believing.But he stopped when, exactly not sure everyoneelse;then, he was his life. He was of conduct daily the to difference that madeno conspicuous he was perform; to functions had certain the Warderof the high temple;he mattered. that a servantof the people.That wasall

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The ritual wasthe sameeveryevening.Accordingto generallyaccepted beliefit hadn'tchangedin thousandsof years,goingbackto the very night of the Visitants'departurefrom Earth, though the Warder was privately skepticalof that, as he wasof so many other matters.Things changewith time; distortionsenterany systemof belief;of that he wascertain.Even so, he outwardlymaintainedthe fiction that there had been no alterationsin any aspectof the liturgy, becausehe wasawarethat the peoplepreferredto think that that was the case.The peoplewere profoundlyconservative in their ways;and he washereto servethe people.That wasthe family tradition: we are Warders,and that meanswe serve. The invocationwasat its climax, the momentof the offering.Softlythe Warder spokethe prayerof the SecondAdvent, the point of the entire exercise, expressing the hopethatthe Threewouldnot longdelaytheir return to the world. The wordsrolled from him quickly, perfunctorily,as though theyweresyllables in somelostlanguage, holdingno meaningfor him. Then he calledthe Namesa secondtime, with the sametheatricalsolemnityas before.He liftedthe porcelainvesselhigh, invertedit, andallowedthe golden wine that it containedto pour into the stonechannelthat ran down tire hill towardthe templepond.That wasthe lastof it, the finaleof the rite. Behind him, at that moment, the temple'shydraulus-player, a thin hatchet-faced man sitting patientlyin the darknessbesidethe stream,struck from his instrumentthe threegreatthunderouschordsthat concludedthe service. At this point any worshipers who had happenedto haveremainedat the templethis latewouldhavefallento their kneesandcriedout in joy and hope while makingthe signof the SecondAdvent.But therewereno worship.r,o1 hand this evening,only a few membersof the templestaff,who, like the Wa_rder, wgre going about the businessof shuttingihe placedown for the night. In the moment of the breakingof the contactthi Warder stoodby himself,very much consciousof the solitudeof his spirit and the futility of his professionas he felt the crashjng -waveof his unb.li.f come sweeping backin uPonhim. The pain lastedonly an instant;and then he washimselT again. Out of the shadowsthen came Mericalis once more, broad-shouldered, insistent,risingbeforethe Warderlike a specterhe hadconjuredup himself. "You're done?Readyto go?" - Jh. warder glaredat him. "why areyou in sucha hurry?Do you mind if I put the sacredimplementsawayfirst?" "Go right ahead,"the custodiansaid,shrugging."Take all the time you want, Diriente." There wasan unfamiliaredgeon his voice. The Warderchoseto ignoreit. He re-enteiedthe templeand placedthe thurible and the porcelainwine-vessel in their niche iusi within the door. He closedthe wrought-irongrillworkcoverof the niche and lockedit, and quicklymutteredthe prayerthat endedhis day'sduties.He put asidehis tall hat and hul3 his cassockon its peg-Underneathit he worea simplelilen surplice,beltedwith a worn strip of leather.

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He steppedback outside.The membersof the temple staffwere drifting off into the night, headingdown by torchlightto their cottagesalong the temple'snorthern side. Their laughterrose on the soft air. The Warder that the world wasas enviedthem their youth, their gaiety,their assurance they thoughtit was. Mericalis,still waitingfor him besidea foweringbayernobushjustbelow the thick marblerim of the portico,beckonedto him. "Where arewe going?"The Warderasked,astheysetout brisklytogether acrossthe lawn. "You'll see." "You're beingverydamnedmysterious." " Y e s .I s u p p o s e I a m . " cornerto the Mericaliswasleadinghim aroundthe temple'snorthwestern of steep a series that by back of the building, where the rough road began had been temple the the faceof the hill againstwhich ascended switchbacks light. On amber wand of built. He carrieda smallautomatictorch, a mere was. it really this moonlesseveningthe torch seemedmore powerfulthan As they went pastthe garbagedump Mericalissaid,"l reallyam sorryI brokein on you just asyou wereaboutto do the invocation.I did actually think you weredone with it already." "That doesn'tmakeany differencenow." "l felt bad, though. I know how importantthat rite is to you." "Do you?"the Wardersaid,not knowingwhat to makeof the custodian's remark. his lossof faith with anyone,not even The Warderhad neverdiscussed Mericalis,who overthe yearshad becomeperhapshis closestfriend, closer to him tlran any of the temple'spriests.But he doubtedthat it wasmuch of a secret.Faith shinesin a man'sfacelike the full moon breakingthrough the mistson a winter night. The Warderwasable to seeit in others,that that they wereunableto seeit in him' specialglow. He suspected purely secularman. His taskwas to maintain the *ri r iustodian The which, after all, had been in constant temple, the of integrity structural by now was perpetuallyin precarious years and thousand for ten service it was. Mericalisknew all the weak though sturdy and massive condition, the shiftingslabsin the buttresses, in the flaws subtle the placesin the walls, aswell, an archaeologist of was something He drains. iloor, the defectsof the building's ancient the of stages various the on learnedly and could discourse the stratigraphic complexhistory,the detailsof the differentreconstructions, another,showfrom off temple of the configuration boundarie,.r,"tking one feeling, religious Of centuries. the over iebuilt and built ing how it hadbeen not loved, he that temple the was it all: at none have to M"ericalisseemed the creedthat it served. moving alongthe narrow They werewell beyondthe garbagedump tro-w-, mountain. The Warder the of summit thi towaid ulpru.d roadthat ran up steep. grew more grade the found his breathcoming short as

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He had rarelyhad occasionto usethis road.Therewereold altarshigher up on the mountain, remnantsof a primitive fire-rite that had become obsoletemanyhundredsof yearsbefore,duringthe SamtharidInterregnum. But theyheld no interestfor him. Mericalis,pursuinghis antiquarianstudies, probablywent up therefrequently,the Warder supposed,and now he must havemadesomestartlingdiscoveryamidstthe charredancientstones,something bizarreand troublesomeenoughto justifybreakingin on him during The tomb of someprehistoric the invocation.A sceneof human sacrifice? king?This mountainhad beenholy land a long time, goingback,so it was said,eveninto the daysbeforethe old civilizationof machinesand miracles had Mericalisfound? had collapsed.What strangeness But their goaldidn't seemto lie abovethem on the mountain.Insteadof continuingto ascend,the custodianturnedabruptlyoff the roadwhen they werestill only a fairly shortdistancebehindthe templeand beganpushing his way vigorouslyinto a tangle of underbrush.The Warder, frowning, followed.By this time he knewbetterthan to wastehis breathaskingquestions.He stumbledonward,devotingall his energyto the job of maintaining of the night, with Mericalis'little torch the his footing.In the deepdarkness only illumination, he was hard pressedto keepfrom tripping over hidden rootsor vines. After about twenty pacesof tough going they came to a place where a secondroad-a crudelittle path, really-unexpectedlypresenteditself.This one, to the Warder'ssurprise,curvedbackdown the slopein the direction of the temple, but insteadof returningthem to the servicearea on the northernsideit carriedthem aroundtowardthe oppositeend of the building, into a zonewhich the Warderlong had thoughtwasinaccessible becauseof They werebehindthe temple'ssoutheastern the thicknessof the vegetation. cornernow, perhapsa hundredpacesfrom the rearwall of the buildingitself. In all his yearsherethe Warderhad neverseenthe templefrom this angle. Its greatoblongbulk rearedup againstthe sky, black on black, a zone of intensestarless darkness againsta star-speckled blackbackdrop. There wasa clearinghere in the scrub.A roughlycircularpit lay in the centerof it, about as wide acrossas the length of a man'sarm. It seemed recentlydug, from the freshlook of the mound of tailingsbehind it. Mericaliswalkedoverto the openingand pokedthe headof his torch into it. The Warder, coming up alongsidehim, stareddownward.Despitethe inadequacy of the light he wasableto seethat the pit wasactuallythe mouth passageway of a subterranean which slopedoff at a sharpangle, heading towardthe temple. "What's all this?"the Warderasked. "An unauthorizedexcavation.Sometreasure-hunters havebeenat work backhere." The Warder'seyesopenedwide. "Trying to tunnel into the temple,you mean?" "Apparentlyso," saidMericalis."Lookingfor a backway into the vaults."

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He stepped downa little wayinto the pit, paused,andlookedback,beckoning impatientlyto the Warder. "Come on, Diriente. You need to seewhatt here." The Warderstayedwherehe was. "You seriouslywant me to go down there?The two of us crawlingaround in an undergroundtunnel in the dark?" "Yes. Absolutely. " "l'm an old man, Mericalis." "Not all that old. And it's a verycapablybuilt little passageway. You can manageit." Still the Warderheld back."And what if the men who dug it comeback and find us while we'rein there?" "They won't," saidMericalis."l promiseyou that."' "How can you be so sure?" "Trust me, Diriente." "l'd feel betterif we had a couple of the youngerpriestswith us, all the same." The custodianshookhis head."Once you'veseenwhat I'm goingto show you, you'll be gladthat there'sno one herebut you and me to seeit. Come on, now. Are you goingto follow me or aren'tyou?" Uneasilythe Warder enteredthe opening.The newly brokenground was softand moistbeneathhis sandaledfeet.The smell of the earthroseto his nostrils,rich, loamy, powerful.Mericaliswasfive or six pacesaheadof him and movingquicklyalongwithoutglancingback.The Warderfound that he hadto crouchandshuffe to keepfrom hittinghis headon the narrowtunnel's low roof. And yet the tunnel waswell made,just asthe custodianhad said. It descended at a sharpangleuntil it wasperhapstwicethe heightof a man belowthe ground,and then leveledout. It wasnicelysquaredoffat the sides and bolsteredeveryten pacesby,timbers.Months of painstakingwork must havebeen requiredfor all this. The Warderfelt a sicklysenseof violation. To think that thieveshad managedto work back here undisturbedall this time! And had they reachedthe vaults?The templewasn'tactuallya single building, but many, of differenteras,eachbuilt upon the foundationof its predecessor. Layer beneathlayer of inaccessible chambers,someof them of yearsold, werebelievedto occupythe areaunderneaththe main thousands temple.The templepossessed ceremonialhall of the present-day considerable treasure,preciousstones,ingotsof raremetals,worksof art: giftsof forgotten monarchs,hidden awaydowntherein thoseold vaultslong agoand scarcely if everlookedat since.It wasbelievedthat thereweretombsin the building's depths,too, the burial placesof ancientkings,priests,heroes.But no one evertried to explorethe deepervaults.The stairsleadingdown to them were hopelessly blockedwith debris,so that not evenMericaliscould distinguish and what was part of the betweenwhat might once have been a staircase building'sfoundation.Gettingdown to the lowerstratawould be impossible floorsand driving broadshaftsthrough without ripping up the present-day

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and no one daredto try that: such excavationmight the upperbasements, weakenthe entire structureand bring the building crashingdown. As for tunnelinginto the deeplevelsfrom outside-well, no one in the Warder's doingthat, either,andhe doubtedthatthe Grand memoryhadeverproposed Assizeof the Temple would permit such a projectto be carriedout evenif applicationwere made. There was no imaginablespiritualbenefit to be gainedfrom rootingaboutin the foundationsof the holy building, and not much scientificvalue in it either, consideringhow many other relictsof after all this time, were on Earth'sformer civilizations,still unexcavated busy. hand everywhereto keepthe archaeologists But if the diggershad beenthieves,not archaeologistsNo wonderMericalishad come running up to him in the midst of the invocation! "How did you find this?"the Warderasked,astheymovedfartherin. The air here wasdank and close,and the goingwasvery slow. "lt wasone of the prieststhat found it, actually.One of the youngerones, and no, I won't tell you his name, Diriente. He camearoundbackhere a to enjoy a little moment or two few daysagowith a certainyoungpriestess of privacyand they practicallyfell right into it. They exploredit to a point aboutasfar aswe are now and realizedit wassomethinghighly suspicious, and they cameand told me about it." "But you didn't tell me." "No," Mericalissaid."l didn't. It seemedpurely a custodialaffairthen. There was no need to get you involvedin it. Someonehad been digging aroundbehindthe temple,yes.Very likely for quite sometime. Coming in by night, maybe,workingvery,verypatiently,haulingawaythe tailingsand dumping them in the woods,pushingcloserand closerto the wali of the building, no doubtwith the intent of smashingthroughinto one of the deep chambersand carryingoff the vastwealth that's supposedlystoreddown there.My plan wasto investigate the tunnel myself,find out just what had beengoingon here,and then to bring the city policein to dealwith it. You " would havebeennotifiedat that point, of course. "So you haven'ttakenit to the policeyet, then?" "No," saidMericalis."l haven't." "But why not?" "l don't think there'sanyonefor them to arrest,that'swhy. Look here, Diriente." He took the Warderby the arm and tuggedhim forwardsothat the Warder wasstandingin front of him. Then he reachedhis arm under the Warder's just aheadof them. and flashedthe torch into the passageway The Warder gasped. Two men in rough work clothesweresprawledon the tunnel floor, half buriedbeneathdebristhat had fallenfrom overhead.The Wardercould see shovelsand picksjutting out from the mound of fallenearthbesidethem. A third man-no, this one wasa woman-l^y a shortdistanceaway.A sickening odor of decayrosefrom the scene.

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"Are they dead?"the Warderaskedquietly. "Do you needto ask?" "Killed by a rockfall,you think?" "That'show it looks,doesn'tit? Thesetwo werethe diggers.The girl was their lookout,I suspect,postedat the mouth of the tunnel. She'srt-.d' you see?Two guns and a dagger.They must have called her in here to see somethingunusual,and just then the roof fell in on them all." Mericalis steppedoverthe slenderbodyand pickedhis waythroughthe rubblebeyond it, goinga few pacesdeeperinto the passageway. "Come over hereand I'll showyou what I think happened. " "What if the roof collapses again?" "l don't think it will," Mericalissaid. "lf it can collapseonce,it can collapseagain,"saidthe Warder,shivering a little now despitethe muggywarmth of the tunnel. "Right on our heads. Shouldn'twe get out of herewhile we can?" The custodianignoredhim. "Look here,now:whatdo you makeof this?" He aimed the torch to one side, holding it at a ninety-degree angleto the directionof the tunnel.The Wardersquintedinto the darkness. He sawwhat lookedlike a thick stonelintel which had fallen from the tunnel vault and waslying tippedup on end. There werearchaic-looking inscriptionscarved in it, runesof somesort.Behindit wasan opening,a gapingovalof darkness in the darkness, that appearedto be the mouth of a secondtunnel running crosswise to the one theywerein. Mericalisleanedoverthe fallenlintel and flashedhis beambeyondit. A tunnel, yes.But constructed in a mannervery differentfrom that of the one they had beenfollowing.The wallswere of narrowstoneblocks,carefullylaid edgeto edge;the roof of the tunnel wasa long stonevault, supportedby pointedarches.The craftsmanship wasvery fine. The joints had an archaiclook. "How old is this?"the Warderasked. "Old. Do you recognizethoseruneson the lintel?They'reproterohistoric stuff. This tunnel'sas ancientas the templeitself,most likely. Part of the originalsacredcomplex.The thievescouldn't haveknown it washere. As theywerediggingtheir waytowardthe templetheyintersected it by accident. They yelledfor the girl to come in and look-or maybethey wantedher to help them pull the lintel loose.Which they proceeded to do, and the weak placewherethe two tunnelsmet gaveway, and the roof of their own tunnel camecrashingdown on them. For which I for one feel no greatsorrow,I haveto admit." "Do you haveany ideawherethis other tunnel goes?" "To the temple," said Mericalis."Or under it, rather, into the earliest foundation.It leadsstraighttowardthe deepestvaults." "Are you sure?" "l've beeninsidealready.Come." Therewasno questionnow of retreating.The Warder,followingclosealong behindMericalis,staredat the finely craftedmasonryof the tunnel in awe.

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mysterious, carvedin Now and againhe sawrunic inscriptions,unreadable, the stonefloor. When they had goneabouttwentypacesyet anotherstonepresenteditself, forking off to the left. The custodian vaulted passageway went pastit without a glance."There are all sortsof tunnelsdown here," Mericalissaid. "But this is the one we want. So far as I've been able to determineat thispoint, it'sthe only onethatentersthe temple."The Warder sawthat Mericalishad left a markerthat glowedby the reflectedlight of his they were following, and he torch, high up on the wall of the passage that therewereothermarkersfartheron to serveasguidesfor them. supposed "We're in a processional hypogeum,"the custodianexplained."Probablyit just was aboutat groundlevel,ten thousandyearsago,but overthe centuries it wasburiedby constructiondebrisfrom the latertemples,and other trash of varioussorts.There wasa whole mazeof otherstone-walled processional chambersaroundit, leadingoriginallyto sacrificialsitesand open-airaltars. The tunnel we just passed wasone of them. It's blockeda little wayonward. I spenttwo daysin here going down one falsetrail after another.Until I camethroughthis way, and-behold, Diriente!" Mericaliswavedhis torch grandlyabout.By the pale splashof light that came from its tip the Warder saw that the sidesof the tunnel expanded outwardhere,spreading to the right and the left to form a greatloomingwall of superblydressedstone,with one small dark aperturedown at the lower left side.They hadreachedthe rearfaceof the temple.The Wardertrembled. He had an oppressive senseof the thicknessof the soil abovehim, the vast weight pressingdown, the temple itself rising in all its intricacyof strata abovehim. He wasat the foundationof foundations.Once all this had been in the open: ten thousandyearsago, when the Visitantsstill walkedthe Earth. "You've been inside?"the Warderaskedhoarsely. "Of course,"saidMericalis."You haveto crawlthe first part of the way. Take careto breatheshallowly:there'splentyof dust." The air here was hot and musty and dry, ancientair, lifelessair. The Warderchokedand gaggedon it. On handsand knees,headdown, he crept alongbehind Mericalis.Severaltimes,overcomeby he knew not what, he closedhis eyesand waiteduntil a spasmof dizzinesshad passed. "You can standnow," the custodiantold him. They werein a largesquarestonechamber.The wallswererough-hewn and totally without ornament.The room wasemptyexceptfor three long, narrowcoffersof unpolishedwhite marblesideby sideat the far end. "Steadyyourself,old friend," Mericalissaid. "And then come and see who we havehere." They crossedthe room. The cofferswere coveredwith a thick sheetof sometransparent yellowishmaterialthat lookedmuch like glass,but in fact wassomeother substance that the Wardercould not identify. An icy shiverran throughthe Warderashe peeredthroughthe coverings. There was a skeletonin each coffer, lying face upward:the glistening fleshless bonesof somestrangelong-shanked creature,manlikein sizeand

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generaloutline, but differentin everydetail.Their headsborecurvingbony crests;their shoulders werecrested also;theirkneesweredoubleones;theyhad spikelikeprotrusions at their ankles.Ribs,pelvises, fingers,fess-sysrything strange,everythingunfamiliar.Thesewerethe bodiesof alien beings. Mericalissaid,"My,guess is thatthe verytall onein the centeris Vonubius. That'sprobablyAulimiath on the right and the otherone hasto be Oberith, then." The Warderlookedr.tpat him sharply."What are you saying?" "This is obviouslya sepulcher.Those are sarcophagi.Theseare three skeletonsof aliensthat we're looking at here. They'vebeen very carefully preserved and buried in a largeand obviouslysignificantchamberon the deepestand thereforeoldestlevelof the Temple of the Visitants,in a room passageway. Who elsedo you that oncewasreachedby a grandprocessional think they would be?" "The Visitantswent up into the heavenswhen their work on Earth was done," said the Warder hollowly. "They ascendedon a ship of fire and returnedto their star." "You believethat?"Mericalisasked,chuckling. " "lt saysso in the Scriptures. "l know that it does.Do you believeit, though?" "What doesit matterwhat I believe?"The Warder staredagain at the "The historicaloutlinesaren'tquestioned by alienskeletons. threeelongated anybody.The worldwasin a crisis-in collapse.Therewaswar everywhere. from anothersolarsystemarrived In the midst of it all, threeambassadors and saw what was going on, and they usedtheir superiorabilitiesto put thingsto rights.Once a stablenew world orderhad emerged,they took off the sameform in for the starsagain.The storyturns up in approximately gotto be some Earth. There's the mythsandfolk-tales,all over everysociety's truth to it." "l don't doubtthat thereis," saidMericalis."And theretheyare,the three havethe storya little garbled,apparently. wisemen from afar.The Scriptures Insteadof goingbackto their nativestar,promisingto returnand redeemus at somenew time of trouble,they died while still on Earth and wereburied underneaththe templeof the cult that sprangup aroundthem. Sothereisn't goingto be any SecondAdvent,I'd tendto think. And if thereeveris, it may not be a friendlyone. They didn't die naturaldeaths,you'll notice.If you'll violently takea carefullook you'll seethat the headsof all threeweresevered from their trunks." "What?" "Look closely,"Mericalissaid. "There'sa breakin the vertebrae,yes.But that could haveSssn-" "lt's the samesortof breakin all three. I've seenthe skeletonsof executed men before,Diriente.We'vedug up dozensof them aroundthe old gibbet Believeme." down the hill. Thesethreeweredecapitated. ttNo.

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"They weremartyrs.They wereput to deathby their loving admirersand devotedworshipers,the citizensof Earth." "No. No. No. No." "Why areyou sostunned,Diriente?Doesit shockyou, thatsucha dreadful thing could have happenedon our lovely green planet?Have you been squirreledup in your nest on this hillside so long that you've forgotten everythingyou once knew about human nature?Or is it the unfortunate evidencethat the Scripturalstoryis wrongthat bothersyou? You don't believein the SecondAdventanyway,do you?" "How do you know I don't?" "Please,Diriente." The Warderwassilent. His mind wasaswirlwith confusions. After a time he said,"Thesecould be any threealiensat all." "Yes. I suppose they could. But we know of only threebeingsfrom space that evercameto this planet:the oneswho we call the Visitants.This is the temple of the faith that sprangup aroundthem. Somebodywent to great trouble to bury thesethree underneathit. I have difhculty believingthat thesewould be threedifferentalien beings." Stubbornlythe Warder said, "How do you know that thesethings are genuineskeletons? They might be idolsof somesort." "ldols in the form of skeletons? Decapitatedskeletons, at that?"Mericalis laughed."l supposewe could testthem chemicallyto seeif they'rereal, if you like. But they look real enoughto me." "The Visitantswere like gods.They were gods,comparedwith us. Certainlytheywereregarded asdivine-or at leastasthe ministersand ambassadorsof the Divine Being-when theywerehere.Why wouldtheyhavebeen killed?Who would havedaredto lay a hand on them?" "Who can say?Maybe they didn't seemas divine as all that in the days when they walkedamongus," Mericalissuggested. "But the ScripturesSay-" "The Scriptures,yes.Written how long afterthe fact?The Visitantsmay not havebeen so readilyrecognizedas holy beingsoriginally.They might simplyhaveseemed threatening, maybe-dangerous-tyrannical.A menace to freewill, to man'sinnateright to maketroublefor himself.It wasa time of anarchy,remember.Maybetherewerethosewho didn't want orderrestored. I don't know. Even if they wereseenasgodly, Diriente:rememberthat there's an ancienttraditionon thisplanetof killing one'sgods.It goesbacka long, long way. Study your prehistoriccults. You dig down deep enough,you find a murderedgod somewhere at the bottomof almostall of them." The Warderfell into silenceagain.He wasunableto takehis eyesfrom thosebony-crested skulls,thosestrange-angled empV eyesockets. "Well," Mericalissaid,"thereyou havethem, at any rate:threeskeletons of whatappearto be beingsfrom anotherworldthat somebodyjusthappened to bury underneathyour templea very long time ago. I thoughtyou ought to know aboutthem."

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"Yes.Thank you." "You haveto decidewhat to do aboutthem, now." "Yes," the Wardersaid."l know that." "we could alwayssealthe passageway up again,I suppose,and not saya word about this to anyone.Which would avoid all sortsof uncomfortable complications,wouldn't it? It strikesme asa real crime againstknowledge, doing somethinglike that, but if you thoughtthat we should-" "Who knowsabout this so far?" "You. Me. No one else." "What aboutthe priestand priestess who found the excavationpit?" "They cameright to nre and told me aboutit. They hadn'tgoneveryfar inside, no more than five or six paces.Why should they have gone any farther?" "They might have," the Wardersaid. "They didn't.They hadno torchandtheyhadtheir mindson otherthings. All they did waslook a little way in, just far enoughto seethat something unusualwasgoingon. They hadn'tevengonefar enoughto find the thieves. But theydidn't saya thing aboutdeadbodiesin the tunnel. They'dcertainly havetold me about them, if they had come upon them. And they'd have lookeda whole lot shakier,too." "The thievesdidn't come in here either?" "lt doesn'tseemthat way to me. I don't think they got any fartherthan wall. They'redead, the placewherethey pulledthat lintel out of the passage in any case." "But what if theydid getthis far?And what if therewassomeoneelsewith whenthe tunnelcavedin? Someone them, someonewho managedto escape who might be out thereright now telling all his friendswhat he sawin this room?" Mericalisshookhis head."There'sno reasonto think that. And I could and into the sepulchralchamber, see,when I first camedown this passage that nobodyhad been through here in more yearsthan we can imagine. There'dhavebeentracksin the dust,and thereweren'tany. This placehas goneundisturbeda very long time. Long enoughfor the whole storyof how the Visitantsdied to be forgottenand coveredover with a nice pretty myth abouttheir ascentinto the heavenson a pillar of fire." that for a moment. The Warderconsidered "All right," he saidfinally."Go backoutside,Mericalis." "And leaveyou here alone?" "Leaveme herealone,yes." UneasilyMericalissaid,"What are you up to, Diriente?" "l want to sit here all by myselfand think and pray,that'sall." "Do I haveto believethat?" "Yes. You do." "If you go wanderingarounddown here you'll end up trappedin some and mostlikely we'll neverbe ableto find you again." unknownpassageway "I'm not goingto wanderaroundanywhere.I told you what I'm goingto

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do. I'm goingto sit right here,in this veryroom. You'vebroughtme faceto face with the dead bodiesof the murderedgodsof the religion that I'm supposed to serve,and I needto think aboutwhatthat means.That'sall. Go away,Mericalis.This is somethingI haveto do all by myself.You'll only be a distraction.Come backfor me at dawn and I promiseyou that you'll find me sittingexactlywhereI am now." "There'sonly one torch. I'll needit if I'm goingto be ableto find my way out of the tunnel. And that meansI haveto leaveyou in the dark." "l realizethat, Mericalis." "N,1f-" "Go," the Wardersaid."Don't worry aboutme. I can standa few hours I'm not a child. Go," he saidagain."fust go, will you?Now." of darkness. He couldn't deny that he was frightened.He was well along in years;by temperamenthe wasa sedentary man; it wastotallyagainsthis natureto be spendinga night in a placelike this, far beneaththe ground,wherethe air managedto seemboth dusty-dryand sticky-moist at the sametime, and the sharp,pungentodor of immenseantiquityiabbedpainfully at his nostrils. How differentit wasfrom his pleasantlittle room, surroundedby his books, his jug of wine, his familiarfurnishings!In the total darkness he wasfreeto imaginethe presenceof all mannerof disagreeable creaturesof the depths creepingabout him, white eyeless toadsand fleshless chitteringlizardsand slow,contemplative spidersloweringthemselves silentlyon thick silkencords from invisiblerecesses of the stoneceiling. He stoodin the centerof the room and it seemedto him that he saw a sleekfat serpent,pallid and gleaming,with blind blue eyesbright as sapphires,issuefrom a pit in the floor and rise up beforehim, hissingand bobbingand swayingas it made readyto strike.But the Warder knew that it wasonly a trick of the darkness. There wasno pit; there wasno serpent. He perspiredfreely.His light robewasdrenchedand clung to him like a shroud.With everybreathit seemedto hirf that he waspulling clustersof cobwebsinto his lungs.The darkness wassointenseit hammeredat his fixed, rigidly staringeyesuntil he wasforcedto shut them. He heardinexplicable soundscomingfrom the walls,a grindinghum anda steadyunhurriedticking a1d a trickling sound, as of sandtumbling through hidden inner spaces. There weremenacingvibrationsand tremors,and strangetwanginghurnr, making him fear that the temple itself, angeredby this intrusion into its bowels,waspreparingto bring itselfdown upon him. What I hear is only the echoesof Mericalis'foo$alls,the Warder told himself. The soundsthat he makesas he retraceshis way down the tunnel towardthe exit. After a time he aroseand felt his way acrossthe room towardthe coffers in the corner, clinging to the rough stonesof the wall to guide himself. Somehowhe missedhis direction,for the cornerwasemptywhenhe reached it, and ashe continuedpastit his inquiringfingersfoundthemselves pressing into what surelywasthe openingthat led to the tunnel. He stoodquletly foi a moment in the utter darkness,trying to rememberthe layoutof the funeral

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chamber,certainthat the coffersmust havebeenin the cornerhe had gone to and unableto understandwhy he had not found them. He thought of doublingbackhis path and lookingagain.But perhapshe wasdisoriented; perhapshe had gone in preciselythe oppositedirectionfrom the one he he had taken.He keptgoing,pastthe opening,alongthe wall on supposed the other side.To the other corner.No coffershere. He turned right, still clingingto the wall. A stepat a time, imaginingyawningpitsopeningbeneath his feet. His kneebumpedinto something.He had reachedthe coffers,yes. He knelt. Graspedthe rim of the nearestone, leanedforward,looked down into it. To his surprisehe wasable to seea little now, to make out the harsh, Perhaps angularlines of the skeletonit contained.How wasthat possible? No, that wasn'tit. A his eyeswere growingaccustomedto the darkness. nimbus of light seemedto surroundthe coffer. A faint reddishglow had begunto rise from it and with the aid of that unexpectedillumination he could actuallyseethe outlinesof the elongatedshapewithin. moAn illusion?Probably.Hallucination,even.This wasthe strangest ment of his life, and anythingwasto be expected,anythingat all. There is magichere,the Warderfound himselfthinking,and then he caughthimself up in amazementand wonderthat he shouldhaveso quicklytumbledinto the abyssof the irrational.He wasa prosaicman. He had no beliefin magic. And yet-and yetWith The glow grewmore intense.The skeletonblazedin the darkness. eerieclarity he sawthe alien crestsand spines,the gnarledalien vertebrae, everythingsendingup a strangecrimsonfire to makeits aspectplain to him. The empty eyesocketsseemedalive with fierceintelligence. "Who areyou?"the Warderasked,almostbelligerently."Where did you come from? Why did you ever poke your nosesinto our affairs?Did you of the air, perhaps. evenhayenoses?"He felt strangelygiddy.The closeness Not enoughoxygen.He laughed,too loudly,too long. "Oberith, is that who you are?Aulimiath?And that'sVonubiusin the centerbox, yes?The tallest one, the leaderof the mission." His body shookwith suddenanguish.Wavesof fear and bewilderment sweptoverhim. His own crudejokinghad frightenedhim. He beganto sob. of the actualremainsof the The thoughtthat he might be in the presence He had come over the dismay. him with confusion and filled Three actual yearsto think of the tale of the Adventas no more than a myth-the gods who came from the stars-and now he was stunnedby this evidencethat who had walked they had beenreal, that they onceweretangiblecreatures had capable of dying, been made water-and and breathed and eatenand This believing that. point not reached long ago of He had a killed. of being religion Did it trivialize the reevaluate him to everything. discoveryrequired herein this he servedinto merehistory?No-no, he thought;the existence They myth. truly had miracle, into into history elevated bones room of these but to realm stars, the not to the had departed: and had served, And come. in of time, and due course in the would return which they From death. of

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their resurrectionwould bring the redemptionthat had beenpromised,the for the crime that had beencommittedagainstthem. forgiveness Was that it? Was that the proper way to interpretthe things this room heldz He didn't know. He realizedthat he knew nothingat all. The Wardershiveredand trembled.He wrappedhis armsaroundhimself and held himselftight. He foughtto regainsomemeasureof control overhimself. "No," he saidsternly."lt can't be. You aren'tthem. I don't believethat thoseareyour names." From the coffersno answercame. "You could be any three aliensat all," the Warder told them fiercely. "Who just happenedto cometo Earth, justdroppedin one afternoonto see what might be here. And lived to regretit. Am I right?" Still silence.The Warder,crouchingdown againstthe nearestcofferwith againstthe dry cold stone,shiveredand trembled. his cheekpressed "Speakto me," he begged."What do I haveto do to get you to speakto me? Do you want me to pray?All right, then, I'll pray, if that'swhat you want." In the specialvoice that he usedfor the eveninginvocationhe intoned the threeHoly Names: "Oberith . . . Aulimiath . . . Vonubius." There was no reply. Bitterlyhe said,"You don't know your names,do you?Or are you just too stubbornto answerto them?" He gloweredinto the darkness. "Why are you here?"he askedthem, furiousnow. "Why did Mericalis haveto discoveryou?Oh, damn him, why did he everhaveto tell me about you?" Again therewasno answer;but now he felt a strangething beginningto occur. Serpentinecolumnsof light wererisingfrom the threecoffers.They flickeredand dancedlike tonguesof cold fire beforehim, commandinghim to be still and pay heed.The Warderpressed his handsagainsthis forehead and bowedhis headand let everythingdrain from his mind, so that he was no morethan an emptyshellcrouchingin the darkness of the room. And as he knelt therethingsbeganto changearoundhim, the wallsof the chamber melted and droppedaway, and he found himself transportedupward and outwarduntil he was standingoutside,in the clear sweetair, under the goldenwarmth of the sun. The day wasbright, warm, springlike,a splendidday, a dayto cherish. But therewere ugly dissonances. The Warderheardshoutsto his right, to his left-harsh voiceseverywhere, angryoutcries. "There they are!Get theml Get them!" Three slendergrotesquefigurescame into view, half again as tall as a man, big-eyed,long-limbed,strangeof shape,movingswiftlybut with somber dignity, as though they were floating rather than striding, keepingfust

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aheadof their pursuers.The Warderunderstoodthat thesewerethe Three in their final moments,thattheyhavebeenharriedandhuntedall this lovely dayacrossthe sweetmeadowsof this lushgreenvalley.Now thereis nowhere flurtherfor them to go, they are trappedin a cul-de-sacagainstthe flank of the mountain,the army of their enemiesis closingin and all hopeof escape is impossible. Now the Warderheardsavage triumphantscreams.Sawreddened,swollen, wrathfulfaces.Weaponsbristlingin the air, clubs,truncheons,pitchforks,hatchets.Wild eyes,distendedlips, clenchedfistsfuriouslyshaken. And on a little mound facingtheir attackers are the Three, standingclose together,offeringno resistance, seeminglyat peace.They appearperplexed by what is happening,perhaps,or perhapsnot-how can he tell?What do their alien expressions mean?But almostcertainlytheyarenot angry.Anger is not an emotionthat can pertainto them in any way. They havea look aboutthem that seemsto indicatethat theyhad expected this. Forgivethem, for they know not what theydo. A momentof hesitation:the mob suddenly uneasyat the last, frightened,even,uncertainof the risksin what they are doing. Then the hesitationwasovercome,the peoplesurgedforwardlike a singleberserkcreature,therewasthe fash of steelin the sunlightThe visionabruptlyended.He waswithin the stonechamberagain.The light wasgone. The air about him wasdry and stale,not sweetand mild. The tomb wasdark and empty. The Warderfelt stunnedby what he had seen,and shamed.A senseof almostsuicidalguilt overwhelmedhim. Blindly he rushedback and fo*h acrossthe darkroom, frenzied,manic, buffetinghimselfagainstthe unseen he pausedfor a momentto gaspfor breathand stared walls.Then, exhausted, into the darknessat the placewherehe thoughtthe coffersweresituated.He he told himself,and snatch would breakthroughthosetransparent coverings, up the threestrangeskullsand carrythem out into the bright light of day, and he would call the peopletogetherand showthem what he hasbrought forth from the depthsof the Earth, brandishingthe skullsin their faces,and he would cry out to them, "Here are your gods.This is what you did to them. All your beliefswere foundedon a lie." And then he would hurl himselffrom the mountain. No. He will not. How can he crushtheir hopesthat way?And havingdoneit, what good would his death achieve? And yet-to allow the lie to endureand persist"What am I going to do aboutyou?" the Warderaskedthe skeletonsin their coffers."What am I going to tell the people?"His voice roseto a wild screech.It echoedand reechoedfrom the stonewalls of the room, The peoplelThe peoplel" reverberatingin his throbbingskull. "The peopler. "Speakto me!" the Wardercried. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do!" Silence.Silence.Silence.They would give him no answers. Then he wept for a time, until his He laughedat his own helplessness. eyeswere raw and his throat achedfrom his sobbing.He fell to his knees

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once more besideone of the coffers."Who are you?" he asked,in nothing more than a whisper."Can you reallybe Vonubius?" And this time imaginesthat he hearsa mockinganswer:I am who I am. Go in peace,my son. Peace?Where?How? At last,a long while later,he beganto growcalm oncemore,and thought that this time he might be able to remain that way. He saw that he was being ridiculous-the old Warder, running to and fro in a stonechamber underground,cryingout like a lunatic, prayingto godsin whom he didn't believe,holding conversations with skeletons. Graduallyhis churning soul moved awayfrom the desperate turbulenceinto ryhich it had fallen, the manic frenzy,the childishanger.Therewasno reddishglow, no. His overwroughtmind had conjuredup sometormentedfantasyfor him. Darkness still prevailedin the chamber.He wasunableto seea thing. Beforehim, he knew, were three ancient stoneboxescontainingage-olddry bones,the earthlyremainsof unearthlycreatures long dead. He wascalm, yes.But thereseemedno way evennow to hide from his despair.Theserelics,he knew,calledhis wholelife into question.The whole ugly truth of it stoodunanswerably revealed.He had serveda falsecreed, knowinglyofferingpeoplethe empty hope that they would be redeemedby benevolent gods.Night afternight standingup thereon the portico,invoking the Three, prayingfor their swift returnto this troubledplanet.Whereasin truth they had neverleft Earth at all. Had perished,in fact, at the handsof the very peoplethey had come here-so he supposed-to redeem. What now?the Warder askedhimself. Revealthe huth? Displaythe bodies of the Three to the dismayed,astounded faithful, ashe had imaginedhimself doing just a shorttime ago?Would he do any such thing?could he? your beliefswerefoundedon a lie, he picturedhimself telling them. How could he do that?But it wasthe truth. Small wonderthat I lost my own faith long ago, he thought. He had knownthe truth beforehe everknewhe knewit. It was[he truth that he had swornto serve,first and always.Was that not so?But there wasso much that he did not understand-couldnot understand,perhaps. He lookedin the directionof the skeletons, and a host of new questions formedin his mind. "why did you want to come to us?"he asked,not angrilynow, but in a tranquillityof spirit. "Why did you chooseto serveus as you did? guyiou_s Why did you allow us to destroyyou, sincesurelyit wasin your powerto preventit?" Powerfirlquestions.The Warderhad no answersto them. But yet who knew what miraclesmight grow from the askingof them. Yes.Yes. Miracles!True faithscan arisefrom the ruined fragmenbof falseones,wasthat not so? He wasso very tired. It had beensuch a long night. .Graduallyhe ilippeddownwarduntil he wasiyini.o-pletely prone,face pillowedin his arms.It seemedto him that the g.ntl. liglt of morning was enteringthe chamber,that the long vigil wasover at lait. How coulJ that be, light reachinghim underground? He chosenot to pursuethe question.

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He layquietly,waiting.And then he heardfootsteps. Mericaliswasreturning. The night wasover indeed. "Diriente?Diriente, are you all right?" "Help me up," the Warder says."l'm not accustomedto spendingmy nightslying on stonefloors." The custodianflasheshis torcharoundthe room asif he expectsit to have changedin somefashionsincehe lastsawit. "Well?" he says,finally. "Let's get out of here, shallwe?" "You're all right?" "Yes,yes,I'm all right!" "l wasveryworried.I knowyou saidyou wantedto be alone,but I couldn't help thinking-" "Thinking canbeverydangerous," saysthe Wardercoolly."l don't recommend it." "l want to tell you, Diriente, that I've decidedthat what I suggested last night is the bestidea.The evidencein this room could blow the Church to pieces.We ought to sealthe placeup and forgetwe everwerein here." "No," saysthe Warder. "We aren't requiredto revealwhat we'vefound to anybody.My job is simply to keepthe templebuilding from falling down. Yours is to perform the ritualsof the faith." "And if the faith is a falseone, Mericalis?" "We don't know that it is." "We haveour suspicions, don't we?" "To saythat the Three neverreturnedsafelyto the starsis heresy,isn't it, heresy?" for spreading Diriente?Do you want to be responsible "My responsibility is to promotethe truth," saysthe Warder. "lt always hasbeen." "Poor Diriente. What haveI done to you?" "Don't wasteyour pity on me, Mericalis.I don't need it. fust help me find my way out of here, all right?All right?" "Yes," the custodiansays."Whateveryou say." is much shorterand lessintricateon the way out than it The passageway seemedto be when they entered.Neither of them spealaa word as they traverseit. Mericalistrudgesquicklyforward,neveroncelookingback.The Warder,followingbrisklyalongbehind,moveswith a vigorhe hasn'tfelt in years.His mind is hard at work:he occupieshimselfwith what he will say later in the day, first to the temple staff,then to the worshiperswho come that day, and then, perhaps,to the emperorand all his court, down in the greatcity below the mountain. His wordswill fall upon their earslike the crackof thunderat the mountaintop;andthen let whateverhappenthat may. Brothersand Sisters,I announceunto youa great ioy, rs how he intendsto begin. The SecondAdvent is upon us. For behold,I can showyou the Three They are with us now, nor havethey everleft usthemselves.

OF GOD THEHAMMER Arthur C. Clarke

v Arthur C. Clarke is perhapsthe most famousmodernsciencefiction writer in the world, seriouslyrivaledfor that title only by the late lsaacAsimov and RobertA. Heinlein. Clarkeis probablymost widelyknown for his work on StanleyKubrick's but he is alsorenownedasa novelist,short-story film 2001: ASpoceOdyssey, writer, writer of nonfiction, usuallyon technological and asa subjectssuchas spaceflight. He haswon three Nebula Awards,three Hugo Awards,the British ScienceFiction Nebula for Award, the fohn W. CampbellMemorial Award, and a Grar-rdmaster Life Achievemeut.His best-knownbooksincludethe novelsChildhood'sEnd, The with Rama, A Fall of Moondust, City and the Stars,The Deep Range,Rendezvous 2001: A SpaceOdyssey,2010: OdysseyTwo, 2061: OdysseyThree, The Songsof Distant Earth, andThe Fountainsof Paradise.and the collectionsThe Nine Billion l,Jamesof Cod, Talesof Ten Worlds, and The Sentinel.He has also written many nonfiction bookson scientifictopics,the bestknown of which are probablyProfiles of the Future and The Wind from the Sun. Clarke is generallyconsideredto be the man who first came up with the idea of the communicationssatellite.His most recentworksare the novel The Carden of Rama (written with Gentry Lee) and the nonfictionbookHow theWorldWasOne. Upcomingis a novelversionof this story, The Hammerof Cod. Born in Somerset,England,Clarkenow livesin Sri Lanka. The incisiveand elegantstorythat followswasfirst publishedin Time magazine, which, to my knowledge,is the only scier-rce fiction storyand only the secondwork of fiction of any sort ever publishedby Time, ar-rindicationof Clarke'sstature.It coverssomegroundthat will be familiarto long-timeClarkereaders, but it handles its themeswith classicalpurity and grace.With marvelouseconomyand precision, it managesto packenoughcontentinto a very shortstoryto last many an author for novel. Its quietnessis deceptivetoo, for in Clarke's an entire four-hundred-page fashion,it ultimatelydeliversquite an emotional typicallycool, calm, understated punch-as well as carryinga message vital for the survivalof the human race,and perhapsof all life on Earth.

It camein vertically,punchinga hole 10 km widethroughtheatmosphere, generating so high that the air itselfstartedto burn. When it hit the ground near temperatures the Culf of Mexico, rockturnedto liquid and spreadoutwardin mountainouswayes, not freezing until it had formeda crater 200 km across.

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nowtherealtragedybegan.Nitric oxides That wasonly thebeginningof disaster: rainedfrom theair, turning theseato acid. Cloudsof sootfrom incineratedforests dropped the sky,hidingthe sunfor months.Worldwide,the temperature darkened precipitously, killingoff mostof the plantsand animalsthat hadsunivedthe initial Thoughsomespecies wouldlingeron for millenniums,the reignof the cataclysm. greatreptileswasfinallyover. to Man hadbegun.Thedate hadbeenreset;thecountdown The clockof evolution million B.C. 65 was,veryapproximately, CaptainRobertSingh nevertired of walkingin the forestwith his little son Toby. It was, of course,a tamedand gentleforest,guaranteedto be free of animals,but it madean excitingcontrastto the rolling sanddunes dangerous of their lastenvironmentin the Saudidesert-and the one beforethat, on Australia'sGreatBarrierReef.But when the SkyliftServicehad movedthe system. housethis time, somethinghad gonewrongwith the food-recycling had beena curious Thoughthe electronicmenushadfail-safebackups,there recently. metallictasteto someof the itemscoming out of the synthesizer "What's that, Daddy?"askedthe four-year-old,pointingto a small hairy facepeeringat them througha screenof leaves. "Er, somekind of monkey.We'll askthe Brain when we get home." "Can I play with it?" "l don't think that'sa goodidea. It could bite. And it probablyhasfleas. Your robotoysare much nicer." "But . . ." CaptainSinghknew what would happennext:he had run this sequence a dozentimes. Toby would beginto cry, the monkeywould disappear,he would comfortthe child as he carriedhim backto the house. But that had beentwentyyearsagoand a quarter-billionkilometersaway. The playbackcameto an end;sound,vision,the scentof unknownflowers and the gentletouch of the wind slowlyfaded.Suddenly,he wasbackin this cabin aboardthe orbital tug Goliath, commandingthe 100-personteam of the mostcriticalmissionin the historyof spaceexploration. OperationATLAS, of his extendedfamily, remained and stepfathers Toby, and the stepmothers could never revisit. Decadesin Singh world which distant a on behind zero-G exercises-had so weakened mandatory the neglect of space-and Mars.Gravityhadexiled Moon and on the now walk only could he him that his birth. planet of the him from "One hour to rendezvous, captain,"saidthe quiet but insistentvoiceof had been inevitablynamed. "Active computer central David, as Goliatlr's to the real world." back Time to come mode, as requested. sweepoverhim asthe of sadness felt wave a commander Goi,Iiath'sh.rrnrtt simmeringmist of featureless, into a past dissolved final imagefrom his lost was a good reality to another one from white ,,oir.. Too swift a transition with the shock the eased always Singh and Captain recipefor schizophrenia, gulls with sea gently on a beach, falling waves knew: mostsoothingsoundhe

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crying in the distance.It wasyet anothermemoryof a life he had lost, and of a peacefulpastthat had now been replacedby a fearful present. For a few more moments,he delayedfacinghis aweso-i t.rponsibility. Th:-t he_sighedand removedthe neural-inputtap that fitted r.t,rglyover tris skulland hadenabledhim to call up hisdistantpait. Like all rpr..ir, Captain Singhbelongedto the "Bald Is Beautiful"school,if only becausewigswere a nuisancein zero gravity.The socialhistorianswerestill staggered by the fact that one invention,the portable"Brainman," could -r[J bare heads the norm within a single decade.Not evenquick-changeskin coloring,or the lens-corrective lasershapingwhich had abolishedeyeglasses, had riade such an impactupon styleand fashion. "Captain," saidDavid. "l know you'rethere.or do you want me to take over?" It wasan old ioke, inspiredby all the insanecomputersin the fiction and moviesof the early electronicage. David had a surprisinglygood senseof humor: he was, after all, a Legal Person(Nonhuman;undei the famous HundredthAmendment,andshared-or surpassed-almost all the attributes of his creators.But therewerewhole sensoryand emotionalareaswhich he could not enter. It had been felt unnecessary to equip him with smell or taste,though it would havebeeneasyto do so. And all his attemptsat telling dirty storiesweresuchdisastrous failuresthat he had abandoneithe genre. "All "l'm still in charge."He rernoued replied the captain. _ lig!,t,David," the maskfrom his eyes,and turnedreluctantlytowardthe viewport.There, hangingin spacebeforehim, wasKali. It lookedharmlessenough:just anothersmallasteroid,shapedso exactly like a peanutthat the resemblance wasalmostcomical.A few largeimpact craters,and hundredsof tiny ones,werescattered at randomoverits charcbalgraysurface.Therewereno visualcluesto giveany senseof scale,but Singh knewits dimensions by heart:1,295m maximumlength,4!,6m minimum width. Kali would fit easilyinto many city parks. No wonderthat, evennow, mostof humankindcouldstill not believethat this modestasteroidwas the instrumentof doom. Or, as the Chrislamic Fundamentalists werecalling it, "the Hammer of God." The suddenriseof Chrislamhadbeentraumaticequallyto RomeandMecca. Christianitywasalreadyreelingfrom fohn Paul XXV'i eloquentbut belated pleafor contraception and the irrefutableproofin the New bead SeaScrolls that the fesus of the Gospelswas a compositeof at least three persons. Meanwhilethe Muslim world had lost much of its economicpo*., when the Cold Fusionbreakthrough,afterthe fiascoof its prematur.,nnoun..ment, had broughtthe Oil Ageto a suddenend. The time had beenripe for a- new religion embodying,?s even its severest critics admitted,the best elementsof two ancientones. - The Prophet Fatima Magdalene(n€e Ruby Goldenburg)had attracted almost 100 million adherentsbeforeher spectacular-"r,"d,some main-

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tained, self-contrived-martyrdom.Thanks to the brilliant use of neural during its ceremonies,Chrislam programmingto give previewsof Paradise hrd gro*n explosively,though it was still far outnumberedby its parent religions. deaththe movementsplitinto rival factions, Inevitably,afterthe Prophet's each upholding the True Faith. The most fanaticalwas a fundamentalist groupcallingitself"the Reborn,"which claimedto be in directcontactwith via the listeningpostthey had established bod-(or at liast Her Archangels) in the silentzoneon the far sideof the Moon, shieldedfrom the radioracket of Earth by 3,000km of solid rock. Now Kali filled the main viewscreen.No magnificationwas needed,for Goliath washoveringonly 200 m aboveits ancient,batteredsurface.Two crew membershad alreadylanded,with the traditional"One small stepfor 2 6sn"-even though walkingwas impossibleon this almost zero-gravity worldlet. "Deployingradiobeacon.We'vegot it anchoredsecurely.Now Kali won't be able to hide from us." It wasa feeblejoke, not meritingthe laughterit arousedfrom the dozen therehadbeena subtlechange officerson the bridge.Eversincerendezvous, betweengloomand iuvenile swings unpredictable in the crew'smorale,with prescribed tranquilizersfor one had physician already humor. The ship's grow worsein the long It would symptoms. mild caseof manic-depressive wait. but to do little be weeksahead,when therewould The first waiting periodhad alreadybegun. Back on Earth, giant radio weretunedto receivethe pulsesfrom the beacon.AlthoughKali's telescopes possibleaccuracy,there orbit had alreadybeencalculatedwith the greatest by. The radio pass harmlessly might wasstill a slim chancethat the asteroid measuringrod would settlethe matter,for betteror worse. It wasa long two hoursbeforethe verdictcame,and David relayedit to the crew. "spaceguardreportsthat the probabilityof impact orr Earth is 99.9%. OperationArLASwill begin immediately." The taskof the mythologicalAtlaswasto hold up the heavensand prevent them from crashingdown upon Earth. The erles boosterthatGoliafhcarried as an externalpayloadhad a more modestgoal:keepingat bay only a small pieceof the sky. 9,000tonsand wasmovingat 50,000kml weighed It wasthesizeof a smallhouse, overtheGrandTetonNationalPark,onealert touristphotographed lr. As it passed the incandescent fireballand its longvaportrail ln lessthan twominutes,it had and returnedto space. slicedthroughthe Earth'satmosphere it hadbeencirclingthesun of orbitduringthebillionsof years change Theslightest crashinguponany of the world'sgreatcitieswith an mighthavesentthe asteroid Hiroshima. explosive forcefive timesthat of thebombthat destroyed ThedatewasAug. 10, 1972.

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Spaceguard had beenone of the lrrt *",..u of the legendaryNASA, at the closeof the 20th century.Its initial objectivehad beenmodestenough:to makeascompletea surveyaspossible of the asteroids andcometsthat ciossed the orbit of Earth-and to determineif any werea potentialthreat. With a total budgetseldomexceeding$10 million a year,a worldwide networkof telescopes, mostof them operatedby skilledamateurs,had been established by the year2000. Sixty-oneyearslater,the spectacular return of Halley'sCometencouraged morefunding,andthegreat2079fireball,luckily impactingin mid-Atlantic,gaveSpaceguard additionalprestige.By the end of the century,it had locatedmore than I million asteroids, ind tir. survey wasbelievedto be 90% complete.However,it would haveto be contilued indefinitely:therewasalwaysa chancethat someintrudermight come rushing in from the unchartedouter reachesof the solarsystem. As had Kali, which had beendetectedin late ZZIZ as it fell sunwardpast the o-rbitof fupiter-Fortunatelyhumankindhadnot beenwhollyunprepaied, thanksto the factthat SenatorGeorgeLedstone(Independent, WestAmerica) had chairedan influentialfinancecommitteealmosta generationearlier. The Senatorhad one public eccentricityand, he cheeifullyadmitted,one secretvice. He alwaysworemassivehorn-rimmedeyeglasses (no,rfunctional, of course)because theyhadan intimidatingeffecto,-,uncooperative witnesses, fewof whom hadeverencountered sucha novelty.His "secietvice,"perfcctly well knownto everyone,wasrifleshootingon a standardOlympic range,set up in the tunnelj of long-abandoned missilesilo near Mount Cheyenpe. -t Ever since the demilitarizationof PlanetEarth (much accelerated by the "GunsAre the Crutchesof the Impotent"),suchactivitieshad famoqsslogan b.q frownedupon, though not activelydiscouiaged. There wasno doubt that SenatorLedsto,r.rm n,r original;it seemedto hadbeena colonelin tf,edreadedBeverly ry1 in the family. His-grandmother Hills Militia, whoseskirmishes with the L.A. Irregularshadspawnedendless psychodramas in everymedium, from old-fashionedballet to direct brai. stimulation'And hisgrandfather hadbeenoneof the mostnotoriousbootleggersofthe 2lst century.Beforehe waskilledin a shoot-outwith the Ca.adiin Medicopsduring an ingeniousattemptto smugglea kiloton of tobaccoup NiagaraFalls, it wasestimatedthat "Smokey"had beel responsible for at least20 million deaths. Ledstonewasquite unrepentantabouthis grandfather, whosesensational demisehad triggeredthe repealof the late U.5.'s third, and mostdisastrous, attemptat Prohibition.He arguedthat responsible adulh s6ouldbe allowed to commit suicidein any way they pleased-by alcohol, cocaineor even tobacco-as long astheydid not kill innocentbystanders iuring the process. Phase2 wasfirst"presented to . Wh-enthe proposedbudgetfor Spaceguard him, SenatorLedstonehad beenoutragidby the ideaof t1,ro*i,rgbillions of dollarsinto space.It wastrue that the giobaleconomywasin goodshape; sincethe almostsimultaneous collapr"of communismand [t. "rplt"lir-, skillful applicationof chaostheory by World Bank mathematicia.s had

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broken the old cycle of booms and bustsand averted(so far) the Final Nonetheless, the Senatorargued predictedby many pessimists. Depression that the money could be much betterspenton Earth-especially on his favorite proiect, reconstructingwhat was left of California after the Superquake. When Ledstonehad twice vetoedSpaceguardPhaseZ, everyoneagreed that no one on Earthwould makehim changehis mind. They had reckoned without someonefrom Mars. of greening The RedPlanetwasno longerquiteso red,thoughthe process on the problemsof survival,the colonists it had barelybegun.Concentrating (they hatedthe word and werealreadysayingproudly "we Martians")had little energyleft over for art or science.But the lightning flash of genius theoreticalphysicistof the centurywas strikeswhereit will, and the greatest Lowell. Port domes of the bubble born under compared,CarlosMendozawasan he was often to whom Like Einstein, on Marsand wasa skilled the only saxophone owned excellentmusician;he have receivedhis Nobel He could performeron that antique instrument. loved he surprisesand practical but Prizeon Mars, as everyoneexpected, jokes.Thus he appearedin Stockholmlooking like a knight in high-tech developedfor paraplegics. armor, wearingone of the poweredexoskeletons function almostunhandicapped he could With this mechanicalassistance, quickly killed him. have in an environmentthat would otherwise to say,whenthe ceremonywasover,Carloswasbombardedwith Needless invitationsto scientificand socialfunctions.Among the few he wasableto beforethe World BudgetCommittee,whereSenaacceptwasan appearance him abouthis opinionof ProjectSpaceguard. tor Ledstonecloselyquestioned "l live on a world which still bearsthe scarsof a thousandmeteorimpacts, Mendoza."Once someof them hundredsofkilometersacross,"saidProfessor they wereequallycommonon Earth, but wind and rain-something we don't haveyet on Mars, thoughwe'reworkingon it!-have worn them away." are alwayspointing to signsof SenatorLedstone:"The Spaceguarders asteroidimpactson Earth. How seriouslyshouldwe taketheir warnings?" ProfessoiMendoza:"Very seriously,Mr. Chairman' Sooneror later, there'sbound to be anothermaior impact." SenatorLedstonewas impressed,and indeed charmed,by the young scientist,but not yet convinced.What changedhis mind wasnot a matter of logicbut of emotion.On his wayto London,CarlosMendozawaskilled in malfunctioned. abiiarreaccidentwhenthe controlsystemof his exoskeleton Spaceguard, Deeplymoved,Ledstoneimmediatelydroppedhis opposition-to Titan, to and approvingconstructionof two powerfulorbitingtug-s, _Goliath be'keptf.r-rr,.ntly patrollingon oppositesidesof the sun. And when he rr, ,'u.iy old rntn, he saidto one of his aides,"They tell me we'll soonbe ableto takeMetrdoza'sbrain out of that tank of liquid nitrogen,and talk to it througha computerinterface.I wonderwhat he'sbeenthinkingabout,all theseyears..."

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Assembled on Phobos,the inner rr,.,u,. or*rrr, ATLAS waslittle morethan a setof rocketenginesattachedto propellanttanksholding 100,000tons of hydrogen.Though its fusion drive could generatefar lessthrust than the primitive missilethat had carriedYuri Gagarininto space,it could run continuouslynot merelyfor minutesbut for weeks.Even so. the effecton the asteroidwould be trivial, a velocitychangeof a few centimetersper second.Yet that might be sufficientto deflectKali from its fatalorbit drrir,g the monthswhile it wasstill falling earthward. Now that ATus's propellanttanks,control systemsand thrustershad been securelymountedon Kali, it lookedas if somelunatic had built arr oil refineryon an asteroid.CaptainSinghwasexhausted,as wereall the crew members,after daysof assemblyand checking.yet he felt a warm glow of achievement:they had done everythingthai wasexpectedof theml the countdownwasgoingsmoothly,and the restwasup to e,u,Rs. He would have been far lessrelaxedhad he kiown of the ABSoLUTE PRIORITY message racirrgtowardhim by tight infraredbeamfrom ASTRopoL headquarters in Geneva.It would not reachCotiathfor another30 minutes. And by then it would be much too late. At aboutT mir-rusJ0 minutes,Goliafft had drawnawayfrom Kali to stand well clearof the iet with which ArLASwould try to nudgeit from its present course."Like a mousepushingan elephant,"onemediap..ro.t haddescribed the operation.But in the frictionlessvacuum of space,wheremomentum could neverbe lost,evenone mousepower would be enoughif appliedearly and over a sufficientlength of time. The group of officerswaitingquietly on the bridgedid not expectto see anythingspectacular: the plasmajet of the erles drivewould be iar too hot to producemuch visibleradiation.Only the telemetrywould corrfirmthat ignition had startedand that Kali wasno longeran implacablejuggernaut, wholly beyondthe control of humanity There wasa brief round of cheeringand a gentlepatterof applauseasthe stringof zeroson the accelerometer displaybegar-r to change.Tlie feelipgo1 the bridgewa,sone of reliefratherthan exultatior-r. Though Kali wasstirring, it would be daysand weeksbeforevictorywasassured. And then, unbeliev?bly,the numbersdroppedbackto zero. Secondslater, threesimultaneous audioalarmssounded.AII eyesweresuddenlyfixeclon Kali and the ArIASboosterwhich shouldbe nudgingit from its presentcourse.The sightwasheartbreaking: the greatpropellanttariks*.t op.iring up like flowers in a time-lapsemovie, spillingout the thousands of tousof reiction massthat might havesaved E-arthWispsof vapordriftedacrossthe faceof the asteroid, $e veiling ih crateredsurfacewith an evanescent atmosphere. Then Kali continuedalong its path, headingiiexorably towarda Fery collisior-r with the Earth.

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cabirl that it:rrl ll.-rctt Captail Sipgh was alone in the large. wcll-alqtttirrtccl svstcl tt.Il c u:rs sti l l sol ar i rr the o th c i p l a c c a n y 6is hor ne f oi l u r' rg .rth a n ttttircrsc' u'itlr thc pcace his make dazed but was trying to He 6acl lost, fir,illy and frrrcuer,all tliat ltc lovccl <xr h,artlr.\\'ith thc rtttclit cleclineof the luclear family, he had knowrr nlan\ dc:epattaclttrtcttt.s, hc tw'o clrilclrcn tlrc of urothcrs thc be should haclbeen hard to decide who (lrc thc lrad firrgottc'rr nurcl i\nrcrican was permitted. A pl'rrascfronr an old authfr) kept coming into his nrincl: "Rcrrcl.l'rbcrtlrcrrr as tlrcr 1'1'11'-;111{ write them off."'l'[c fact that tre hinrsclf r.ras1rcrf-cctli'safr'sonrchou'ttirtclc liinr feel worse; Goliath was in no dangcr ivlrltsocvcr,atttl still lrrril rrll tlrc, of lrtrnrartitvorr tlrc \loott propellantit ncedcdto rejoin thc shakcnsun,ir.'ors or Mars. Well, [e hacln]any friendships-and onc t]iat nas tttttch llrorc tlrrin tlrattlnh l0Z. n'itlr tlccacles ur. M.rr; this was *liere his fuiure rnttst lic. Ilc vn'as of active life ahcad of him. But sonrc of thc crcu' hacl lovecl ttttcs ott thc to tltc votc. Moop; [e would have to put Go/iafh's clcstirtrttiort Ship's Orders had ncvcr covcrecla sitrratiorrlikc tliis. said the chief cttgittecr. "u'hv tlrat crltlosivc c
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There wasa momentof stunnedsilenceon the bridgeaseveryoneasked the question,"Why didn't I think of that?"and quicklyalrivedat the answer. David had kepthis head,if one could useso inappropriate a phrase,while all the humans around him were in a stateof iho"k. There were some compensations in beinga LegalPerson(Nonhuman).Though David could not know love, neither could he know fear. He would .oitinu. to think logically,evento the edgeof doom. With any luck, thoughtCaptainSingh, this is my lastbroadcast to Earth. I'm tired of beinga hero, and a s.lightlyprematureone at that. Many things could still go wrong, as indeedthey alreadyhave. . . "This is CaptainS11sh,spacetug Goliath. First of all, let me sayhow glad we are that the Eldersof Chrislamhave identifiedthe saboteurs and handedthem over to ASTRopoL. "We are now 50 daysfrom Earth, and we havea slight problem.This one, I hastento add, will not affectour new attemptto ?eflLct Kali into a safeorbit. I note that the newsmediaare callingthis deflectionOperation Deliverance.We like the name,and hopeto live up to it, but we stili cannot be absolutelycertain of success.David, who appreciaies all the goodwill messages he has received,estimatesthat the probabilityof Kali irnpacting Earth is still l0% . . . "We had intendedto keepjust enoughpropellantreserveto leaveKali shortlybeforeencoun-ter and go into , rrfet orbii, whereour sistershipTitan could rendezvous with us. But that optionis now closed.While Coliath was pushingagainstKali at maximum drive, we brokethrougha weakpoint in the crust.The ship wasn'tdamaged,but we'restuck!Ali attemptsto break awayhavefailed. "we're not worried,and it may evenbe a blessingin disguise.Now we,ll usethe wholeof.ourremainingpropellanttogiveoie finainudge.perhaps that will be the lastdrop that'sneededto do the iob. "So we'll rideKali pastEarth,andwaveto youfrom a comfortable distance, in just 50 days. It would be the longest50 daysin the historyof the world. Noy the hug_e crescentof the Moon spa'nedthe sky,the jaggedmountain peaksalongthe terminatorburningwith the fiercetignt orttr'I lur,ri il;. But the dustyplainsstill untouchedby the ,un *"rJ not completelydark; they were glowing faintly in the lighi reflectedfrom Earth's'cioudsa'd continents'And scatteredhere and there acrossthat once deadlandscape were the glowingfirefliesthat markedthe first permanentsettlements humankind had built beyondthe home planet.captain Singh could easily locateclavius Base,Port Armstrong,irhto city. He could even see the necklaceof faint lightsalongthe TranslunarRaiiroad,bringingits precious Q t cargoof waterfrom the ice minesat the South pole. Earth wasnow only five hoursaway.

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Kali entered Earth's atmospheresoon aftcr locirl nrrdniglrt, l()() krrr alloi'e Hawaii. Instantly, the gigantic fireball brouglrt a falseclaii'trto tlrc i)acific. awakening the wildlife on its ml,riad islancls.Btrt for' lttttttatrslrtrclbceri aslecpthis night of nigl-rts,excepttl'roseu'lro lraclsoughtthc oblivirtttof clrtrqs. Ouet New Zealand, tl-reheat of thc orbiting fttrttacc ignitccl firrcstsancl n1eltedthe snow or] nrountaintops,triggcrinq avalatrchcsittto tltc vallevs bepeath. But the htrrnan race had beert vcr)', r'cn ltrckr':tltc trtaitt thcnnal ilrpact as Kali passedthe Earth was on thc '\rttarctic, thc c'orrtilrcrlttltat . o, r ld bes t abs o rbi t. E v e n Ka l i c o u l c l n o t s trtl t auar al l tl rc ki l orrrctcrsof polar ic e, but i t s e t i r-rn ro ti o n tl ' reG re a t' l ' h a u' that rr' oul clcl rarrgccoastl i ncs all around the world. of Kali's No one who survived hearing it corrld o,cr tlcscribetlrc stltttttl 'l'lrc I'rdco cclrocs. fceblc tltan nrorc werc recordings the of llone passage; gcttcrittiorts ftrr irt aw'c u':rtcltccl ltc wotrlcl and superb, was course of aou"rrga, , to come. But r-rothingcould e\/ercontl>arcu'itlr tlte fcarsotttcrerllitr'. 'Iwo minutes after it had slicedinto thc atrnosltltcrc,Kali rccrrtcrcclspacc. lts closestapproachto Earth had been 60 krtr [n that tno trtirttrtcs.it took 100, 000liv es a n d d i d $ l tri l l i o n w o rth o f c l arn:tqc' Goliath had been protcctedfrom thc fircball l>r'tlrc tttitssivcslricld of Kali harrllcsslv ovcrltcrrcl.BUt ihelf; the sheetsof incandescentplasma strcarirccl of ai r at tttttrctl rarrl (X )ti nrcs d to E a rth ' sb l a rrkct when t he as t e ro i ds r-n a s h ei n sw rftl r i o l l rc. 10. 2L) tttotttrtcd t 6e s peedof s o u n d , th c c o l o s s adl ra g fo rc c s nrachittcsor fleslr tlrat arrvthirrg grauiiies-and peakedat a level far ber,oncl could withstand. Now ildeed Kali's orbit had been clrasticrllvcltangccl;rrc\,'cragairrwrltrlcl it conre near Earth. On its next retunr to tlrc irurcr solar svstcrrr,thc su'iftcr arrcl
GROWNUPS lan R. MacLeod

v New British writer lan R. Macleod has been one of the most talked-aboutyoung '90s, publishing writersof the a slew of strongstoriesin the first three yearsof the decadein lnterzone,lsaac Asimov'sScienceFiction Magazine,Weird Tales,Amazing, andTheMagazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction, amongother markets.Several of thosestoriesmade the cut for one or anotherof the various"Best of the Year" includingappearances herein our Eightand Ninth Annual Collections. anthologies, In 1990, in fact, he appearedin threedifferentBestof the Year anthologieswith threedifferentstories,certainlya raredistinction.He hasyet to producea novel, but it is being eagerlyawaitedby genreinsiders,and as he hasrecentlygiven up his day job to write full-time; perhapswe won't have long to wait. Macleod is in his early thirties,and liveswith his wife and babydaughterin the West Midlandsof England. In the disquietingstory that follows, he takesus to a world that's very like our own-except for all the waysthat count the mosf-to relateone of the most bizarre coming-of-agestorieseverwritten.

Bobby finally got aroundto askingMum wherebabiescame from on the eveningof his seventhbirthday.It had beenhot all day, and the grownups and a few of the olderchildrenwho had cometo his partywerestill outside on the lawn. He could heartheir talk andeveningbirdsongthroughhis open windowas Mum closedthe curtains.Sheleaneddown to kisshis forehead. She'dbeendrinkingsincethe firstguestsarrivedbeforelunch and her breath smelt like windfall apples.Now seemedas a good a time as any. As she turned towardsthe door, he askedhis question.It came out as a whisper, but she heard,and frownedfor a moment beforeshesmiled. "You childrenalwayswant to know too soon,"shesaid."l wasthe same, believeme, Bobby.But you must be patient.You reallymust." Bobbyknewenoughaboutgrownupsto realizethat it wasunwiseto push too hard. So he forcedhimselfto yawnand blink slowlyso shewould think he wastruly sleepy.She pattedhis hand. After his door had clickedshut, after her footstepshad paddeddown the stairs,Bobbyslid out of bed. Ignoringthe presents piled in the cornerby the closet-robotswith sparkingeyes,doll soldiers,and submarines-hepeered from the window. They lived at the edgeof town, where rooftopsdwindled

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to greenhills and the silvercurl of the river.He watchedMum emergefrom the Frenchwindowsonto the widelawn below. Shestoppedto saysomething to Dad ashe satlazingin a deckchairwith the othermen, a beercanpropped againsthis crotch.Then shetook a taperfrom the urn besidethe barbecue to light the lanternshangingfrom and touchedit to the coals.Sheproceeded the boughsof the cherry trees. The wholegardenfilled with stars.Aftershehad lit the lastlantern,Mum put the taperto her mouth and extinguished it with her tongue.Then she rejoinedthe women gossipingon the white wrought iron chairs.The remaining childrenwereall leavingfor home. Carswerestartingup, turning out from the shadeddrive. Bobbyheardhis brotherTony call goodnightto the grownupsand thunder up the stairs.He tensedin caseTony should decideto look in on him beforehe went to bed, but relaxedafterthe toilet had flushedand Tony's bedroomdoor had slammed.It wasalmostnight. Bobbyknew that his window would showas no more than a darkersquare againstthe wall of the house.He widenedthe partingin the curtain. He lovedto watch the grownupswhen they thoughtthey werealone. It wasa differentworld. One day, Mum had told him oftenenough,one day, sweetlittle Bobby,you'll understandit all, touchinghis skin as she spoke with paperyfingers.But give it time, my darlingone, give it time. Beinga grownupis more wonderfulthan you children could ever imagine. More wonderful.Yes,my darling.Kissinghim on the foreheadand eacheyeand then his mouth, the way shedid when shegot especiallytender. Bobby gazeddown at the grownups.They had that looselook that came when the wine and the beer had gone down well and there was more to come, when the night waswarm and the starsmirroredthe lanterns.Dad raisedhis can from his crotchto his lips. One of the men besidehim made a joke and the beer spluttereddown Dad's chin, gleamingfor a moment beforehe wipedit away.The men alwaystalkedlike this, loud betweenbursts of silence,whilst the women'svoices-laughing serioussad-brushed soft cansto againstthe night. Over by the trellisarchwaythat led by the garbage that Dad the front, half a dozenunclessatin the speciallywide deckchairs kept for them behind the mower in the shed. Bobbycouldn'thelp staringat the uncles.They wereall grosslyfat. There wasUncle Stan,Uncle Harold,and, of course,his own Uncle Lew. Bobby sawwith a certainpride that Lew wasthe biggest.His tie waslooseand his bestshirt strainedlike a full sail acrosshis belly. Like all the uncles,Lew lived alone,but Dad or the fatherof one of the otherfamiliesLew wasuncle to wasalwaysreadyto takethe car down on a Saturdaymorning, paint the windowsof his house,or seeto the lawn. In many ways,Bobbythought,it uncles.Even more thap their girth rewasan ideal life. Peoplerespected quired,they steppedasidefrom them in the street.But at the sametime, his eagerto parentswereoftenedgywhen Lew wasaround,uncharacteristically please.Sometimeslate in the night, Bobby had heard the unmistakable .l"tt.r of his van on the gravelout front, Mum and Dad'svoiceswhispering softlyexcitedin the hall. Gazingat Lew, seatedwith the otheruncles,Bobby

Grownups

remembered how he haddragged him to the moistfoldsof his belly,rumbling Won't You fust Look At This SweetKid? His yeastyaromacamebacklike the aftertasteof bad cooking. Someoneturnedthe recordplayeron in the lounge.Sibilantmusicdrifted like smoke.Someof the grownupsbeganto dance.Women in white dresses blossomedas they turned, and the men weredarklyquick. The music and the sigh of their movementbrushedagainstthe humid night, coaxedthe glow of the lanterns,silveredthe rooftopsand the stars. The dancingquickened,seekinga fasterrhythm inside the slow beat. Bobby'seyesFtzzed with sleep.He thoughthe sawgrownupsfloatingheartbeat on heartbeatabovethe lawn. Soon they were leapingover the lanterned cherry trees,flying, pressingcloseto his window with smilesand waves, beckoninghim to join them. Come out and play, Bobby,out hereamid the stars.The men dartedlike eels,the womendid high kicksacrossthe rooftop, theirdresses billowingcoralfrills overtheir heads.The unclesbobbedaround the chimney like huge balloons. When Bobby awoke,the lanternswere out. There was only darkness, summerchill. As he crawledbackto bed, a suddensoundmadehim freeze.Deep and feral,somekind of agonythat wasneitherpain nor grief,it startedloud then camedown by notchesto a stutteringsob.Bobbyunfrozewhen it endedand hauledthe blanketsup to his chin. Through the bedroomwall, he could hear the faint mutter of Dad'svoice, Mum's half-questioning reply. Then Uncle Lew sayinggoodnight.Slowfootsteps down the stairs.The front door slam. Clatterof an enginecoming to life. Sigh of gravel. Silence. Bobbystoodat the far bankof the river.His handsclenchedand unclenched. Three yearshad passed.He wasnow ten; his brotherTony wassixteen. Tony wasout on the river,atopthe oildrum raftthat he and the otherkids of his agehad beenbuildingall summer.The wide sweepthat cut between the fieldsand the gasometers into town had narrowedin the droughtheat. Tony wasanglinga polethroughthe suckingsilt to getto the deepercurrent. He wasabsorbed,alone;he hadn't noticedBobbystandingon the fissured mud of the bank. Earlierin the summer,therewould havebeena crowdof Tony'sfriendsout there,shoutinganddiving,sittingwith their heelsclutched in brown hands, chasingBobby awaywith shoutsor grabbinghim with terriblethreatsthat usuallyendedin a simpleduckingor just laughter,some in cutoffshorts,their backsfreckledpink from peelingsunburn,to-. sleekly naked,thoseodd darkpatchesof hair showingundertheir armsand bellies. MaggieBrown, with a barkingvoice you could hear half a mile off, pete Thorn, who keptpigeonsand alwaysseemedto watch,neversaidanything, maybefohnnie Redheadand his sidekicks,evenTrev Lee, if his hay feuei, asthma,and psoriasis hadn'tkepthim inside,or maybethe twin Mcbonald sisters,whom no one could tell apart.

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Now Tony wasalone. "Hey!" Bobbyyelled,not wantingto breakinto his brother'sisolation,but knowinghe had to. "Hey, Tony!" Tony poled once more toward the current. The drums shook, tensed againsttheir bindings,then inchedtowardthe main sweepof the river. "H.y, Tony, Mum saysyou'vegot to come home right now." "All right, all right." Tony let go of the pole, jumpeddown into the water.It camejust below his nakedwaist. He wadedout clumsily, falling on handsand knees.He crouchedto wash himself clean in a cool eddy where the water met the shore,then shooklike a dog. He grabbedhis shortsfrom the branch of a deadwillow and hauledthem on. "Why didn't you just come?"Bobbyasked."You musthaveknown it was " time. The doc'swaitingat home to giveyou your tests. Tony slickedbackhis hair. They both staredat the ground.The riverstill drippedfrom Tony'schin, madetiny cratersin the sand.Bobbynoticedthat Tony hadn'tshaved,which wasa badsignin itself.Out on the river,the raft suddenlybobbedfree, floatinghigh on the quick current. Tony shookhis head. "Never did that when I wason it. Seemedlike a greatidea,you know?Then you spendthe wholesummertryingto pole out of the mud." Around them, the bankwaslitteredwith the spoorof summerhabitation. The blackenedruin of a bonfire, stoneslaid out in the shapeof a skull, an old flapof canvasproppedup like a tent, ringpullcans funkfoodwrappers, and cigarettebutts, a solitaryshoe.Bobbyhad his own friends-his own But still, specialplaces-and he cameto this spotrarelyand on sufferance. he lovedhis brother,and wasold enoughto havesomeideaof how it must feelto leavechildhoodbehind.But he told himselfthat mostof it had gone already.Tony wasthe last;Peteand Maggieand the McDonald twins had grownup. Almostall the otherstoo. That left iustTrev Lee, who had locked himselfin the bathroomand swalloweda bottleof bleachwhilst his parents hammeredat the door. Tony madea movementthat lookedasthoughit might end in a hug. But he slappedBobby'sheadinstead,almosthard enoughto hurt. They always actedtough with eachother;it wastoo late now to startchangingthe rules. They followed the path through the still heat of the woodsto the main road. It was midday. The shimmeringtarmac cut betweenyellow fields toward town. Occasionally,a car or truck would appearin the distance, floatingsilent on heat ghostsbeforethe roar and the smell suddenlybroke pastthem, whippingdust into their faces.Bobby gazedat stalkingpylons, raggedfences,the litter-strewnedgesof the countryside;it was the map of his own childhood.It wasTony'stoo-but Tony only staredat the verge.It wasplain that he wastired of living on the cliff-edgeof growingup. He Tony lookedhalf a grownupalready,graceful,clumsy,self-absorbed. hadn'tbeenhis true selfthroughall this laterpart of the summer,or at least not sincefoan Tracketthad grown up. foan had a fiercecrop of hair and

Grownups

protrudingeyes;she had come to the areawith her parentsabout six years before.Bobbyknewthat sheand Tony had beenhavingsexsinceat leastlast winter and maybebefore.He'd actuallystumbledacrossthem one day in spring,]yi,ngon a dumpedmattressin the eastfieldsup beyondthe garbage dump, hiddenamid the brackenin a cornerthat the farmerhadn'tbotheted to plough.Tony had chasedhim away,alternatelygrippingthe openwaistbandof his ieans-and wavinghis fists.But that eveningTony had-letBobby play with his collectionof model cars,which was a big concession,even thoughBobbyknewthatTony had mostlylostinterestin them already.They had sattogetherin Tony'sbedroomthat smelledof peppermintand socks.i guessyou know what foan and I weredoing, he had said.Bobbynodded, circlinga blackV8 limo with a missingtire aroundthe whorlsand dustballs of the carpet.It's no big deal,Tony said,pickingat a scabon his chin. But his eyeshad goneblankwith puzzlement,asthoughhe couldn't remember somethingimportant. Bobbylookedup at Tony asthey walkedalongthe road.He wasgoingto misshis big brother.He evenwantedto sayit, althoughhe knewhe wouldn't be able to find the words. Maybe he'd catch up with him again when he turned grownuphimself, but that seemeda long way off. Ai leastfive summers. The fields ended.The road led into Avenues,Drives, and Crofts that meandereda hundreddifferentwaystowardhome. The doctor'sred stationwagonwasparkedunderthe shadeof the poplar in their drive. "You don't make peoplewait," Mum said, her breathshort with impatience,shooingthem both quicklydown the hallwayinto the kitchen.,,I'm disappointedin you, Tony. You-too, Bobby. You;re both old enough to know better." She openedthe fridgeand took out a tumbler of bitter -itt . "And Tony, you didn't drink this at breakfast. " "Mum, doesit matter?I'll be a grownupsoon anyway.,, Mum placedit on the scrubbedtable."Justdrink it.'; Tony drank. He wiped his chin and bangeddown the glass. "Well, off you go," Mum said. He headedup the stairs. Doctor Halsteadwaswaitingfor To'y up in the spareroom. He'd been comingaroundto testhim everyTuesdaysinceMum and Dad receivedthe brownen-velope from school,arrivingpunctuallyat twelvethirty, takingbestchina coffeewith Mum in the loungeafterward.There wasno mystery"about the tests'Once or twice,Bobbyhad seenthe syringes and the bloodanalysis equipmentspreadout on the candlewickbedspread throughthe opendoor. Tony had told him what it waslike, how the doc stuck, 6ig neediein your arm to takesomeblood. It hurt some,but not much. He had shownBobby the sunsetbruiseson his arm with that perverse pride that kidsdisplayover any wound. DoctorHalsteadcamedownhalf an hour later,lookingsternand noncommittal. Tony followedin his wake.He shushedBobbyi.rd ttied to listento

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with the doc over coffeein the loungeby standingby Mum's conversation the door in the hall. But grownupshad a wayof talkingthat madeit difficult to follow, loweringtheir voicesat the crucialmoment, clinking their cups. Bobbyimaginedthem stiflingtheir laughterbehindthe closeddoor, deliberfragmentsthey knew the kids would hear. He ately uttering meaningless found the thoughtoddly reassuring. Tony grewup on the Thursdayof that sameweek.He and Bobbyhad spent the afternoontogetherdown at Monument Park. They had climbed the whisperingboughsof one of the big elm treesalongthe avenueand satwith below. their legsdangling,tryingto spiton the headsof the grownupspassing "Will you tell me what it's like?"Bobbyhad askedwhen his mouth finally went dry. "What?" Tony lookedvague.He pickedup a spiderthat crawledonto his wrist and rolled it betweenfingerand thumb. "About being a grownup.Talk to me afterward.I want . . . I want to know." "Yeah, yeah.We're still brothers,right?" "You've got it. And-" "-flsy, shush!" Three younggrownupswereheadingtheir way, a man, a woman,and an uncle. Bobbyiupposed they were courting-they had their arms around way that grownupshad, their faces each other in that vaguelypassionless seeing.He beganto salivate. without the trees and sky the at staring absent, "Bombs away." Bobby missedwith his lob, but Tony hawkedup a greenone and scored a glea-ing hit on the crown of the woman'shead.The grownupswalked on, stupidlyoblivious. It wasa fine afternoon.They climbedhigher still, skinningtheir palms and kneeson the greenishbark, feelingthe tree swaybeneaththem like a dancer.From ,rp h"r., the park shimmered,you could seeeverything;the grownupslazing on the grass,two fat kids lake, the glitteringgreenhouses, from Ton!'s y.rtlobbing stonesat a convoyof ducks.Bobbygrinnedand threw ba.[ hir head.Here, you could feelthe hot skyaroundyou, tastethe cloudslike white candy. "You willtell me what it's like to be a grownup?"he askedagain. But Tony suddenlylookedpale and afraid,holding onto the trembling boughs."Let's climb down," he said. that that wasthe beginning. Wh.n Bobbythoughtback,he guessed Mum took one look at Tony when they got home and called Doctor Halstead.He was quick in coming. On Mum's instructions,Bobby also as he phoned Dad at the office, feelingterribly grownupand responsible askedto be put through in the middle of a meeting Tony wassittingon the sofain the lounge,rockingto and-fro,startingto moan. Dad ald tf,. doc carriedhim to the sparebedroom.Mum followed them up the stairs,then pulled the doortightly shut.Bobbywaiteddownstairs

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in the kitchen and watchedthe shadowscreepacrossthe scrubbedtable. Occasionally, therewerefootsteps upstairs,the rumbleof voices,the hissof a tap. He had to fix his own teafrom leftoversin the fridge.Later,somehowall the houselightsgot turnedon. Everythingwashardind bright like a fierce lantern,shapesburnedthroughto the filamentsbeneath.Bobby'sheadwas swimming.He wassomeoneelse,thinking, this is my house,ry brother, knowingat the sametime that it couldn'tbe true. Upstairs,he could hear someone's voicescreaming,sayingMy God No. Mum camedown afterten. Shewaswearingsomekind of plasticapron that waswet whereshe'dwiped it clean. "Bobby,you'vegot to go to bed." She reachedto grabhis arm and pull him from the sofa. _ Bobbyheld backfor a moment."What'shappeningto Tony, Mum? Is he okay?" "Of coursehe'sokay. It's nothing to get excitedabout. It happensto us ;'will you just get upstaitsto bed, 1ll, .rt :_." inger came into her face. Bobby?You shouldnt.be up this lateanyway.Not ionig-ht,nbt ,.,y night.; Mum followedBobbyup the stairs.She waitedto open the door of the spareroom until he'd gone into the bathroom.Bobbyfound therewas no hot water,no towels;he had to dry his hand on ,q.rrr.s of toilet paper,and the flush wasslow to clear,as though somethingwasblockingit. He sprintedacrossthe dangerousspaceof the landingand-intobed. He tried to sleep. In the morning there wasthe smell of toast.Bobbycame down the stairs slowly,testingeachstep. "So-,you'reup," Mum said,lifting the kettlefrom the burneras it began to boil. It waseight thitty by the clock overthe fridge;a little late, but everything wasasbriskand sleepyjs_1ny othermorning.bad staredat the sportspages, eatinghis cornfakes.Bobbysat down oppositehim at the table, lifted the big cerealpacketthat promiseda s9{e *od.l if you collectedenoughcoupons. That usedto {1ive Toly wild, how the oifer al*ays changedb.for. you had enough.Bobbyshooksomeflakesinto a bowl. "How'sTony?"he asked,'tipping out milk. "Tony's fine," Dad said. Then he swallowedand looked up from the paper-a rare eventin itself. "He's just resting,Son. upstairsln his own room, his own bed." "I.t, darling." Mum's voicecamefrom behind.Bobbyfelt her hands . on his shoulders,kneadingsoftly."It's sucha happydayfor you, Dad and me. To.Y.t a grownupnow. Isn'tthatwonderful?"'iirefingerstightened,released. "That doesn'tm:an you don'tgoto school,"Dad,ia.a.h e gavehis paper a shake,. rearranged it acrossthe teapotand the marmalad"iai. "But be sureto tell Miss cibson what'shappened. " Mum's uoicefadedto the backof the kitchen.The fridgedoorr-r"Gd open."She'll wantto know

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why you're late for register."Bottlesjingled.Mum waftedcloseagain.She came around to the sideof the table and placeda tumbler filled with white fuid besidehim. The bitter milk. "We know you'restill young," she said. "But there'sno harm, and now Seemsas gooda time as any." Her fingers turned a loosebutton on her blouse."Try it, darling, it's not so bad." Bobby glancedquickly at Mum, at Dad. What happensif I don't What happensif . . . throughthe kitchenwindow, the skywassummergrey' the cloudscastingthe softwarm light that he lovedmore than sunlight, that and more broughtout the greenin the treesand madeeverythingseemc_lo9er real.Vhat happins. . . Bobbypickedup the tumblerin both hands,drank gulps,the way he'd seenTony do so often in the past. it down in breathless "Good lad," Mum sighedafterhe'd finished.Shewasbehindhim again, a shudder.This her fingerstrailing his neck.Bobbytook a breath,suppressed disgusting. it did: said Tony always as milk tasted bitter iust "Can I seeTony now, beforeI go to school?" Mum hesitated.Dad looked up again from his newspaper.Bobby knew what it would be like later,the cards,the flowers,the houselostin strangers. This washis bestchanceto speakto his brother. "Oloy," Mum said."But not for long." Tony wassittingup in bed, the TV Mum and Dad usuallykept in their own bedroornptopped -gobby on the dressingtable. Having the TV was a special had had it twice himself, once with chickenpox, and sign of illness; then with mumps. The feelingof luxury had almostmade the discomfort worthwhile. "l just thoughtI'd seehow you were," Bobbysaid. "What?" Totty lifted the remotecontrol from the bedspt.?g,pressedthe red button to kili the sound.It wasa reluctantgesturethat Bobbyrecognized from Dad. "How are you feeling?" "l'm fine, Bobby." "Did it hurt?" "Yes . . . Not really." Tony shrugged."What do you want me to say? You'll find out soonenough,Bobby." You saidyol'd tell me everything'" , "Don't you rememberyesterday? "Of courseI remember,but I'm iust here in bed . . watchingthe TV' You can seewhat it's like." He spreadhis arms."Come here, Bobby'" Bobby steppedforward. Tony grinned."Come on, little brother." him in his arms-It was forwardoverthe bed, let Tony c-lasp Bobby"leaned odd to flel his brotherthis way, the softplatesof muscle,the ridgesof chest ,r,a tt*. They'd held each-otheroften enough before,but only in the wrestlingboutsthat Bobbylaunchedinto when he had nothing betterto do, certainlhat he'd end up bruisedand kicking, pinned down and forcedto submit.But now the big handswerepattinghis back.Tony wastalkingover his shoulder. "l'll sortthroughall the toysin the next day or so. You can keepall the

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we'restill brothers,right?" He beststuffto play with. Like we saidyesterday, leanedBobbyback,lookedinto his eyes."Right?" Bobbyhad had enoughof grownuppromisesto know what they meant. Grownupswerealwaysgoingto getthis and fix that, build wendyhouseson the lawn, takeyou to the zoo, staplethe brokenstrapon your satchel-favors that neverhappened,thingstheygot angryaboutif you evermentionedthem again. "All the besttoys. Right?" "Right," Bobbysaid. He turned for the door, then hesitated."Will you tell me one thing?" "What?" "Where babiescome from." Tony hesitated,but not unduly; grownupsalwaysthought before they spoke."They come from the belliesof uncles,Bobby.A big slit opensand they tumble out. It's no secret,it's a naturalfact." Bobbynodded,wonderingwhy he'd beenso afraidto ask."l thought so . . thanks." "Any time," Tony said,and turnedup the TV. "Thanksagain." Bobbyclosedthe door behind hirn. Tony finished school officially at the end of that term. But there were no awards,no speeches,no bunting over the schoolgates.Like the other new grownups,he just stoppedattending,went in one eveningwhen it wasquiet him. Bobby to clearout his locker,asthoughthe whole thing embarrassed told himselfthat wasonething he'd do differentlywhen his time came.He'd spentmostof his life at school,and he wasn'tgoingto passit by that easily. Grownupsjustseemedto let thingsgo.lthad beenthe samewith Dad, when he movedfrom the factoryto the admin officesin town, suddenlyignoring men he'd sharedeverylunchtime with and talkedabout for yearsasthough they were friends. Tony soldhis bicyclethroughthe classifiedpagesto a kid from acrosstown who would haveperhapsa year'suseof it beforehe too grewup. He found a temporaryjob at the local supermarket. He and Dad camehome at about the sametime each evening,the samebitter work smell coming off their bodies.Over dinner, Mum would askthem how everythinghad gone and the talk would lie flat betweenthem, drownedby the weakdistractionsof the food. For Tony, asfor everyone,the earlyyearsof beinga grownupwerea busy time socially.He went out almosteverynight, dressed in his new grownup clothesand smellingof soapand aftershave. Mum said he looked swell. Bobby knew the placesin town he went to by reputation. He had passed them regularlyand caughtthe smell of cigarettes and booze,the drift of breathless air and suddenlaughter.There werestrictrulesagainstchildren entering.If he waswith Mum, shewould snatchhis hand and hurry him on. But sheand Dad werehtppy for Tony to spendhis nightsin theseplaces now thathewasa grownup,indulgingin the ritualdancethatledto courtship,

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marriage,and a freshuncle in the family. On the few occasions that Tony wasn'tout late, Dad took him for drivinglessons, performingendlessthreepoint turns on the tree-linedestateroads. Bobbywould sit with his homeworkspreadon the dining room table as Mum sawto thingsthatdidn't needseeingto. Therewasa distracting stiffness abouther actionsthat wasdifficult to watch,difficult not to. Bobbyguessed that althoughTony was still living at home and she waspleasedthat he'd takento grownuplife, shewasalsomissinghim, missingthe kid he usedto be. It didn't requirea greatleapof imaginationfor Bobbyto seethingsthat way; he missedTony himself.The arguments,the fights,the sharingand the not-sharing,all lostwith the unspokensecretof beingchildrentogether, of finding everythingfrightening,funny, and new. In the spring,Tony passedhis driving test and got a proper job at the supermarket astraineemanager.Therewasa girl calledMarion who worked at the checkout.She had skin trouble like permanentsunburnand never lookedat you when shespoke.BobbyalreadyknewthatTony wasseeingher in the barsat night. He sometimes the phoneby mistakewhen she answered rang,her slowvoicesayingIs Your BrotherAround asTony camedown the stairsfrom his room lookingannoyed.The whole thing wassupposed to be a secret,until suddenlyTony startedbringingMarion home in the secondhand coupehe'd purchasedfrom the dealerson Main Street. Tony andMarion spentthe evenings of their courtshipsittingin the lounge with Mum and Dad, watchingthe TV. When Bobbyaskedwhy, Tony said that they had to stayin on accountof their savingfor a little house.He said it with the strangefatalismof grownups.They often talkedabout the future as though it wasalreadythere. Sometimesa strangeuncle would come around. Dad alwaysturned the TV off as soonas he heardthe bell. The unclesweregenerallyfresh-faced and young, their voiceshigh and uneasy.If they camea secondtime, they usuallybroughtBobbyan unsuitablepresent,makinga big showof hiding it behind their wide backs. Then Uncle Lew beganto visit more often. BobbyoverheardMum and Dad talking about how good it would be, keepingthe sameuncle in the family, evenif Lew wasa little old for our Tony. Lookingdown at him overhis cheeks,Lew would ruffleBobby'shair with his soft fingers. "And how are you, young man?" Bobbysaidhe wasfine. "And what is it you're going to be this week?"This was Lew's standard question,a jokeof sortsthat stemmedfrom someoccasionwhen Bobbyhad reputedlychangedhis mind abouthis grownupcareerthreeor four timesin a day. Bobbypaused.He felt an obligationto be original. "Maybe an archaeologist," he said. Marion movedoff the setteeto make room for Lew chuckled.Tony and with Bobby. him, sittingon the floor

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After a yearand a half of courtship,the local paperthat his brotherhad usedto sell his bicyclefinally announcedthat Tony, Marion, and Uncle Lew were marrying.Everyonesaid it wasa htppy match. Marion showed Bobbythe ring. It lookedbig and bright from a distance,but, close-uphe sawthat the diamondwastiny, centeredin a much largerstubof metal that wascut to makeit glitter. Someevenings,Dad wouldfetchsomebeersfor himself,Tony, and Uncle Lew, and let Bobbysip the end of a can to try the flat darktaste.Like most other grownupthings,it wasa disappointment. SoTony marriedMarion. And he neverdid getaroundto tellingBobbyhow it felt to be a grownup.The priestin the church besidethe crematorium spokeof the bringingtogetherof familiesand of how havingUncle Lew for commitment. Dad swayedin the front a new generationwasa strengthened pew from nervesand the threewhiskieshe'd sunkbeforehand.Uncle Lew worethe suit he alwaysworeat weddings,batteredvictim of too much strain on the buttons,too many spilledbuffets.There werephotosof the families, photosof Lew smilingwith his armsaroundthe photosof the bridesmaids, shouldersof the two newlyweds.Photographthe whole bloodylot, Dad said, I want to seewherethe moneywent. The receptiontook placeat home on the lawn. Having decidedto find out what it was like to get drunk, Bobbylost his tastefor the warm white wine after one glass.He hoveredat the border of the garden.It was an undeniablyprettyscene,the awnings,the dresses, the flowers.For once,the betweengrownupsand childrenseemedto dissolve.Only Bobby boundaries remainedoutside.Peopleraisedtheir glasses and smiled, drunken uncles swayedawkwardlybetweenthe trestletables.Darknesscarriedthe smell of the car exhaustandthe dry fieldsbeyondthe houses.Bobbyremembered the time whenhe hadwatchedfrom his windowandthe musichadbeatensmoky wings,when the grownupshad fown over the cherrytreesthat now seemed so small. The headlights of the rentedlimousinesweptout of the darkness. Everyone ran to the driveto seeTony and Marion duckinto the leatherinterior.Uncle Lew squeezed in behindthem, off with the newlyweds to somesecretplace. Neighborswho hadn'tbeeninvitedcameout onto their drivesto watch,arms foldedagainstthe non-existent chill, smiling.Marion threw her bouquet.It tumbledhigh overthe treesand the rooftops,up throughthe stars.Grownups oohedand ahhed.The petalsbled into the darkness. It droppedbackdown asa deadthing of greyandplastic.Bobbycaughtit withoutthinking;a better, cleanercatchthananythinghe'devermanagedin the playingfieldsat school. Everyonelaughed-that a kid shoulddo that!-and he blushedfuriously. Then the car pulled away,low at the back from the weight of the three passengers and their luggage.The taillightsdwindled,were cut out by the bend in the road. Dad swayedand shoutedsomething,his breathreeking. Peoplewent insideandthe partylingeredon, drawingto its staleconclusion. Uncle Lew had Tony and Marion's first child a yearlater. Mum took

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Bobbyto seethe babyat his housewhen he cameout of the hospitala few daysafterthe birth. Uncle Lew lived in town, up on the hill on the far side of the river. Mum wasnervousaboutgradientparkingand alwaysusedthe big payand displaydownby the library.From there,you had to cut through the terracedhouses,then up the narrowlywinding streetsthat formed the oldestpart of town. The houseswere mostly grey pebbledashwith deepset windows,yellowedlace curtains,and stepsleadingthough steepgardens. The hill alwaysseemedsteeperthan it probablywas to Bobby;he hated visiting. Uncle Lew wasgrinning,sittingin his usualbig chairby the baywindow. The babywasa mewingthing. It smelledof soapandsick.Marion wastaking the drugs to make her lactate, and everythingwas apparentlygoing well. Bobbypeeredat the babylying cradledin her arms.He tried to offerher the red plasticrattleMum had madehim buy. Everyonesmiledat that. Then there was tea and rock cakesthat Bobby managedto avoid. Uncle Lew's housewasalwaysdustlessly neat,but it had a smell of neglectthat seemed greencupboardsin the kitchen. to emanatefrom behind the old-fashioned Bobbyguessed that the housewassimplytoo big for him; too many rooms. "Are you still going to be an archaeologist?" Uncle Lew asked,leaning forwardfrom his big chair to takeboth of Bobby'shands.He waswearinga gownwith neatlypressed pajamasunderneathbut for a momentthe dressing buttonspartedand Bobbyglimpsedwoundedflesh. The room went smilinglysilent;he wasobviouslyexpectedto saymore than simplyno or yes."l'd like to grow up," he said,"beforeI decide." The grownupsall laughed.Then the babystartedto cry. Grateful for the distraction,Bobby went out through the kitchen and into the grey garden, fatherhad left a fork and spadeon the crazypaving,the wheresomeone's job of lifting out the weedshalf-done.Bobby was still young enough to pretendthat he wantedto play. came.It wasa perplexingtime for Bobby,a grimy anteThen adolescence room leadingto the suddengloriesof growingup. He watchedthe hair grow on his body,felt his faceinflamewith pimples,heardhis voicechangeto an improbablewhine beforefinally settlingon an octavethat left him sounding alwayskepttheir bodies foreverlike someoneelse.The grownupsthemselves Even in the lessons discreet. personal impenetrably actions covered,their in the nudging darknessof the talks and the chats,the slide-illuminated by what disgusted teachers were Bobby that the hall, sensed schoolassembly it did so. with which openness happenedto children'sbodies,and by the made nature them The thingsolder children got up to, messytricks that perform.Periods.Masturbation.Sex.The teachersmouthedthe wordslike they Mum and Dad both saidYesthey remembered, an improbabledisease. knewexactlyhow it was. . . but they didn't want to touch him any longer, actedawkwardlywhenhe wasin the room,did and saidthingsthat reminded him of how they werewith Tony in his later childhoodyears. Bobby'sfirst experienceof sexwaswith May Barton, one afternoonwhen

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a crowdof schoolfriendshad cycledout to the meadowsbeyondtown. The other childrenhad headedbackdown to the roadwhilst Bobbywasfixing a brokenspokeon his backwheel. When he turned around, May wasthere alone.It was,he realizedafterward,a situationshe'ddeliberately engineered. She saidLet'sdo it, Bobby.Squinting,her headon one side.You haven't done it before,haveyou?Not waitingfor an answer,sheknelt down in the high clover and pulled her dressup over her head. Her red hair tumbled over her freckledshoulders.She askedBobbyto touch her breasts.Go on, you must haveseenother boysdoing this. Which he had. But still he was curiousto touch her body, to find her nippleshardeningin his palms.For a moment sheseemeddifferentin the wide spaceof the meadow,stranger almostthan a grownup,even though she was just a girl. Here, she said, Bobby,and here.Down on the curvingriver,a big bargewith fadedawnings seemednot to be moving.A tractorwasslicinga field from greento brown, the chatterof its engine lost on the warm wind. The town shimmered. Rooftopsreachedalongthe road.His handtraveleddown her belly, explored the slipperyheatof her arousalasher own fingersbeganto part the buttons of his shirt and jeans,did thingsthat only his own handshad done before. He rememberedthe slide showsat school,the teacher'sbored, disgusted voice, the fat kids sniggeringmore than anyoneat the back,as though the whole thing had nothing to do with them. May Bartonlay down. Bobbyhad seenthe drawingsand slides,watched the mice and rabbitsin the room at the backof the biologyclass.He knew whatto do. The cloverfelt cool and greenon his elbowsand knees.Shefelt cool too, strangelyuncomfortable,like wrestlingwith someonewho didn't want to fight. A beetlewasclimbinga bladeof grassat her shoulder.When shebeganto shudder,it flickedits wingsand vanished. After that, Bobbytried sexwith severalof the other girls in the neighborhood, althoughhe tendedto return mostoftento May. They experimented with the variationsyou weresupposed to be ableto do, found that most of them wereuncomfortableand improbable,but generallynot impossible. Mum caughtBobbyand May havingsexone afternoonin the fourth year summerholidayswhen a canceledcommitteemeetingbroughther home early.Peelingoff her long white cottonglovesassheenteredthe lounge,she found them nakedin the curtainedtwilight, curledtogetherlike two spoons. She iust clickedher tongue,turnedand walkedbackout into the hall, her eyesblank,asif she'djustrealizedshe'dleft somethingin the car. Shenever mentionedthe incident afterward-which was tactful, but to Bobby also seemedunreal, as though the act of sex had made him and May Barton momentarilyinvisible. There was a sequelto this incident when Bobby returnedhome one eveningwithout his key. He went throughthe gateround the back,to find the French windows open. He'd expectedlights on in the kitchen, the murmur of the TV in the lounge.But everythingwasquiet. He climbedthe stairs.Up on the landing,wherethe heat of the day still lingered,mewing soundscame from his parents'bedroom.The door was aiar.He pushediI

wide-one o[ thosethingsyou do without everbeingableto explainwhyand walkedin. It wasdifficult to make out the partnershipof the knotted limbs. Dad seemedto be astrideUncle Lew, Mum half underneath.The soundsthey madewereanotherlanguage.Somehow,they sensedhis presence.Legsand armsuntwinedlike droppedcoils of rope. gown It all happenedveryquickly.Mum got up and snatchedher dressing from the bedsidetable.On the bed, Dad scratchedat his groin and Uncle Lew madea wide crosswith his forearmsto coverhis womanlybreasts. "lt's okay,"Bobbysaid,takinga stepbacktowardthe door,takinganother. The room reekedof mushrooms.Mum still hadn't done up her dressing gownandBobbycouldseeher breasts swayingasshewalked,the darktriangle beneathher belly. She looked little differentfrom all the girls Bobby had he felt a twingeof sadness seen.Throughthe hot wavesof his embarrassment, and familiarity. "lt's okay," h. saidagain,and closedthe door. He nevermentionedthe incident.But it helpedhim understandMum's reasonsfor not sayinganythingaboutfinding him in the loungewith Mry. There were plenty of wordsfor sex, ornatewordsand soft wordsand words that cameout angry,wordsfor what the kidsgot up to and specialwordstoo that grownupsindulgedin. But you couldn't use for the complexcongress you other words;a spaceof silencesurroundedthem, used any of them as place that wasall their own. walledthem into a dark Bobbygrew.He found to his surprisethat he wasone of the olderkidsat school,toweringoverthe chirpingfreshmenwith their new blazers,having sexwith May and the other girls, taking three-hourexamsat the endsof that this had seemeda term, worryingaboutgrowingup. He remembered worldwhenTony had inhabitedit; now that he had reached strangeundersea it himself,this lastoutpostof childhood,it hardlyseemedlessso. wassharedby all the childrenof his age.It servedto bring The strangeness them together.Bobby rememberedthat it had been the samefor Tony's generation.Older kidstendedto forgetwho had dumpedon whom in iunior high school,the betrayalsand the fightsbehind the bicycle sheds.Now, everyexperiencehad a sell-bydate,evenif the dateitselfwasn'tclear. In the winter term, when Bobbywasfifteen, the children all experienced of childhood.There was a kind of growingup in reverse,an intensification neverany hurry to gethome afterschool.A crowdof them would headinto the bare drippingwoodsor sit on the stepsof the monument in the park. and Take Away Sometimesthey would gatherat Albee'sQuick Restaurant next to the bridge.It waslike anotherworld outside,beyondthe steamed windows,grownupsdriftingpastin carsor on foot, greyingthe air with breath and motor exhaust.Inside, lights gleamedon red seatsand cheap wood by a paneling,the air smelledof wet shoesand coffee,thinnedoccasionally told draftand the brokentinkleof the bell asa newarrivaljoinedthe throng. "l won't go through with it," May Bartonsaid one afternoonwhen the to freezeto razored sidewalksoutsidewerethick with slushthat wasforecasted puddlesovernight.

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No one neededto askwhat shemeant. "fesus,it wasdisgusting!" May staredinto her coffee.That afternoonin biology they had seenthe lastin a seriesof films entitledThe Miracle Of Life. Half way through,the pink and blackcartoonshad switchedoverto scenesthat purportedto come from real life. They had watcheda baby tumble wet onto the green sheet from an uncle'sopenbelly, discreetanglesof grownupsmakinglove. That had beenbad enough-l mean,we didn't csfrto seethis stuff!-but the last five minuteshad includedshotsof a boy and a girl in the process of growing up. The soundtrackhad beendiscreet,but everychild in the classroomhad felt the screams. The voice-overtold them things they had read a hundred times in the schoolbiologytextbooksthat automaticallyfell open at the relevantpages. Chapterthirteen-unlucky for some,asmanya schoolroomwit hadquipped. How the male'stesticlesand scrotalsac contractedback inside the body, hauledup on somefleshyblockand tackle.How the female'sovariesmade their peristalticvoyagealongthe fallopiantubesto nestledown in the useless womb, closeto the equallyuseless cervix.A messystorythat hadvisitedthem all in their dreams. "Where the hell am I supposed to be when all this is goingon?" someone asked."l'm certainlynot goingto be there." Silencefell aroundthe cornertablein Albee's.Everykid had their own bad memory.An older brotheror sisterwho had had a hard time growing up, bloodiedsheetsin the laundrybin, a doorleft openat the wrongmoment. The espresso machineputtered.Albee sighedand wiped the counter. His beerbelly strainedat a greyundershirt-he wasalmostfat enoughto be an uncle. Almost, but not quite. Everykid could tell the difference.It was in the way they smelled,the way they moved.Albeewasn't2n unsls-he was just turning to fat, someordinaryguy with a wife and kids backat home, and an uncle of his own with a lawn that neededmowingand crazypaving with the weedsgrowingthrough.He wasjust gettingthroughlife, earningi living of sortsbehindhis counter,puttingup with Bobbyand the restof the kidsfrom schoolas long as they had enoughmoneyto buy coffee. Harry, who wasa fat kid, suggested they all go down to the bowlingalley. But no one elsewaskeen.Harry wasmanagingto keepup a iollity that the otherchildrenhadlost.Theyall assumed thathe andhisfriendfonathanwere the mostlikelycandidates in their yearto growinto uncles.The complicated hormonaltriggersthrewthe dice in their favor.And it wasa well-knownfact that uncleshad it easy,that growingup for them wasa slow process,like putting on weight. But for everyone,evenfor Harry, the factsof life were closingin. After Christmas,at the startof the new term, their parentswould all receivethe brownenvelopes tellingthem that the doctorwouldbe around oncea week. The cafedoor openedand closed,lettingin the raweveningair asthe kids beganto drift away.A bus haltedat the newsstandopposite,gto*n,rp faces framedat the windows,top deckand bottom,ordinaryand absorbed. When

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it pulled away,streetlightand shadowfilled the spacebehind. Underneath everything,Bobbythought,liespain, uncertainty,and blood. He tooka pull at the coffeehe'd beennursingthe lasthalf hour. It had grown a skin and tastedcold, almostasbitterasthe milk Mum madehim drink everymorning. He and May werethe lastto leaveAlbee's.The shopwindowswerefilled with promisesof Christmas.Colors and lights streamedover the slushy pavement.The carswereinchingheadlightto brakelightdown Main Street, out of town. Bobbyand May leanedon the parapetof the bridge.The lights of the houseson the hill whereUncle Lew livedweremirroredin the sliding water.May waswearingmittens,a scarf,a beret,her red hair tuckedout of sight, just her noseand eyesshowing. "When I waseightor nine," shesaid,"Mum and Dad took me on holiday to the coast.It waswindy and sunny. I had a big brotherthen. His name wasTom. We wereboth kidsand he usedto giveme piggybacks,sometimes tickle me till I almostpeed.We lovedto explorethe dunes.Had a whole One morningwe wereslidingdown this big slope world thereto ourselves. of sand,laughingand climbing all the way up again.Then Tom doubled up at the bottom, and I thought he must have caughthimself on a hidden rock or something.I shoutedAre You Okay, but all he did wasgroan." "He wasgrowingup?" May nodded."The doc at home had said it was fine to go away,but I realizedwhatwashappening.I saidYou StayThere,which wasstupidreally, and I shot off to get someone.T'he sandkept slidingunder my sandals.It wasa nightmare,runningthroughtreacle.I ran right into Dad'sarms.He'd gonelookingfor us. I don't know *hy, perhapsit's somethinggrownupscan sense.He foundsomeoneelseto ring the ambulanceandwe wentbackdown the beachto seeTom. The tide wascoming in and I wasworriedit might reachhim . ." She paused.Darknesswasflowing beneaththe river arches."When we got back,he wasall twisted,and I knewhe couldn'tbe alive, no one could that way. The blood wasin the sand,stickingto his legs. hold themselves Thoseblackfliesyou alwaysget on a beachwereswarming." Bobby began,"That doesn't. . ." but he pulled the rest of the chilly sentencebackinto his lungs. May turned to him. She pulled the scarfdown to her chin. Lookingat the sweethot things her lips, the glint of her teethinside,Bobbyremembered they had done together.He marveledat how closeyou could getto someone and still feel alone. "We're alwaysearlydevelopers in our family," May said."Tom wasthe first in his class.I supposeI'll be the same." "Maybe it's better. . . get it over with." "l supposeeveryonethinks that it'll happenfirst to somekid in another class,someoneyou hardly know. Then to a few others.Perhapsa friend, someoneyou can visit afterwardand find out you'vegot nothing to saybut that it's no big deal afterall. Everythingwill alwaysbe fine." "There's still a long-"

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"-H61ry long?What differenceis a month more or less?"Shewas angry, closeto tears.But beneath,her facewasclosedoff from him. "You had an elderbrotherwho survived,Bobby.Was he everthe same?" Bobbyshrugged.The answerwasobvious,all around them. Grownups weregrownups.They drovecars,foughtwars,dressed in boringand uncomfortableclothes,built roads,boughtnewspapers everymorningthattold them the samething, drankalcoholwithoutgettingmerryfrom it, pulled hard on the toilet door to makesureit wasshut beforethey did their business. "Tony wasall right," he said."He'sstill all right.We wereneverthat great togetheranyway-just brothers.I don't think it's the physicalchangesthat or eventhat that'sat the heartof it. . . ." He didn't know what count . the hell elseto say. "l'm happyas I dffi," May said."l'm a kid. I feel like a kid. If I change, I'll ceaseto be me. Who wantsthat?" She took off her mitten, wiped her noseon the backof her hand. "So I'm not goingthroughwith it." Bobby staredat her. It was like sayingyou weren'tgoing through with deathbecauseyou didn't like the soundof it. "lt can't be that bad, May. Most kidsget throughall right. Think of all the grownups. . fesus,think " of your own parents. "Look, Bobby.I know growingup hurts. I know it's dangerous. I should know, shouldn'tI? That'snot what I careabout.What I careaboutis losing me, the personI am andwant to be. . . . You justdon't believeme, do you? l'm not going through with it, I'll staya kid. I don't carewho I say it to, becausethey'll iust think I'm actingfunny, but Bobby,I thoughryou might believeme. There hasto be a way out." "You can. . . " Bobbysaid.But alreadyshewaswalkingaway. The envelopes werehandedout at school.A doctorstartedto call at Bobby's house,and at the housesof all his friends.Next daytherewasalwaysa show of bravadoas they comparedthe bruiseson their arms. The first child to grow uP wasa boy namedArthur Mumford, whosesolepreviousclaim to famewasthe abilityto play populartunesby squelchinghis armpits.In that way that the inevitablealwayshas,it happenedsuddenlyand wiihout warning. One Tuesdayin February,just five weeksafterthe doctorhad startedto call at their houses,Arthur didn't turn up for registration.A girl two years below had spottedthe doctor'scar outsidehis houseon her prp.t round the eveningbefore.Word wasaroundthe whole schoolby lunchtime. There wasan unmistakable air of disappointment. When he wasn'tperforming his party piece,Arthur wasa quiet boy: he was tall, and stooped from embarrassment at his height. He seldomspoke.But it wasn'tiust ihat it shouldhappenfirst to someoneas ordinaryas Arthur-I mean, it hasto happento all of us sooneror later, right?But none of the children felt as excited-or evenasafraid-as they had expected.When it had happened to -kia kidsin the senioryeals,it had seemedlike somethingbig, seeingr they'd \now1 suddenlywalking along Main Streetin grownupclotheswith ihe dazedexpression that alwayscame to new grownups,ignoringold school

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friends,lookingfor work, duckinginto bars.They had speculated excitedly aboutwho would go next,prayedthat it would be one of the schoolbullies. But now that it wastheir turn, the wholething felt like a jokethat had been playedtoo many times. Arthur Mumford was just an empty desk,a few belongingsthat neededpickingup. In the spring,at leasthalf a dozen of the children in Bobby'syear had grown up. The hot weatherseemedto speedthingsup. Sittingby the dry fountain outsidethe Municipal Officesone afternoon,watchingthe litter and the grownupsscurryby, , friend of Bobby'snamedMichele suddenly droppedher can of drink and coiled ,tp in a screamingball. The children as sherolled aroundon the and the passinggrownupsall futtered uselessly sidewalkuntil a doctorwho happenedto be walkingby forcedher to sit up on the rim of the fountain and takedeepslow breaths.Yes, she'sgrowing up, he snapped,gloweringat the onlookers,thendownat his watch.I suggest someonecall her parentsor geta car. Michelewasgaspingthroughtearsand that shewasmaking obviouslyin agony,but the doctor'smannersuggested far too much of the whole thing. A car arrivedsoonenough,and Michele wasbundledinto the back.Bobbyneversawher again. He had similar,althoughlessdramatic,partingswith otherfriends.One day, you'd be meetingthem at the bus stopto go to the skatingrink. The next, you would hearthat they had grownup. You might seethem around town, headingout of a shopas you weregoing in, but they would simply smileand nod, or makea point of sayingHello Bobbyjust to showthat they your name.Everythingwaschanging.That wholesummerwas remembered autumnal, filled with a senseof loss. In their own grownup way, even the parentsof the remainingchildrenwereaffected.Although therewould inevitably be little time left for their children to enjoy such things, they findingthe cashthathadpreviously with presents, becamesuddenlygenerous beenmissingfor a new bike, a train set,or evena pony. May and Bobbystill spentafternoonstogether,but more often now they would just sit in the kitchen at May's house, May by turns gloomy and animated,Bobbylaughingwith her or-increasingly againsthis feelingsand grownup.They usuallyhad the houseto themtrying to act reassuring the teacherswere allowing selves.In recognitionof the dwindlingclasses, any number of so-calledstudyperiods,and both of May's parentsworked daysand overtime in the eveningsto keep up with the mortgageon their clumsymock-tudorhouse. One afternoon,when they weredrinkingorangejuice mixed with sweet sherryfilched from the liquor cabinetand wonderingif they daredto get drunk, May got up and went to the fridge. Bobby thought she was getting more orangejuice, but insteadsheproducedthe plasticflaskthat contained the childproof assheunscrewed her bittermilk. Shelaughedat his expression cap and put the fask to her lips, gulpingit down as though it tastedgood. Abstractly,Bobbynoticedthat her parentsuseda brand-nameproduct. His own. own parentsalwaysbought the supermarket's "Try it," shesaid.

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"What?" "Go on." Bobby took the flask and sipped. He was vaguelycurious to find out whetherMay'sbitter milk wasany lessunpleasant than the cheaperstuffhe wasusedto. It wasn't.fust different,thicker.He forcedhirnselfto swallow. "You don't iustdrink this, do you?"he asked,wonderingfor the firsttime whetherher attitudewasn'tbecomingsomethingmore than simply odd. "Of courseI don't," shesaid."But I could if I liked.You see,it's nof bitter milk." Bobbystaredat her. "Look." May openedthe fridge again, took out a carton of ordinary pasteurized milk. Sheput it on the counter,then reachedhigh insidea kitchencabinet, her blousebriefly raisingat the backto showthe ridgesof her lower spine that Bobby so enjoyedtouching. She took down a can of flour, a plastic lemon dispenser,and a bottle of white wine vinegar. "The flour stopsit from curdling,"shesaid,"and ordinaryvinegardoesn't work. It took me daysto get it right." Shetippedsomemilk into a tumbler, stirredin the otheringredients."l usedto measureeverythingout, but now I can do it just anyhow." She handedhim the tumbler. "Go on." Bobbytasted.It wasquiterevolting,almostasbadasthe brand-namebitter milk. "You see?" Bobbyput the glassdown, swallowingbacka welcomeflood of salivato weakenthe aftertaste. Yes, he saw-or at least,he wasbeginningto see. "l haven'tbeendrinkingbittermilk for a month now. Mum buysit, I tip it down the sink when she'snot here and do my bit of chemistry.Ifs that simple. Shewassmiling,then suddenlyblinkingbacktears.". . that easy.. . . Of course,it doesn'ttasteexactlythe same,but when wasthe last time your parentstried tastingbitter milk?" "Look, Nlay . . . don't you think this is dangerous?" "why?" Shetilted her head,wipeda straytricklefrom her cheek."what exactlyis goingto happento me?You tell me that." Bobbywasforcedto shrug.Bittermilk wasfor children,like cod liver oil. Grownupsavoidedthe stuff, but it wasgood for you, it helped. "l'm not goiTgto growup, Bobby,"shesaid."l told you I wasn'tjoking." "Do you reallythink that'sgoingto makeany difference?" "who knows?"she said. She gavehim a suddenhug, her lips wet and closeto his ear. "Now let'sgo upstairs. " Weekslater,Bobbygot a phonecall from May one eveningat home. Mum calledhim down from his bedroom,holdingthe receiverai thoughit might bite. He took it. "lt's me, Bobby."

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"Yeah." He waitedfor the loungedoor to close."What is it?" ")esus,I think it's started.Mum and Dad are out at a steakbar and I'm gettingtheseterrible pains." The fakebitter milk. The receiverwent slick in his hand. "lt can'tbe. You can'tbe sure." "lf I wassureI wouldn'tbe . . . look, Bobby,can you come around?" Shegavea gasp."Thereit is again.You reallymust.I can'tdo thisalone." "You gottaring the hospital." "No." "|gg-tt

"No!" Bobby gazedat the telephonedirectoriesthat Mum stackedon a shelf beneaththe phone as though they wereproperbooks.He rememberedthat night with Tony, the lights on everywhere, burning though everythingas though it wasn'treal. He swallowed.The TV wasstill loud in the lounge. "Okay," he said."God knowswhat I'm supposed to tell Mum and Dad. Give me half an hour." His excusewasa poor one, but his parentstook it anyway.He didn't care what they believed;he'd neverfelt asshakyin his life. He cycledthroughthe housingdevelopment.The air rushedagainsthis face,drowninghim in that specialfeelingthat camefrom warm nights.May musthavebeenwatchingfor him from a window.Shewasat the door when he scooteddown the drive. "fesus,Bobby,I'm bleeding." "l can'tseeanythi.g." Shepushedher handbeneaththe waistbandof her dress,then held it out. "Look. Do you believeme now?" Bobbyswallowed,then nodded. Shewasalonein the house.Her parentswereout. Bobbyhelpedher up the stairs.He found an old plasticraincoatto spreadacrossthe bed, and helpedher to getclean.The bloodwasclottedand fibrous,then waterythin. It didn't seemlike an ordinarywound. When the first panic was over, he pushedher fumbled clothesoff the bedsidechair and slumpeddown. May'scheekswereflushedand rosy.For all her talk about not wantingto grow up, he reckonedthat he probably lookedworsethan shedid at that moment.What wasall this about?Had she ever had a brother named Tom? One who died? She'd lived in another then. Otherthan asking,therewasno wayof knowing."l think development I'd bettergo and phons-" "-psp'1!" She forced a smile and reachedout a hand toward him. "Don't." Bobbyhesitated,then took her hand. "Look, it's stoppednow anyway.Perhapsit wasa falsealarm." "Yeah," Bobbysaid,"Falsealarm," althoughhe wasvirtually surethere wasno such thing. You eithergrewup or you didn't. "I feel okaynow," shesaid."Really, I do."

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"That's good," Bobbysaid. May wasstill smiling. Sheseemedgenuinelyrelieved."Kissme, Bobby," shesaid. Her eyeswerestrange.Shesmelledstrange.Like the river, like the rain. He kissedher, softlyon the warmth of her cheek;the way you might kissa grownup.He leanedbackfrom the bed and kept hold of her hand. They talked. Bobbygot backhome closeto midnight.His parentshad goneup to bed, but, ashe crossed the darkenedlanding,he sensed that theywereboth awake and listeningbeyondthe bedroomdoor. Next morning, nothing wassaid, and May wasat schoolwith the restof what remainedof their class.The teachershad mostlygivenup on formal lessons, gettingthe childreninstead to clearout stockrooms or tapethe spinesof elderlgtextbooks. He watched May as shedrifted through the chalk-cloudedair, tlib sunlightfrom the tall windowsblazingher hair. Neithergrownupnor yet quite a kid, she moved betweenthe deskswith unconscious grace. That lunchtime, shetold Bobbythat shewasfine. But Yes,shewasstill bleedinga bit. I haveto keepgoingto the little girl'sroom. I've gonethrough two pairsof underpants,flushedthem away.It's a realnuisance,Bobby,she added,abovethe clatterin the dining hall, as though it was nothing, like hay feveror a cold sore.Her facewasclearand bright,glowingthroughthe frecklesand the smellof communalcooking.He nodded,findingthat it was easierto believethan to question.May smiled.And you will come seeme tonight,won'tyou, Bobby?We'll beon our own.Again,Bobbyfoundhimself nodding. He announcedto Mum and Dad afterdinner that eveningthat he was goingout again.He told them that he wasworkingon a schoolplay that was bound to takeup a lot of his time. Mum andDad nodded.Bobbytriednot to studythemtoo closely,although he wascuriousto gaugetheir reaction. "okay," Mum said. "But make sure you changethe batterieson your _ lamps if you're going to cycle anywhereafter dark." She glancedat Dad, who noddedand returnedto his paper. "You know I'm carefullikeuthat."Bobbytried to keepthe warinessout of his voice.He suspected that theysawstraightthroughhim and knewthat he waslying. He'd b..tt in this kind of situatlonbefor!. That wasan odd thing 1b9ut grownups:you could tell them the truth and they'd fly into a rrge. other times, such as this, when you had to lie, they saidnothing at all. May waswaitingat the dooragainthat evening.As shehad promised,her parentswereout. He kissedher brieflyin the warm light of the hall. Her lips were-soft againsthis, responding with a pressure that he knewwould openat the slightestsignfrom him. Shesmelledevenmorerainythan before.There wassomethingelsetoo, somethingthat wasboth new and familiar. Justas her arms startedto encirclehis back, he steppedback, his heart suddenly pounding. He lookedat her. "Christ, Mry, what are you wearing?"

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"This." She gavea twirl. The wholeeffectwasodd, yet hard to placefor a moment. A tartanishpleateddress.A white blouse.A dull necklace.Her hair pulled back in a tight bun. And her eyes,her mouth, her whole face . . . lookedlike it hadbeensketched on, the outlinesemphasized, the details Then he lickedhis lips and knewwhat it was;the samesmell and igr-rored. tastethat camefrom Mum on nightswhen sheleanedoverhis bedand said, you will be goodwhile we'reout, won't you, my darling,jewelryglimrnering like starlightaroundher neckand at the lobesof her ears.May waswearing makeup.Shewasdressedlike a grownup. For a second,the thoughtthat May hadsomehowmanagedto getthrough the whole messyprocessof growingup sinceleavingschoolthat afternoon came to him. Then he sawthe laughterin her eyesand he knew that it couldn'tbe true. "What do you think, Bobby?" "l don't knowwhy grownupswearthatstuff.It isn'tcomfortable,it doesn't evenlook good.What doesit feel like?" "Strange,"May said."lt changesyou inside.Come upstairs.I'll show you." May led him up the stairsand beyonda door he had neverbeenthrough before.Even though they wereout, her parents'bedroomsmelledstrongly the closet,wherethe darklinesof suitsswunggently of grownup,especially on their hangers.Bobby was reasonablytall for his age, as tall as many grownups,May'sfatherincluded. The suit trousersitchedhis legsand the waistwasloose,but not so loose asto fall down. He knotteda tie overa whiteshirt,pulledon the jacket.May got someoily stuff from the dresser,workedit into his hair and combedit smooth.Then shestoodbesidehim ashe studiedhimselfin the mirror. Dark and purposeful,two strangegrownupsgazedback. He glanceddown at himself,hardly believingthat it wastrue. He pulled a seriousfaceback at the mirror, the sort you might seebehind the counterat a bank. Then he startedto chuckle.And May beganto laugh. It wasso inconceivablyeasy. They weredoubledover, their belliesaching.They held eachother tight. They just couldn'tstop. An hour later,May closedthe front door and turnedthe deadbolt. Heels to clippingthe pavement,they walkedto the bus stop.Perhapsin deference their new statusas grownups,the next bus into town cameexactlywhen it wasdue. They traveledon the top deck,which wasalmostemptyapartfrom a gaggleof cleaningladiesat the back.They werebusytalking,andthe driver hadn't evenbotheredto look up when he gavethem two straightadult fares (don'tsayplease,May had whisperedasthe tall lightsof the 175had pulled into the stop,grownupsdon't do that kind of thing). Dressedin his strange grownupclothes,his backspreadinghuge insidethe facketshoulderpads, Bobbyfelt confidentanyway.Like May said,the grownupciotheschanged you inside. They got off outsideAlbee'sQuick Restaurantand Take Away. For some t.6on, May wantedto try visitinga placewherethey wereactuallyknown.

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Bobbywastoo far gonewith excitementto argueabouttakingan unnecessary extrarisk. Her mannerwassmooth;he doubtedif anyoneelsewould have noticedthe wildnessin her eyesbeneaththe makeup.Ratherthan dodgethe carsacrossthe road,they waitedfor a big gapand walkedslowly,sedately. The lights of Albee'sglowedout to greetthem. They openedthe door to grownuplaughter,the smell of smokeand grownupsweat.Peoplenodded and smiled,then movedto let them through.Albeegrinnedat them from the bar, eagerto please,the way the teacherswere at school when the principal came unexpectedlyinto class.He said Good evening Sir and What'll it be. Bobbyheardhis own voicesaysomethingcalm and easyin reply. He rakeda stool backfor May and she sat down, tucking her dress neatly under her thighs. He glancedaround as drinks were served,half expectingthe other grownupsto foat up from their chairs,to begin to fly. They'dbeenhereafterschoola hundredtimes,but thiswasa differentworld. It wasthe sameon a dozenothernights,wheneverthey hit on an excuse that they had the nerveto useon their unquestioning parents.Albee's,they found, was much further from the true heart of the grownup world than they'dimagined.Th.y found hotelbarswhererealfountainstinkledand the drinks were servedchilled on papercoastersthat stuckto the bottom of the glass.Therewereloud pubswhereyou could hardlystandup for the yellowlit crushandgettingservedwasan evening's Therewererestaurants endeavor. whereyou wereofferedbowlsbrimming with crackersand saltednuts just to sit and readthe crisplyprintedmenusand sayWell Thanks,But It Doesn't Look As Though Our Friends Are Coming And The Baby Sitter You Know. . . . Placesthey had seenday in and day out through their whole liveswerechangedby the darkness, the hot chargeof carfumes,buzzingstreet lights,glitteringsmiles,the smellof perfume,changedbeyondrecognitionto whisperingpalacesof crystaland velvet. Afterchangingat May'shousebackinto his sweatshirt andsneakers, Bobby would come home late, creepingdown the hall in the bizarreritual of pretendingnot to disturbhis parents,whom he wascertainwouldbe listening open-eyedin the darknessfrom the first unavoidablecreakof the front door. In the kitchen,he checkedfor new bottlesof bittermilk. By the light of the open fridgedoor, he tippedthe fuid down the sink, chasedit awaywith a quick turn of the hot waterfaucet-which wasquieterthan the cold-and replacedit with a freshmixture of spirit vinegar,lemon juice, milk, and flour. The summerholidayscame.Bobbyand May spentall their time together, eveningsanddays.Lying nakedin the woodson the softprickleof dry leaves, looking up at the greenlatticedsky. Bobby reachedagaintoward May. He ran his hand down the curve of her belly. It wassoft and sweetand hard, like an apple. Her breathquickened.He rolled onto his side, loweredhis head to lick at her breasts.More than ever before, her nipples swelled amazinglyto his tongue. But after a moment her back stiffened. "f_ust kissme here,"shesaid,"my mouth," gentlycuppinghis headin her , handsand drawingit up. "Don't suckat me today,Bobby.I feeltoo tender."

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Bobbyacquiesced to the wonderfulsenseof her aroundhim, filling the sky and the woods.She'dbeen sensitiveabout someof the things he did before,often complainingabouttenderness and pain a few daysbeforeshe startedher bleeding.But the bleedinghadn't happenedfor weeks,months. They still went out somenights,visitingthe grownupplaces,living their unbelievable lie. Sometimesas he left the house,or coming backlate with his headspinningfrom the drink and the thingsthey'ddone, Bobbywould look up and see Mum's face pale at the bedroomwindow. But he said nothing.And nothingwaseversaid.It wasan elaborate dance,backto back, Mum and Dad displayingno knowledgeor denial, each moment at the kitchen table and the rare occasions when they sharedthe lounge passing without question.A deceptionwithout deceit. The placesthey went to changed.From the smartroomslappedwith deep carpetsand chrome they glided on a downwardflight path through urinereekingdoorways.This was where the young grownupswent, peoplethey recognizedaskidsfrom assemblyat schooljust a few yearsbefore.Barswhere the fermentedlight only deepenedthe darkness,where the fat unclessat aloneas eveningbegan,lookingat the men and the women as the crowds thickened,looking away. Bobbyand May madefriends,peoplewho eitherdidn't noticewhat they wereor didn't care.Handsraisedand wavingthroughthe chaosand empty right down here. Place glasses. Hey Bobby,M?y, over here, sit yourselves for the old butt. fokesto be told, lips licked, lewd eyesrolled, skirt hems pulledfirmly down then allowedto roll far up again.Glimpsesof thingsthat shouldn'tbe seen.They weregoodat pretendingto be grownupsby now, almostbetterthan the grownupsthemselves.For the purposesof the night, Bobby was in town from a universityin the city, studyingwhatevercame into his head. May was deadlyseriousor laughing,sayingmy God, you wouldn't believethe crap I haveto put up with at the office, the factory,the shop.Playingit to a tee. And I'm truly gladto be hereand now with you all beforeit startsagain in the morning. Time brokein beerywaves.The accountat the bankthat Bobbyhad been nurturingfor someunspecifiedgrownupneedsunk to an all-time low. But it could havebeenwe15s-fhey werea popularcouple,almostas much in demand as the unattachedfat uncles when a few drinks had gone down. They hardly ever had to put in for a round. The best part was when they came closeto discovery.A neighborwho probably shouldn't have been there in the Erst place, a family friend, a teacher.Then onceit wasBobby'sbrotherTony. Late,and he had his arms around a fat uncle, his face sheenedwith sweat.He was grinning and whisperingwet lips closeto his ear.There wasa womanwith them too, her handsstrayingquick and hard overboth of their bodies.It wasn'tMarion. "Let'sgo," Bobbysaid.Therewasa limit to how far you could takea risk. But May would have none of it. She staredstraightat Tony through the swayingbodies,challenginghim to notice. drifting backfrom For a moment, his eyeswereon them, his expression

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lust. Bobbycoveredhis hand with his mouth, feelingthe grownupclothes and confidencedissolvearoundhim, the schoolkidinsidescreamingto get out. Tony madeto speak,but therewasno chanceof hearing.In another moment, he vanishedinto the massof the crowd. it wasthe besttime of all; catchingTony Now that the dangerhad passed, out in a way that he could neverexplain.Laughterburstinginsidethem, they ran out into the suddencool of the night. May held onto him and her lipswereoverhis face,breathless andtremblingfrom the suddenheightening of the risk. He held tight to her, swaying,not caring about the cars,the grownupsstumblingby, pulling her close,feelingthe taut roundedswellof her full breastsand belly that excitedhim so. "Do you want to be like them?"shewhispered."Want to be a fool and a grownup?" "Never." He leanedbackand shoutedit at the stars."Never!" Arm in arm, they swayeddor',rnthe pavementtowardthe busstop.Incredibly, Tuesdaywascoming aroundagaintomorrow;Doc Halsteadwould be pulling up the drive at home at abouteleven,washinghis handsone more time and sayingHow Are You My Man beforetakingbest-chinacoffeewith Mum in the lounge, whisperingthings he could neverquite hear. May's eyeswereeager,gleamingwith the town lights,drinkingit all in. More than him, shehatedthis world and lovedit. Sometimes,when thingswereswirling, sheremindedhim of a true grownup.It all seemedfar awayfrom that eveningin town after biology, leaning on the bridge alone after leaving Albee'sand gazingdown at the river, May sayingI won't go throughwith it, Bobby,I'm not just somekid actingfunny. As thoughsomethingaseasyas fooling aroundwith the bitter milk could makethat much of a difference. Doctor Halsteadarrivednext morningonly minutesafterBobbyhad finishedbreakfastand dressed.In the sparebedroom,he spreadout his rubber and steel.He driedhis handsand held the big syringeup to the light before leaningdown. Bobbysmearedthe freshbeadof blood over the bruiseson his forearm, then lickedthe saltoff his fingertips. Doctor Halsteadwaswatchingthe readouts.The paperfeedgavea burp and chatteredout a thin strip like a supermarketreceipt.The doc tore it off, lookedat it for a moment, and tutted beforescrewingit into a ball. He presseda button that flattenedthe dials, pressedanotherto makethem drift up again. "ls everythingokay?" "Everything'sfine." The printer chatteredagain. He tore it off "You've still got someway to go." "How many weeks?" "lf I had a dollar for everytime I've beenaskedthat question. . " "Don't you know7" He handedBobby the printout. Faint figuresand percentages. The machine neededa new ribbon.

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"Us grownupsdon't know everything.I know it seemsthat way." "Most of my friendshavegone."He didn'twantto mentionMay, although he guessed Mum had told him anyway."How long can it go on for?" " "As long as it takes. "What if nothing happens?" " "Somethingalwayshappens. He gaveBobbya smile. Bobby and May went out again that night. A place they'd never tried before,a few stopsout of town, with a splutteringneon sign, a shackmotel at the back, and a dusty parkingareafor the big containerrigs. The inside washuge,with bareboardsand patchesof linoleum, gamesmachineslining the walls, too big to fill with anythingbut smokeand patchesof yellowed and the grownups' silenceon eventhe busiestof nights.Beinga Wednesday, quiet. They satalonein the it was paypacketsbeingthin until the weekend, and for didn't know anyone, Th.y smoggyspacefor most of the evening. kept of Bobby thinking them. know once it seemedthat no one wantedto again. them readouts, checked the way Doctor Halsteadhad checkedthe And he knewMay had her own weeklytestthe followingafternoon.It wasn't goingto be one of their betternights.May lookedpale. Shewent out to the ladiesroom far moreoftenthan their slowconsumptionof the cheapbottled beerwould explain.Once, when shecamebackand leanedforwardto tell him something,he realizedthat the rain had gone from her breath. He smelledvomit. the room,takinga drunkendetouraround At aboutten, a fat unclecrossed the chairs. "Haven'tseenyou two herebefore,"he said,his belly swayingabovethe table, closeto their faces."I've got a contractdeliveringgroceriesfrom here to the city and back. Everyother day, I'm here." "We must havemissedyou." He squinteddownat them, still swayingbut now seeminglessthan drunk. the For placeslike here,Bobbyand May worecasualclothes.Bobbydressed way Dad did for eveningsat home, in an open-collaredstripedshirt and trousersthat looked as though they had startedout as part of a work suit. May hadn'tput on much makeup,which shesaidshehatedanyway.Bobby wonderedif theyweregrowingcomplacent,if this fat unclehadn'tseenwhat all the other grownupshad apparentlyfailedto notice. "Mind if I-. . ." The uncle reachedfor a chair and turned it around,sat down with his legswide and his armsand belly proppedagainstthe backrest. "Where are you from anywaY?" secretsmiles.Now theywerein their element, Bobbyand May exchanged in the city, the office, the shop, the university the of territory in the back grownupplacesthat had developeda life of their own through frequentretelling. It ias pleasantto talk to an uncle on equaltermsfor a change'awayftgry the pawingsand twitteringof other grownupswhich usually surrounded them. Bobby felt that he had a lot of questionsto ask, but the biggestone

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wasansweredimmediatelyby this uncle'scautiousbut friendlymanner,by the way he spokeof his fob and the problemshe washavingtrying to find an apartment.In all the obviousways,he was just like any other young grownup. He bought them a drink. It seemedpolite to buy him one in return, then-what the hell-a chaser.Soon, they werelaughing.People wgle watching,smilingbut keepingtheir distanceacrossthe ranksof empty tables. Bobbyknew what washappening,but he wascuriousto seehow far it wouldgo. He s1wI plump hand strayto May'sarm-still coveredby a long sleevedshirt to hide the bruises-then up to her shoulder.He sawthe way she reactedby not doing anything. "You don't know how lonely it gets,"the unclesaid,leaningforward,his arm aroundBobby'sbacktoo, his handreachingdown. "Alwayson the road. I stayhere,you know. Most Wednesdays. A lot of them sleepout in the cab. But theypayyou for it and I like to lie on somethingsoft.fust out the back." He nodded."Throughthatdoor,the wayyou camein, left pastthe kitchens." "will you showus?" May asked,lookingat Bobby."l think we'd like to tt see.

The motel room wassmall. Someonehad tried to do it up yearsbefore, !u! the print had rubbedoff the wallpaperby the door a.td aLovethe green bed. The curtainshad shrunk,and Bobbycould still seethe parkingloi and the lightsof the road.A slidingdoorled to a toiletandthe ro.tndof a?ripping tap. The fat uncle sat down. The bed squealed.Bobbyand May remained standing,but if the uncle saw their nervousness he didn't comment. He seemedmorerelaxednow, easywith the drink and the certaintyof what they weregoingto do. He unlacedhis bootsand peeledoff his socks,twiddling his toeswith a sigh that remindedBobbyof Dad at the end of a hard dayl He waswearinga sweatshirt that had oncesaidsomething.He pulled it off overhis headwith his handson the waistband, the wavr gitl might do, threw it onto the rug besidehis feet. He had an undershirton underleath. The hemswereunraveling,but he and it lookedcleanenough,and he smelta lot betterthan Uncle Lew did at closequarters,like unbakeddough. He -May's. pulled the undershirtoff too. His breastswere much biggerthan There washardlyany hair under his arms.Bobbystared,t ttr. bruisedscar that beganunder his ribcageand vanishedbeneaththe wide band of his jeans,slightlymoist whereit threatenedto part. "Ygg"e goingto staydressed, areyou?"he saidwith a grin. He scratched . himselfand the springssquealedsomemore. "This godd-amn bed'sa prob-

1

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I e m. "We'd like to watch," Mry said. "For now, if that's okay with yoll." "That's gre?! by me. I'm not fussy . . . I mean . . .,, he stood up and steppedout of his trousersand underpants in one movement. ,,Well, you know what I mean."

. Under the hugr flap of his belly, Bobbycouldn't seemuch of what lay beneath.|ust darkness and hair. Everynight, he thought, a million times

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throughoutthe world, this is goingon. Yet he couldn'tbelieveit, couldn't evenbelieveit about his parentswith Uncle Lew, even though he'd seen them once on that hot afternoon. "Tell you what," the uncle said."lt's beena long day. I think you'd both appreciateit if yours truly freshenedup a bit." He went over to Bobby, brushedthe fine hairsat the backof his neckwith softfingers."l won't be a out, eh?" mo. You two sortyourselves He waddledoff into the bathroom,slid the door shut behind him. They heardthe toilet seatbangdown, a sigh, and the whisperof moving flesh. Then a prolongedfart. A pause.A splash.Then another. May lookedat Bobby.Her facereddened.Shecoveredher mouth to block the laughter.Bobby'schestheaved.He coveredhis mouth too. He couldn't help it: the joke wasincrediblystrong.Signalingto Bobby,tearsbrimming the shoes,the undershirt. in her eyes,May stoopedto pick up the sweatshirt, Bobbygatheredthe jeans.Thereweremoreclothesheapedin a corner.They took thosetoo, easingthe door open as quietly as they could beforethe laughterrolled them over like a high wind. They sprintedmadlyacrossthe parkinglot, down the road,into the night. Next morning,the skywasdrab.It seemedto Bobbylike the startof the end of summer,the firstof the greyveilsthatwouldeventuallythickento autumn. Downstairs,Mum washumming. He went firstinto the kitchen,not that he the charadeof them ignoring wantedto seeher, but he neededto re-establish his nightsawayfrom the house.One day, he wassure,it would break,she'd havea letterfrom the police,the doctor,the ownerof somebar, a fact that couldn'tbe ignored. "lt's you," shesaid.Uncharacteristically, shekissedhim. He'd beentaller benddown, but it still felt that need to didn't year she or two, her for a than I'm offin a fewminutes." the supermarket? "Do from anything you want way. plasticboard above wipe-clean kept on the list she Bobby glancedat the vinegar.He looked wine lemon marg, the stove.Wash pow, toiletPaP, iuice, at her face,but it wasclearand innocent. "Aren't you goingto go into the dining room?Seewhat'swaiting?" "Waiting?" "Your birthday,Bobby."Shegavehim a laughand a quick, stiffhug. "l askedyou what you wantedweeksago and you neversaid. So I hope you like it. I've kept the receipt-you boysare so difficult." "Yeah."He hadn'texactlyforgotten,he'dsimplybeenpushingthe thingback in his mind, the wayyou do with examsandvisitsfrom the doctor,hopingthat if you makeyourselfforget,then the restof the world will forget,too. and still a kid. It wasat leastone birthdaytoo many. He wasseventeen He openedthe cardsfirst, shakingeach envelopecarefully to seeif there was any money. Some of them had picturesof archaiccountrysideand inappropriateverses,the sort that grownupsgaveto eachother. One or two peoplefrad madethe effort to find a child's card, but there wasn'tmuch of had combinedstickyearolds.The mostenterprising a marketfor seventeen

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onsfor I and 7. Bobbymovedto the presents, usinghis toastknife to slit the tape,trying not to damageany of the wrappingpaper,which Mum liked to iron and re-use.Althoughshehadn'tspoken,he wasconsciousthat shewas standingwatching_atth-edoor. Fightingthe sinkingfeelingof discovering bookson subjectsthat didn't interesthim, accessories for hobbieshe didnt pursue,modelcarsfor a collectionhe'dgivenup yearsago,he triedto display excitementand surprise. Mirm and Dad'spresentwasa pair of binoculars,somethinghe'd coveted when he wasthirteenfor reasonshe couldn't now remember.He gazedat the marmaladejar in closeup, throughthe windowat the individuil leaves of the nearestcherrytree in the garden. "we thoughtyou'd find them usefulwhen you grewup too," Mum said, putting her armsaroundhim. "lt's great,"he said.In truth, he liked the smellof the case-leather, oil and glass-more than the binocularsthemselves. But he knew that wasn't the point. And then he remembered why he'dsowanteda pair of binoculars, how he'd usedto love lookingup at the stars. "Actually,I've loh of stuffto get at the supermarket, Bobby.Dad'staking a half day and we'regoingto havea partyfor you. Everyonebcoming.Isn[ that great?" Bobby went with Mum to the supermarket.They drove into town past placeshe and May had visitedat night. Eventhoughthe skywasclearingto sun, they looked flat and grey.Wanderingthe rup.r-rrlet aisles,M"um insistedthat Bobbychoosewhateverhe want. He seitledat randomfor iced fancies,p6t€,green-veined cheese.Tony cameout from his officebehinda window of silvered,glass, a name-b,rdg.on his lapeland his hair startingto recede.He clappedBobby'sshoulderand saidhi'd neverhavebelievej it, seventeen,my own little brother.They chattedawkwardlyfor a while in the chill drift of the frozenmeats.Ev-enthough therer"m r longerline, they choseMarion'scheckout.Shewasbackwo*ing at the superma-rket parttime now that their kid had startednurseryschool.it wasn'tuntil Bobbysawher blandly cheerlessface that he rememberedthat night with Tony and the other uncle in the bar. He wonderedif sheknew, if she cared. Therewerecarsin the drivew?yat homeand spillingalongthe cul de sac, little kids with nameshe couldn't rememberrunniig on"the lawn. The weatherhad turnedbrightand hot. Dad had fishedout rll the deckchairs as got home, the ordjlary onesand the specialshe keptfor uncles. loon-as_he Peoplekeptcoming up to Bobbyand then running out of thingsto say.He couldn'trememberwhetherthey'dgivenhim cardso, pr.r.nts, rihat to thank them for. Uncle Lew wasin a goodmood, the facetsof ot . oi the bestwine glasses tremblingsparksacrosshis roundedface. "well, Bobby,"-he_said, easinghimselfdownin his specialdeckchair.He wasstartingto look old, ugly. Too many years,too many hrppy events.He wasnothing like the freshfat uncle at the motel. "And *hai,i. you going to be when you grow up?" Bobbyshrugged.He had grownsickof thinking up lies to pleasepeople.

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The canvasof Lew'sdeckchairwaswheezingand slightlytorn. Bobbyhoped that he'd staya kid long enoughto seehim fall through. "Well, get yourselfa nice girlfriend,"h. said."lt meansa lot to me that I'm uncle to your Momma and Poppaand to Tony and Marion too." He suckedat his wine. "But that'sall up to you." Looking back up the lawn towardthe house,Bobby saw May and her parentsemerginginto the sunlightfrom the open French windows.May lookeddrab and tired. Her belly wasbig, her anklesswollen. She waddledoverto them, sweatgleamingon her cheeks. "Flello, Bobby."Sheleanedoverto let Uncle Lew giveher a hug. He put his lips to her ear. She wriggledand smiledbeforeshepulled away. "Hello, Mry." She waswearinga cheapprint, somethingthat fell in foldslike a tent. "This whole partyis a surprise,isn't it? Your Mum insistedthat I didn't sayanythingwhen shetold me lastweek.Here. HtPpy birthday." She gavehim a package.He openedit. Five minuteslater, he couldn't rememberwhat it contained. Dad bangedthe trestletable and peoplegatheredaround on the lawn as he made a ipeechabout how he could hardly believethe way the yearshad flown, sayingthe usualthingsthat grownupsalwayssaidabout themselves when it wasa child'sbirthday.He raisedhis glass.A toast.Bobby.Everyone intoned his name. Bobby.The sun retreatedtowardthe rooftopsand the trees,filling the estatewith evening,the weary smell of cooking.Those grownups*ho hrdr,'t beenable to skipwork arrivedin their work clothes. Neighborsdriftedin. Mry.r-e overto Bobbyagain,her faceflushedwith the drink andthe sun. "Did the doc comeoverto seeyou today?"he asked,for want of anything better. The hilarious intimacy of the things they had done in the night suddenlybelongedto a world evenmore distantthan that of the grownups. "Nothing happened,"she said,spearinga pieceof herringon the Paper plateshecalriedwith a plasticfork. "Nothing ever}app.tt!." Shetooka bite bf tft" herring,thenpulleda face."Disgusting.God knowshow the grownups enjoythis shit." Bobbygrinned,recognizingthe May he knew. "Let's go somewhere.No one will notice." She shruggedyesand proppedher plate on the concretebird bath. They went throug-lithebackgri., tq,r.ezedbetweenthe bumperson the driveway, and out alongthe road. "Do you tliil thittk you'll nevergrow up?" Bobbyasked. May shookher head."What aboutyou?"- "l supposeit's got to happen.We're not fooling anyone' are we, going out, not irinking lhe milki l'* ,,.,r. Mum and Dad know. They iust don't seemto care.Liean, we can'tbe the firstkidsin the historyof the world to havestumbledon this secret.Well, it can't be a secret,can it?" May said."The town looks "How aboutwe climb up to the meadows?" there." goodfrom up

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"Have you ever readPeterPan?"Bobbyaskedasthey walkedup the dirt roadbetweenthe allotmentsand the sawmill. "He nevergrewup. Lived in a wonderfulland and learnedhow to fy. " He held openthi kissinggatethat led into the fields.Mry had to squeezethrough. -ih. grrs was"h"igh and sliveredwith seed,whisperingundera deepeningsky."When I wasy6ung," he said,"on eveningslike this, I usedto look out of my bedroomwindow and watchthe grownups.I thoughtthat they could fly.'; "Who do you think can fly now?" "No one. We're all the same." They slgnnedto catchtheir breathandlookdownat the hazebelow.Hills, trees,and houses,the wind carryingthe chime of an ice-creamvan, the river stealingsilverfrom the sky. He felt pain spreadthroughhim, then dissolve without finding focus. May took his hand. "Rememberwhen we cameup herealonethat time, yearsago?"She drew it towardher breast,then down. "you touchedme here, and here.we had sex.You'd neverdone it before." Shelet his hand fall Bobby felt no interest.May no longer smelledof rain, and he was relievedthat he didn't haveto turn her down. The pain came_again,more stronglythis time. He swayed.The shimmering air cleared,and for one moment therewasa bargeon the river, a tractorslicinga field frgm greento brown, a hawk circling high overhead, May smiling,sweetand youn_g, as shesaidLet'sDo It, gobuyl pulling hei dressup overher head.He blinked. "Are you okay?" "l'm fine," he said,leaningbrieflyagainsther, feelingthe thickness of her arms. "l think we'd bettergo back." Down the hill, the pain begln to localize.Firstcirclingin his spine,then graduallyshifting orbit towardhis belly. It came and rient. when it was there,it wasso unbelievable that he put it asidein the momentsof recession. Had to be a bad dream.The treesswayedwith the rush of twilight, pulling him forward,drawinghim back. wasslow-Night camesomewhere alongthe way.Helpedby May, - Progress he staggeredfrom lamppostto lamppost,dreadi"ngthe darknessbetween. Peoplestared,or ask_ed if everythingwasokaybefor-ehurrying on. He tasted rust in his mouth. He spaton the pavement,wipedhis ha"d] It came away black. "Nearlythere,"Mry said,half-holdinghim aroundhis searing belly. He looked,tp and sawhouseshe recognized,the mailbox thZt was the nearestone to home. His belly was crawling. He rememberedhow that mailboxhad beena markerof his sufferingorieday yearsbeforewhen he'd beendesperate to gpt home and pee,and,lanothertime, walkingbackfrom school when his shoeswere new and tight. Then the pain -.f..a him, blocking.hissight. True pain, hard as flint, soft as dro*ning H; tried to laugh.That madeit worseand better.Bobbyknewthat thiswai;ust the start, an earlyphaseof the contractions.

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He couldn't rememberhow they reachedhome. There werehandsand voices,furiousdialingsof the phone.Bobbycouldn'tget upstairsand didn't want to messup the setteeby lying on it. But the grownupsinsisted,pushed him down, and then someonefound a plasticsheetand tuckedit underhim in betweenthe worstof the waves.He thrashedaround, seeingthe TV, the mantelpiece,the fibersof the carpet,the light burning at his eyes.I'm not here,he told himself,this isn't real.Then the biggest,darkestwaveyet began to reachhim. Wings of pain settledover him. For a moment without time, Bobby dreamedthat he wasflying. moving Bobbyawokein a chilly white room. There wasa door, dim figure_s beyondthe frostedglass.He was still floating, hardly consciousof his own body. The whit.n.it of the room hurt his eyes.He closedthem, ope19d them again.Now it wasnight. Yellow light spilledthroughthe glass.The figuresmovingbeyondhad globularheads,no necks,taperingbodies. One of the figurespaused.The door opened.The silencecrackedlike a brokenseal.He could suddenlyhear voices,the clatterof trolleys.He was consciousof the hard fatnessof the bed againsthis back, coils of tubing into his arm from steelracks.His throathurt. His mouth tasted descending faintly of liquorice. The air smelledthe way the bathroomcabinetdid at home. Of soapand aspirins. "Your eyesare open. Bobby,can you see?" The shapeat the door blockedthe light. It washard to makeit out. Then it steppedftrward, and he sawthe softcurveof May's cheek,the glimmer of her eye. "Can you speak?" "No," he said. Mry turned on a light overthe bed and satdown with a heavy'sigh' He tried tL trackher by movinghis eyes,but afterthe brief glimpseof her face, all he could seewasthe dimpledcurveof her elbow' "This is the hospital?" "Yes. You'vegrown uP." The hospital.browing up. They must havetakenhim herefrom home. Which meint that it had been a difficult change' May said,"You're lucky to be alive." Alive. Yes. Alive. He waitedfor a rush of somefeelingor other-relief, pride.There wasnothing,iust this white room, the gratitude,achievement, fact of his existence. "What happensnow?"he asked. "Your parentswill want to seeyou." "Where are they?" "At home. It's been daYs,BobbY." ,,Then why . ." the iaste of iiquorice went gritty in his mouth. He swallowedit back."Why are you here, May?" "l'm havingtests,Bobby.I iust thoughtI'd look in'"

Grownups

"Thanks." "There'sno needto thank me. I won't forgetthe timeswe had." Times. We. Had. Bobbyput the wordstogether,then let them fall apart. "Yes," he said. "Well." Mry stoodup. Now he could seeher. Her hair wascut short,sittingoddlywhereher fat cheeksmet her ears.Her breastshung looseinsidea T-shirt. Along with everythingelseabouther, they seemedto havegrown,but the nippleshad gone flat and she'dgiven up wearinga bra. She shruggedand spreadher arms. He caughta waft of her scent:she neededa wash.It wassicklybut somehowappealing,like the old cheesethat you found at the back of the fridge and neededto eat right away. "Sometimesit happens,"shesaid. "Yes," Bobbysaid."The bittermilk." "No one knowsreally,do they?Life'sa mystery." Is it? Bobbycouldn'tbe botheredto argue. "Will you changeyour name?"he asked."Move to anothertown?" "Maybe. It's a slow process.I'm reallynot an uncle yet, you know." Still a child. Bobby gazedat her uncomfortably,trying to seeit in her eyes,finding with reliefthat the child wasn'tthere. "What's it like?" May asked. "What?" "Beinga grownup." "Does anyoneaska child what it's like to be a child?" "l supposenot." His headached,his voicewasfading.He blinkedslowly.He didn't want to saymore. What elsewasthereto say?He remembered waitingstupidlyas his brotherTony sat up in bed watchingTV that first morning after he'd grownup. Waiting asthoughtherewasan answer.But growingup wasjust part of the processof living, which he realizednow wasmostlyaboutdying. May reachedout to touch his face.The fingerslingeredfor a moment, bringinga strangewarmth.Their odor wasincrediblystrongto Bobby.But it wassweetnow, like the waft from the opendoor of a bakery.It hit the back of his palateand then ricocheteddown his spine.He wonderedvaguelyif he wasgoingto getan erectionand killedthe thoughtasbesthe could;he hated the ideaof appearingvulnerableto May. After all, shewasstill half a child. "You'd betterbe going," he said. May backedaway."You'reright." Shereachedfor the handleof the door. clumsily,without looking. "Goodbye,May," Bobbysaid. She stoodfor a moment in the open doorway.For a moment, the light fell kindly on her faceand shewasbeautiful.Then shesteppedbackand all her youth wasgone. "Goodbye,Bobby,"shesaid,and glanceddown at her wristwatch. got thingsto do. I reallymust fly."

GRAVES foe Haldeman

v Shakespeare said it best, as usual:"To sleep:perchanceto dream:ay, there'sthe rub . . . " as amply demonstratedby the chilling storythat follows. Born in OklahomaCity, Oklahoma,foe Haldemanreceiveda B.S. in physicsand astronomyfrom the Universityof Maryland,and did postgraduate work in mathematics and computerscience.But his plansfor a careerin sciencewerecut shortby the U.S. Army, which senthim to Vietnam in 1968as a combatengineer.Seriously woundedin action, Haldemanreturnedhome in 1969and beganto write. He sold his first storyto Galaxy in 1969,and by 1976had garneredboth the Nebula Award and the Hugo Award for his famousnovel The ForeverWar, one of the landmark '70s. booksof the He tookanotherHugo Awardin 1977for his story"Tricentennial," won the RhyslingAward in l98l for the best science-fictionpoem of the year (althoughusuallythoughtof primarilyas a "hard-science" writer, Haldemanis, in fact, alsoan accomplishedpoet,and hassoldpoetryto mostof the major professional marketsin the genre),and won both the Nebulaand the Hugo Award in l99l f
I have this persistentsleep disorder that makes life difficult for me, but still I want to keep it. Boy, do I want to keep it. It goes back twenty years, to Vietnam. To Graves. Dead bodies turn from bad to worse real fast in the jungle. You've got a few hours before rigor mortis makes them hard to handle, hard to stuff in a bag. By that time, they start to turn greenish, if they started out white or yellow, where you can see the skin. It's mostly bugs by then, usually ants. Then they go to black and start to smell.

Graves

They sweXlup and burst. You'd think the antsand roachesand beetlesand millipedeswould make shortwork of them afterthat, but they don't. fust when they get to looking and smellingthe worst,the bugssortof loseinterest,getfastidious,sendout for pizza. Exceptfor the flies. Laying eggs. The funny thing is, unlesssomebig animal got to it and tore it up, even aftera weekor so, you'vestill got somethingmore than a skeleton,evena sortof a face.No eyes,though.Everynow and then, we'dgetone like that. Not too often, sincesoldiersusuallydon't die alone and sit there for that long, but sometimes.We calledthem "dry ones." Still damp underneath, of course,and inside,but kind of like a sunburnedmummy otherwise. You tell peoplewhat you do at GravesRegistration,"Graves,"and it soundslike aboutthe worstjob the army hasto offer.It isn't. You just stand thereall day and open body bags,figureout which partsmaybebelongto which {og tag-not that it's usuallythat important-sew them up more or lesswjth a big needle,accountfor all the walletsand jewelry,stealthe dope out of their pockets,box them up, sealthe casket,do the paperwork.When you haveenoughboxes,you truck them out to the airfield-The first week maybeis prettybad. But aftera hundredor so, afteryou get useto the smell andthe god-awfulfeelof them, you getto thinkingthat openinga bodybag is a lot betterthan endingup insideone. They put Gravesin safeplaces. SinceI'd had a coupleyearsof college,premed,I got someof the more interestingjobs. CaptainFrench,who wasthe pathologist actuallyin charge of the outfit, alwaystook me with him out into the field when he had Io examinea corpsein situ, which happenedonly maybeoncea month. I got to weara .45 in a shoulderholster,toughguy. Neverfired it, nevergot shot at, exceptthe one time. That wasa hell of a time. It's funny what getsto you, stayswith you. Usuallywhen we had an in situ, it wasa forensicmatter,like an officer they suspected had beenfraggedor otherwiseterminatedby his own men. pictures take and interviewsome people,and then Frenchy would W.'d bring the stiff back for autopsy,seewhetherthe bulletswereAmerican or Vietnamese.(Not that that would be conclusiveeitherway. The Vietcong stoleour-weapons,and our guysusedthe North VietnameseAK-47s,*hei we could get our handson them. More reliablethan the M-16, and a better cartridgefor killing. Both sidesprovedthat overand over.)UsuallyFrenchv would senda reportup to Division, and that would be it. Once'he had to testifuat a court-martial.The kid wasguilty, but justgot life. The officerwas a real prick. . Anyhow, we got the call to come look at this in situ corpseaboutfive in the afternoon.Frenchytried to put it off until the next day, sinceif it got dark, we'd haveto spendthe night. The guy he wastalking'towasa major, tlrough, and obviouslyproud of it, so it wasno usearguing.I threw some C's and beer and a couple canteensinto two rucksa&sthat alreadyhad blanketsandair ntattresses tiedon the bottom.Boxof .45 ammoanda couple handgrenades. Went and got a jeepwhile Frenchygot his stufftogetherand

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madesureDoc Carterwassoberenoughto count the stiffsasthey camein. (Doc Carterwasthe one supposed to be in charge,but he didn't much care for the work.) Droveus out to the pad,and lo and behold,therewasa chopperwaiting, bladesidling. Should'vestartedto smell arat then. We don't get real high priority,and it'snot easyto geta chopperto go anywheresocloseto sundown. Th.y evenhelpedus stowour gear.Up, up and away. I never few enough in helicoptersto make it routine. Kontum looked almostpretty in the low sun, goldenred. I had to sit betweentwo flamethrowers,though, which didn't makeme feel too secure.The door gunner wassmoking.The flamethrowertankswerestenciledNO SMOKING. We went fastand low out towardthe mountainsto the west.I washoping we'd wind ,tp at one of the big fire basesup there, figuringI'd sleepbetter with a few hundred men around. But no such luck. When the chopper startedto slowdown, the blades'whirdeepeningto a whuck-whuck-whuck, there was no clearingas far as the eye could see. Thick iungle canopy hole Then a wispof purplesmokeshowedus a helicopter-sized everywhere. in the leaves.The pilot broughtus down an inch at a time, nickingtwigs.I was very much awareof the famethrowers.If he clippeda largebranch, we'd be so much pot roast. When we toucheddown, four guysin a big hurry unloadedour gearand and a couplecasesof ammo. They put two woundedguys the flamethrowers and one client on boardand shooedthe helicopteraway.Yeah, it would sort your position.One of them told usto wait;he'dgo getthe major. of broadcast "l don't like this at all," Frenchysaid. "Me neither,"I said."Let'sgo home." is planningto fight "Atry outfit that'sgot a major and two flamethrowers neverseenone it if he'd at as looked pulled .45 out and his war." He real a before."Which end of this do you think the bulletscome out of?" "Shit," I advised,and rummagedthroughthe rucksackfor a beer.I gave Frenchyone, and he put it in his sidepocket. A machinegun openedup off to our right. Frenchyand I grabbedthe dirt. Three grenadeblasts.Somebodyyelledfor them to cut that out. Guy yelledback he thought he sawsomething.Machine gun startedup again. We tried to get a little lower. Up walksthis old guy, thirties,lookingannoyed.The major. "You men get up. What'swrongwith you?" He wasplayin' games. Frenchygot up, dustinghimselfoff. We had the only clean fatiguesin twentymiles. "CaptainFrench, GravesRegistration." "secureyour gearand follow me." "Oh," he said,notvisiblyimpressed. the He driftedoff like a mightyship of iungle. Frenchyrolledhis eyes,and him. I wasn'tsurewhether"secure followed and we hoistedour rucksacks it behind, but Budweisercould your leave stuff or your gear" meantbring and there were a lot of in boonies, the get to be a real collector'sitem collectorsout here. We walkedtoo far. I meana couplehundredyards.That meanttheywere

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really spreadout thin. I didn't look forward to spendingthe night. The goddamnedmachinegun startedup again.The major lookedannoyedand shouted,"Sergeant,will you pleasecontrolyour men?"and the sergeant told the machinegunnerto shut the fuck up, and the machinegunnertold the sergeant therewasa fuckin'gookout there,and then somebodypoppeda big one, like a Claymore,and then everybodywasshootingeverywhich way. Frenchyand I got real horizontal.I hearda bullet whip by over my head. The majorwasleaningagainsta tree,lookingbored,shouting,"Ceasefiring, ceasefiring!" The shootingdwindleddown like popcorngettingdone. The major lookedoverat us and said,"Come on. While there'sstill light." He led us into a smallclearing,elephantgrassprettywell trampleddown. I guess everybodyhad had his turn to look at the corpse. It wasn'ta realgruesome body,asbodiesgo, but it wasodd-looking,even for a dry one. Moldy, like someonehad dustedfour over it. Naked and probablymale, though incomplete:all the softpartsweregone.Tall; one of our Montagnardalliesratherthan an ethnic Vietnamese.Emaciated,dry skintaut overribs. Probablyold, thoughit doesn'ttakelong for thesepeople to get old. Lying on its back,mouth wide open, a familiar posture.Empty eye socketsstaringskyward.Arms flung out in supplication,loosely,long pastrigor mortis. Teeth chippedand filed to points,probablysomeMontagnardtribal custom. I'd neverseenit before,but we didn't "do" many natives. Frenchykneltdown and reachedfor it, then stopped."Checkedfor booby traps?" "No," the majorsaid."Figurethat'syour job." Frenphylookedat me with an expression that saidit wasmy job. Both officersstoodbacka respectfuldistancewhile I felt underthe corpse. Sometimesthey pull the pin on a hand grenadeand slip it under the body so that the body'sweightkeepsthe armingleverin place.You turn it ovei, and Tomato Surprise! I alwaysworry lessabout a hand grenadethan about the variousweird gerpenhand bugsthat might enjoyliving underneatha decomposing corpse. Vietnam hasits shareof snakesand scorpionsand megapedes. I was !uc\r this time; nothing but maggots.I flickedthem off my hand and watchedthe maior turn a little green.Peopleare funny. What doeshe think is goingto happento him when he dies?Everythinghasto eat. And he wassureas hell goingto die if he didn't startkeepinghis headdown. I rememberthat thought,but didn't think of it then ,r r prophecy. They cameover. "What do you makeof it, Doctor?" "l don't think we can cure him." Frenchywasgettingannoyedat this cherrybomb. "What elsedo you want to know?" "lsn't it a little . . . odd to find somethinglike this in the middle of nowhere?" "Naw. Country'sfull of corpses. " He knelt down and studiedthe face, wigglingthe headby ih chin. "We keepit up, you'll be able to walk from the Mekongto the DMZ without steppingon anythingbut corpses."

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"But he'sbeencastrated!" "Birds." He toed the body over, busy white crawlersrunning from the light. "fust someold geezerwho walkedout into the woodsnakedand fell overdead.Could happenbackin the World. Old peopledo funny things." " "l thought maybehe'd beentorturedby the VC or something. "God knows. It could happen."The body easedback into its original positionwith a creepycreakingsound, like leather.Its mouth had closed 'evidence of VC torture'in your report,your halfivay."lf you want to put bodycount, I'll initial it." "What do you mean by that, Captain?" "Exactly what I said." He kept staringat the maior while he flipped a cigaretteinto his mouth and fired it up. NonfilterCamels;you'd think a guy all daylong would be lessanxiousto turn into one. who workedwith corpses "l'm just tryingto get along." "You believeI want you to falsifr-" Now, "falsifu"is a strangeword for a lastword. The enemyhad setup a heavymachinegun on the othersideof the clearing,andwe werethe closest targets.A round struckthe major in the smallof his back,we found on later examination.At the time, it wasjustan explosionof blood and guts,and he went down with his legsfloppingeverywhich way, barfing,then loud death rattle. Frenchywason the ground in a ball, holding his left hand, going, "Shit shit shit." He'd lost the last joint of his little finger. Painful, but not seriousenough,as it turnedout, to get him backto the World. I managedto get I myselfwashorizontaland aspiringto be subterranean. that might want to do anything my pistolout andcocked,but realizedI didn't overus forth drawattentionto us. The machinegun wassprayingbackand at about knee height. Maybe they couldn't seeus; maybethey thought we weredead.I wasscaredshitless. "we'Vegot to getouta here." He wastrying "Frenchy,"I stage-whispered, gauzebandage,much too to wrap his fingerup in a standardfirst-aid-pack large."Get backto the trees." nAft.t you, asshole.We wouldn'tget halfivay."He workedhis pistolout of the holster,but couldn'tcock it, his left hand clampingthe bandageand slipperywith blood. I armedit for him and handedit back."Thesearegoing to do a hell of a lot of good.How are you with grenades?" "Shit. How you think I wound up in Graves?"In basictraining, they'd put me on KP wheneverthey went out for live grenadepractice.In school, i *"r alwaysthe last personwhen they choseup sidesfor baseball,for the samereason-though, to my knowledge,a baseballwouldn'tkill you if you couldn'tthrow far enough."I couldn'tgetone halfivaythere."The treeline wasaboutsixtyyardsaway. "Neither could I, with this hand." He wasa I.fty. Behindus camethe "poink" soundof a sixty-millimetermortar,and in a explosionbetweenus and the tree therewasa gray-smoke coupleof seconds, line. The machine gun stopped,and somebodybehind us yelled, "Add twenty!"

At the tree line, we could hear some shoutingin Vietnamese,and a clankingof metal. "They'regonnabug out," Frenchysaid."Let's di-di." We got up andran, andsomebody did firea coupleof burstsat us, probably an AK-47, but he missed,and then therewerea seriesof poinksand a series of explosions prettycloseto wherethe gun had been. We rushedbackto the LZ andfound the commandgroup, aboutthe time the firing startedup again.There wasa firstlieutenantin .hrtg., and when things sloweddown enoughfor us to tell him what had happenedto the maior,he expressed neithersurprisenor grief.The man hadbeenan observer from Battalion,and had assumedcommandwhen their captainwaskilled that morning.He'd takeour word for it that the guy wasdead-that wasone thing we weretrainedobservers in-and not senda squadout for him until the fightinghad died down and it waslight again. We inheritedthe major's hole, which was nice and deep, -of and in his rucksackfound a dozencansand jarsof realfood and a flask scotch.So, as !!e -battleragedthrough the night, we munchedpAt6on Ritz crackers, pickledherringin sour-creamsauce,little Polishsausages on par$ rye with realFrenchmustard.We drankall the scotchand savedih. b..i for breakfast. For hoursthe lieutenantcalledin for artilleryand air support,but to no avail. Laterwe found out that the enemyhad launchedcoordinatedattacks on all the local airfieldsand SpecialForcescamps,and everycampthat held POWs. We weremuch lower priority. Then, aboutthreein the morning, Snoopycameover. Snoopywasa big C-130 cargoplanethat carriednothingbut ammunitionand Catli"g guns; they saidit could fy overa footballfield and put a round into everysquare inch. Anyhow, it satura_ted the perimeterwith fire, and the enemystopped shooting.Frenchyand I went to sleep. - At first light, we went out to help round up the KIAs. There were only four dead,countingthe major, but the majoi wasan astoundingsight, at leastin context. He lookedsortof like a cadaverleft overfrom a teachingautopsy.His shirt had been openedand }ris pantspulled down to his thighs, rnd'th. entire thoracicand abdominalcavitieshadbeenrippedopenanl emptiedof everyto testicl.r, ,ib cagelike blood-streaked lhing soft,everythingfrom esophagus fingersstickingrigid out of saggingskin,and there*rrrit a signof any of the gutsanywhere,just a lot of dried blood. Nobodyhadheardanything.Therewasa machine-gunpositionnot twenty yards_away, and they'dbeenstrainingtheir earsall All they'd heard "igti. wasflies. Maybean animalfeed.ingvery quietly.The bodyhadn'tbeenopenedwith a scalpelor a knife;the skinhad beentorn by teethe1slsw5-bui seemingly systematically, throatto balls. And the dry one wasgone. Him with the pointedteeth. Thereis one rationalexplanation.Modernwarfareis partlymindfuck,and we aren'tthe only_ones who do it, droppingunluckycards,'invoking magic and superstition.The Vietnameseknew ho* squeamishAmericanswere.

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and would mutilatebodiesin cleverways.They could alsomoveveryquietly. The dry one?Th.y might havespiritedhim awayjust to fuck with us. Show what they could do under our noses. the mold, there And as for the dry one'sodd mummified appearance, might be an explanation.I found out that the Montagnardsin that areadon't bury their dead;they put them in a coffin madefrom a hollowed-outlog and leavethem aboveground.So maybehe wasjust the victim of a graverobber. I thoughtthe nearestvillagewasmiles away,liketwentymiles, but I could havebeenwrong.Or the bodycould havebeencarriedthat distancefor some obscurepurpose-maybe the VC setit out on the trail to makethe Americans stop in a good placeto be ambushed. Thrt" probablyit. But for twentyyearsnow, severalnightsa week,I wake up sweatingwith a terribleimagein my mind. I've goneout with a flashlight, rnd th.re ii is, the dry one, scoopingsteamingentrailsfrom the maior'sbody, tearing them with its sharp teeth, staringinto my light with black emPty sockets,unconcerned.I reachfor my pistol,and it's neverthere.The creature standsup, shiny with blood, and takesa steptowardme-for a yearor so' that was it; I would wakeup. Then it wastwo steps,and then three. After twentyyearsit hascoveredhalf the distanceand its drippinghandsare raising from its sides. The doctorgivesme tranquilizers.I don't takethem. They might help me stayasleep.

THEGLOWINGCLOUD Steven Utley

v StevenUtley'sfiction hasappearedin The Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction, Universe,Calaxy, Amazing, Vertex,Stellar, Shayol,and elsewhere.He wasone of '70s, both for his solo work and for sorre strong the best-knownnew writersof the work in collaborationwith fellow Texan HowardWaldrop, but fell silent at the end of the decadeand wasn'tseenin print againfor more than ten years.[n the last few yearshe's made a strong comeback,though, becoming a frequent contributor to Asimov'sScienceFiction magazine,as well as selling again to The Magazine of Fantasy& ScienceFiction and elsewhere.[n 1992 alone, Utley publishedat least three other storiesthat would have been consideredgood enough for inclusion in this anthologyin anotheryear-in addition to the vivid and suspenseful novellathat follows.[n it, Utley takesus to the troubledislandof Martinique in 1902,in company with a somewhatreluctant time traveleron a desperatemission, with the fate of history itself in the balance-a missionthat he must rush to completebeforehe is destroyedby one of the greatestnatural disasters of all time: the awesomeeruption of Mount Pel6eon the morning of May 8th, 1902. . . StevenUtley is the coeditor,with Geo. W. Proctor,of the anthologyLane Star Universe,the first-and possiblythe only-anthology of SF storiesby Texans.Utley livesin Austin, Texas.

He could seeno moon, no stars.The skywasblackwhereit curvedto meet the westernhorizon, and to the eastit wasroiling and opaqueand glowed redaboutthe summitof a burningmountain.He wasdescending to a landing at a point on the slopewell below the craterbut overlookingthe narrow crescentof illumination that definedthe town. This partfelt like a dream.He couldfeelthe tingling,not-unpleasant burn of the drug behindhis eyesand in his fingertipsand teeth. His salivatasted metallic.It's the drug, he told himself,a hallucinationinducedby the drug, but he had neverquite convincedhimselfof this on any previousoccasion, and couldn't now. He camedown slowly,at a shallowangle.He could see not only what he reasonablywould haveexpectedto seefrom a greatheight at night, but alsoto a greatdepth.He saw,imagined,what nobodyhad ever seen:the planetin cross-section, with the green,unsubmerged peaksof the Windwardand Leewardislandsstretchingacrossthe Caribbean's blue, map-

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flat expansefrom PuertoRico to a Rand-McNally-coloredSouth America completewith placenames.Therewerelatitudeand longitudelinesaswell. Two of theseintersected severalkilometerswestof his position,and in one cornerof the intersection wasa neatnotation,1445',67"15'. Eastof the islands,the world had been sawn in half. Its mechanismswere exposed, renderedwith textbookdefinition and shadingfrom the blue-blackof the outermostlayerof atmosphere to the yellow-whiteof the nickel-ironcore. The scalewasskewed,emphasizing the massiveconicalbasesof the Windwards,particularlythat of the islandto which he wasbeingdrawn. To the eastof the archipelago, the edgeof one plateof oceaniccrustslippedunder another.They groundand scrapedand warmed,and masses of molten stuff the sizeof major planetoidsburnedtheir way up throughthe island's,so to speak,basementand went shootingout throughthe, so to speak,roof. The magmabeneaththe crust was done in incandescent yellow but darkened throughstreakyorangeto primaryred as it madeits way to the surface.He thoughtthe viewasimpressive now aswhenhe had firstseenit, yearsbefore, in school,in a geoholo. Addingto the dreaminess wasa time-lapseeffect.Medlin sankthrougha leafucanopy,disturbingit no more than a moonbeam,and alightedon firm ground.Treescut off his view of the town. All he could seeof the volcano now wasa red-tingeddarksky.He could seeit better,in fact, than he could seehis own nimbusedhand. Yet, even as he watched,the sky lightened, pinkish-browncumulousmasses of volcanicsmokeraCedacrossthe sky,and shaftsof sunlightspeared downthroughgapsin the treetops.He wasstanding in the middle of an unpavedroad in the heartof a tropicalforest. As he solidified,he becameawareof other, lesspleasantdetails. The air wasfull of white specksthat lookedlike snowflakes but stunglike nettleswhen they hit bareskin. He took a breath,and the moisturein his mouth evaporated. A secondbreathmadethe lining of his throat searand pucker.A paroxysmof coughingbent him double,and frighteningthoughts filled his head. Perhapshe had mistimedhis arrival. Perhapshe didn't have the betterpart of a weekafter all. Perhapshe had arrivedinsteadat the climacticmoment. But he did not shrivel,did not burstand stewin his own juices,did not become a charcoalmannequin. He lived, and felt as though he were coughinghimselfinsideout, and reachedwith one hand to steadyhimself againsta huge tree garlandedwith lianasand orchids.The bole waswarm from his pocketand to his fingertips,almosthot. He pulled a handkerchief nose. That little easier. his mouth made breathing easier-a covered and puffy-lidded, he rested the tree, and Watery-eyedand against at almost the samemoment,he realizedtwo things:one, he wasnot alone;two, Ranke wasnot present. The roadwasbarelymorethan a trail of wheelrutsthroughthe jungle. It branchedabovea fast, swollencreek,one fork veeringto his left, the other plunging straightdown the creekbank into waterfull of uprootedtreesand

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other vegetation.Coming off the creekwasa powerful smell of rotten eggs and deadanimals.Strungin a raggedline besideit weretwo hundredmen, women, and children. They were staringgloomily at the water. Medlin immediatelyknewthem for whattheywere.He had seentheir like thirty-six hours before,subjectivetime, in the Low Countriesin 1940.As a consequenceof that experience, he wasconvincedthat it wasimpossible to mistake evensmall numbersof refugeesfor any other group one might encounter people.The anywhere.Thesewere, with a singleexception,dark-skinned men wore strawhats,loosetrousers,and shirts.The women wore madras whiteblouses,long skirts.They carriedlittle morethan their infants. scaryes, The exceptionamongthem wasa late-middle-aged white man dressedin He wasthe only one wearingshoes.He startedso violentlywhen a cassock. he noticed Medlin that Medlin thought the priest must somehowhave detectedthe luminousvaporthat clung to him. His alarm did not entirely fadeasthe man strodeforwardwith a belligerentexpression on his face:even itself-the envelopeof chargedparticleswhich Medlin as reasonasserted sawasa nimbusabouthimselfwasas imperceptible as watervaporto denizens-he retreatedtwo stepsbackwardand thrust his hand into his coat pocketto feel the butt of the revolverthere. The priesthad enormousropey handsand lookedvery fit for his age.Behind his wire-rimmedglasses was the fixed squint of someonewho had spenta greatmany daylighthours hatlessin the sun. He slightlyknittedthe musclesbetweenhisthick eyebrows, andthe squinttransformed into a scowlthat told Medlin, hereis a clergyman usedto gettinghis way with the laity. The priestsaid,in snappishFrench, "Do not wasteyour time trying to persuadeus to return!We are not going back!" Behind him, severalof the men put on scowlsof their own. Medlin musteredall the sunnygoodnaturehe had in him at the momentand said, l'l beg your pardon, Father. I have no intention of persuadingyou to go back. In fact, I haveno ideawhat you are talkingabout." The priestlookedpasthim in obviousexpectation of seeingothers.Finding no one, he relaxedhis expression somewhat. "With that accent,"he said,"you are a foreigner." "l am an Americantraveler. " "Ah! An American!" The priesthalf-turnedfor a moment to give the refugees a reassuring smile and nod. The men'sscowlsyieldedto t[e same disconsolate looksas before."Americansare the only other peopleon this island who have shown any good senseso far! Accept my m-ostsincere apologies.I am FatherHayot.When I sawyou, I thoughtthat the governor must havesentyou afterus." "I myselfhavenevermet the governor. " one playedthesethingsby ear. Father Hayot's face wrinkled into a relief-map of righteous Up _ "ng"r."My close,he was even more formidable.He had eyeslike musketbalis. parishioners and I are from Le Pr€cheur,a villageto the north. Yesterday, while GovernorMouttet wassafein his residencyin Fort-de-France, where the mountaincannotpossiblyharm him, we werefleeingfor our lives.The

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lava destroyedeverything,homes, crops-even the statueof the Virgin. Then, when we reachedSt. Pierre,the governortelegraphed the miliiary commandantto confineus to the town hall compound,asthoughwe were criminals!We would be thereevennow if I had not persuaded the guardto let us go." Medlin thoughtit generallygoodpolicyto listensympathetically to denizens,so he said,"But why would the governorhaveyou confined?" "He is too concernedwith elections.He mustfeela few poor refugees will causea panic that will drive peoplefrom the polls!" The volcanomade a sound like somethingclearingits throat. Medlin would not haveimaginedit possiblefor the villagersto look any unhappier than they did already.They surprisedhim. "They believethe mountain is the chimney of a giganticblacksmith shop-God's or the Devil's,theyareunsure." FatherHayot'sexpression was "l havebeenwith them for many years both patronizingand exasperated. now, and still, still, I cannot make them understandthe vital difference betweenChristianfaith and paganisticbelief." Medlin had neverunderstoodthe differencehimself,but did not sayso. Instead,he asked,"Where doesthis trail lead?" "Over the ridgeto Morne Rougeif you follow it east.Straightto the coast roadif you go west."Suspicionsuddenlycloudedthe priest'sfaceagain."Do you mean to saythat you do not know whereyou are?" Medlin put on a rueful smile. "l know that I am standingnext to a live volcano.Obviously, I am lost. I am not evensurewhat day it is." "Todayis SaturDismayedbut disarmed,the priestcluckedreproachfully. dry." Five days,Medlin thought, relieved.Five whole daysand nights. "lf you havebeenlostout hereon the mountainside,"FatherHayotwent on, "you are indeed most fortunateto be alive and unharmed.This is Wild pigs." Fie dangerous countryevenundernormalconditions.Serpents. in it. "Someloweredhis voice,and therewasa freshelementof bitterness times I think there are no true Christianshere in this countryside.People here may havea priest,may sayprayersto the Virgin, but in their hearts they believein magicand the world of ghosts.They listento the quimboiseurs-the wizards,who kill whomeverthey meetand usehuman bonesin their evil work. You must be very carefulwhom you meet in the jungle." "l havea companionwho seemsto be lost, too. Perhapsyou have seen him. He is a white man." "We havepassedfew peopleat all sincewe left the coastroad. Probably your lost companionhas gone on to St. Pierre.But, were I you, I do not think I would follow him there. The situationhas becomevery bad since just yesterday morning. No one knowswhat to do. Worse,no one seemsto wantto returnto their homes,whateveris left of them, care.My parishioners all the way to the but we are cut off by the torrent.The river is impassable sea.I am trying to convincethem to let me lead them inland. There is a

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conventat Morne Rougewheretheycan find shelter.You shouldcomewith us.

tt

Medlin madehimselflook asthoughhe weremulling overthe suggestion. He actuallywasponderinghis nextmove,but it involvedfindingRankeand gettingon with the businessat hand, not running from volcanoes.Ranke's wasnothingto gettoo alarmedabout,yet. He could simplybe late. absence got momentarilymisplaced.Experienced Passengers sometimes travelers and passengers arrivednot evenapproximately sometimes simultaneously. More disturbingthan Ranke'smissinga rendezvous by minutesor hourswasthe ideaof his missingit by kilometers.He could havearrivedon the opposite sideof the island,or far out to sea.Damn all islandsanyway.He could have come down closeto the heartof the volcano'sred glow. Not that it had to be anythingmelodramatic.He could havelandedright on target,right on schedule,but clumsily,and brokenhis neck. Medlin almost wishedthat, then admonishedhimself. Ought to have offeredRankea hand to hold, he thought,and immediatelyrecoiledfrom the idea. Holding handswasnot essential,and it wasno guaranteeof anything, either.Somepassengers found it reassuring. Therewasnothingtravelers wanted more than calm passengers, but Christ-all-bleeding-mighty, Ranke.Not one to takeanybody'shand, unlessmaybeto breaka finger.His problem-Medlin's problem,now-was not that he neededreassurance or that he wasevenafraidof time-travel,but that he wasno goodat it. Still, as long as he had stoodcloseto Medlin, within the circle marked on the floor with stripsof duct tape,he shouldhavegonewhereverMedlin went. Only he hadn't, and Medlin would eventuallyhaveto explainwhy not. It could go verybadlyindeedif the guy stayedlost. "Agent Rankeand I dislikedeachother," Medlin could hear himselfexplaining,"and it was unpleasant for usto standclosetogether,soperhapshe unconsciously pushed himselfawayat a'crucialmoment,"and, "Perhaps," he couldhearsomeone on the boardof inquiryretorting,"unconsciously or otherwise,you may have pushedAgentRankeaway,"and "Well," he could hearhimselfconcluding lamely, "Agent Rankewasthereone moment and not therethe next." Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn. And then there wasGarrick.At leastthe fugitivewas near, or tracesof her, anyway,scattered on the thick middayair, perceptible but ungraspable. Rankewasmuch, much betterat thisstuff.What for Rankewouldhavebeen a big neon arrowpointingdirectlytowardGarrickwasa film of cobwebsto Medlin. It wasenoughto fill Medlin with a glum resolve.He said,"Thank you for your concern,Father,but I mustlocatemy companion.We haveimportant businessin St. Pierre." FatherHayot usedhis Iipsto makean soft,unpleasant, unpriestlysound, disgusted and dismissive."Everyone,"he growled,"has important busines;s in that wickedplace.Little Parisof the West Indies.Little Paris!A more appropriate name would be Little Sodom,or Little Gomorrah,especiallyif

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the lava shoulddestroyit! fudgmentis going to fall on thosePierrotins-a judgmentof fire for their sinfulness and stupidity!The attitudeamongthem is that my parishioners are foolishcountrypeople,and that Americansare cowards.Most of your countrymenhavealreadysailedaway." "Still, I must go there." "'l'hen may Cod go with you, my son." kindlinessashe saidthat, FatherHayot regardedhim with unanticipated and Medlirr marveledat his own luck in being the one thing on Earth priestevidentlyhadpositive today,an American,for which this cantankerous He said, "Good luck to you as well, Father,"and startedrvalking feelir-rgs. hardlybotheredlookingat l-rimas he passed. away.The reftrgees "There is no luck," the priestcalledafterhim, "thereis only God'smercy. And God'smercyis biggerthan any mountain." Medlin didn't look back,but gavea friendlywave,as tl'roughtakingthe priest'swordfor it. As soonasthe villagerswereout of sightaroundthe bend in the road, he paused,shakilytook a piut flaskof distilledwaterfrom the left pocketof his coat, and drankhalf. First meetingswith denizensalways left him sweatirtgand dry-moutl-red. He cameeventuallyto the edgeof the jungle.Beyondthe treeswasa field of cane stubbleand, beyondthat, other fieldsrankedir-rtiersextendingall the waydownto the sea,threeor four milesaway.In someof the fieldswere hard rippling standsof caneand little moving specksthat werecanecutters at their work. Off to the southlay the towtt, a quarter-moonby day as well asby night, its outline dictatedby the naturalamphitheaterin which it lay. Medlin walkedout from under the treesand went somedistancebeforehe thoughtto tum and takea look at the volcano. He had to crane his head back to see it. Half-obscuredby haze, the volcano'srockycollarwassurelysomedistanceaway,and yet the steepgreen slopebeneaththe craterseemedto loom directlyabovehim. It wasasthough a jungle had been stoodon end and a greatsootvsmokyfire lightedat the higherend. No openskywasvisibleto the north; the smokerolledawayto infinity. The sight was hypnotic. He turrredhis back on it with no small o[ the canestubble. effortof will and struckout alongthe margir-r road.To his right, the land coast he reached the when He headedsouth wasedgedwith tropical road slopeddown into a calm sea.On his left, the trees.Setamongthem at intervalswerestonecrucifixesandshrinesdedicated to the Virgin. On a slight rise near the northernpoirrt of the crescent,he pausedfor a first goodlook at his destination.While he surveyedthe town, [e took anotherdrink from his flask,almostdrainirrgit, and ate his one nutrition bar, a dense,chewyfoodsticka little largerthan his thumb. horns,the waterfrontstretchedalonga thin, scalBetweenthe crescent's loped beachof black sand.Crowdedtogetheralong its entire length were for the entertainand, undoubtedly,establishments ,"hrru.r, warehouses, the crescent,abouta of ran the length ment of sailors.A main thoroughfare to the base the waterfront streetscreptup from mile. Numerousintersecting mile. There quarter a of a of of the woodedslopebehindthe town, a distance

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buildingswith tin awningsbehindthe quayside,and blocks wereone-storied buildings.Most of the substantial-looking strucof two-, eventhree-storied tiles were tures had walls of yellow stoneand tiled roofs;the ash-coated fadedpink. Here and therewassomethingmore impressive.Medlin sawa lighthouse, a twin-toweredcathedral,and what appearedto be a fort or prison.But for the jungle and the volcano,he felt that he could havebeen lookingat any small FrenchMediterranean seaport. The town seemedpeacefulto the point of stultification.Everyonein it could havebeendeadalready,suffocatedby ash.Then he sawdistantfigures unhurriedlymoving about in the streets,comportingthemselves as though there were not an activevolcanoin the world. At the water'sedge,on a broad,slopingsquaredominatedby the lighthouse,roustabouts workedlike wasfull of ships.The islandshelvedoff at such a tiny ants.The roadstead steepanglethat evenbig shipswereable to anchorcloseto shore. On the outskirtsof town, soldiersweredraggingdeadanimalsfrom a cart and flingingthem into a pit besidethe road.Mounds of freshlyturned dirt lined both sidesof the road;this activityhad beengoingon for sometime. Only the soldiersseemedremotelyinterested in their work, and that only to the point of quite clearlydislikingit. Massanimal burialscould havebeen the commonestsight on the island for all the attentionpaid by civilian passersby. Medlin enteredthe town behind a tall black woman who strodealong puqposefullywith a wooden tray of fruits and vegetables balancedon her head.He estimatedthat shecould not havebeencarryingmuch under sixty pounds.Watching the play of musclesin her duskycalvesmade him feel flabby.Trotting alongsometimesin front and sometimesbesideor behind the woman wasa miniatureeditionof her, with a miniatureedition of her burden. The streetswere filled with black, brown, and yellow people,with a sprinklingof white. The fallingashmuffledeverysound,and voicesblended togetherinto a soft backgroundburble. The predominantspeechwas, to Medlin's ear, like Frenchcome throughAfrica. It quickly becameobviousto him that the situationwasnot only as bad as FatherHayot had said,but becomingsteadilyworse.Groupsof people stoodaboutwho seemedto haveno placeto go, no ideaof what to do. fh"i., too, hadthat unmistakable lookof refugees; the authoritiesmusthavestopped confining them, but had not decidedas yet what else to do with tliim. Livestockwanderedloose.They seemedto be droppingdeadfasterthan the soldierscould haul awaythe carcasses. Asphyxiatedbirds lay everywhere. The fountainswerefouledwith blackmud. Yet commercewasgamelytrying to flourish.Ash bedraggled flowersin the vendor'sstallsand madefoodstuffslook grayishand unippetizing.The varietywasmore impressive than eitherthe qualityor the quantities-there werebananas,oranges,_ pineapples,tomatoes,breadfruit,sapodillas.Apart from the vendors'manifestirritation at continuallyhavingto Lrushgrit fiom their wares,few peopleevidencedmuch concernaboutthe volca.ro.Mr.ry

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did not evenseeminterested.Everyonejokedand haggled,haranguedand gossiped. He restedon a stonebench under the mangoand tamarind treesedging the lighthousesquare.Shippingbrokers,all of them Caucasian,stoodabout while blackand brown roustabouts conversingamongthemselves manhandled casksand hogsheads onto lighter bargesand yelledto one anotherin their mutant-Frenchcreole. Unmindful of hazards,children chasedone anotheramongthe barrels.The scenewassurreal:sweatingworkers,tropical swirlingin the air. The concentrationof trees,blisteringpseudo-snowflakes rum, sugar,fruit-tree,and waterfrontaromasalmostmaskedthe stenchof sulphur. Garrick, too, wason the heavyair. She fluctuatedbetweenthe almostNow shewasjust beyondtouch, just out of thereand the almost-not-there. sightand hearing,and now shewasacrossthe world, on the moon, passing the orbit of Neptune.Shewasan objectremovedfrom its propermatrix,like Medlin, anomalous,leaving,wherevershewent, a trail of disturbancelike gossamer, like insects'breathing,like pricklesof sensationin a long-amputatedlimb. Medlin couldsensethe achronicitybut couldnot follow the trail. His fortewasexploitingweakspotsin time. Garrickwasan itch he could not locate. He wasveryhungryaswell. His emptystomachseemedto be devouring itself. He suckedthe last few dropsof distilled water from his canteenand pattedthe pocketsof his coatin the silly hopethat he hadsomehowoverlooked a secondfoodstickuntil now. There wereonly the revolverand fakeidentity papers.If currencyhad beenissued,Rankehad it. Probablyit had not been issuedat all. No one had thoughtor, rather,Thomas,the agencychief, had not figured,that Medlin would haveto staylong enoughto need money. Thomas'credowas"Get in, get it done, get out." He fantasizedabout using the revolverto hold up women carryingtrays on their heads,then remindedhimselfhe had gone of fruits and vegetables without food or water for two daysin Trincomaleethat time. Rankewill show up any secondnow, he thought.We'll grabGarrickand get the hell out of here beforesundown. went on loadingcargoonto lighters,and He waited.The longshoremen A cool breeze the childrenkept playingamongthe barrelsand hogsheads. bad smells.No and heat blew acrossthe square,bringingsomerelief from just sunsets, magnificent of lover a onepaidany attentionto Medlin. He was mostof laborers and or a drunk. By sundown,the shippingbrokersand the and the streets the children had gone. The skystayedred over the volcano, replaced by was simply neitherclearednor quietened.The day'scommerce the evening's. Medlin ground his fist into his palm and stoodup. He did not want to move, but the last placehe wantedto stay,besidesherein general,washere in particular,on the waterfrontat nighton a Saturday.No burningmountain or ashfallwas going to discouragepeoplein a place like this from getting themselvesroughedup, possiblyrobbed,possiblyrubbedout.

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He took a step awayfrom the bench and startedto fall. The ground was it. He wentdown hardon one kneeand thought not wherehis foot expected for a secondthat he had steppedinto an unseenhole. But the grounditself wasmoving. The bench collapsedbehind him-it wasa simplestoneslab set on uprights-and from the directionof the landingcamea soundlike the grindingof millstones.He hearda child'sshrill, brief scream. were rolling down the slopeand piling up at the Casksand hogsheads water'sedge.In the dim light, two or threechildrenran pasthim, flat-out, in terror.Their short,harshbreathswerelike sobs. He sawwhat had happened:a topplingbarrelhad crusheda small boy. The child wasso skinny,so shabbilydressed, that he lookedlike a smallpile of sticksand ragson the pavingstones.Amazingly,he hadn'tbeeninstantly killed-Medlin, as he startedto kneel, heard a wheezeand a bubbling exhalationabovethe sloshof wavesand the human commotionall alongthe waterfront.He thought better of kneelingand lookedaround anxiously.It was againstregulationsto call undue attentionto oneselfor to become involvedwith denizensany more than wasessentialto the completionof a mission. During the past week, subjectivetime, he had seenenough in Belgium to think himself inured to the sight of the dead. He knew that everyonein thistown wasgoingto die. But no onehad told him therewould be mashedchildrenbeforehand. Human figureswere running back and forth on the squareabovethe jumbleat the water'sedge,Voicesfilledthe night. He heardshrieksof fright, shrieksof laughter,as if, he thought,suddenlyenraged,everybodyin town weresaying,To think thatsucha little shakereallyfrightenedus!A uniformed white man ran towardhim. Medlin could not tell by the flickeringlight of the man'storch whetherhe wasa policemanor a military officer,but then he turnedand bawledout an order,andfiveor sixcolonialsoldiersappeared. One of them carrieda stretcherfashionedfrom polesand canvassacking. "Quickly, quickly," the officer gasped.The injured boy wheezedand exhaledwetly. He did not inhaleagain.The officerpushedasidethe soldier with the stretcherand knelt, checkedfor a pulse,roseshakinghis head.He told two of his men to take the body awayand the restto searchfor other possiblevictims in the wreckageat the water'sedge.The soldiersscattered acrossthe landing. "lt is really too bad," the officersaid to Medlin, "but theselittle black wharf childrenare asthick as rats.I wonderthat more of them are not hurt or killedeveryd^y." He hada romannoseof fabulousdimension.Its shadow hid his mouth as he spoke."Did you seethe accident,Monsieur?" "No. I only hearda scream. " "YOU 1yg-"

"An American." "You are from the embassy,or one of the shipsin the harbor?" Medlin said,"Yes," as thoughhe wereactuallyansweringthe question. "Then I mustadviseyou to return.That tremorhascausedmorethan the deathof this child tonight."

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"fust one damnedthing afteranother." "Quite so, Monsieur.It is terrible."The officertouchedthe bill of his cap with a forefingerand went to reioin his men. Medlin turnedand losthimselfin the crowd.He let it carryhim whereit would. Some portion of it carriedhim straightonto a streetfilled with raucousn.rrrnd ripe smells.Thereweremanysailors.They walkedin small groupsin the middle of the street-there wasno horseor wheeltraffic here, Ind the sidewalla,barelywide enoughto deservethat name,had accordingly to walk. beenreservedas seatingor standingspacefor thosetoo google-eyed Everydoorwayon both sidesof the streetwasan illumined hole that spewed human noises,inarticulatecriesand shouts,eruptionsof laughterand singMoving remoralike ing, and a continuousrumblingthunderof conversation. trying to look as men, of group that or this flank of the on in"ihe wakeor local creole, the French, of snatches heard Medlin though he belonged, he could not languages other Portuguese, Spanish, ittlirt, Engfsh, Dutch, more or less doorways the above balconies second-ffoor On beglnto identifu. chairs.A cane sat on or railings iron on leaning stood dalk-rkittttedwomen expressions. in their humor grave with promenade the upon few gazeddown unnervinglook, not of cool, profesOnJ*oman gaveMedlin an especially not daringhim to come expectation, sionalinvitationbut of contemptuous low standardof male to the him holding up to seeher sometimebut meiely if she could tear it as railing gripped the behaviorof her experience.She when contemptuous doubly became ap"tt with her hands.Her expreriio.t Then creeps-. the gave him It her. oblige going to sherealizedthat he wasnot first Medlin It struck street. in the elsi someone sheshiftedher attentionto next that and customers, many very her net that her presentationcould not shemight only be waitingfor one more. She wasa knife waitingto fly out of its sheathat somebodY. Most of the women wereexuberantand lascivious.They calleddown to among andthe least-inhibited ribaldchallenges, the sailors,issuedimpossible There breasts. their expose them pantomimedfellatioor partedtheir robesto and approval roared The sailors werebreastsof everysize,shape,and shade. still. roaring indoors, and trooped roaredanswersto tire challenges weremadefrom balconies.Medlin suddenlyfound Not all propositions his path blicked by an ancient,gnomishwoman whoseheadbarelycameto his'breastbone.Sire had a face as rough as a coconut and a grip like a With her bonyhandtight on his elbow,shebegantugginghim blacksmith's. in the directionof one of tlte buildings.As shetugged,shespoketo him so fastthat he did not think he caughtas much as one word in three. Still, her meaningwasclear.FL tt* now that he wasbeingdrawntoward not a joo*ry but tf,e narrowalleybetweentwo buildings.|ust aroundthe most corner, the woman seemedto be saying,t!9 "q the stairs,I.\a.vethe and cobblestones the on his feet beautifulyo,rngtitl for you. Medlin planted off her lifted He nothing. iti;J io ietk hii Etuo* free. The *o*r' weighed Even loose. her not shake when he movedhis arm, but he goyld ih;6""d for you, as n? swungher around she continuedto babbleat him' A girl

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Monsieur,just this way, come, see,you will like her very much. He felt a little stir of panic,cursedaloud,and brokeawaywith a blow to the woman's wrist.Shegavea cry and skippedawayshakingher hand in the air asthough it had caughtfire. She did no more, however,than glareat him for a few while sherubbedher wrist;then shewaslookingaroundfor the next seconds customer. Next victim is more like it, Medlin thoughtashe movedon. No light fell in the alley towardwhich shehad pulled him. It wasa perfectplaceto get one'sskull bashedin. The crowdon what he wasstartingto think of asthe Rue Syphilissomelurchedalongasthoughpulled timesflowedsmoothlyandswiftly,sometimes by the ambulatorydrunksin its ranks.It expandedand contracted,broke apart,reformed,spunoff men throughthe beckoningdoorways,drewthem out when they had beendepleted.Then, abruptly,the saloonsand brothels werebehindhim, and, no lessabruptly,the characterof the crowdchanged. individualsblew awaylike chaff. The sailorsand other commerce-minded In their placeweredisoriented-looking townspeople. Medlin'skneehurt. He found a placewherehe couldsit, rest,watch,and not get trippedoverby peopleas they ran about.After a while, he realized that many of them seemedto be movingwith a purposenow. Thinking that perhapstheyknewsomethinghe didn't, he wentwith them. They quietened as they moved farther from the waterfront.With their footfallsmuffled by ash,they walked,Medlin amongthem, like phantomsthroughthe chaosof winding, unlevelstreets,until they reachedthe gateof a cemetery.Beyond the graveyardwasthe twin-toweredcathedralhe had noticedthat afternoon, and, surroundingthis, a great,dense,milling mob of men, women, and children. They werevery quiet-extraordinarily,eerily quiet, he thought. Uniformedmen, again,eitherpolicemanor soldiers,tried to clearthe area. Probablythey had beenat it for sometime, but the crowd ignoredthem. Abruptly, the uniformedmen gaveup on persuasion and beganto shove. The crowdanswered with a surlycollectivecomplaintasit wasproddedand pushed.For all of the commotion, nobodyseemedto go anywhere.The crowd resistedeffortsto get it to move through the expedientof pretending to move,withdrawingat right anglesto the directionof any concerteddrive madeby its would-beherders,closingin behindthem. Medlin had seenonly on the real-timenews, of course-crowds and crowd-managers lose patiencewith eachother, and he thought,fust what I need,to get caughtin a riot. But therewas no riot. Somefaceswerepetulant.That wasall. No one seemedangryor evenfrightened,and this, Medlin reflected,amazed, with the big spark-spitter itself just to the north, looking very much indeed like God'schimneyor the Devil'swhirlpoolbath. Perhapsthe big statueof the Virgin that stoodbeforethe cathedralwasexertingits pacifisticeffecton everyone. Whatevershe wasdoing and howevergood she was, he did not believe that she could keepit up indefinitely.He had a suddensenseof tectonic activitykilometersbelow. He could feel it throughthe solesof his shoes.

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Again he saw,or imagined,cold, heavyAtlantic Oceanbottom beingsubducted by CaribbeanSea bottom, becominglesscold, lessheavy,liring under pressureand full of gasthrough weakspotsin overlyingrock, up into the backof the island'sthroat.Somebubblebrokethere,like a god'sbelch. Shuttersrattlednearby.An invisiblehand gavehim a shove.He waitedfor somethingmore,andall aroundhim the peoplestirred,nervousasantelope. He beganto walk, with a deliberationdictatedby his knee. He found an archeddoorwaywhere he would not get caughtin a stampedeif there was goingto be one. He sagged againstthe wall and waited. Someminuteslater,ashe catalogued his personalmiseries,a thick, black cloud settled.It got everyone's attentionimmediately,like an eyefulof pepper. Blindedandchoking,Medlin staggered andcollidedwith a wall. People blunderedby, tripping,screaming. Animalsbleatedtheiranguish.Somebody steppedall overhim. He triedto get out of the way, wasengulfedin bodies, found himself barelyable to breatheor keephis feet on the ground.The mob cameto a shuddering,uncoordinated halt asit piled aroundhim. The doorwaywasa cul-de-sac. The human massencasingMedlin collapsedonto itself as first somebodywent down and then everybodyelse fell. Medlin kickedfree of armsand legs,found himselftrappedin a corner.He curled into a ball, screwedhis eyestightly shut, and pressed his handkerchiefhard againsthis face.The fumesstill reachedhim. I'm going to die here. But he didn't die there.Ten minuteslater,or an hour-he couldn'tguess how long-he heardbellstoll midnightand lookedr.rpwith smartingeyes. The terriblecloud wasdissipating.He madeout indistinctmoving figures, then, blurrily, the wallsof the surroundingbuildings.By the time his vision like the cloud, leavingthe groundcovered cleared,the mob had evaporated with debris.Not far from him lay a woman. Everythingabouther wasgray with ash, her skin and clothing,her open eyes. Coughingand achinS,he left her there. He was restingon a woodenbench set under a tin awning when the volcanoshowedthat it wasnot finishedfor the night. There wasa brilliant flash; a split-secondlater, the sound of a tremendousexplosion.Purple lightningstrobesdefineda vast,airbornepile of sootabovethe summit, and madethe world glow a lurid magenta.Out of the cloud spun and tumbled of sparksat their headsand bits of junk like cut-ratemeteors,with masses pyrotechnics by a wereaccompanied of smokeout behind.These streamers rising,falling, unendingroar. behindhim camethe soundof laughter. From somewhere werefilling with peopleagain.Still morepeoplewerepushing The streets backthe*hutters from upstairsbedroomwindowsand leaning out to watch the fireworks.They pointedand wavedtorchesand whoopedand oohed. First Garrick goescrazy,Medlin thought, now everyonein the French Westlndies.... There wasa patteringlike hail on the awning. Someonein the streetlet out a howl of surpriseand pain. The howl becamea chorus,and the crowd vanished.Bedroomshuttersslammedclosed.

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The precipitatewas pumice. Most of the particleswere very small, no biggerthan grainsof sand,but therewerefragmentsas big as golf balls in the gritty drizzle.They bouncedand smokedon the pavementand clacked deafeninglyon the tin awning. The streetwasemptywhen the fall let up abouta quarterof an hour later. The town seemedto havelostconsciousness. Medlin found moresubstantial shelter,in anotherarcheddoorway,and crouchedthere feelingsorry for himself,wonderingwhat the hell elsehe wassupposed to do, and waiting for daylight. He would haveprayedfor it had he known how. He dozedoff in a squattingposition.When he awoke,his bruisedknee wasstiffand throbbing.As he hauledhimselfup, two men strolledby in the street.They lookedlike any other two Pierrotinshe had seentill now, save for the faint, luminousvaporthat clung to them. Nothing had beensaidto him aboutother travelers. It wasuseless hiding-the two men noticedMedlin'snimbusat once;in the shadowsbeneaththe doorway,he must havelookedequallyspookliketo them-so he gavethem a sheepish grin and said,in English,"Feet'vegone to sleep,"and felt like a completeidiot. They conferred,standingsideby sideand not takingtheir eyesoff him, one of them bendingslightlyat the waistto speakquietlyto his companion. The man on the right wassmall, flat-faced,with a stub noseand no lips. Whateverhalf-thought-outrequestfor assistance Medlin had in mind, he Beyond the fact that if wasn't done, he was too takenabackby the {ifled flat-facedman'sexpression of annoyanceto askfor help. The flat-facedman shookhis headin answerto somethinghis companionsaid,and they both turnedand walkedaway,deliberately,without haste. Nothing ventured,Medlin told himself,and calledout, "Wait!" The other man glancedback over his shoulderand gavehim a halfapologeticlo9k, a helplessshrug,but keptwalking.Sodn,eventhe strangers fox-fire waslost to sight. Swell,Medlin thought,asif my platewasn'tfull enough,there'restrangers in town, and they'restuck-up!He had no ideawho they were,wherethey came to-t just one-moregoddamnthing wrong. He had been unhappy aboutthis missionto beginwith. Now he hatedit. If it had beenup to hi;, he would havelet go then and thereand gonehome. He cursedThomasfor sendinghim. He cursedRankefor beingno goodat travelingand makingit necessary that ThomassendMedlin. He cursedGarrickfor makinetrouble for everybody. He must havedozedagainagainstthe wall. The next thing he knew, it wasdawn, Sundaymorning, someonewaspulling at his sleeue.He could hear church bells ringing and, closer,a child's voice saying,"Monsieur! Monsieur!" He lookeddown and sawa boy standingnextto him. The boy wasdressed in shortsand a b^ggyshirt. By the light of the filmy sunrise,he lookedto be about twelveyearsold and could havebeenthe twin of the boy Medlin had seenlying mangledon the waterfront.Had that reallybeen only last night?

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"You are MonsieurMedlin?" He wastoo stunnedto answer. "The lady wishesyou to have this," and the boy handedhim a folded newsPaPer. Medlin took it, asked,"What lady?Who gaveyou this?" "A white lady." "Where did you talk to her?" The boy lookedoverhis shoulder,towardthe entranceto the square."fust there,on the AvenueVictor Hugo." "Show me!" Medlin stuffedthe newspaper into his pocketand urgedthe boy to run. The AvenueVictor Hugo wasthe main thoroughfare.Though the sun had yet to peekover the highlandbehindthe town, the streetwaspacked. Peopleroseearlyenoughin the tropicsanyway,Medlin knew,but the people he saw now lookedas though they were up late rather than early. They lookedthe way he felt, unrestedand dirty. No one in the town could have sleptmuch with all the fireworks.Therewerenumerouswhite facesamong the darkerones,none of them the right face.But Garrickdid waft on the dirty air. He tried to hold on to her. It waslike trying to graba smallwindbornescrapof paper. "Crazy woman," he muttered,"crazygoddamnold woman!" andopenedit furiously.It wasa broadsheet He whippedout the newspaper calledLesColonies,datedSamedi3 May 1902.A bannerproclaimedthis to or otherillustrations. edition.Therewereno photographs bean extraordinary Written in darkpencilin the upperrighthandcorner.abovethe logo,was, SeeMme BoisIaviIIe-G. The boy wasstill at his side.Medlin said,"Do you knowwhereI can find a MadameBoislaville?" The boy noddedhappilyand said,"She is my aunt," and setoff at a trot down the AvenueVictor Hugo. Medlin calledhim back and saidthat he hadhurt his legandcouldonly hobble.The boyledhim at a moreconsiderate paceonto a sidestreet.Medlin found himselfsurroundedby food shopsand had takendown their shutterstoday,and they Lafes.Only a few shopkeepers customers.The babblehere by impatient-looking werebeingoverwhelmed edgeto it. had a hard, argumentative Halfivay down the street,the boy stoppedbefore a yellow two-storied building with blue trim. Its shutterswereclosed.The boy poundedon the door with his small brown fist. The voicewithin wasa woman's.Medlin didn't haveto understandthe wordsto get the meaning:Go away!The boy pleaded.There was silence from behindthe door for a moment,then the soundof a bolt beingdrawn. The door openedwide enoughfor one eyeto peerout. Rememberinghis manners,Medlin said, "Madame Boislaville,I preof a bow. sume," and gaveher the merestsuggestion jamb widened.MadameBoislavillewastall, The spaceleMeendoor and

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age.Shecould havebeen of indeterminate limber-looking,mocha-colored, twenty-fiveor forty. She said, "You are the friend of MadameGarrick?" "Yes. My name is Medlin. Your nephewfisls-" She lookeddown at the boy sharply.He wasalmostsquirming.He said, in French ratherthan creole,so that Medlin would understand,"Madame Garrickpromisedthat I would be paid to bring this gentlemanhere." "And MadameGarrick,"the womanretorted,alsoin French,"undoubtedly paid you herself,Symphar.You wickedboy, go home to your poor mother.Shemusthavework for you to do. Or perhapsshewill justgiveyou a goodbeating.Go!" Foiled, wickedSympharran away. "Come insidequickly, Monsieur." Madamewavedhim in with urgent gestures andslammedthe bolt behindher with obviousrelief.It tookMedlin's eyesa few secondsto adjustto the gloom, and then he sawthat he wasin a crampedand dimly lit cafe.Garrickhad beenhere.As palpableas shadow, her traceenveloped him. Shehadbeenhererecently,hadlingeredhere,had touchedor beentouchedby Madame'shands,had . . . had what?He looked around,not quite hopefulor expectant,not quitefearful,not quite knowing how he might feel if he wereto seeher. Chairssatlegs-upon tables.The only personin the room besides Madameand himselfwasa mulattogirl who stoodby a curtaineddoorwaythat separated the servingareafrom the rearof the building. She looked about as old as the boy. She was eyeinghim watchfully.Then a stooped,ancientwoman holding a rattybroom appeared behind her and madeto put an arm aroundher-protectively, he thought, until the child evadedthe embraceand dartedbehindthe bar. The woman mutteredharshlyand glaredat Medlin as though somethingwere all his fault. She beganscratchingin a cornerwith her broom. Madamehad clearedoff a tableand invitedhim to sit. He could not help sighingas he did so. She said,"Are you hungry, thirsty?Would you careto rest?" "l am very thirsty." .; "l haveiustthe thing for it. " Sheturnedand clappedher handsand called out a name, Elizabeth.The girl poppedup behindthe bar, listenedto brief instructions,disappeared again.Therewasa clink of glass,and sheemerged around the end of the bar carryinga small filled tray. She kept Madame betweenMedlin and herselfasshesetthe tray on the table. Shewasaswary asa half-feralcat, readyto bolt at the first hint of dangerfrom any direction. Her gazewassteadyand expressionless, and he could tell from the way she held her headthat she waslisteningwith one ear for the old woman. He could only guessthe natureof that disagreement. It occurredto him that becausehe was white, male, and a grown-up,she probablybelievedhim capableof anything.He gaveher what he intendedasa friendlysmile. She respondedby scurryingawayinto someback room. Madamefilled a glasswith clearliquid, addedsyrupfrom a little pitcher and a bit of lime peel,and gavethe mixture a quick stir. She setthe glass

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beforehim with an air of supremeconfidencein the efficacyof its contents. He took a cautioussip. It wasbasicallyrum, and went down pleasantly.He took a secondsip. It went down very pleasantlyindeed,washingawaythe tasteof sulphur,soothinghis throat. Go easyon this stuff, he warnedhimself.His tolerancefor alcoholwas low. He madea heartfeltsoundof delight and gratitudefor his hostess. by it and said,"Your friendhasarrangedfor your food Shelookedpleased and lodginghere. She paid me for a weekin advance,paid for everything. Now sit and rest.I will havea hot bathpreparedfor you while you eat," and with that sheturned and spokein rapid-firecreolefirst to the girl and then to the old woman.The girl noddedobedientlyand disappeared. The old womanshookher headand went on fussingin the corner.When Madamespoketo her again,with somewhatof an edgein her voice,the old womanturnedand madea shortreply.They beganto argueasthoughthey had been at it for yearsand could take up their disputewhereverthey had left off last time. His eyeshad adjustedto the light in the place, and he betweenthe women. thoughtthat he detecteda slightbut certainresemblance The older one could havebeenthe youngerone'smotheror grandmother. Whatevertheir argumentwasreallyabout,he realizedall at oncethat he had becomepart of it, for the old woman wasgesfuringat him with her broom as at Madame.Madamepointedin his directionaswell, and then shescreamed poinb on her long fingers.He found being argued enumeratedunguessable about in a languagehe couldn't understandmore than a little scary. At length, the old womanwasin sucha fury that sheleft wordsbehind. She gargleda cry, droppedthe broom, rakedthe air over her headwith two bird-clawhands,and stormedinto the back.A momentlater,the girl came out in a hurry, carryinganothertray. Medlin said, "l am sorry,I have come at a bad time," and reluctantly startedto get up. Madameheld up her hand. He settledhopefullybackinto the chair. "Do not troubleyourselfaboutthat old woman," shesaid."She is a superstitious countrywoman,veryignorant.Shethinksall whiteshavethe evil eye."The to him that sheherselfthought somewhitesmight way shesaidit suggested havethe evil eye."She cameherewhen the mountainbeganto erupt. She thinkswhitesare to blame." The girl had placedthe secondtray on the table. From it, Madameset warm breadand a bowl of steaminggumbobeforehim. He put his faith in inoculationsand tastedthe gumbo. It wasdelicious.He saidso at once. Madamesmiledfor the firsttime. Shehad a big, pleasantsmile. Medlin found himselfthinkingthat much of the bestof African, European,Asian, and Amerindianfaceshad collectedin her features. "There is not much food here now," she said."This ash, aiee,it ruins we havenothingto todaybecause everything!We did not openfor business and you. I did not believeMadameGarserve-only enoughfor ourselves becauseof the mountain." rick. She saidthere would be shortages

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Sheseemedaboutto leavehim to eatin peace.He said,"An extraordinary person,my friend. When did you seeher last?" "lt wastwo morningsago,Friday,justafterthe mountainbeganto erupt." "Did shesaywhereI may find her?" "She saidthat shewould call for you here." "Anything else?" "Sheaskedif I haverelativesliving elsewhere on the island.I told her that everyone on Martiniqueis related,exceptfor the freshest arrivalfrom France. Even then, I told her, they sayit is only a matterof time." Medlin laughedalongwith her. "What did shesayto that?" oh, shelaughed,Monsieur,shelaughedthe mostwonderfullaugh." Shesmiledat the memoryof that, and Medlin thought,Garrick,you old charmer.Then Madamebecameserious. "But then," shesaid,"she told me that if I haverelativesin the south, I shouldgive somethoughtto visitingthem. Shetold me that the mountain is going to destroythe town. "Do you believeher?" "l do not know. The mountainhasnot eruptedsinceanyonecan remember. It made some harmlesspuffs of smoke many yearsago, when my grandmothers wereyounggirls. But I do not know what to believeno*. ff you will excuseme, Monsieur,"and shemovedawaywith a rustleof skirts. When he had finishedeating,she reappeared and led him to a small, steam-filledroom built onto the backof the house.Coveredstoragejarsand other earthenware wererankedagainstthe walls.There wasa small hearth for heatingwaterin one corner.The girl waspouringwaterfrom a largepan ir-rtoa metal bathtubthat sat in the middle of the foor. "Here are towelsand a spongeand somesoap,"Madamesaid,indicating eaclrthing with a palm-upwaveasshenamedit, "and hereis a robe.If yoi will leaveyour garn-lents outsidethe door, I shall cleanthem. It is a sin to work on-Sunday,b-.ttyou musthavecleanclothes. " Shepausedand stepped out of the way to let the girl passwith her empty kettle. "Do you t.q,rit. anythingelse,Monsieur? Medlin lookedat her, wasaboutto sayno, saidnothing.Shewasstanding at the door, watchinghim, the fingertipsof her right hand restinglightli againsther,sternumabovethe slopeof her bosom.it rar not a provocative stance,and yet he thoughthe sawsomethingin it that wasnot a welcome and not a challenge,b-uJonly a look of expectation.Men alwaysrequired somethingelse.He couldnot helpthinkingof the whoreon the RueSyihilis, and it shockedhim. "No," he managedto say, "nothing else," and waitedtoo long before adding, "a-goodlong quiet soakis all I need, thank you," and felt like a completeidiot for the secondtime sincehe had arrivedin town, "thank you very much." "You are welcome,Monsieur." Medlin staredat the door aftershehad closedit behind herself.Had he

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read those signalsright? Had she been offering to let him-? Christ, no, surelynot. If washingclotheson Sundaywasa sin, what did that make-? No, surelynot, surelynot. A cheapcloth curtain coveredthe singlewindow. He drew it asideand looked out onto an unpavedcourtyardwith a small fountain. There was a vegetablegardenin one cornerof the yard, and what he took to be a cooking shed againstthe near wall. Some dead birds lay on the ground opposite. Everythinglookeddingy. Flecksof ashstill turned in the air. He let the curtaindrop, and his fingerscameawaydi*y. Ash seepingin throughthe spacebetweenwindowframeand curtainhad collectedmoisture from the humid air in the room and settledon everythingin a gritty paste. Medlin peeledhimself to the skin. First taking careto empty the pockets rolledhis shirtandunderwear of his coat,he neatlyfoldedhis outergarments, along with his tired-looking door the into a bundle, and set them outside He had alwaysbelievedthat himself into the tub. shoes.Then he eased for But the thin scum of ash civilization. of bathing was the benchmark of fine volcanic the sediments water and his bath collectingon the surfaceof best bath he had been the have could matteron the bottom of the tub, this her name?His was he and-what ever taken. Exceptingthat time when Boislaville standing Madame thoughtsabruptlyveeredbackto the visionof for him waiting at the door, waitingfor him to sayit, if shehad in factbeen to saysomething. You're imaginingstuff, he told himself.One glimpseof the nightlifein Little Sodom,-LittleGomorrah,and you think everywoman in town'sfor rent. But, he askedhimself, did Carick pay her to do that, too? What the hell, Med, Garrick'scrazy.Shereallyis ctazy,reallyhcsto be crazyto be doing what she'sdoing, really is capableof anything,but this Boisiavillewoman'sa denizenfor chrissake,be like screwinga ghostfor be like, and he forcedthe MadamesGarrickand Boislavillefrom chrissake, his mind for the moment and let the waterclaim him. When he beganto doze, he got out of the tub, dried off, and put on the robe. It was clean but worn. It felt tight acrosshis shoulders.His hostess evidentlyheardhim thumpingaround,for now camea discreetknockat the door, and shesaid,"Monsieurenioyedhis bath?" He peeredaround the edgeof the door at her and could not read her .*pr.rriorr. There was in her voice no note of anythingexceptProfessional ,oii.it.td.. He beganto feel ashamedof himself, and it confusedhim. She wasonly a denizen. "lt wasthe mostpleasantbath I haveevertaken,"he told her. Shegavea slightnod and led him upstairsto a small room with a cot, a containinga pitcher table,*a r chait. On the tablewasa metalwashbasin and a block of soapthe sizeof a half-brick.There wasa porcelainchamber pot beneaththe cot. The door had no lock. She noddedat both shuttered windows.

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"More dust getsin with the shuttersclosedthan light getsin with the " shuttersopened. Small wonder,Medlin thought.There wasno glassin the windows,an ideal arrangementfor the tropics unlessthere happenedto be a nearby volcanopumpingout schmutz. The woman madea furrow in the thin layerof ashon the tabletopand showedhim her grayfingertip."lt is impossibleto keephouse.I had the girl cleanhere iust this morning. I shall bring your clothesas soonas theyire clean." "Thank you." The room wasan oven.As soonas Madameleft, he openedthe shutters of both windowsin the, as it turned out, vain hope of gettingsomeair to blow through.The windowsfacednorth and west,and from them he could look out on the streetin front of the Boislavilleestablishment and alsosee the volcanoand roadstead. The volcanoseemedto doze fitfullv. The sea lookedlead-grayand sluggish. Garrick,he thought,Garrick,what are you up to? Garrickhad neverbeenone to do anythingjust for the sakeof doing it. Medlin saton the sill and unfoldedthe newspaper again.By the poorl-ight of the ash-veiled day!e -b.gtl to read,impatientlyat fiist, then moreinterily and with deepeningdisbelief. Yesterdaythe peopleof St. Pierrewere treatedto a grandiose spectaclein the majestyof the smokingvolcano.While at St. Pierrethe admirersof the beautifulcould not taketheir eyesfronr the smokeof the volcanoand the ensuingfalls of cinder, timid peoplewerecommittingtheir soulsto God. It would seemthat many signsought reallyto havewarnedus that Mount Pel6ewasin a stateof seriouseruption.There have beenslightearthquake shocksthis noon. The riversare in overflow. The neednow is for the peopleoutsideSt. pierreto seek the shelterof the town. Citizensof St. Pierre!It is your dutv to give thesepeoplesuccorand comfort. Becauseof the situationin the hinterland,the excursionto Mount Peldewhich had beenorganizedfor tomorrowmorning will not leaveSt. Pierre,the craterbeingabsolutelyinaccessible. Thosewho wereto havejoinedthe partywill be notifiedwhen it will be found practicalto carryout the originalplan. Therewasa burstof complaintfrom the streetbelow.He lookeddown to seea fistfight in front.of a sh_op two doorsaway. No one movedto stop it. An _apronedman with an alarmedexpression stoodto one side, maling pushinggestureswith his handsand volubly exhortingeveryoneto go ignoredhim. Most of them watchedthe'fight. pe13way.-The bystanders hapshalf a dozen separated from the crowd and coalesced into a"discrete groupthat movedwith stunningsuddenness into a vegetable shopacrossthe

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street.Medlin sawno signalsexchanged,no indicationthat the peopleknew one another;looting was an idea whosemoment had come. There were shouts and crashes.The group emergedand turned into its constituent asthough they were who ran awayclutchinghandfulsof vegetables strangers, trophies. The ideacaughton. Other shopswereraided.Someraidersbeganto tear shuttersoff the closedshops.Medlin noticeda coupleof men look speculaclosedshutters.One of the men tively at him and at MadameBoislaville's took a stepforward,and Medlin slippeda hand into the pocketof the robe, wrappedhis fingersaround the butt of the revolver,wonderedif he could actuallybring himselfto useit on anyoneexceptGarrick. Anotherthought intrudedon that one: could he do eventhat? Now a squadof soldiersappeared.It wasmet by distraughtshopkeepers, who iabberedin creoleand French and pointed accusinglyat individual by raisinga yam onlookers.One of the accused,a burly mulatto,answered gusto. to his mouth, biting into it defiantly, and chewingwith exaggerated hands on his lapels. The The lieutenant was distractedby shopkeepers' enlistedmen behind him clutchedtheir rifles,lookinguneasy. Medlin startedto close the shutter, then stared.From the volcano an enormousblackcloud wasspreadingacrossthe sky. He watched,alarmed, asstuffbeganto rain from the cloud'sunderside.From the cornerof his eye, he glimpsid rn objectfashing downwardat terrific speed.An_instantlaterbeforehe could turn his head-the objectstruckthe eavesof a nearbyroof, shatteringtiles and sprayingthe streetwith ceramicshrapnel.Below his broke off in yelps and screeches.He slammedthe window, accusations shutterand rushedto closethe other. He listenedunhappilyfor a time, sittingon the cot, yawningin spiteof himself.Finally, he stretchedout and fell aileep so fastthat it waslike blackingout. The last thing he heardwas the soundof church bells punctuatingthe clatterof falling pumice. smellwokehim. He limpeddazedlyto the window Heatandthe rotten-egg It and crackedthe shutter. wasjust as hot and smelledjust as bad outside, Sunsetmadethe vastpoisonouscloud hanging but the view wasimpressive. He startedto return to the cot when he of beauty. over the volcanoa thing into the wall. His trousersand shirt hung peg set a sawhis coathangingon a bundleon the tablethat had to was there overthe backof the chair,-and theystill lookedtired. Medlin door; by the be his underwear.His shoeswere chair over to the door, and the dragged removedthe trousersand shirt, wedgedthe back under the handle. H"esleptpoorlyand roseearly.Madamehad arisenevenearlierand came tapping ttr. door ashe waswashinghis face.Sheapologizedprofuselyand "i for the breakfastshe brought. Ttt-. ash was in everything,she r.p.titt"sly ,.id. Th. breadwasstale,the fruit wasspeckled.There wasno creamfor the coffee,which tastedof sulphur anyway. He ihankedher all the m*.. He ateanddrankand then resignedlyopened the shuttersto meet the new day. This Monday morning, the volcanohad crowneditselfwith wispsof dirty white smoke.Most peoplein the streethad

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handkerchiefs tied over their lower faces.It remindedhim irresistiblvof Tokyo and Mexico City. The old womanwasalmostdirectlybelowhis window,stirringup ashon the sidewalkwith her remnantof a broom. She wasabsorbedin l-t.t work until a_carriagedlew_upat the curb; Medlin caughtsome infinitesimal, unseeable, untouchable,but undeniableportionof Garrick'sbeing.A glimmeringarm appearedat the window of the cab and restedon the sill. The shimmeringhand beckoned.Obliviousto the glow but radiatingher own suspicion,the woman shuffledoverto the carriage.words werespoken,and she-suddenlyturnedto look up at him. There wasno mistakingthehatred -disappeared in her expression.She noddedto the personin the cab and throughthe door below. Medlin shookthe ash out of his coat and shoesand rusheddownstairs, catchingthe old woman as shewasstill sullenlyconveyingher message to Madame. "Pleaseexcusemy hurry," he saidashe dashedpast,"but I mustgo!" The carriagewascoveredwith ash. Both the driverand the horsewereied-eved andmiserable.The cabdoorwasflungopeninvitingly,andit did not surprise Medlin, ashe steppedup to climb in, to seeGarrlk waitingfor him. Stiil, he paused,and hgng half in and half out while his facegt-.* hot and the musclesin his foreheadcontracted into a frown. Garrick*ri dr.rr.d in white an_d!d a stylishhat on her head. Shewasso old and fadedthat, but for the paleblue bandof her hat and the glimmeraroundher, shewould havebeen achromatic.one hand, as gnarledas mangroveroots,curled around the handleof a woodenwalking-stick.Her otheihand wasdrawninto a knobby fist like the headof a shillelagh.Pokingfrom the fist wasa small revoluer. The muzzlewasnegligentlytrainedon Medlin's midriff. Garrickg_rinned, and skin aroundher eyescrinkledlike parchment.The restof her facewassmoothand taut. Her skin lookedshrinkwrapped over the pointedchin and noseand the high, sharpcheekbones. she ,rid, ,,lt', goodto seeyou, Med. How wasWorld War two?" "Garrick," Medlin saidtonelessly,eyeingthe revolver,and then after a secondadded,"is a gun necessary?" "lt depends.How sureare you of your own loyalties?" "At the moment "Justto be on the safeside,why don't I troubleyou for the gun you're carrying?Lean in just a bit." Garricklet go of the walkingstick,Jtipp.an., hand into the pocketof Medlin'scoat,withdrewhis revojverby the barrel, gingerly,asthoug} it werea deadmouse."why do men alwaysi,ru. to have s'gchbig guns?"she.said,assheput it and her own weaponinto a handbag. "Now comeon in." _. Medlin steppedin asshetold the driverto proceedto the Morne d'Orange. The driver addressed his horse,therewasthe softswicfrof a whip ..rtting ih" air, and the carriagebeganto move. Its wheelsmade no sound on the ash carpetand had troublegettingsufficienttraction.The vehicleskidded alarminglyas it negotiated a turn.

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Garricksettledbackin her seatandlookedalongher shoulder.Her expres"You look like your feelings'vereally been sion becamemock-concerned. " hurt. Medlin exhaledwith somevehemence."Ljntil now," he said,his voice threateningto shake,"l wassure it wasall a mistake,that everything'dbe okayonce you went backand explained.Now . . ." "Well," shesaid,"I guessthere'snothinglike havinga friendpoint a gun " at you to makeyou haveseriousdoubtsaboutthe relationship. "How are you feeling?" "ls that their line? I'm this becamemock-surprised. Now her expression time? Or is it that I've been senileand dazedold dearwho'swanderedoff in under a lot of stressand goneharpo?" "Haven'tyou?" "Haven'tI which?" "Either, hell, I don't know!" "lf I'd doneone or the other-gone senile,gone crazy-would I be able me for an answer, to say,one way or another?I guessif you reallypressed I'd sayI've iust gonefishing." Medlin lickeJ his grittylips. "They sayyou stoletwo dozenampoulesof the drug." "Oh/' she saidhappily, "l stolethe drugs,all right. But I wouldn't put too much faith in anythingelsetheytold you. They'rereallyiustmadbecause I tookmy ball andwenthome.In their presentstateof mind, maybeI should say,in their future stateof mind, they'reliable to accuseme of anything. Was I hard to find?" "After you checkedout everythingthe library has on volcanoes,MartiTook us aboutthirty minutesto decideyog'd come nique, andfin de sidcle? us off the track. Took me most of a day to throwing weren't heie and iust but, then, I was dead tired. I'd iust thiough, you came hole locate the roll up Europe.Otherwise. . an Hitler watching from back broughtWitts you did." than tracks fainter leaves earthhover "Ah. Well, you can't'vehad much time to familiarizeyourselfwith the situationhere.; Garrickcockedan eyebrow."By the way, where'dyou tell me Rankeis?" "l didn't." "Well, tell me now." "Why shouldI know wherehe is?" "Now don't be coy," shesaid,lookingmore amused,"it doesn'tbecome you. We both know-you'rethe only one who could'vecome afterme here. eyeslockedwith Medlin'sand dared but you'remush inside."Her colorless look away."So they had to send to or accusation him either to deny the yet. Timing's tteY.elbeen his strong he's arrived Ranke,too. I doit think just up at all." show not to suit, but I've neverknown him " grief. "He could'vecome to .,Mm, I wouldn't bet on it. You'll bring him through, sooneror later. You're goodat what you do. You damn well ought to be. I trainedyou."

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"You trainedRanke,too." Garricklaughed.It wasno wonderMadameBoislavillehadbeencharmed; notwithstanding the circumstances, Medlin stillthoughtshehadthe pleasantestlaughhe had everheard."And won't my facebe red if he nailsme! But, listen, just in casehe does,you betterget usedto the idea of havinghim around,becauseyou won't be goinganywherewithout him from now on. Thgf havea plan,-dearheart,and they'renot goingto let it getfouledup by anybody'smaverickingThey trusf Ranke.He'sthe kind of personthey usl to keepan eyeon all the other kindsof peoplethey use.By the way, how do you like MadameBoislaville's?" "Bestdive I've everbeenin." "Don't be a snob.I'll haveyou knowthatMadameBoislavillerunsa good, cleanestablishment-ascleanas any placecan be with fhis, rrry*ryf Sh. d-oesit all prettymuch without help, too, exceptfor that girl of'heri. And she'snot a whore, if that'swhat you'rethinking." Medlin lookedawayquickly, guiltily. Garrickkepttalkingasthoughshehadnot noticed."SorryI couldn'tafford to checkyou into the InternationalHotel or such, but we'reon a budget. They didn t provideyou with any money, did they?Trds typical.Best-casescenarioplanners,everyone." Shetook a smallpursefrom her bag, riffled throughthe franc-n-otes in it, and stuffeda handfui into Medlin's coafpocket. 'Don't worry, I hit anybodyoverthe headto get this. I won it mostly {d.l', fair and square.Believeit or not," and shemadeheiselflook shockedfor a moment, "there'sgamblingin this town! You betterlearnyour denominaany of that. There'rethievesin this towp, too. !ion1lgfore you try to _spend You'll be relativelysafeand well-cared-for at Madame's.She won't be as curiousaboutyour business aswhitefolksat the Internationalwouldbe. you won't haveto answerany hard questions. " "Mind telling me wherewe'regoing?" "fust for a ride." "you never iust do anything.,, _Medlin glaredat_her in exasperation. "Sightseeing, then. what do you think of St. pierreso iar?" playingdown .."I thint things?re gollg to hell here, but the newspaper's all the volcanicactivity.The authoritiesarediscouraginip.opl. fro-Teaui'g town." Shelookedat him.disbelievingly. "ls that stuffyoucamehereknowingor whlt you've persona_lly figuredout sinceyou got here?Oh, never mind. Authority is investedlocally in Mayor Fouch6l who of courseenjoysthe unqualifiedsupportof that rag, r,escolonies. Fouch6'sgot his own expert, too, a scienceteacherfrom the local school,to backup his assertionthai the volcano'sno threat.Fouchdalsoasserts thatthere'smedicalevidenceto show th-atsulphurcanbe beneficialfor chestandthroatcomplaints.It's "iipoliti"r, of course.It always ispolitics.Er, you did noticetherewasa primary -you?" llection yesterday,didn't "l wasbusyyesterdayi'Medlinsaidtestily,"noticingfood riotsand volcanic eruptionsand stuff."

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"Ah, yes,hasn'tthis beenjust the mostinterestingcoupleor threedays? Alwayssomethingexcitinggoing on in Little Paris,now more than ever. Thomas probablysaid, Go find Garrick, and don't get blown up by the volcano.Am I right? Sure I am. I'm only too familiar with his kind of briefing.Get in, get it done, getout. Makesme wonderwhat sex'slike for MissisThomas." the town Medlin bristledslightly."l know the volcanoeruptsand destroys at eighto'clockThursdaymorning,the eighthof May. I know thousandsof peopledie here becausecity and governmentofficialsencouragethem not lo leaue. It has somethingto do with every registeredvoter in this town actuallyhavingto vote in this town." "That's barelyadequate,"said Garrick. "Do you know anythingabout bridgesdroppingout from under folks,a prisonrevolt-did you hearthose afternoon?That tremorlastnight collapseda bridgeover rifle volleysyesterday fows throughtown. A funeralpartyhappenedto which Roxelane, the River All this ruckusand more and an election,too. The the time. at be crossing either. nextSunday,and it isn'tfor dog-catcher, for scheduled final electior,', in La Mdtropole. way over all the Deputies, of French Chamber the It's for else.There'remaybea hundred Politicshereare just like politicseveryplace 'em are peopleof color, but, of Most Martiniquais. and thirty thousand plantations, everything-whorehouses, *ho o*t, it's whites surprisesurprise, " the government. "The placeseemsprettywide opento me." Martini"Thatt just commerce.The govemment'svery conservative. racemost the ar-rd Earth, people on quaismay be the most raciallymixed and abolished was slavery .or,r.io,ri. The whites'veexploitedthat eversince The election. last in the grip slipped But their everyonewasenfranchised. coloredsfinally put togethera viablepoliticalpartyand senta blacksenator to Paris.This election,the white partylooksto suffermore embarrassment. You can seewhy neitherpartywantsvotersleavilg towl-I." "Garrick, what doesany of this haveto do with apything?" "Stop fidgeting.Listen, and maybeyou'll leam something-besidesthe obvious,*lii.h ii, neve,live on an activeplatemargin." Garrickpointedat the smoulderingmountainthroughthe windowon Medlin'ssideof the cab. "There'sa wild card in this deck. I giveyou MontagnePel6e-" "No goddamnthanks." andrainmaker,"shewenton, not miss"-ci-oud-herder,lightning-forger, ipg a beat, "drawing to ih;H all th. white vaporsof the land, robbing She smiled and head-coverings." lessereminence,of iheir shoulder-wraps *irtf,rlly. "LafcadioHearn.Not one of the forbiddenwriters,iust one of the quaintest,and forgottenones.He alsowrotethat St. Pierrewasthe queerest, pre?iestof all WestIndian cities.He outlivedthe placeby a coupleof ye-ars. i *onde, if he ever saw the photographstaken after its destruction.Place lookslike Hiroshima." Without warning,the carriagestopped,hurling them forward'In the next

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moment,Medlin heardthe reportof a gun and an exultantcheer.He looked out. The streetwaschokedwith people,includinga numberof soldiers.An officerwasholsteringhis sidearm.The civilianswererunningaboutshouting excitedly.One held up a lengthof bamboo,and Medlin saw,impaledon its end, a writhing thing as long as the man'sarm. sharpened Garrickyelledto the driver,"Go around!"and ploppedbackinto her seat asthe carriagemovedagain.Pinnedto her breastwasan old-fashioned watch, with a dial and hands;shelookedat it and murmured,"We'll still makeit in time." "What's all the shootingand shoutingabout?" "Snakes.All the refugees herearen'thuman. Everystinging,biting thing in the jungleis on the move.Snakes,ants,centipedes. The mulattoquarter's infestedwith fer-de-Iances. Dozensof people are dead of snakebite.Now what'sthe matter?" The carriagehad stoppedagain. "My apologies,Madame," the driver calleddown, "but the horsecannotclimb evensuch a small hill as this." "Then my friend and I shallwalk. Pleasewait herefor us. Come on, Med, I believewe'rejust in time." "For what?" "You'll see." They steppedfrom the carriageat the foot of one of the hillocks that formedthe amphitheater. Abovethem, the mouthsof ancientmuzzle-loading cannon gapedover a crumbling parapet.Ahead, other peoplewere climbingthe slope-well-dressed whitepeople,ladiesandgentlemen.Thick graysmokebillowedfrom the crater,and the ladieshurriedalongwith the hemsof their long skirtslifted clearof the groundand their parasolsspread in a braveattemptto protectfair skinsand goodhats. "why," Garricksaidassheand Medlin beganto laborup the slope,"I do believethat'sMissisPrentissup aheadthere.I keeprunning into her. She's the American Consul'swife. Saw her in the crowd on the PlaceBertin yesterday.The idea seemedto percolatethrough everyone'sheadfor a moment that the volcano'sbehaviorwaslegitimatecausefor worry.They were whippingthemselves into a fine stateof hysteriawhen a churchmanarrived in a coach.He got 'em calmeddown with a prayer.But aboutone minute later, the volcanostarteda new demonstration."She was pantingas they nearedthe top of the hillock,but shestill hadbreathenoughfor an eihrlatiort thatdid not stopmuch shortof a guffaw."So much for the efficacyof prayer, " evendearMissisPrentiss'. The gentlemenand ladiesassembled at the summit of the hillock. Most of them peeredseaward, but one man lookedaroundat Medlin and Garrick as they approached, and therewaspuzzlementin his expression. "w_e'rebeing noticed,"Medlin said,trying to appearas though he were not talking. "well, we'rewhite," Garrick saidunconcernedly,"and well-dressed-I am, anyway-and we'retotal strangers to all thesewhite, well-dressed folks

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who all know one another.But don't worry, they aren't interestedin us. They came up here becausethey heard someonesay that the sea'sacting peculiarly,"and shenoddedtowardthe roadstead. Even as Medlin looked, a stiff breezewas blowing acrossthe harbor, shreddingthe veil of cinders.Behind and abovethe Morne d'Orange,the After a moment, he becameawareof two volcanogrowledbad-temperedly. othersounds,onea sortof sizzling,rushingnoise,the othera rising,undulating chorusof criesfrom the directionof the waterfront.Running figures spilledinto the AvenueVictor Hugo. "Vy'hat,"he said,"1ry[2['s-" Garrickconsultedher antiquetimepieceagain,and as shesaid,"Here it comes,right on schedule,"Medlin suddenlysawaswell asheard it, a greal wave, coming hissingfrom the north. It was alreadyhalfivayacrossthe It cameup undertwo smallsailingshipsmooredin its path,lifted roadstead. them up, carriedthem along.They hung on the crestof the steepshoulder with shatteringimpactonto the of waterand then, as the waveavalanched quayside row of buildings.Houses, the hurtled completely over waterfront, The wave disintegrated. foundations, their twisted on warehouses shops,and It reached balconies. rising to the second-floor thoroughfare, surgedup the which square on inundated the its and the lighthouse,swirledaround base, it reluctantly, Then, forever. slowly, it stood.There it hesitated.It hesitated startedto retreat. Medlin wason the ground. He had no memoryof sittingdown. There was a sustainedmoan from the other watcherson the hillock. They were pale-faced,open-mouthed,awestruck.He knew the feeling. He gotto his feetandbrushedashfrom his sleeve.Garrickturnedto leave, but hoangrily grabbedher arm. Shelookedat his hand and then at his face and said,"Gentlemendo not mishandleladies." He wavedhis free hand at the scenebelow and managedto gaspout, ,,What_2" "This is nothing, Med," she said mildly, and detachedherself."Wait. You'll see." "You keepsayingthat! What'll I see?More of the same?" Not even "Oh God, y€S.More andworse.The wavewasiusta side-effect. a prelude. We have a waysto go beforeit's time for the grand finale, the shbw-stopper-theglowingcloud! That being the literal meaningof nude ardente-" shespokethe term the way shemight havesavoreda continental delicacy"-which is the namegivento the particularlynastyphenomenon thisdetail, to research that'sgoingto destroythisburg. In caseyou neglected cloud of rock fragmentsand hot gases.Pel6e'sgoingto it's an incandescent spit out one of thesehorrorsThursdaymorning. It'll come right down that big notch in the mountainsidethere. It'll hit the town at incrediblespeed, with tremendousforce." "Why do you want me to seeall of theseterriblethings?" "Objectlesson.It's time you looked,tpand sawthe mountain." "What?" But Garrickmerelyturnedand walkedaway.Medlin's options

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wereto follow her or wrestleher to the ground.He followed,and when he drew abreasthe said,"lt shouldn'ttakea geniusto figureout, but damned if I know what you'reup to. Unlessyou'retrying to loseRankeand me in all the confusionwhen the volcanodoespop." Shepivotedon her nearerfoot and stabbeda fingeras hard and sharpas an antler into his breast."l can loseyou without the volcano'sgoddamn help, thank you. You couldn'tfollow my trail aroundthe corner,and you know it. " "l'm not the one you haveto worry about." Garricklookedslightlysheepish."Okay," shesaid,"so I cm countingon gettinga little help from Pel6e.It neverhurtsto giveyourselfan edgewhen you'redealingwith Ranke.I think he may find it hardto concentrate in this place. It's very stressfulhere. The air's full of staticelectricity,there'sthis stinkingash,the barometricpressure's all screwy-""peesn't soundlike that much of an edgeto me." Shefrowned."Don't you doubt that I can losehim if I want to." "So why don't you?Why are you still here?" "l can't leaveyou behind, Med. I've got to get you to go with me, and you know that can only happenif you go willingly." "Go where?" "Anywhere!" "What is this gameyou'replaying?" Garrickgestured at the town beforethem. The waterfrontwasa shambles. Each of the two sailingships-mastless,shatteredhulks-could be seen sittingin its own pile of rubble."lf all I wasdoing," shesaid,"wasplaying games,I'd'vegonesomeplace nice,donesomethin gfun.Parisians arerioting at the premiereof Stravinsky's new ballet in nineteenthirteen. I might even'vecomehere,in somehappieryear.This is a beautifulisland,evenif Little Parisis a bit lustyfor my taste.But now it's hot ashell here,it stinks, and it's infestedwith snakes.And it's doomed.Hundredsof people'vedied aroundthis volcanosinceSaturday.Thirty thousandare goingto die here beforeit's all done. Most of 'em are going to be killed by superheated gas andpolitics.I knowthatsoundsredundant,but it'sthe truth. Thirty thousand people,a fourth of the populationof Martinique in nineteenoh two, all " victimsof arroganceand ignorance. "So it's an objectlesson.What'm I supposed-" "Ledrn somethingfrom it!" Two faint reddishspotsappeared high on the "Here'sall this self-importantscrambledown here, woman'scheekbones. and, up there,loomingcatastrophe! And like I said,it's time for you to look up and seethe mountain. I'm hopingyou'll go with me. If you stickwith the scramblers, you'regoingto get wipedout with them. I don't want that to happen.You're importantto me. I'm importantto you, too." "Maybe not importantenoughto defectfor." "Then maybeyou'll think fhis is importantenough.Someone,the president, the military, I don't know who, hasbeensoldthe bright ideathat past eventscan be revisedto suit presentneeds.Can and shouldbe."

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Medlin lookedat her and thought, Crazy. Suspectingit beforeand believing it now weretwo differentthings.It hurt now that he sawjust how crazyshe was. She must haveseenhow skepticalhe was,for shesaid,"lt's true, Med." "Oh, come on. People've beensayingcraplike that sincebeforeanyone knewhowIo travel.lt's a ioke.Oh God, if only I could go backin time and not havethe accidentwith the scoozip.Oh God, if only I could renewthe insurancepolicythe daybeforeI hadthe accidentwith the scoozip.Oh God, " if only I could buy the roto insteadof the scoozip. "Pretend grinned like a skull. for a secondI'm presentingthis Garrick schemein a reallypositivelight, andpretendyou'rethe presidentor someone like that. God, be honest,wouldn't it soundso tempting? impressionable Make a big mistakesomewhere,lose a war or an election?No problem. Accidentallykill everybodyin Arizona?Well, no big loss,but still no prob'em come out the way you want! lem. )ust go back,changethingsto make no tellingwhathavoc'llbe They'recallingit'temporalengineering.'There's createdif thoseidiotseveractuallygive it a try." "Maybe it wouldn't have any effect," Medlin said. "Nothing ever has us so far." before.Time's resilient,forgiving.It's accommodated "So fdr," shesnapped,"we haven'ttestedits patience!We haven'ttried to showit who'sboss!Can you imaginethe kind of forceneededto reallychange an eventso that it affectsthings up the way?Expertswerebrought in to say what everybodywantedto hear. That the pastcan be alteredto producethe desiredpresent.Isn't that a lovely term?The desiredpresent.And here's whereit stuckfor me, theseexpertsmadeit a major, fundamentalpoint that if you want to alter the past, you have to have completecontrol of travel, becauseyou don't want somebodyunalteringthingson you. So no more maverickingaroundfor you and me!" Shepaused,pantingand glaring.He had neverseenher quite so upsetbefore."The reallyinsultingpart is, they broachedthis insanityto me like they expectedme to go for it!" Medlin shookhis head. "I'm just not sureI believea word of this," he said."Why didn't Thomastell me anythingaboutit? Why didn't yott?" "someone-maybe Thomas, but I think probablynot-didn't tell you you werein they werehedgingtheir bet. I couldn'ttell you because because you to get for wait around I bolt. couldn't I decided to when nineteenforty told soon enough. You'd've been roll thing. ready to on this back.They were dead or AWOL, proiect, if I'm and to this essential After all, a traveler's who can go got, ones the only they've real travelers you'reit. We'rethe only least little crack, the there's minds to, almost-anywhere our anywherewe set you. Thomas Nor should playing fetch. gift this to squander I don't want isn't your friend. And the agencyisn't your home." "And you'renot my mom." Garricklookedpained."l'm trying to saveyour sou/here." of time. Look, forggt "To say nothing of savingthe purity and essence such a big deal with engineering's If temporal minute. for a aboutmy soul

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"Their minds are madeup. The only way to stop'em is for us to not go back and help'em get started."She extendedher hand to him; after a moment,he took it. Therewasnothingto it but bonesand milky skin. "We canskipthisdepressing catastrophe," shesaid,"andgo seeStravinsky's ballet. It's only an oceanand elevenyearsaway." "l don't know. What about Ranke?" She madean impatientface."Whatabouthim?" "He's goingto showup herewhetherI'm still aroundto takehim home or not." "PerhapsPel6e'llgivehim a warm welcome.If he'ssmart,and he sometimesis, he'll get the hell out of town." "And we just let him wanderaroundlost in nineteenoh two forever?" "Do not wasteyour concernon Ranke.He'd find his niche whereverhe is. There alwaysis a niche for peoplelike Ranke." Medlin let go of Garrick'shand. His arm fell to his side."l can't." "Oh, God, why not?" She wasthe pictureof exasperation. "BecauseI just can't. I'm not . I don't know, I can't make up my mind." "That'salwaysbeenyour problem!Well, I've got somebadnewsfor you. You're finally goingto haveto takedecisiveaction.you fust can'tgo ,iong and get alongany more." A darkeningpall of ash and smokelay over the town like twilight. The carriagewasstill waitingat the baseof the hill. Driver and horselookedas though they had been carvedfrom dirty rock. Garrick climbed into the carriageand slammedthe door. Dismayed,Medlin said,"Are you goingto leaveme strandedhere?" She lookedout the window. "lt may come to that!" "I can't seethirty feet here!" "Whereveryou are in a town this size,you'renevertoo far from anyplace else.Justgo back to the AvenueVictor Hugo. It'll lead you right back to MadameBoislaville's " street. "Maybe her streetisn't thereany more! Even if it is, maybeI won't be able to find it. " "l understandyour distress, but we'restill waitingfor Ranke,remember? I've takena big chanceherealready.As long asyouiloyrltiesareall tangled, I'd rathernot be aroundyou when he doei pop up." "This is so crazy,"he saidsorrowfully. "1'mgoingto haveto kill him," shesaid,"or he, me. He knowsyou can't . take me back without my cooperation.I'm sure he doesn'texpectme to obligehim by goingbackunder my own power.,' "Goddammit!" "Now, now. Seeyou soon,I hope. Driver!" Driver and horseshookgraypowderfrom themselves. The carriagesound-

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lesslypulled away.Medlin stumbledafter it vengefully,but it wasquickly lost to sight in the falsedusk. He swore,rammedhis fistsinto his trousers pockets,and walkedslowlyand half-blindto the AvenueVictor Hugo. area.The wavehad been a spent He came to the edgeof the devastated houses. Slowedor not, it had turned it lapped around these forceby the time porridge with putrid-smelling of mud seasoned into ash a the thick blanketof pieces of and shattered pieces whole clothing, utensils, odd of foodstuffs, living bodies. The human livestock, and life, dead marine furniture,stranded stoodaboutnumbly, and then by ones,twos,and threesthey cameforward, searchingfor their homesites,belongings,missingfamilies.The pall was with staticelectricwith light from torchesandsupercharged murkilysuffused of lightningintermittentlyshotthroughit. There wasa ity. Brilliant streaks constantbackgroundchorusof moansand cries. with muck, his eyes,nose,and throatburningand his stomach Splattered maze. It was heaving,Medlin wanderedlost in a darkened,debris-clogged wooden sPars, not until he found his way blockedby a massof splintered canvas,andtangledropes-part of the mastandriggingof oneof the shredded ravagedships-that he realizedthat he hadstrayedoffthe main thorougifare. When he attemptedto retracehis steps,he emergedonto a great sloping square.A solemncrowd lined its edges.Lying in rows in the centerwere scoresof deadbodies.They had beendustedwith quicklimeand lookedlike brokenstatuary.A priestand a policemanwalkedsideby sideamong the rows,the priesteither calling out a name for eachbody or elsecalling on onlookers[o identifuit, and the policemanwritingthe namein a roster.The supply of coffins must have been exhausted.Soldierswere wrapping-the and carryingthem bodi.r in bananaleaves,loadingthem onto stretchers, away. Medlin thoughtof Garrickand wasfilled with a greathot surgeof hatred that sustainedhim until he unexpectedlyfound himself standingbefore MadameBoislaville'shouse.The wavehad not penetratedher street.Everything lookedthe same, graY,silent,unmoving,dead-normal, he thought to,ttly as he poundedon the door with the sideof his fist. thunk. Strelet him in and slidthe bolt homewith a good,solid,reassuring dumbly. other each regarded They a chair. into He sank "l am glad,"he finally told her, "to seethat you are all right'" "And you, Monsieur." "l watchedthe wavecome, sawit hit." "lt is-" She could not find a word for what it was, but he nodded agreement anyway.He ran his tongueover his lips and spatat the taste. "Madame, is thereanythingto drink?" "There is still water for coffee,and somebreadand picklesif you are hungry. And there is no shortageof rum." "Mry I pleasehavesomerum?" Almost b.for. he had askedfor it, therewasa drink on the table.The rum

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cut a ravinethroughthe sulphurbedin his mouth. He finishedit and asked for another.When he had finishedthat oneaswell andaskedfor still another, Madamesaid,"Too much rum will makeyou sorryto be alive." He ignoredthe warningand got the drink. The next thing he knew was that he wasdrunk ashe had everbeenin his life and filled with horror and self-pity.Madamehad disappeared for a time but now returned,from either the kitchen or whateverpart of the building washer living quarters.There wasno sympathyin her expression. She had warnedhim, he had ignored the warning,now herehe was,the foolishAmerican,truly sorryto be alive. "foin me, Madame,"he saidthickly. "We'll drink to this doomedtown." She shookher head. "l had bettermakethe coffeeand bring you some food." "Why are you still here?" Shehad startedto leave.Sheturnedto answer."l am herebecause this is my home, Monsieur." "Your home is doomed.Look out the window." "Perhapsthe worstis past." "This town is going to be destroyed. Anyone who stayshere is going to die. There is still time to escape.Takeyour girl and your grandmotherand go." Distastetuggedat one cornerof her mouth. "The old womanis my aunt. Sheis someone's aunt, anyway.Everyoneon Martinique. . . but my aunt, my aunt, shetellsme terriblethings.Shesaysthat shehasvisiteda wizard." Madame shudderedvisibly, then crossedherself."l have thrown her out, Monsieur.Let the wizardtakeher into ftishome. Sheterrifiesmy Elizabeth. The wizardtold her not to placeher trust in the powerof white men'sgod. He told her that the Holy Church hasmadethe mountaineruptand caused " all the deaths. "Whosever'sfault it is, you must get out. You should have left when MadameGarrick-my greatfriend and mentor,aceof travelers,knowerof all-should havegottenout whenshetold you to go. Lastwheneverit was." For a moment he thoughtshewasgoingto cry. Then she said,angrily, "She saysthat the mountain is a menacelThe mayor saysthat it is nol I know, I know, that white peopleare greatliars, but both Madame Garrick and the mayorare white, so I do not know who is lying." "white or not, sheknowswhat is goingto happenhere. So do I." "Pgrhapsyes,perhapsno. You arewhite,too. You couldbe lying aswell." "Then the hell with you." He pushedhimselfout of the chairand somehowmadeit up the stairsto the room. He stoodin the doorway,assayed somecalculationsbasedon the distancebetweenhimself and the cot, took a long stepforward.The room and itsmeagerfurnishingstiltedsharplyandroseabouthim. The floorcaught him, not gently. He awokeon the cot, listeningto a murmur of voicesfrom the street outside.It hurt him to movehis head.His mouth tastedof kitchenmatches,

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a whole box of them. He had a dim memoryof awakeningonceto call for waterand at leastonceagainto be violentlysickin the chamberpot. Neither unclean,poisoned. pitchernor pot wasin sight.He felt exhausted, to the window and leanedon the sill. In the streetbelow the He staggered window was what first appearedto be a vast funeral processionand then The black-garbed resolveditself into a densebunch of lesserprocessions. mournersiostledoneanother,movingfrom shrineto shrine,andtheirprayers mingledin the hot, pollutedair to becomea softmush of crying,prayersfor the dead,andpleasfor God'sintervention.Therewereother,harshervoices, too. Criers addedto the confusionand congestionas they ran amongthe Someshoutedinstructionsfrom the Action Committee,whatprocessions. iver that was:everyonewasto washthe ashfrom wallsand roofs.Otherswere messages to the politicalparties'competing broadcasting politicalsloganeers, the illiterate segmentsof the electorate. Unmindful of babble,the volcanoindustriouslypumpedout blacksmut. The sea was calm in the roadstead.Along the ruined waterfrontburned regularlyspacedfires. Medlin had no idea of what thesesignified,except -ot. trouble. The sun wasa ghostlyorb sittinglow in a cinder-filledsky, beforethe wrongelapsed barelyabovethe westernhorizon.Severalseconds him like a soft, inside burst dread then and registered, view that nessof top of the stairsand the landing at to the noisily lumbered He fruit. spoiled "Madame Boislaville!" shout, raw-throated giu. r fearful She sweptinto view below. She lookedsurprisedand wary. "Yes, M-" "Wh.atdoy," and then his headachecaughtup with him, forcinghim to lower his voice,"what day is this?" "Tuesday,Monsieur." "How can it-Tuesday. Of course."Tuesday.Christ. He clutchedthe woodenbannister.Below,shewipedher handson the aPronand madeher expressionunfathomable."ls there any breakfast?" t'lt ir almostsuppertime,and I havenothing[s-" "Coffee?" "Yes, of course,Monsieur.I shall makesomeand bring it up to you at once." "No, no. I am comingdown." "There is no food today.I am very sorry." "No, I understand,it is all right," and, clingingto the bannister,he went painfullydown the stairs' She helpedhim into a chair and broughthim a po! of.blackcoffeeand a cup. Shealsoptoduceda pair of saltypickles,a staleheel of bread,and the latfst edition of Ut Colonies.The breadwastoo hard to eat, and the coffee wastoo hot to drink at 6rst, sohe dippedthe one into the otherand gratefully suckedon it. Most of Les Colonieswas given over to an account of the pi.uiou, day'sdisaster.A lake on the mountainsidehad burst its walls, le'ding tons of mud and debristo pile into the seanorth of the roadstead.

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The masshad incidentallyburied a sugarrefinerylocatedat the mouth of the River Blanche,north of town. He was still hungry when he finishedhis repast,but his headachehad subsided.He creptbackupstairsto his room and fell asleepagain.This time, his restwasbrokenintermittentlyby streetnoisesand volcanicrumblings, by heatand stinks.Once, he awoketo find himselfthinkingabouttemporal engineering. Therewere,he reflected,manythingsaboutthe worldof his propermatrix Never caredfor a that had neverbotheredhim very much. Eco-collapse? pavement on land, second,he told himself,that there'snothingbut desertor you go smellslike a beerfart. and everywhere and the oceansare cesspools, So the world is ownedin the Awful Money meltdown,nuclearexchange? Oughtsby a few greedypeoplewho want all the otherpeopleto keepbending overand greasingtheir own behindsfor the next reaming.So what?When havethings everbeen different? It just hasn'tbotheredme. Becauselhaveagift. How can I hatethe world, he thoughtashe turnedon the cot and pressed the side of his face into the gritty pillow, when I'm free lo escapefrom it wheneverllike...T Still. Only a fool-not that thereweren'talwayslotsof fools-would deny that civilizationwasin trouble,that the planetitselfwasin trouble.Perhaps temporalengineeringcould savethe day. Only, it hadn't savedthe day. Then perhapsit wasabout to savethe day, and this wasthe lastmoment of the old timeline, and everythingwould now shimmerand dissolveor do thing, and he'd awakenwith the rest of humanity in somespecial-effects somerestoredEden . . . He wonderedhow one would go aboutheadingoff the more complicated disasters,and about how differenthis own life might be after temporal Neitherline of speculation engineering. tookhim veryfar. The Awful Oughts were the culmination of some trendsthat had begun with the Industrial Revolutionand othersthat went backto Sumer, possiblyevento Olduvai Gorge.As for himself,surelyhe would still be a traveler.And surelythere would still be an agency,a Garrick,a Thomas.Even a Ranke. Far away,seafoortwitched.Closeby, the volcanogavea growl. How much force would it taketo changethe past?Sleepwastaking him again.How much force,measuredin, say,Pel6es? Two Pel6eseachto stop Hitler, Stalin, Breedlove? Five Peldesto disinventstyrofoam? Fifteen . When he awokenext,night had fallen.His headache wasbackand worse than before,he wasthirsty and ravenouslyhungry, and he could not recall havingfelt so wretchedor so stupidin the wakeof a drunk sincecollege. Downstairs,his hostesswas able to offer him coffee and a single brown banana.He ate the fruit slowlyand deliberately,by the light of a lamp on the table. Madamelet him drink coffeeby himselffor a while. then came

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to standby the table. He lookedup and waited.After a moment shecleared her throat softly,put her hand into the pocketof her apron, and withdrew somefranc notesand coins. "MadameGarrickpaida week'srent," shesaid,placingthe moneyon the table,"and paidalsofor a week'smeals.This is the portionintendedto cover your expenses for the remainderof this week.There is no food here, even my for daughterand myself.Money cannotbuy it now. The countrysideis deserted,so thereis no harvest.The fishermencatchnothing." She would not meet his eye. Her mannerwasvery formal, and she addressed him so stiffly that he knew she must havedevotedconsiderabletime to composing and mentallyrehearsing this speech."The mayorsaysthat cartshavebeen sent to gather food from other parts of the island, but the carts do not return. Even if the mountain doesnot destroythe town, it hasdestroyedmy livelihood.I do not know how to reachyour friend, so I must imposeupon you to return this moneyto her." "Pleasekeepit. Shewill nevermissit. Believeme, I am certainthat she would want you to keepit." Madamedrew herselfup. "l cannotacceptcharity." "A loan, then." Sheshookher headagain."l do not knowwhen I would be ableto repay it. I am leavingfor Fort-de-France in the morning.Today, I prayedto the Holy Virgin, who told me thatyou areright. I am goingto takemy Elizabeth and visit my relativesin the south." "l think you aremakinga verywisedecision.I shallpersonallyescortyou and your daughterto the edgeof town." "That will not be necessary." He indicatedthe bolted front door with a slight ferk of his head and His headwasstill astenderasa boil. He instantlyregrettedthe mrovement. could all but hearhis brain sloshinsidehis skull. "Anythingcan happenout therenow." "Yes, I know." He heardher sigh. "Sicknessis breakingout. They have lighted fires on the beachto purify the air." He marveledat the logic of that and couldn'tframea reply. with him. She said,"LaVsrette Madamefinallylet herselfmakeeye-contact kills whitesaswell, Monsieur.You shouldtakeyour own adviceand go." "l haveno relativesin the south." "Will you sail away,then, on a big boat?" "On something,I assureyou." overthem. The womancriedout, and The soundof an explosionpassed jerked and violently spilledcoffeeon himself.He hearda rattlingof Medlin next, asthe bangfaded,a shrill notelike the sound shelvesfrom the bar and of a titan'strain whistle.He realizedthat he wasstanding,open-mouthed, with salivapoolingin the backof his throat.He gulpedhard,almostchoked. The whistling persistedfor severalminutesbeforetrailing off. "l must go to the cathedral,"Madamesaid in a quaveringvoice, "and offer prayersfor our deliverance."

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Prayer,he startedto tell her, will not preventwhat is going to happen here, but he sawher eyeswiden suddenly,sawher listenand crossherself hurriedly.He said,instead,"What is it?" Sheshushedhim. He listenedhard. The drumming was raggedand muted at first, but it steadiedquickly, and rosein volume,becamefrenzied.He couldhearshouts,too. sharpened One damnedthing afteranother,he thought,and askedagain,"What is it?" "Wizards." Her replywasalmostinaudible.There wasan especiallysustained burst of yelling, and then he could hear them approaching.He the lamp with a puff of breath,movedtowardthe window,and extinguished peeredthroughthe crackbetweenthe shutters.He sawnothing. A din of at no verygreatdistance,and, asit singing,shouting,and drummingpassed did, behind him, the terrifiedwoman hissed,"Monsieur!" "Where arethey going,Madame?"There wasno answer.He lookedover his shoulder,and sensedratherthan sawher standingwrappedin darkness at the centerof the room. "Where are they going?" She moanedbut madeno other sound. "We'll be safehere,"he said."l havea gun." He pattedhis coatpocket, then rememberedtl-ratGarrickhad takenit. He kept talking. "You should her. And try to getsomerest.You will go seeaboutyour daughter.Reassure tomorrow." Yeah, both need your restif you are going to Fort-de-France right, he told himself,as if anyonecould rest."Pray, Madame.Pray for-" Prayfor whateverone prayedfor. He went to the tableand gropedaroundits edgeto her side.She seemed tightly againstherselfand to be standingvery rigidly with her armspressed her handsclaspedoverher bosomas in prayer.Shewasstill moaningashe took both of her handsin his. Either she was numb with fear or elsethe gesturesimply astonished her, for she did not resistor reactin any way at first. Her handsweredry and much harderthan he had expectedthem to be. They werethe rough,stronghandsof someonewho workedlike a mule everyday of her life. They felt more realthan his own hands.He could not seeher face, but imaginedit, and wonderedhow old she really was, and whatthe life expectancy of a WestIndianmulattowomancouldhavebeencould be, here, now-at the beginningof the twentiethcentury.She suddenly startedlike someoneawakeningfrom a nap. He madeno attemptto hold on as she withdrewher hand from his. Wordlessly,she turned and stumbledaway. Depressed, he sat down by the shutteredwindow and listened.After a he time, caughthimselfnoddingand got up sharplyand walkedaroundthe room once. Then he went to his room and cautiouslyopenedthe shutter. Therewasnothingto seeexceptthe glow of the volcano'smouth. There was nothing to hear exceptthe noisesmade by earth and seaand town, each restless and unhappy.The shoutingandsinginghaddiedaway,and eventhe drumming had becomesubliminal. Medlin stretchedout on his cot and

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c-losed his eyes.Sometimelater,he wasshakenawakeby a loud reportfrom the volcano.The summit of the mountainlookedlike a blast'furnace; over it wasa cloud filled with lightning. He did not sleepagainafterthat. Wednesday's sunrisewasthe saddest he had ever seen. with it came a resumptionof the volcano'sgrumbling. Lightningflashedamongthe clouds,and thunderrumbleddown the mountainside.The seawasfull of wreckage sweptdownfrom forestand fieldduring the night. The dozenshipslying in the roadstead lookedasthoughthey haJ run agroundon small islands. It took mostof the morningto load Madame'sbelongingsfor the exodus to Fort-de-France. The woman did not travellightly. The cart shehad got from somewherewasa bedof mismatchedplanksmountedbetweentwo solid woodenwheels.Hitched to this creaking,swayingconveyance wasa horse hardlybiggerthan a largebreedof dog.Medlin couldnot imaginethat under the bestof circumstances it would havebeen capableof budgingthe cart emptied, let along with the girl Elizabethand householdgoodsaboard, and its noseand lungsirritatedby volcanicejecta.At the woman'surging, hs\a/svg1-shepulled gentlyyet firmly with one hand at its harnessand, with the other,flickeda long switchoveritsbackbut did not touchits ashyhidethe horsegot moving with an easyindifferenceto the loadedcart. Medlin padlockedthe gateto the courtyardand took his station,ashe imaginedit to be, on the animal'soppositeflank.They turneda cornerand passed the front of the building. Madamedid not pausefor a farewelllook at her lockedand shutteredhome. She set her mouth in a ruler-straight line and flickedthe switchagainto let the horseknow shewould not standfor dawdling. The cart madeits slowway throughand out of the town. Medlin walked with his head hurting and the sour tasteof the air in his mouth. He was gratefulthat Madame seemeddisinclinedto chat. He saw a few soldiers aheadasthe cart approached the junctionwith the roadto Fort-de-France, he had no desireto be askedquestions andbecause by them, he lookedacross the horse'sbackat the woman and said,"This is whereI get off." Shesaid,veryseriously,"Now you areon the streetagain.I am sorrythat your visit to St. Pierrecould not havebeena happierone." "The bath and the gumbowerefirst-rate,and the rum, too." That brought a faint, fleetingsmileto her lips. He waspleasedto seeit. "Perhapsthe next time," he began,but shecut him off with an emphaticshakeof her head. "There will be no next time," shesaidflatlv. "Farewell,Monsieur." "Farewell,Madame." "M"y God be with you." "And with you," and he askedhimself,Why not? He stoppedwalkingand let the cartpull away.Madamedid not look back at him. The girl sathigh upon a pile of bundles.When he sawher turn her cat-eyedgazehis way, he gaveher a little wave. She did not return it. Congratulatinghimselfon the way he had with children,he lookedbackat the town. It wasthe colorof the surfaceof the moon.The mutteringvolcano

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was half-hiddenby its own gray pall of smoke.The afternoonwas passing hot, dark, and noisy. Well, he thought, how much goddamnlongerdo I haveto stayin this hellholebeforeI can decentlyabortthe mission?It wouldn't makeThomas hrppy when he reportedfailure, but, then, Thomas was so rarely hrppy anyway.What did Thomaswant him to do?Garrickhad escaped-at least, Medlin hadn't sensedher since,when had it been, Monday?-and Ranke wasa no-show. He glancedafter MadameBoislavilleand did a double-takeand stared. The soldiershad steppedforwardat her approach,and she had haltedthe cart, and now he could seemuch gesticulating and hearthe woman'svoice raisedin protest.Flabbergasted, he watchedher turn the cart around and headbacktowardthe town. He shookoff his amazementand ran forward. Shedid not slowthe cartashe drewnear.Shelookedasdangerous asthe mountain itselfas he fell in besideher and tried to walk, talk, look at her, and glarebackat the soldiersall at the sametime. She cut him short. "The road to Fort-de-France is blocked,"she said. "The soldierssaytheir orderscamefrom the governorhimself." "Did you tell them you cannotstayhere?That-" "The soldiersdo not carewhat anyonebut the governortellsthem." "l shall go talk to them!" "Yes," shesaid,"certainlythey must be more willing to listento a dir$ Americanstrangerthan to a respectable widow," and the long switchhissed and snappedover the horse'sback,and the cart kept moving. They walkedsomedistancewrappedin sullenness. Finally, Medlin said, "Madame,you and the girl must slip pastthe guardstonight." She said, as she might impart an obviousfact to a stupid child, "The wizardswill be out againtonight. They will kill anyonethey find on the road." "Then go by boat! I don't carehow you get out, but you mustget out!" Sheseemedto be thinkingit over,so he saidno more. He noticeda small groupof peoplegatheredto examinea posteron a public bulletin boardand steppedforwardto read it. E xtraordinary Procla ma tion to My FeIIow Citizens of St. Pierre The occurrence of the eruption of Mount Pel6e has thrown the whole islandinto consternation.But aidedby the exaltedintervention of the Governorand of superiorauthority,the Municipal Administration has provided, in so far as it has been able, for distribution of essentialfoodsand supplies.The calmnessand wisdomof which you haveprovedyourselves capablein theserecentanguisheddaysallows us to hopethat you will not remaindeafto our appeals.In accordance with the Governor, whosedevotionis ever in command of circumstances,we believe ourselvesable to assureyou that, in view of the

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StevenUtley immensevalleyswhich separateus from the crater,we have no immediate dangerto fear.The lavawill not reachasfarasthe town. Any furthermanifestion will be restricted to thoseplacesalready to fall victimsto groundaffected.Do not, therefore,allowyourselves allowus to adviseyou to returnto your normal lesspanic.Please occupation,settingthe necessary exampleof courageand strength duringthistime of publiccalamity. -The Mavor.R. FOUCHE

Behind him, Madameaskedsoftly,"What doesit say?" Barelyableto containhisanger,he replied,"Nothing.Not a damnthing." He barredthe gateaftershehad driven the cart into the courtyard.The girl leapeddown and vanished.Medlin helpedher motherunhitch the cart and put the horseaway, and then Madameled him into the back of the of impersonal spacegivenoverto the utilitarian. house.He hadan impression It wasgloomyand hot, and the ashwasubiquitous.The cafeareaitselfhad disconsolate air duringtheir brief absence. acquireda dilapidated, Madamesaid,"l think thereis still waterfor coffeein one of the storage jars.Perhapsevenenoughfor washing." "That would be wonderful,Madame." The girl emergedwithoutwarningand in a hurry from the rear.Shewent straightto her mother,who instinctivelywrappedboth armsaroundher, and glaredbackoverher own shoulder.MadamelookedpastMedlin and started. Medlin, whosebackwasto the doorway,heardhis narnespoken. Rankestoodframedin the doorwayand lookedverypleasedwith the effect wheneverhe he was having.Throughoutthe yearsof their acquaintance, did not havethe man actuallyin view, Medlin had alwaysseenhim in his mind's eye as being taller, leaner,steelier-Rankeadmiredthosequalities and aspiredto them, and had someodd knackfor leavingpeoplewith the them. In fact, asMedlin realizedwheneverhe impressionthat he possessed Rankewas no taller or leanerthan he was, him again, see actuallydid a intent look of a predator,not necessarily only the was and the steeliness in Madame at gaze took lidless and Ranke's light-colored mammalianone. a glance,but lingeredon the girl asthoughshemight be prey,beforecoming smoothlybackto Medlin. He said,"What day is it?" "Wednesd^y,"said Medlin, "the day beforethe eruption-" He shot a horrifiedlook at Madameand sawthat he neednot haveworried.Nothing he couldhavesaidwould havegother attentionfrom Rankeat that moment. Rankesteppedinto the room and said,without rancor,"Took your own sweettime gettingme here."' Medlin did not reply.The man frequentlydid leavehim with nothingto say.Instead,he turned to Madame."You saidyou thoughtyou still have somewaterfor coffee." It seemedall shecould do to look awayfrom the unblinkingserpent,the hawk. "Y-yes." staring-eyed "May we havesome,please?"

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"Yes. Of course,Monsieur." Rankesteppedaroundto the left to vacatethe doorway.The girl brokeout of her mother'sembraceandboltedthroughto safety.Madameherselfedged towardthe doorwayfrom the right. The look of satisfactionon Ranke'sface madea scowlstartto build itselfon Medlin's.Medlin said,"Let's keepthis private,"andled him up to the room,whereRankelookedaboutfascinatedly. When he spoke,therewasamazementor amusementin his voice,or both. "Some terrific baseof operations you pickedout here." "Garrickpickedit out. Shehad everythingsetup beforeI evengot here." "l know you'veseenher, talkedto her. I can smell her on you." Ranke half-smiled;one cheekdimpled.He movedto the windowsand threw open the shutters.Without lookingat Medlin, he said,"Why didn't you arresther when you had her?" "l didn't think it waspartof my job. Anyway,shetook my gun awayfrom me.

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Rankeshookhis headand took out his own weapon.It wasa Colt .38caliberautomatic,eitheran originalor a replica.He wasas likely to have the one as the other. He checkedthe chamberand polishedthe four-inch barrelon his sleeve."l could havepredictedthat outcome.She took your ballsawayfrom you yearsago.Still, it's not goingto look goodon the report, sport." "Don't brandishthat thing. She wasexpectingme. She'sbeenexpecting both of us, in fact. She sayseitheryou or sheis goingto haveto die here, becauseshe'snot goingback." Rankesightedalongthe barrelof the pistolat Medlin'ssternum."Pretty tough talk for an old lady. Did she saywhat she expectsyou to be doing while she and I are all lockedtogetherin mortal combatand everythingi You goingto be the scorekeeper, the cheerleader? The prize?" "l'm gettingjust a little sickand tired of havinggunspointedat me." "All in fun." "Even in fun. Especiallyin fun." Rankechuckledand loweredthe pistol."You won't alwaysbe so special, you know. Even with Garrick gone. Sooneror later, the agency'llland someonewho knowsthe sametricks." "You know it's not tricks.It's talent.Talent'srare." "Not as rareas you think." Medlin had never seenanyonelook so smug before.He said, "you'll neverbe a traveler.You pitch wild." "We're not alonehere." "l've seenthem, too. I sawthem the first night I washere." "If you could seewhat f see-" Rankegesturedvaguelyat the tableau outsidethe window. "All thesedifferenttrails, like blurs of light on timeexposedfilm. They're threadedthrough the streetsand criss-.ios the hills up there. It looks like weavingwith airplanecontrails.There'rea dozen peopleherewho-" [s grinnedhis predatorgrin and waggeda fingerin the "-shouldn't be here.Most of them, sure,arepassengers. air admonishingly

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But at leastone of them hasto be a traveler,and maybethere'smore than just one. If they'vecome to this little hellhole,they must havetravelersto " spare. "They may not be as accommodating as you'd like. I didn't get the time of day out of them." "l guesseventuallywe'regoing to find out just how accommodating they can be. The day when we all just pretendnot to noticeother time travelers and don't get involvedwith them is over.There'sa plan now, and it'll only work if everyonesticksto it and doeswhat they'resupposedto." "Ah yes," Medlin said,"the comingworld order.Or shouldI call it the coming world re-order?" "The world'sin a mess.Things'vegotto change.From now on, whenever we run into othervisitors,whoeverthey are,whereverthey'refrom, they're goingto haveto listento us. We'll tell them, Theseare our rules,you have to obeythem from now on. You wantto hearLincoln talk at Gettysburgor seeCatherinethe Greatscrewthe pony, you haveto do thingsaccordingto our rules.Otherwise,there'schaos." "Garricktold me a little aboutthoserules." Rankerolled his eyesceilingward."We both know what a talentshehas for description.I'm sureshe'stold you there'ssomegreatmischiefafoot." "l'm not asconvinced assheis," saidMedlin,"thattemporalengineering's possible.I'm more concernedaboutbeingon a leash." "Ah. I thoughtshe'dtry to get you to go maverickwith her if shehad the " chance. "She may yet succeed." "Listen to me, Medlin." Rankestoppedtoying with the automaticand "You and I slippedit backinto his pocketasa tokenof his own seriousness. you I'm I know think detested each other. havealwayscordially iealousof It is interest affection. you. her You think the interestshe'salwaysshownin her peer also as only you and asher only Shethinksof isn't. It's self-interest. rival. She'salwayskeptyou close,by her sideandon her side,soyou couldn't be usedagainsther someday. Shewantsto run now, but shecan'tleaveyou behind. She'dalwaysbe lookingoverher shoulderif shedid. But if shedid talk you into going with her, you think you wouldn't be on a leashthen? She'dneverlet you out of her sight.Whetheryou stickwith us or go with her, she'll end up trying to kill you." Medlin'sfacefelt as hot as the volcano's. "l alsoknow," Rankewent on, "you think I'm iealousbecauseyou're a traveler.Nothing is fartherfrom the truth. I do pitch wild, and it's inconvenient. It forcesme to relyon you. But inconvenientis all it is. I'm the world's besttracker,and only someof that'sthanksto that old woman.As soonasit getsdark, we'll get on her trail." taken "Waiting for dark'snot such a greatidea. Voodoo worshippers've " over the streetsat night. "All the more reason,"Rankesaid, "for us to get a move on," and he grabbedMedlin'sarm to haul him up. "Come on, it's check-outtime."

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"Let me go. I'm alreadyworn out from walking. I hurt my leg the first night I washere, and I'm still limping." "Pobrecito."Rankehad pulledhim up and out of the room, and now they plungeddown the stairs,almostupsettingMadame,who wascarryinga tray with cups and coffeepot. Rankeseemednot to notice her at all. He went straightto the door and unboltedit. Behind them, the woman shriekeda protestanddroppedher tray.Rankestill hadhold of Medlin'scoatand ierked him outsideinto the streetby it. Snarling,Medlin twistedfree, just in time to seethe door slam shut. He heard the bolt go home with resounding finality. "Nice going," he said.He wastremblingwith anger."She wouldn't let fesushimself back in now. Were you Custerin a previouslife? Between Garrickand us are probablyhundredsof voodooworshippers!" Rankedid not replyat once. He stoodvery quietly in the middle of the street,lostin thought.He wasstill clean-entirely too cleanfor St. Pierrenot in a wholly numbedstatelookedat him in wonder. andthe fewpassersby Medlin thought for a moment that he sawuncertaintyin the verticalgroove that appearedbetweenRanke'seyebrows,and he guessedthat atmospheric phenomenamight indeedbe interferingwith the man's ability to locate Garrick'strail. But then Rankesmiledand swattedhim on the arm and said to him ascheerilyasthoughthey had beenbosompalsforever,"Come on, let'sget moving." They got moving.The volcanobeganto grumbleand sputteragain.It was all Medlin could do to keepfrom staringat it. It wasall he could do to keep walking. Rankecompletelyignoredthe demonstrationand strodewith the purposefulair of a hunting dog that knew exactly where its quarry was hunkereddown. He wasthe one hrppy personin St. Pierre.The volcanic tumult did not lastlong, and when it subsided,silencedescended over the town. Ash lay driftedlike dirty snowagainstwallsand in corners.All shutters were closed.It againoccurredto Medlin that everyonewasalreadydead, that the glowingcloud, when it came,would sweepthrougha city already extinct.The sun wassettingasthey reachedthe AvenueVictor Hugo. Ranke walkedeasily,almostsauntering.Medlin marchedalongwith his fistsdeep in his coat pockets,chokingon ash and fury, mad at Ranke,mad at the volcano,mad at the world. A numberof refugees, men, women, children, sator crouchedin the doorways.They murmuredamongthemselves if they talkedat all. Most of them simplysatandstaredat nothingthat Medlin could see. An elegantcoachand pair cameglidingghostlikedown the street.It slowed as it approacheda group of soldiersand stoppedbeforethem just as Medlin and his companionpassedbehind them. The door wasflung open, and a thick-bodiedman wearingan ornateuniform strucka posewith one foot in the cab and the other on the step.He obviouslyexpectedto be recognized, and lookedslightly crestfallenwhen the soldiersregardedhim incuriously. "I," he announced,"am GovernorMouttet!" The soldiersexchangedlooksamongthemselves and shuffledto suggesta

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military unit dressingits ranks.Behindthem, Medlin heardRankesnicker softlyand said, "Wait," and stoppedwalking. Rankelookedannoyedbut waited.Medlin'sheadfilled with crazyideas.He wonderedif he might not somehowget Ranke'sautomaticawayfrom him and force this Mouttet at gunpointto evacuatethe town. He wonderedif he might not shootMouttet on principle,and Rankeaswell, now that he thoughtaboutit. He wondered, ashe realizedthe futility of grapplingwith Ranke,if Rankemight not shoot him, not fatally,just on principle. Angerand perplexitywerestrugglingfor supremacyon the governor'sface. He lookedfrom one soldierto the next. "What," he demanded,"are you doing here?" "Waiting, sir," saidone man, "for the bourhousses to strikeagain." "Again?" "At dawn this morning, sir, the soldiersguardingthe road to Fort-deFrancewere attackedby the voodooworshippers.Two soldierswere strangled." This obviouslywasall newsto GovernorMouttet. He withdrewhis head into the coach and conferredwith anotherman, lessflamboyantlyattired, and a woman whom Medlin took to be MadameMouttet. She was wellbut lookedveryanxious.Aftera moment,the governorthrusthimself dressed out again.He had begunto look somewhatcholeric. "Where," he demanded,"arethe soldiers who aresupposed to bepatrolling road?" the The corporalshrugged."Somewherein the town, sir." "On whoseauthority?" "l do not know, sir. Perhapstheir own, sir!" Governor Mouftet openedhis mouth, closedit, and retreatedinto his coach.The driver crackedhis whip. It wasthe crispestsoundMedlin had him. BeforeRankecould haveknown what heardin days,and it galvanized he was about, he pushedpastthe soldiersand leapedafterthe coachas it beganto move. He got a foot on the stepand the fingersof one hand around the frameof the door."GovernorMouttet!"he yelled."Orderthe immediate evacuationof the town!" The two men and the woman gaped.Medlin heardthe whip an instant beforeit wrappeditselfaroundhis neck and headand tried to sliceoff his and lost his grip and landedon what must havebeenthe ear. He screamed last patch of uncushionedcobblestonepavementin St. Pierre.The side of his headwason fire. The coachmovedawaywithout a soundand vanishedinto the gloom. Rankewasspeakingto the soldiersin conciliatorytones.When he turned from themtowardMedlin, hisbig friendlysmilebecamethe reptiliangrimace of a crocodile.He helpedMedlin stand,andwhile makinga showof helping him brush himselfoff said,"Would've servedyou right if the coachman'd takenyour ear off." Medlin carefullyfelt along his scalpline.His fingerscame awaybloody.

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as he startedtying his "Don't do that again,"Rankesaidconversationally "l handkerchiefaroundMedlin'shead. mean it." "Ranke,I know how scaryyou are. $sf-" "Good. Now let's get out of here beforethesesoldiersbecomeany more curiousaboutus. I told'em you'redrunk, so act it." "But I'm nof afraid of you." "Meaning, of course,that my threatsand impliedthreatsdon't fazeyou, becauseyou'remy ride home. Fine. Be scaredof whomever,whateveryou like. But justdon't makeany more suddenmoveslike that, or I'll reallyhurt too tightly overMedlin'siniured ear, you," and he pulled the handkerchief "and I mean, really,reallyhurt you." Grippedby a hand he could not resist,Medlin madehimselfa drag on the other man'sarm and said,"Listen." Rankebarelyslowedand barelylookedhis way. "Well? You havesomething to say?" "No, Iisten." They listened.The drummingwasbeginning.Medlin heardsomeonepeople-running on the streetbehindthem. He lookedoverat Ranke. several "The voodoopeopleare aboutto put in an appearance." "What're they goingto do, comeat us with cute little wax dolls?" "Come at us with cute little steelmachetes,more likely. Try to strangle us. Do somethingunpleasanttous, in any case.We'vegotto get indoors." "More delay," Rankesaid,shakinghis head.He took out his pistol. Medlin looked at him aghast."You can't go around indiscriminately gunningdown denizens!" Rankelaughed."You can'tgo aroundindiscriminately tryingto savethem! Thesepeople'reall going to be deadin a few hours anyway.They're fair game.Besides,you moron-yys'1s aboutto get mugged!" A torchlit processionsurgedalong the streettowardthem. At its head, men and women sangand danced.Somewere trying to danceand drink; moreliquor on themselves they splashed than in, but appeared not to mind. Behind them were the drummers,and next came three fantastic-looking figures.One of theseheld a squirmingform, and Medlin thought,incredulously, A child?Then he sawthat it wasa bound goat. Each of the other two wizardscarriedaloft a futtering, protestingchicken. As soonasthe celebrantssawthe two white men, a howl went up. Several men armed with machetesran out aheadof the procession.Medlin saw Rankecheckthe chamberof his pistoland takeaim. "Christ, Ranke!" Fist on hip, Rankeglancedsidewaysat him and said, "Now don't go ,, away. "Shoot over their heads,scarethem off!" "They'll be scareda lot fartheroffif I nick the paintoffa coupleof them." "lf we'reafterGarrick,let'sgo get her, bu1-" There wasa flashof fire from the pistol'smuzzle, and a shudderinglittle

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report.One of the advancingmen gavea yelp and hit the ground like an emptysuit of clothes.It enragedhis companions.They rr..d forward,yelling, and Rankeyelled back and fired again into the rushing dark foi-s. Torchesdipped,shadows elongated weirdly,brown-stained metil bladeswere raised.Medlin, alreadybac.ingaway,alreadyturning and drawinghis arms up and going into a crouch preparatory to pushingoff at a deadrun, saw Ranke'seyesslittedand his teeth baredin a puma'ssnarl. He lookedvery hrppy. Thgn his automaticjammed,and he had only enoughtime to say "Shit!'before the firstmachetebladeand then the secondand the third and the fourth descended in arcsand choppedhim apartas if he were merely someobstinatejunglegrowth. Medlin had alreadysprungaway. once, as he ran, he trippedand went sprawlingon the roughpavement, but there wasyelling closebehind him, and he scrambledforwardon his toesand fingerslike a dogfor a shortdistanceuntil he regainedhis feet.The his throatandlungs;it waslike breathinghot sand.The buildings air scourged closedin on him from eitherside. Somethingreachedup out of the earth itselfto trip him. Somethingelsegavea triumphantcry as it landedon his back.A wire or cord whippedabouthis throat.A kneeashard asteakpressed into the smallof his back,and therewaswarm stinkingbreathon his cheek. Then he heardanothergunshotand a startledgrunt. The wire wassuddenly gone,and the knee.Medlin, gasping,felt himselfbeingliftedup, felt himself There werevoices,but he wasunableto concentrateon them. weightless. Everythingrecededfor a time, and then returnedmore slowlythan it had gone away.Serpents,he thought,wild pigs. He waslying on ashygroundin what he took to be a small clearing.He patch of red-tintedsky above.There were four, could seea treetop-edged glowing people present,someof them movingabout,makingit five, or six impossiblefor him to get an accuratecount. One, however,waskneeling overhim, examininghis throat.Anotherstoodbehindthis man and looked down over his shoulderat Medlin. "Where am I?" Medlin croaked. "Safe," saidthe kneelingman. "lnsidethe botanicalgardens." "Relativelysafe,"saidthe personstandingbehindhim. "This is no place " for tourists. Medlin recognized the secondspeaker asoneof the luminousmen he had seen-how many nightsbefore? "Civilization'sfalling aparthere," the flat-facedman said. Medlin said,"Who the hell are you?" A familiarvoicesaid,"Fine way to talk to folkswho just savedyour life," and Garrick'snimbusedhead appearedover the shoulderof the flat-faced man. "Med, this is Doctor LeonardBeers,and that'shis assistant,Frank Cooley,checkingyour neck.Doctor,MisterCooley,this is my youngfriend Medlin whom I've told you about." Medlin lookedup at Beersandsaid,"Doctor,we probablycould'veavoided

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a whole lot of melodramaiust now if you hadn't been so stuckup a few nights ago." Beersdid not look concerned."Frankly, Mister Medlin, I thought you were a drunken tourist at the time. In any case,we have no interestin anyone'sbusinessherebut our own." He turnedto Garrickthen and said, "You'll haveto excuseme now, we'vegot a lot of work to do," and strode off without waiting for a reply. "Bit of a cold fish," Medlin said. hat andmen'sclothGarrickshrugged.Shewaswearinga broad-brimmed ing, looseshirt, loosetrousers."He iust really isn't too keen on getting involvedin our affairs,or lettingus getinvolvedin his. I'm surehe'd despise our little intriguesif he knew much aboutthem. Here." She handedhim a cup of waterand a foodstick.The waterwascold and deliciousbut hurt his throat.The foodstickwasstale,chalky,and impossible to swallow. "The voodoopeoplekilled Ranke,"he gaspedafterdrainingthe cup. Garrick gavea soft snort."l guessthey didn't buy his rough-toughact," she said."l nevercould makehim understandthat machismowill get you hurt fasterthan anything." were fiddling with odd devicesor Medlin lookedaround.The strangers packingequipment.Beerscut in amongthem like a factoryforeman,barking instructions. Medlin said,"Who are thesepeople?" "What we startedout to be-scientists,historians.They'rehere to study and recordthe eruption.Pel6e,Tambora,Krakatau,they'rerecordingall the biggestand most famousones. Nobody, no competentobserver,anyway, eversawa glowingcloud until Pel6e.Nobodywassetup to studyPel6euntil afterthe AscensionDay eruption,or evenhad the instruments.Volcanology wasbarelya sciencein nineteenoh two. Anyway,they'll be clearingout as soon as they finish settingup their monitoring devices.They've got an observationstationset up on the heighrcsouth of the destructionzone." "But where'rethey from7" "l believethey postdateus," she said. "As always,everyone'streating everyoneelselike a denizen.Mustn'tfalk,can'tsay,won't getinvolved.Still, they did help me carryyou into the gardensafter I pluggedthat strangler." "Ranke knows-knew they were here. I think he was startingto have " designson their travelers. "Well, Ranke'sdead,and they only havethe one traveleranyway."She laughedsoftly."But, ah, he is worth havingdesignson." "You're incorrigible.How long do we havenow?" "Hours. The climacticeruptionstartsat sevenfifty-twoA.M." "Well," Medlin saiddrily, "l suredon't want to missseeingthe climactic eruption,now do I?" Beershappenedto overhearthat. Arms akimbo,he said,very sternly,"l would adviseyou not to seeit from here."

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oblivious to irony, Medlin thought, and said, "what about Morne Rouge?" "What about Morne Rouge?" "Is it safe?Safetomorrow?" "Tomorrow, yes.But you haven'ta chanceof reachingit tonight." SomethingmadeMedlin ask,"ls it safelater?" "Later?"The scientistseemedsurprisedby the question."Well, if you mean-it catchesholy hell at the end of August." "Deaths?" Beersshrugged."Not as many as here. Probablynot more than two thousandin all." He sawsomethingbeingdonewrongand walkedawayto seethat it wasdone right. Medlin did not know why he shouldhavefelt more pain at the thought of two thousanddenizensdyingat Morne Rougefive monthsfrom now than at the thoughtof thi*y thousandkilled in St. Pierretomorrowmorning.For all he knew, FatherHayotand his two hundredforlornparishioners had not lingeredany longerat Morne Rougethan at St. Pierre.Until this moment, he didn't know that he had beenrootingfor the priestand his flock.At least they had shownbettersensethan anyonein Little Paris.He found himself wantingto think that they would somehowsurviveall of the volcano'stantrums,evenashe foundhimselfdisbelieving thatanydenizen,lackingprecise knowledgeof the future, could possiblyescape.The lethal ingenuity of human beingswasasnothingcomparedwith that of Pel6e.If it failedto kill you with lavaor poisongasor a mudslide,it could alwayssenda big wave to drown you, or fer-de-lances, or a tumbling hogshead. He lookedmournfully at Garrick,who murmured,"Some denizenyou met?" "Denizens." "Shouldn'tget so attached,Med." "l know. But all of a suddenI'm reallytired of beingdetached. " Rain beganto patteraroundthem. Medlin lookedup and let the warm dropsstrikehis ashyface. It felt good until he touchedhis cheek.Then it just felt slimy. Garrick stoodup grousingabout her old bones,and they moved to standunder a tree. Medlin heard the muffled pealingof bells strikingthe hour and countedthe strokes.It wasten o'clock. Garrick produceda flat caseand a penlightfrom her bag. Sheopenedthe caseand trainedthe penlighton its contents.Medlin sawtwo dozenslender, gleamingampoules. "There'senoughhere," shesaid,"to get both of us througha dozentrips if nineteenoh two doesn'twork out." "Eventually,we'll run out." "Big deal. Eventually,we'll run out and not be able to travelfirst-class any more. But we'll still be able to travel." "lt's rough without drugs." "So'schildbi*h, I hear,but womenwho don'thavedrugsstill havebabies. We'll just haveto be carefulnot to throw up on anyoneimportant or bad-

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Considerthe alternative,Med. Even temperedwhen we arrivesomeplace. doesn'tscarethe assoff you . . we'd if iustthe ideaof temporalengineering and there'dbe someoneelse'shand on the tiller all becomecargovessels, the time. The cargo'dbe peoplelike Rankeand peoplea lot worsethan Ranke.That'syour fate, if you go back." hearingfor a while. A deep That wasthe lastthing Medlin remembered him from a doze. Garrickwasstill sitting woke volcano rumbling from the noise increased,and then work. The besidehim, watchingthe scientists in Medlin up alarm. Garrickcalmly of red smoke. sat mass camea billowing just "lt's But we demonstrating. said, still again, then her watch lookedat going to leave." If we are leaving soon. needto be "You know I'm not goingback.Beforewe fy off somewhere, though-" "-l Madame Boislaville help her very want to seriously Medlin lookedat " escapefrom St. Pierre. to die with Garrickpulled dubiouslyon her chin. "Maybeshe'ssupposed all her neighborsin the morning. And evenif she isp'1-" "Maybe she isn't. She told me you yourselfurged her to go visit her relativesin the south." Garrick seemedslightlyabashed."l wasn'ttrying to force events.I just to die in the thoughtI'd givethem a little nudge.Maybesheisn't supposed her. morning.Maybethe reasonshedoesn'tis that a crazywhiteboy rescues What do you, as the crazywhite boy, proposeto do with her once you've rescuedher?" Medlin shrugged."Wish her a long and hrppy life in Fort-de-France." "Med, whethershelivesor dies,whatdifferencedoesit reallymake?She's ' still a ghost." "No, you'rewrong.You can'treallybelievewhatyou justsaid.Otherwise, why would you have botheredeven to try to nudge events,as you call it? Denizensor not, anomaliesor not, 1rys'rs- Rankedidn't think thesepeople werereal at all, and they hackedhim to pieces." "You know what I mean." Garrickheaveda greatsigh. "Look, did I tell you how I met Clara Prentiss? MissisPrentiss,the AmericanConsul'swife? It waslastFridaymorning, just afterI'd arrivedand just afterthe volcano'd startedto act up. We weren'texactlyformally introduced.I only happened to see her on the street.In a wonderful displayof futile and misdirected concern,shetried to rescuea suffocated bird that'dfallen in the road.I took it awayfrom her and threw it awayand told her not to wasteher sentiment. She lookedat me like I'd arrivedfrom a moon of Saturn." "Sometimes,"saidMedlin, "you actlike it. Betweennineteenfortyand here, I've seentoo manypeoplekilled by Stukasand volcanoes and crap.I justdon't think I can standto be around denizensany more and go on telling myself, Well, this is their world, theseare their lives,aw gee,that wastheir deaths. We're goingto be living entirelyamongthem from now on. We'vegot to stop thinking of them as peoplewho'vebeenin their gravesfor hundredsof years." "lf you saveher, you becomeresponsible for the woman'slife, and her " daughter's,and for all their descendants.

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"l think if time'sbeenresilientenoughto accommodate us all this while, it ought to be ableto accommodate a coupleof denizensjust this once." "Aiee. You're cutting it thin with this rescue." "l'll get out in time." "Christ, as long,as you're determinedto go through with this madness-" Garrick dug aroudrdin her bag and handedover a revolver((-you better takethis. In casewe run into the voodoopeopleagain." "We? If you dqn't approve,don't come along." "Well, I can'thaveyou changingyour mind aboutgoingAWOL assoon asyou'reout of my sight." SomethingRankehad saidnaggedat Medlin. He setthe thing carefullyto one sidein his mind, to be examinedlater.Garrick waslookingat her watchagain."Besides,"shesaid,"someone's got to keep time. We don't want to be sittingtoo closeto the stagewhen the showstarts." They stoodup, andGarricksoughtout Beers,who seemed veryuncomfortableasshethankedhim for his help. He said,without lookingat Medlin, "I thought you were going with us. The quimboiseurs aren't likely to attacka groupthe sizeof ours." She shookher head. "l'm too old to go trekkingthroughany jungle at prettyquiet now. Evenwizardshaveto go home night. Anyway,the streets're wives and explainto their why they'vebeenout so late. My friend and I'll takethe coastroad south." "Then goodluck to you," saidBeers,"and your friend." Each with gun in hand, Medlin and Garrickslippedpastthe gatesof the botanicalgardens.It wasfive-thirtyby the antiquewatch. Dawn, the eighth of May, Thursday,AscensionDay, lookedand felt like the insideof a filthy pressurecooker. Dirty red smoke hung above the crater. Pierrotinswere in the emergingfrom their homes.Most of them driftedlike sleepwalkers directionof the cathedral. At MadameBoislaville's, all the shuttershad beenclosedand the cracks stuffedwith rags.Medlin poundedon the doorand calledher name,but got no response.He walkedaroundto the courtyardgateand carefullyaimed at the padlock.It took two shotsfrom the revolver,a Smith & Wesson.38caliberhousegun,to shatterthe big padlock.He ran into the courtyardand beganbangingon the shuttersat the rearof the house.He identifiedhimself loudly and kept shoutingher name. Finally, suddenly,a shutteron one of the upstairswindowsopened.She wasonly a dark shape,outlined by the glow of a candle. "Go away!"shecried out to him. "Go to your own kind!" Garrick appearedbesidehim and raisedher empty hand in greeting. "MadameBoislaville!"shesaidout gaily."How delightfulto seeyou again!" "We mustleavethis town now,"Medlin said."We havecometo giveyou " to Fort-de-France. safepassage "The yi7g1d5-" They held up their revolversfor her to see,and Garrick declaredthat any wizard who showedhis face would be shot. Madame made no reply. The

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shutter remainedopen for a few more seconds,then closedwith a rattle. Medlin lookedup at it unhappily,convincedthat shehad madeup her mind to die in her home. The samethoughtmust haveoccurredsimultaneously to Garrick,for shebegan,with a shrugin her tone, "lf she'sdeterminednot to be lsssusd-" Down from the mountaincamethe soundof a greatdetonation.It was followed in short order by a secondand then a third. Garrick nervously fingeredher watch. Finally, shesaid,"We reallydo havels-" MadameBoislaville'srear door opened,and she appearedlooking hot, tired, dirty, and unfriendly.She wasclutchingher beadsin one hand and madethe otherinto a fist. Medlin had thoughtthe heatin the courtyardwas suffocating,but the massof air that oozedout pasther to envelopehim was asdenseand heavyas lead. "Madamen"he said,"l imploreyou to leavewith us at once."

"r..."

Garrickwent to the woman'sside."MadameBoislaville,"shesaid,"this youngman is determinedto saveyou from the mountain.Pleasego getyour daughterwhile he hitchesyour cart." "The horseis dead. . ." "Then we must walk," Garricksaid,"and we must startimmediately." The two women turned and movedinto the building. Medlin stationed himself in the doorway.He overhearda brief argumentabout belongings; Garrickinsistedthat therewasno time to gatherthem. Shereturnedleading Madame,who waswrappedin a shawland leadingElizabethby one hand, carryingonly a rosaryin the other. Medlin broughtup the rear. Garrick urgedthem to hurry asthey enteredthe street,and they movedat a fastwalk through the gloom. As they passedover the rim of the amphitheater,they pausedto look back.The volcano'sincandescent eyepeeredthrougha great siftingveil of airbornedebris.The pall dispersed asa warm, sulphuiour*ind blew down the mountainside.The sun shonedown on St. Pierre,revealing a roadstead full of anchoredshipsand, high on Pel6e'sside,a greatglowing patch.They hurriedon, and only Medlin lookedbackagain.Eachtime, the town seemedto havesunka little fartherinto the earthuntil at lastit vanished altogether.Little Paris,Little Sodom,goodbye,he thought. As the soldierhad told GovernorMouttet, there were no guardsto turn back refugeesnow. But there were not many refugees.A few riders and carriagespassedthe four, hurrying along the road without acknowledging their presence. A little more than an hour later,tired, footsore,and thirsty,they arrived at a smallfishingvillagethat lay half underthe fungleand half on the upper reachesof a glisteningblackbeach.The beachitselflay betweentwo steepsidedpromontories. Medlin asked,in English,"How long till the volcanoblows?" "Not long," saidGarrick. "Are we far enoughaway?"

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ttYes. tt

"You're sure?" "l'm sure,Med." On the beach,villagers-women, children,and old men-were pulling in a long net. Offshore,youngermen in smallboatsslappedtheir oarsagainst the water. "That is to frightenthe fish," Madamesaid,"and keepthem from escaping the net." The girl Elizabethvoiceda complaint.It wasthe firstsoundMedlin could rememberhearingher make.It waslike the squeakof a youngcat. Madamestrokedher hair and murmuredto her in creole,then turnedto them. "We can rest here," she said, "and probablyget somethingto eat and drink." "Good," saidGarrick."My mouth feelslike a lavabed." They walked down into the village. An ancient woman told them that soon there would be fresh fish to eat, for the catch was much better this morning than it had beenfor the pastseveraldays.Sheexplainedthat there juice. She wasno goodwaterfor coffeeand no rum, only somesugar-cane poured the juice into wooden cups for them. It tastedgrassy.The four refugeessippedand watchedfrom a discreetdistanceas the villagershauled in their net. "They'll sendsomeoneelse,"Medlin saidaftera while. Garrickshookher head."They don't have anyoneelse.No one like us. No one." "They could get lucky and find anotherreal traveler." "Maybe not. Listen, Beersand his group havegot to be from our future. 'em eversawin our time, let alone I saw usingequipmentno volcanologist Believe me, I've learned a lot aboutvolcanologylately. nineteen two. in oh with the world in Beers'time much wrong Now, I imaginethere'saboutas these scientistsand historians in Awful Oughts, but seeing the as there is undisturbedby unfettered, here-unchaperoned, going about their work didn't even engineering me that temporal suggests to anyoneexceptus-sure get out of the startinggate. Why? Becauseit requiresa travelerto carry Why wasn'ttherea traveler?Becausewe two travelers meddlingpassengers. went AWOL, and no one elsequalifiedfor the i-" There wasa suddensoundlike a cannonade,and the feeblesun disappearedcompletely.The sounddid not fadebut grewlouderby the moment. It came to the village like a rolling barrageof artillery fire. The villagers acrossthe beach.To the north, the glowing screamedinaudiblyand scattered cloud climbed into the sky, filled it, displacedit. The cloud was red and edgedwith black, then blacksuffusedwith red, and asit expandedit resembled God's or the Devil's greatopeninghand. Fire and lightning flashed through it. One sickly purple flash showedMedlin strandedfish thrashing on the sand near his feet. The next showedhim Madame Boislaville,in

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tears,plainlyterrified,with Elizabethat her side,clutchingher waist,looking at the cloud with wide cat eyesand openmouth. He reachedout and took Madame'shand and felt her strongdarkfingersgrasphis needfully.Holding handswas no guaranteeof anything, but sometimesit wasgood for a little reassurance.

GRAVITY'S ANGEL Tom Maddox

v

Here'san informedand thoughtfullook at the megabuckworld of Big Science-and a reminderthat even with the very biggestof projects,you can't afford to overlook even the smallestof possibilities. . . Born in Beckley,West Virginia, Tom Maddoxis currentlyon sabbaticalfrom his positionat EvergreenStateUniversityin Washington.Althoughhe hassoldonly a handful of storiesto date, primarily to Omni and lsaacAsimoy'sScienceFiction Magazine,he scoreda major successlast year with the publicationof his wellreceivedfirst novel, Halo-and I suspectwe'll be seeinga lot more from him asthe decadeprogresses. Maddoxcurrentlylivesin Oakland,California, and contributesa monthly column of "Reportsfrom the ElectronicFrontier" to Locus.

The InvisibleBicycleburnedbeneathme in the moonlight,its transparent wheelsrefractingthe hard white light into rainbowcolorsthat playedacross tunnel ran, where the blacktop.Beneaththe road'ssurfacethe accelerator the SSC-the Superconducting SynchrotonCollider-traced a circle 160 kilometersin circumferenceunderneaththe Texasplains. Dependingon how you feel aboutbig scienceand the Texaseconomy, the subatomicworld, the SSC waseithera superbnew tool for researching boondoggle.Either way, it was a or high-energyphysics'most outrageous mammoth racewaywhere subatomicparticleswere pushedto nearly the speedof light, then crashedtogetheras violently as we could ssnhivswhoseviolencewasmeasuredin trillions of electronvolts. smash-ups Thosebig numbersget all the press,but it's only when particlesinteract that experimentsbear fruit. The bunchesof protonswant to passthrough eachother like ghosts,so we-the High BetaExperimentTeam, my work group-had all sortsof tricksfor gettingmore interactions.Our first fullenergyshotswerecomingup, andwhen the beamscollidedin Experimental Area l, we would be rewardedfor yearsof designand experiment. So I had thought.Now I rodea greatcircle abovethe SSC, hauntedby even among questionsabout infinity, singularity-improbablemanifestations And quantum physics, nothing was-guife-real. where the wonderlandof questions the way by about more than that, I wasneedledand unsettled not my group but all of us, the high-energyphysicscommunity-did our

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business.I'd alwaystakenfor grantedthat we wereafterthe truth, whateverib form, whateverour feelingsabout it. Now eventhat simpleassumptionhad collapsed,and I wasleft with unresolvable doubtsabout it all-the natureof the real, the objectivityof physics-riddles posedby an unexpectedvisitor. Two nightsearlierI had returnedfrom a ride to find a woman standing in front of my house."Hello," I said,as I walkedthe InvisibleBicycleup the drivewaytowardher. "Can I help you?" "l'm Carol Hendrix," shesaid,and from the soundof her voice.shewas just a little bit amused."Are you Sax?" "Yes," I said.And I asked,"why didn't you tell me you werecoming?" ReallyI wasjust stalling,trying to takein the fact that fhis womrn *6 ih. one I'd beenwriting to for the pastsix months. in our rolesasgroupleadersat our respective - -We hadbeguncorresponding labs,me at SSC-Texlab,her at LosAlamos,but hadcontinuedout ofshared personalconcerns:a mutual obsession with high-energyphysicsand an equallystrongfrustrationwith the waybig-timescienc.*ir Conducted-the whole extra-scientific carnivalof politicsand publicitythat hassurrounded particleaccelerators from their inception. Her letterswere sometimeshelter-skelter but were alwaysinterestingreportsfrom a powerful,disciplinedintelliger-rce workingat its limits. She had the kind of mind I'd alwaysappreciated,one comlortablewith both experimentand theory.You wouldn'tbelievehow rarethat is in high-energy physics. Women in the sciences canbe hardanddistantandself-protective, because they'reworkingin a man'sworld and they know what thai means.They tell each other the stories,true ones:about RosalindFranklin not gettingthe Nobel for her X-ray work on DNA, CandacePertnot gettingthJaskJr for the firstconfirmationof opiatereceptors in the brain. And so they learnthe truth: in mostkindsof science,therearefew women,and they haveto work harderand do betterto get the samecreditasmen, and they know it. That's the way thingsare. Carol Hendrixlookedpaleand tired,youngand vulnerable-not at all what I'd expected.She wassmall, thin-boned,and her hair wasclippedshort. She worefadedblue jeans,a shirt tied at the waist,and sandalsouerbarefeet. "l didn't havetime to getin touchwith you," shesaid.Then shelaughed, and her voicehad a ragged,neryousedgeto it. "No, that'snot true. t Jidn'i get in touch with you becauseI knew how busyyou were,and you might tell me to comebacklater.I can'tdo that. we needto talk, and I needyJu, help . beforeyou do your first full-beamruns." "What kind of help?" I asked.Already,it seemed,the intimacy of our lette_rs wasbeingtransformedinto i.sta.t friendshipir-rreal time. need_Q-system time," shesaid.She mea't time o'eUARKER, the - -"1 lab'ssimulationand imagi'g system.She said, "I've got J-. results,but lhey'rg incomplels-l'vg been workingwith kludgedIrogtams becauseat Los Alamoswe're not set up for your work. I've got to get at yours. If my simulationsare accurate,you needto postpou.you runs."

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I lookedhardat her. "Right," I said."That'sgreat-f ustwhat Diehl wants to hear. That you want precioussystemtime to confirm a hypothesisthat " could fuck up our schedule. "Diehl is a bureaucrat,"she said. "He doesn'teven understandthe " physics. Yeah,l thought,true, but sowhat?RogerL. Diehl: my bossand everyone else'sat the lab, also the SSC'sguardianangel. He had shepherdedthe mammoth budgetsthrough a hostileCongress,mixing threat accelerator's that lay just at the and promise,telling them strangetalesaboutdiscoveries 200TeV horizon.All in all, he continuedthe grandtraditionof accelerator what haveyou. Going back lab nobility:con men, politicians,visionaries, prospered labs underhard-pushingmegBerkeley, accelerator Lawrence at to politics in P.R. as science,men lay much and whose talents as alomaniacs labs and egos were one. whose "Let's talk," I said."Come inside,tell me your problem." "All right," shesaid. "Where are you staying?"I asked. "l thoughtI'd find someplace later,afterwe'vetalked." "You can stayhere. Where are your bags?" "This is it." Shepointedto the sidewalkbesideher. At her feetwasa soft black cotton bag. "Come on in," I said. I figuredshe would be doing interestingwork, unusualwork; maybeeven valuablework, if she'dgottenlucky. I wasn'tthe leastbit readyfor what she was up to, We crankedup "The Thing," a recentdevelopmentin imaging.It had a wall-mountedscreenfour feet in diameter;on it you could picturedetector resultsfrom any of the SSC'sruns. When it wasrunning, the screenwasa tangleof lines, the tracksof the particles,their collisions,disappearances, of the small,violent all the wonderlandmagicso characteristic appearances; world of particlephysics,whereeventsoccur in billionthsof a second,and like the Cheshirecat, leavingbehindonly its matterappearsand disappears particletracksacrossour screens. smile-in the form of brightly-colored Still, settingup and running simulationsis an art, and at any accelerator lab there'll be one or two folk who havethe gift. When a seriesof important shotsis comingup, theydon'tgetmuch sleep.At LosAlamos,CarolHendrix, despiteher statusas group leader,wasthe residentwizard. At Texlab, we had Dickie Boy. Shestretched,then satat the swing-armdeskwith its keyboardand ioystick I moduleandloggedon to QUARKERwith the accountnameandpasswords andQUARKER'S bastards, gaveher. Her programswerenumber-crunching Ctay backend would be time-slicinglike mad to fit them in. "Tell me what this is all about," I said."So I'll know what we'relooking at when this stuff runs." "Sure," shesaid.

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While we waitedfor QUARKER, she drew equationsand plots on my whiteboardin red, green,black,and yellow,and sheexplainedthat shewas postulatingthe existenceof a new kind of attractorthat cameinto being in a region of maximum chaos, its physicalresult an impossibleregion of spacetime,wherean infinite number of particleeventsoccupieda single, infinitesimalpoint. Mathematicallyand otherwise,it is calleda singularity,and in cosmology somethinglike it is assumedto be at the centerof blackholes.There were all sortsof theoremsaboutsingularities, fewof which I knew,nonerigorously. Why would I? This stuff went with astrophysics and the gravitationalforces with hugechunksof mass. associated When she finishedher explanations and turned from the whiteboard,I could seethat she waswired and sleepyat once. Mostly, though, she was exultant:shefelt she'dhit the jackpot.And of courseshehad, if any of this madesense. . . it couldn't, I thought. The Thing gonged,to tell us we had our results.I pulled up a canvasbackedchair besideher as she sat at the console."We'll walk throughthe simulation,"shesaid."lf you havea question,ask." At first therewereiust cartoonschematics of the detectors; line drawings of the big centraldetectorand its surroundingEM boxes,hadroncalorimeters,and gaschambers.Then the beamshotsstartedcoming,and in a small window at the top of the screen,the beamparameters reeledby. Running Monte Carlosis one hell of a lot easierthan doingan actualrun; you dont havethe actualexperimental uncertainties aboutgoodbeam,goodvacuum, reliabledetectorequipment;it's a simulation,so everythingworksright. As we watched,the usualsortsof eventsoccurred,particlesand antiparticles_playing their_spear-carryir-rg rolesin this drama,bangingtogetheiand sendingout ietsof energythat QUARKER dutifully calculited-, watchingthe energy-conservation booksthe whole time, readyto signalwhen something happenedit couldn'tfit into the ledger.Complexand interestingenoughii its own way, all this, but just background. SUARKER shiftedgearsall of a sudden,signalingit hadsomanycollisions it could not trackthem accurately.The screentunredinto what we calleda "hedgehogi'a bristlypatternof i'teractionstoo thick to count. "We don't care," Carol Hendrix whispered."Do it." And she forced 9UARKER to plungeahead,madeit speedup the picturesof events.She didn't careaboutthe-meanings of the individualevents;shewaslookingfor somethingglobaland, I thought,damnedunlikely. Eventsunrolleduntil we seemedto be in the middleof the densest particle interactions this sideof the Big Bang,and I almostforgotwhat*. *.i. there for, because thisstuffwasthe productof my work,showingthat,aspromised, we wou_ld,givethe experimentershigher beam lumiiosity than they'd dreamedof having. Then the numbersof collisionslessened,and that was the first time I believedshewason to something.Thingsweregoingbackward.The beam continuedto pour in its streamsof particles,but all usualinteractionshad

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insidethe beampipes,one utterlyanomalouspoint wasabsorbingall ceased: that cameitsway.We both satin completesilence,watchingthe impossible. The screencleared.then said: E N DS I I ' I U L A T I O N eualuation appears impossible Quantitatiue emplovinS standard assurrrptions. The conclus i o n s s t a t e d d o n o t p e r m i t u n a m h i E L t o u sp h v s i cal interPretation. We lay outsidein recliningchairsandwatchedthe sky.The moon wasdown, and starsglitteredgold againstthe black. Meteorscut acrossthe horizon, sparkchamber.We'd beendrinking particlesflashingthroughthe universe's wine, and we wereboth a little high-the wine, sure,both of us drinking on empty stomachs,but more than that, the senseof discoveryshe had communicatedto me. "Finding the orderbehindthe visible,"shesaid."l've wantedto be part of that for aslong as I can remember.And at Los AlamosI've gottena taste. They offeredme a job two yearsago, and the offer iust caught me at the right time. I had done somework I wasproud of, but it wasfrustrating-il'5 easyfor a woman to becomea permanentpost-doc.And to make things " worse,I'd alwaysworkedin my husband'sshadow. "He's a physicist?" sinceI took the job. "Yes. At Stanford,at SLAC. We've beenseparated as a package."She of came sort and the split-up, the The two things, iob down the Interstate roar of cars faint was the stopped,and the only sound " "Tell happens tomorrow. me what nearby.She said, "That dependson Diehl's reaction.I'll seehim in the morning. First I'll askto borrowour residentimagingexpert.That is, if I can pry him loose. I'm figuringDiehl won't want to look at any of this stuff;he might want a reporton it, if I can talk to him iust right. After that, we'll see." "Okay," shesaid."Look, I'm reallytired . ." "l'm iorry. I shouldhavesaidsomething."I startedto getup, but shesaid, "No, I'm fine. I'll seeyou in the morning."Shewavedgoodnightandheaded into the house;I'd shownher the guestroom earlierandfoldedout the couch for her. we'd seen I lay watchingthe sky,my mind circling aroundthe strangeness earliei. I wantedto understandit all more clearlythan I did, and I hoped that Dickie Boy would be a help. In particular,he might know whereher simulationshad gonewrong.They had to be wrong,or else. I sippedat wine and wonderedat the possibilitythat I waspresentat one of thosi momentsin physicsthat get embalmedand placedinto the history books.I supposeI wasstill wonderingwhen I fell asleep. I waslerled awakesometime laterby a noiselike high wind throughmetal trees.Amber fashesof light camefrom the sideof the house,and a pianoshapedmachinerolled out on clearplastictreads,rippingchunksof sodwith

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its aeratingspikesas it came.The machinewasa fohn Deere"Yardman," apparentlyrun amok. I wentinto the houseandcalledGroundsandMaintenance.A fewminutes later a truck pulled up, and a man in dark blue overallsgot out and called the robot to him with a red-lightedcontrol wand, then crackedan access hatchin its side.Optic fibersbloomedin the robot'sinteriorlike phosphorescent alien plants. I awokearoundeight-thirtythe nextmorning.Carol Hendrixwasstill in bed; I let her sleep.I left a message on Diehl'smachineaskingfor a few minutes person-to-person, then I drank coffeeand workedagainthrough her Monte Carlos:lovelywork, plausibleand elegant,but almostcertainlynot enough to move Diehl. How could it? As shehad said,he wouldn't understandit. However, I knew who would. In the event that Dickie Boy vetted her simulations,we'd takethem to the ThursdayGroup that evening.We met weekly at Allenson'shouse. Every importantwork-groupat the lab was represented, and everysignificantproblemthe groupsworkedon was discussed there.ThursdayGroupwasthe locusof oraltradition,the placewhere the lab's work was revealedand its meaningdecidedupon. By the time experimentalresultssawprint, they wereold newsto anyonewho had been to ThursdayGroup. Usuallytherewereten or sopeoplethere,all men, most in their mid-thirties,mostof them white and the restChinese. Mid-morningshecamein, wearingold Levi'sand a blacktanktop. "A.y news?"sheasked,and I told her no. Shegot a cup of coffeeand satnext to me and watchedas her simulationsplayed. poppedup in a window on the screen:"lf Shortlyafter noon a message you want to talk, meet me in section27 within the next hour. Diehl." "Do you want me to come along?"sheasked,and I said,"No way. He's a trickybastardto handleat the bestof times."I left her sittingat the console, startingthe Monte Carlosup again. I rodethe InvisibleBicycleto the shuttlestationat Maingateand locked it in the rackoutside.Down concretestepsI went and into the cold, musty air of the tunnel. A dark blue, bullet-shaped shuttlecar satwaiting. I was the only one boarding.I told the car where I wasgoing. "section 77," it confirmedin its colorlessvoice. The repetitivecolorschemeof the latticefashedby the windows.Radiofrequencyboosters werein red, superconducting dipolesin blue, quadrupoles in orange;the endlessbeam pipes,wherethe straw-thinbeamsof protons and antiprotonswould circle,werelong arcsof brightgreen.If therewerea universalsymbolismof colors,thesewould say,intricate,precise,expensive, technologically superb-the primaryqualitiesof the SSC. About ten minuteslater, the car slowedto a stop.The doorsslid back, and I steppeddown into the tunnel. About fifty metersaway, Diehl stood talkingto a man wearingblue overallswith the yellowfashesof a crewchief. The man lookedtaut, white-faced."So pull everygoddamneddipole with that batch number and replacethe smartbolts," Diehl said.They walked

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towardme, and the crew chief stoppedat a com stationand pluggedin his headset,no doubt beginningthe evil taskDiehl had sethim. "What can I do for you, Sax?"he asked. "l've got a visitor,"I said."From LosAlamos.And she'sgot someinteresting simulationsof our full-powershots.I think you oughtto seethem." He lookedstartled;he hadn'texpected me to askfor his time-money, resources, priority, yes,but not lris time. "Or maybenot," I said."Maybe you should let me haveDickie Boy put her Monte Carloson the Thing. She'sgot some " strangestuff there,and if it worksout, we needto be prepared. "Sax,what the fuck areyou talkingabout?I'm tired,you know?We're in the home stretchhere, on budget,on time . . . now take Hoolan-you know, who headsthe Meson Group-he knows nothing about this. He knowshis experiments arecomingup soon,his simulationsdo not makeshit for sense,and DickieBoy is the oneto help him. But if he is not not available becauseyou havehim doing what you considerthe Lord'swork, Hoolan's going to be pissed,becausehe cannof understandwhy, in light of these approachingdeadlines,he shouldhaveto come beggingfor assistance." "Then maybeyou shouldcome look at what she'sgot." I wasplayinga tricky game,usingmy positionas groupleaderto put pressureon him but bettinghe wouldn't want to give up valuabletime and maybeexposehis ignorance."l think this is reallyimportant." He waswatchingthe crewchief explainingto six men that they would be workingin the tunnel until the troublesomesmartboltshad beenreplaced. None of them lookedhrppy. "fesus,"Diehl said."Take Dickie Boy if you can convincehim." "Thanks," I said.He lookedat me like he tastedsomethingsour. I owed him one, and one thing wassure:he'd collectwhen and wherehe wanted. "You reallylike this thing, don't you?"Carol Herrdrixaskedasshereached tires.It hung from up to touch one of the InvisibleBicycle'sclearpolystyrene hooksjust insidemy front door. rubber-covered "Yeah," I said."l got it in Germany.It's justplastic,but there'ssomething wonderfulabout it-almost the Platonicidea of a bicycle.There'sone in the Museum of Modern Art." Hangingaboveher head, it seemedto glow in the softlight givenoffby babyspots."l usuallyride it to think." "What do we do now?" sheasked.She wasn'tinterestedin my toy. "We get Dickie Boy overhere," I said."lf we can. I'll call him." "New physics,"I told DickieBoy on the phone."Nothingyou'veeverseen." "Bullshit,"he said. "No bullshit. Wrong physics,maybe-that's what we want you to help with, find out if we'remissingsomethingtricky." "Or somethingobvious."He had no respectfor anyone'sability on The Thing but his own. "l don't think so. I think we'vegot a wholesetof tracksherelike nothing you'veeverseen."

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"l've got the MesonGroup on my schedule." "l know. Diehl saidI could borrowyou today." "Where you want me?" "Come over to my house." No way I wantedanyonelooking over our shoulders. Dickie Boy had madehis nameasa post-docat Fermilab,whereDiehl had recruitedhim when the SSC was nothing but a stackof plans, an empty tunnel, and moundsof heapeddirt. He hadn'tbeenbroughton for his good looks:he stoodjustoversixfeettall andweighedmaybea hundredand thirty pounds;his dull brown hair was tied into dreadlocks; he had a long, thin noseand close-set eyesand usuallyseemedslightlydirty. However,in his brief time at Texlabhe had alreadymadelegendaryforayson The Thingthe last, a tricky sequenceof pion studies,lastednearlyseventy-two hours, duringwhich time DickieBoy hadworkedthroughseveralshiftsof physicists and finishedby askingthe groupleaderif he neededanythingmore. Carol had heardaboutDickie Boy, but shehad her own reputation,and so when they saidhello and lookedeachotherover,I could almosthearthe wheelsturning, the questionbeingposed,"Are you as goodas they say?" We went to the terminal,and Carol ran the Monte Carlosas Dickie Boy satalmostsquirmingwith impatienceto havea look at what shewasdoing. When shegot out of the chair, he almostleaptinto it and said,"You two go somewhereelse,okay?The other room'sall right;just leaveme alone." "l needto do somework at the office," I told Carol. "What aboutyou?" "Yeah," shesaid."[ shouldcheckmy mail at the lab, seewho'sangrythat I'm gone.You got anotherterminalwith a modem?" "ln the bedroom,"I said."l'll seeyou two later." At HBET I found a line of peoplewaitingfor me to talk aboutor approve their experimentalarrangements, and so I spentthe afternoonthere, amid the chaosof gettingthe SSCreadyfor its firstfull-energyruns,scheduledfor just a month away. Carol and Dickie Boy wereseatednextto one anotherwhen I returned,with anothervariationon her Monte Carloson the screenin front of them. "What's up?" I said,and Dickie Boy said,"This is fantastic."Carol wassmiling. "Think we can takeit to ThursdayGroup?"I asked. "Tough audience,"Dickie Boy said. "ls it the one that counts?"Carol asked. "Yes,it is," I said."lf we can convincethem, they'llgo up againstDiehl or anyoneelse." "Let'sdo it, then," shesaid. "Can you do a presentation?" I asked."Good talk, goodpictures?" "Yes," shesaid."l've beengettingreadyto do it." "Fine," I said."l'll call Allensonand askif I can takeoverthe agenda.I don't think anyone'sgot anythinghot working."

Tom Maddox ++*

Bad haircuts,cheapclothes,and an attitude-that's the way I oncehearda gatheringof theoreticalphysicists They-we-consider ourselves described. and mostchallengingscience aristocrats of the mind, workingin the deepest first good with ideas,that'sthe only thingthatcountsthereis. Gettingthere that wasthe unspokencredo. under all circumstances, The whole group showedup that night. The living room of Allenson's housewasshabbyand comfortable,with couches,chairs,and largepillows enoughto hold the sixteenof us:thirteenregularsandme, Carol, and Dickie and five Orientals,threeChineseand two fapanese. Boy. Eight Caucasians Most werein their latethirties,thougha fewwerein their middleforties.No at one underthirty, no oneoverfifty. Thesewerethe theoreticalheavyweights the lab, men in their short-livedprime asit existsin high-energyphysics.A few weredrinkingcoffee;most just satwaiting,talking. I gaveher the simplestpossibleintroduction.I said,"This is Carol Hendrix, who is herefrom LosAlamos,wheresheis SimulationsGroup Leader. Shehassomevery interestingsimulationsshewould like to presenttous." mode as Carol Hendrix knew her audience.She had gone into sexless much aspossible.Her facewaspaleand scrubbed,no makeup,and shewore b^ggytan trousersanda plaidwool shirt-in short,the closestapproximation shecould get to what the men in front of her werewearing.From her first for they'dlistento nothingelse words,shespokecalmlyand authoritatively, from her, and she allowednone of the passionI'd heard to animateher presentation. Shegaveit all to them, dealtit out on a screenin the front of the room. The slidescame up showingpretty picturesfrom The Thing, equation setsfrom to QUARKER, annotationsin her own hand: each idea led straighdorwardly the one after, theory and practicebroughttogetherwith casualelegance. Leavingthe lastslide's"END SIMULATION" on the screen,shesummarized:"We know little aboutthe physicalattributesof a singularity;in fact, its essentialnature is lawless."She stopped,smiled. "Though we would anticipateits interactionswith the nonsingularworld of spacetimeto be laws,this may not be the case.In short, governedby the usualconservation [h" .onr"quencesof creatinga singularityare not well understood,and I would suggestthat further analysisis requiredbeforeany experimentsare undertakenthat could bring such a peculiarregionof spacetimeinto close proximity with instrumentsso delicateas thosein an experimentalarea." She pausedand lookedat all of them, said, "l will be glad to hear your questions and comments." Thisis whereit wouldhappen,l thought.Gueststo ThursdayGroup often got taken on the roughestintellectualride of their lives, as this group of men probedeverythingthey had saidfor truth, origibrilliant and aggressive nality, a.td releuance-or the converse.I went very tense,waiting for the onslaughtto begin. "Dickie Boy,nBunfordsaid.If this grouphad an alphamale, Bunfordwas it. He was a big man-around six three and more than two hundred

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pounds-with a strong jaw, a lined face, and sunburnedskin. He had elaboratedthe so-called"StandardModel" in new and interestingways. The "semi-unboundquarkstate"washis particularinterest-and the smart money had it that he and his group could pick up a Nobel if the SSC foundthe interactions he waspredicting."Did you validateher simulations?" Bunfordasked.Ratheran obliqueapproach,I thought,probablyin preparation for goingfor the throat,theoreticallyspeaking.Carol Hendrixturnedto seehow Dickie Boy would answer. "Sure," Dickie Boy said."V.ry sweet,veryconvincing.Takefor instance the seriesof transforms . " "Fine," Bunfordsaid.And to Carol Hendrix:"Thank you. [f DickieBoy validatesyour Monte Carlos,I'm surethey'rewell done." He paused."The physicsis interesting,too . . . though quite speculative, " of course. And he stoppedthere,apparentlyhavingfinished. I waitedfor him to go on, but he didn't-he waswhisperingquietly to Hong, one of his group members.And no one elsewas sayinga word. Finally, Allensonstoodfrom the pillow wherehe'd beensittingcross-legged and said, "Shall we make it an earlyeveningtonight?I don'l know about you guys,but I could usesomesleep." He turnedto Carol Hendrixand said, "l'd like to thankour guestfor speaking to usthisevening." Murmuredvoices said much the samething. "At a later time, perhapswe can discussthe implicationsof this work, but this weekwe areall verybusygettingthe SSC up to spec." Carol Hendrixstoodwhite-facedand silentasall the men got up, nodded goodbyeto her, and left, somealone, othersin small gto,.rprof-their colleagues. "l don't understand,"I said.We werewalkingalongone of the suburblike loopsthat led from Allenson'shouseto mine. For ihe present,many of us lived in Texlab-ownedhousingasa matterof convenience."They didn't evenwant to arguewith you." "l'm an idiot," shesaid."l forgotsomeof the mostimportantlessonsI've ever learned.In particular,I forgotthat I'm a woman, and anythingI say getsfilteredthrough that." "Do you reallythink that?" "Sax, don't be so fucking naive. why do you think they were polite? BecauseI wasa visitor?"Her voicewasfilled with scom;sheknewaswell as I did what treatmentvisitorsgot. "Your conclusionsare radical.You can'texpectthem to assentright off." "l'll grant you that, and it would have been hard to convinceiher,l of anythingsubstantive, but I could havebeguntonight. They dismissedme, they dismissedwhat I was saying.Bastards.Smug male bastards-it's no wondertheycan'theararlyth-ttgt they'resofilledwith their own importance. " We stoodin front of my house.She said,"l think I'll walk aroundfor a while, if that'sall right. I don't want to talk right now." "Sure," I said."Go anywhereyou want.In fact,I think I'll go for a bicycle ride. I'll seeyou later."

306

Tom Maddox

So moonlightflashedthroughthe bicycleframeas I rodethe berm road abovethe SSC, and finally I realizedI had no answersto what perplexed me, and I turned aroundand headedbacktowardhome. I rode through sheetsof darkenedhomesand cameto my driveway,where a light bumedon a pole,walkedthe InvisibleBicycleup to the door, and went in to absolutesilence.On a low tablein the living room, I found a note: Dear Sax, I havegoneback to Los Alamos. Don't worryabout me, I'm fine. I iust needto think about what happenedhere. Thank you for aII you'vedone. Carol Over the next weeks,as the full-energytrials camecloser,I thought often aboutCarol Hendrix, her singularity,and the treatmentshe'dgotten. I went backto ThursdayGroup the nextweekbut found I had little to say with to any of them-the wholebunch seemedto be struttingapes,obsessed and in the truth, were interested If they their own importanceand show. treated Carol hadn't they why particularlyin new, interestingtruths, then Her ideaswerestrange,but her ideasdeserved? Hendrixwith the seriousness importantideasalwayswere. She wasa woman, but so what?How could that matter? excludedeveryonewho All of a sudden,I felt a fool. Their conversation wasnot a memberof the group,and their masculinity,while entirelyfreeof consciousmalice, effectivelyrecognizedonly its own kind. A young, small woman simplydid not existfor them as a physicistto be takenseriously. I left earlythat eveningand decidedI would not go back. at the lab. SecretarBut whatI hadseenat ThursdayGroupwaseverywhere weremen-white men by and andadministrators ieswerewomen,scientists large,with a sprinklingof Orientals.CarolHendrixwasright:I wasincredibly physicist,I had beendevoted why. As a high-energy naive.But I understood to what I thoughtof asan unbiasedsearchfor the truth, a searchthat creates intensetunnel vision, becauseof how difficult it is, it demandsabsolutely everythingyou can bring to it, and oftenthat isn't quite enough.Now I had awakened,and what I sawappalledand confusedme. I got one note from Carol Hendrix, apologizingfor leavingso abruptly and sayingthat she would write againwhen she had gottenher thoughts runs, straightenedout. Then, five daysbeforethe first full-energy,high--beta sheialled me at the office."Sax," shesaid."l'd like to comewatchthe runs. Would you mind?" Carol leanedover me, slid her bodydown mine, pulled the gown over her head.Shewasastrideme, handsat her sideasshemovedin rhythmicarcs. "The stars,"shesaid.Throughthe windowI couldseepointsof light strobing, red-and-blueshiftingthroughthe spectrum."somethingis pokingthrough

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behindthem," shesaid."lt wantsin." A sheetof blue light pouredthrough the window, burned through us, X-rayingflesh and bone. In it we were translucent,the intricatenetworkof our nervesburning in silverfire. We werefusingtogether,so closeto an orgasmthat would annihilateus. I woke,got up, and dranksomewaterfor my burningthroat,fell backon the bed. I hung suspended betweenwakingand sleepingasa floodof images passedacrossmy eyes.Bright, blurredshapesvanishedbeforeI could see them clearly. She wascoming in the next day, the day beforethe first big runs. She wore khaki shortsand a dark blue T-shirt. We weresittingin my back yard again,under a moonlesssky-a thousandstarsaboveus and meteors cutting brief, silent arcs at the horizon. She sniffedat the glassof cold Chardonnayshewasholding,drank,and leanedbackin the recliningchair. "l owe you an apology,"shesaid. "What do you mean?" "You did everythingyou could to help, and I walkedout on you." "You weretroubled." "l was,but I shouldn'thavetreatedyou like one of them." "That's okay.Apologyaccepted. " "Tomorrow morning, what do you think will happen?" "Truthfully, I don't know. If we get good beam, we'll have the right conditionsfor your simulation." "That's what I- thought. _I'u.gone over it and over it, workedit through time and again,had a wgrk group tear my analysisapart.It all addsup-io the samething: my simulationsare realistic,plausible. . . and unverifiable without experimental evidence.All of that'sfine. What worriesme is this:if I'm-right, yo-urpeopleare going into what could be a dangeroussituation, and no one hasa clue about it; no one wantsto hearabout it. at leastnot from me." "You'vedone everythingyou can." "Maybe." "No, I mean it. Listen." And I pouredit all out to her, what I'd seen in recentweeks,how incrediblyclosedand self-confidentour world was, unbelievablyblind aboutits own nature,which within the communitywas seenas inevitable.I'm not surehow long I talkedor how I sounded-l just know that the frustrationand angerand amazementI had lived with for the pastweekscametumbling out in one long screed. "oh, Sax,"shesaid,finally."You poorinnocent."And shelaughed,then !gugb-.dagain, harder,and carriedon laughingas I satthereenibarrassed. Finally shestoppedand said,"sometimesi getio wrappedup in all of this, -hell I-forgethow thingsreallyare.Thanksfor r.-indittg m;. To with them all._I've-tried, you'vetried.If the SSC'sturnedinto the world'smostexpensive junk pile, it won't be our responsibility. " We talkeda bit more until we had finishedthe bottleof wine. then she said,"When do we haveto be there?"

308

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"Sevene.u. We shouldleavehere aroundsix-thirty,so I guessit's time to go to bed." Shefound me standingat the slidingglassdoor in my bedroom,lookingout onto the night. I turned and saw her in the doorway,backlit by the light from the hall behind her. "Are you all right?"I asked. "Who knows?"shesaid.Shecameacrossthe room to me, stoodin front of me, and put her handson my bareshoulders.Shesaid,"Want to make love, pen pal?" She leanedagainstme, and I could feel her body under the thin jersey. "Yes,"I said."l do." Through the night we moved to the rhythms of arousaland fulfillment: makinglove,lying togetherin silence,sleeping,wakingagain.All the frustration, anger,anxiety,excitementwe had both felt the pastweeksfunneled into thosemoments,sublimedinto active,driven lust. Shortlyafter five I wasawakenedby a sweepof amberlight through the robotoutside. window and the soundof wind. I found the groundskeeper fashed out of spikes ground; its aerating patch of one onto had It settled turf into fine chewing repetition blind their machine, the of the bottom much" I said,"Youought to go backto the barn or whereverthey keepyou and justkind of relax.Keepthis shit up and they'll scrapyou." It stoppedand sat high harmonic thereemittinga low-pitchedhum punctuatedwith occasional it crawledover "Think It decided: it over." "Thatls I said. sensible," bursts. into very them slice to began and to a row of stuntedornamentalshrubs small pieces. andtriedto go backto sleep. I wentbackinside,calledthe thing'skeepers, InsteadI lay awake,thinkingof whatmighthappenthatmorning,until Carol turned overto me and whispered,"One more time?" "Oh yes,"I said."One moretime." Around sixthirty we walkedout of the houseand ten minuteslater wereat Maingate shuttle station, where we went down into the tunnel with five of a tech team. They wore orangeoverallsand helmetsand had *.-6.r, danglingover their shoulders,protectionagainstany accident respirators magnetsand drive the wtrerehelium *outd boil from the superconducting air out of the tunnel. wasdirectingpeopleat the shuttlestop. Harry Ling, the BC 4 supervisor, "How's it going,Harry?"I said. "Ask me later," he said. At ExperimentalArea l, teamswere making final adiustmentsto their and hopingno last-minutegremlinshad creptin. The room was instruments Inside composite-detector. fifty meterssquare,dominatedby the boxcar-sized it, the storagerings came together;at their intersectionthe protons and antiprotonswould-meet arrd ttat sform. Two men were levering a bulky,

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oblongcamera-SoNY in redletterson itsside-into positionat an external port. Peoplepickedtheir way throughsnarlsof cable. Fifty metersup the tunnel was the control room. It was on two levels: groundfoor, wheretechnicianssatin rowsat their consoles,and the experiPersonsatwith his assistants mentscommandabove,wherethe Responsible and controlledthe experiments. I introducedCarol Hendrix to Paulsetr,ffiy assistant,who was crouched over his screenlike a big blondebearovera honeycomb."Hello," he said, then went on mutteringinto his headset-l often wonderedhow anyone understoodhim. I saidto her, "Let'sfind you a headset,and you can plug in to my console and watchwhat develops." The nexthour wastakenup with the usualpreparations for a run: collecting protonsandantiprotonsin their injectorsynchrotons, tuningthe beams.The "experimentsunderway"clock had startedwhen the first particleswere fed out of the injectorsynchrotronand into the main rings.Now the particles would be circling in the rings at a velocitynear the speedof light, their numbersbuildinguntil therewereenoughfor a sufficientlyviolentcollision. "l haveinitiatedthe commandsequence," Diehl saidon the headphones. About a minute latera voicesaid,"We're gettingpictures,"and therewas a round of sporadicclappingfrom the peopleon the groundfloor. On one of the screensin front of us, QUARKER wasprovidingnearreal-timeviews of the collisions,which appearedas elaboratesnarlsof red and green,the trackscolor-codedto distinguishincomingfrom outgoingparticles."Beautiful," the man in front of us said. On the screennext to this one, data flickeredin greenVpe. I sawthat everythingwas,asthey say,"nominal." Then all lightsin the controlroom went out, everyscreenblank, everycom line and computerdead. Under amberemergencylights,everyonesatstunned. And the world flexed,the wave from the singularitypassing,shapeof spacetime changing.Puffsof graydustjumpedoff the walls,and therewere the soundsof distantexplosions. Carol jumpedout of her chairandsaid,"Come on." I tookoffmy headset and followedher. We passedthroughthe door and into the tunnel, where settlingclouds of dust were refractedin yellow light. I stoppedat a locker marked"Emergency"and tookout two respirators-falsefacesin clearplastic with attachedstainless steeltubes.If enoughhelium escaped into the tunnel, it coulddriveout the oxygenand suffocate anyonewithoutbreathingapparatus. "Here," I saidand gaveher one. The door to the experimentsroom was askew.Behind us I heard loud voicesand the sourtdsof feetpoundingup the stairsto the surface.Turning I slippedthroughthe door'sopening. sideways, Blueblueblueblue,the slightest pulsein it, thensuddenlyasthe conjurer's dove flying from the hat, white, swordsor crystalsof it jammed together, vibratingas if uncertain,then turning as suddenlyto blue.

310

Tom l,leddox

The compositedetectorunit andsurroundingequipmenthaddisappeared. Carol Hendrix had becomea translucent,glowingfigurethat left billowing trailsof color asshemoved.The world wasa sheetof light and a chittering of inhuman voices,high-pitchedand rising. Etched imagesin gold againstwhite, flickering,the realitytape shrieking through its transportsas everypossiblevariationon this one moment unfolded,the infinitesimalmultipliedby the infinite. Sometimelater,handspulledon me, draggingme backwardacrossrough cementto a world that did not burn like the middle of a star. My heels drummedagainstthe floor, my backwasarched,everymusclerigid. Riding the InvisibleBicyclepastBuilding A, I sawtwo men bent over the robot.Spraysof opticfiber, of a groundskeeper carcass partiallydisassembled ied lengthsof plastictubing, and bright clustersof aluminum spikeslay in the gras besidi it. One man washoldinga dull graY,half-metercube-the containerfor the expertsystemthat guidedthe robot and wasthe apparent sourceof its problems. The stateof thi.rgrat Texlab:big science-grandioseand masculineand self-satisfied-layin ruins all around,shatteredby its contactwith an infinitely small point, the singularity' On the stlps of Building A, cameracrewsand reporten had gathered. They iust milLd aimlesslyat this point, waitingfor the TexlabspokesmanpresumablyDiehl-who would have to come out and recite a litany of disaster.T'hen would come the questions:How did thishappen?What does it mean? by linesof vehicles:vans As I headedout the perimeterroadI waspassed chunksof bent metal, massive with carryingtech teams,faibed trucksloaded No shuttlerides seats. back their in cars'wii-hsolemn,dark-suitedbureaucrats today-the tunnel wasstrictlyofllimits. lay nextto the hole it had Near Station12 anorangequadrupoleassembly awayto reveal its shroudinghadtorn madecomingout of the grJund.Par[of wires intertwined of its thousands ring that held the bright st-ainless-steef for shoring lumber of stacks togethei.At other stationsI passedthere were th! t,rttn.l, repair crewsin hardhatsmilling near them. Little more thrn an hour afterthe medicalteam had carriedme out of the tunnel, I wasapparentlyfully recovered.The restof my morning had been spenfwith me th. fo",ri of doctors,nurses,and lab techs.I had sufferedan episodeof grand mal, an epilepticfit, they told me-apparently a reaction to the singularitY. Today ih.r. *.r. fifty-six iniured, one dead,-hilo more probablyto-die' The coliider had been destroyed:beam pipesdeformingand sprayingthose high-energyparticlesall overthe place-explosivequenchin the lattice,it wascalled. And Carol Hendrixwasone of the fifty-sixiniured. A chunk of concrete lacerations. . Christ.While they had fallen on her. Skull fracture,assorted weretestingme at the Texlabhospital,shewasbeing flown towardHouston

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in a medivachelicopterbroughtin by the Air NationalGuard.Sheremained in a coma, but for reasonsthat escapedme, her doctorswere hopeful, so mine had told me. The men she had talkedto couldn't listen, simply couldn't. She was a woman, her approachwasunusual,her conclusionsweird, and despiteall to the contrary,the men shehad spokento wereprisoners their protestations Their scientificobjectivitydidn't their presuppositions. contexts, their of had. never exist, I wonderedif theyfelt asOppenheimerand companyhad on the morning of the Trinity explosion:bright light and EM pulse,shockwavethrowing those nearbyto the ground . . . then they all had to confront-whatever their jubilation,awe,fear,sorrow-their partin this thing, their complicity. At the above-groundentranceto BC 4, Texlab Security had placed on a yellowplasticribbonwith the words"EXTREME DANwoodensawhorses its length. Severalgray-uniformedmen stoodnearby. along GER" repeating "l'll keepyour bicyclefor you, DoctorSax,"one saidasI draggedit down the steps."No," I said,"that'sall right. I'll takeit with me." Rustyiron latticeworkshowedwherechunksof the tunnel wallshad fallen, brushedby an angel'swing. In the hard yellow light, the InvisibleBicycle lookedcheap,a stupidtoy. Which it was:just a thing of plasticand conceit. I wheeledthe bicycle around the plywoodbarrier in front of the experimentsroom doorand stoppedto watchthe bluewhiteblue,which continued Robotcamerasand recordinginstruto somerhythm we did not understand. mentssatagainstthe nearwall. Reducedto primitivemagic,I hurledthe InvisibleBicycleat the thing, a burnt offering:take this, let me haveher. It slowedin midair as though movingthroughheavyliquid and beganto deform.It seemedto turn inside by shape out. Now the TopologicallyBizarreBicycle,no longerrecognizable or anythingelseasa human artifact,it wasshotfor a momentwith rainbow colors,then wasgone. Unmoved, the singularitycontinuedits transformations. Here was the angel,inscrutableasYahwehansweringMosesout of the whirlwind, "l am that I am." It promisedinfinite levelsof discovery,an ordernot inexplicable but complexand deepasthe night. And it promisedthat for everyfragment of knowledgegained,for everylevel of understanding surmounted,there would be pain and sorrow.How puffed-upwe become,filled with immense pride in our knowledge;and how quickly the universeremindsus of how little we know. In the desertit wasbright and hot. One of the securityguardsgaveme a ride backto Maingate.

PROTECTION Maureen F. McHugh

v Maureen F. McHugh is anothernew writer who has made a powerful impression on the SF world of the early'90swith a relativelysmallbodyof work. Born in Ohio, McHugh spentsomeyearsliving in Shijiazhuang in the People's Republicof China, an experiencethat hasbeen one of the major shapingforceson her fiction to date. Upon returningto the United States,she made her first salein 1989, and soon becamea frequentconhibutor to lsaacAsimov'sScienceFiction Magazine,as well assellingtoTheMagazineofFantasy& ScienceFiction, AlternateWariors,Aladdin, and other markets.1992 has been a good year for her. In addition to the quietly harrowingstorythat follows,shealsopublishedat leasttwo other storiesthat might have made the cut for this anthologyin anotheryear, as well as one of the year's mostwidelyacclaimedand talked-about firstnovels,China MountainZhang,which receivedthe TiptreeMemorial Award.Coming up is a new novel, tentativelyentitled HaIf the Day is Night. Recentlymarried,shelives,appropriately enough,in Loveland, Ohio. In "Protection,"shedeliversa hauntingand oddly moving look at survivaland love insidethe concentrationcampsof a troubledfuture America . . .

When the train getsto the camp I'm scaredout of my mind, but I'm trying to act smooth,you know?I wassupposed to go to GreenRiver,an all women campout in Wyoming, but therewassomekind of jack-jockeymix-up and I end up goingto Protectionin Kansas.I've neverheardof Protection-l've heardof GreenRiver, of course.I guessin a way I'm kind of pissed,I was to go to this famous,badass laborcampand insteadthey sendme supposed to this placenobodyeverheardof. Like it's somekind of contest,you know, and peopleare goingto givea damn what camp I end up in. Still thinking outside,and I'm inside.But I don't know that yet. I think of myselfas one ticklishbitch, let me tell you. I think I'm hardcircuited.I'm not doinganythingthe wholewayout from Wichita to Protection exceptI've got a seaton the train by the window and I'm just sitting there. Nobodywill climb on me, eventhougha lot of peopleare sittingin the aisleand steppingon eachother. That'sbecauseI managedto shovea pen down the sideseamof one of the threepairsof pantsI'm wearingand everybodyknowsif they come near me I'm like as not to shoveit in them, so nobodybothersme.

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But there'snothing to seeoutsidethe train window exceptall this dead, brown grass.Kansasmust be a hell of a place.The train trip is about five hours, becausewe d6n't go very fast, and the whole time there'snothing outsidebut driedgrassand oncein awhilewe go overa placethat usedto be a roadbeforethe Corridordried up, backwhen it usedto rain out westand therewerefarms.Peoplekeepsteppingon eachotherbecausethey'vegot to go to the bathroom,but I figureI can wait prettylong becauseI know the moment I get up someoneis goingto havemy seat. We all look real wonderful.They let us keepour clothes,which kind of surprisedme, I thought they'd make us weargray coverallsor something, but all they did wasshavethe backof our headiand put theseimplan* ii. I don't know what they'refor. Maybethey can al*ayi tell wherei. ,r.hell, maybethey can tell what we're thinking. Anybodywho'd had their metabolismstabilizedwas destabilized, too. I-guessnobodyworriesabout beingoverweightin a laborcamp.The backof my headitches,and I've been wearingtheseclothesfor two weeks.I'm wearinglike threeof everything,it looksreally_ stupidand it's hot. I worriedaboutthat, you know, you want to look smooth,but when theytold us that we could oniy keep*hni we had on I thoughtit might takeme awhileto get out. I -.rn, I'll probablybust out beforewinter, you know?But just in .m.. And sinceI don't know what the hell I'll be doing when I get out, I think I betterhaveextraclothes.It's not like the officialsdon't know I intendtg be out, they probablyassumeeverylody ryant1to get out, and when I do they'renot goingto lei me just b,ry a1 Amtrak tickethome, I could spenda lot of time gettiig backto bleveland. I may haveto walkpa.rtgtthe way,and that coulJtak. i h.ll of a long time, so I could be reallyglad I kept this stuff. - So we ge! to Protection.It's nothing, not evenfence, just this concrete platformas l_o18as the train and a dirt roadand deadgrrrr. The train stops 3_!9*. 1it- I figure it's got to be Protection,what elsJwould be out herlZ Where elsewould a convicttrain go? Afterwe sit for awhile,maybetwentyminutesin the train with the blowers off, sweating,and far off I seethis plume of brown smoke.Exceptit,s not smoke,it's dust, and it's coming off the road. Buses,bunchesof them. A whole lonq-elephanttrail of darkgreenbuses,humping up and down these rolling hills. Until tto* i neverknew *hri th"ey'meantfy rolling gf Ii$ hills, but they'relike ripples,all coveredwith dust-color.aa.rJ grass.Thei stop-on the road, the first one is almostnoseup againstthe platTorm.It's a gasbus, with a big methan_e gasbagon top, hali in"flated,kind oi saggingin a cage.I neversawone before,we don't havethem in Clevela"d.Guardi i., army colored coverallsget off the buses,lots of heavy nrr.nrl lwinging around. Deal guns, which isn't what I expected,I thought ir,.y,a have projectileweapons,but what do I know?Maybe disruptirT.gunr'are less messy,-that's why-citycopsuse them. But out here in a laboi ca-p, *ho caresif they bloodyup the landscape? They fiddlearoundfor a moment,crackthe door on our car and three of them chargein screamingat us not to moveand swingingthosedealguns.

314

Jrlaureen F. McHugh

H.y, I'm not goinganywhere,not until I find out what'sgoingon. "You're goingto go out on the platform,in two lines!You assholes understand me?" this woman is screamingat us. "l beenworkingout here in this goddamn placefor five years,maybeif I kill enoughof you they'll think I can't be trustedand transferme somewhere,so I'm looking for an excuse!Now move!" So we startstreamingoff our train car, all up and down the platformthe othertrain carsare doingthe same.When I get to the door, a guardsignals I shouldget in the left line so I do. There doesn'tseemto be any difference betweenthe left and right line. So therewe all are, all lined up, and it's hot and I gottago to the bathroom. They makeus standtherein the sun while they prowl up and down the platform.Yeah, I'm gettingscared.I knowwhat'sgoingon, I know what I'd do in a situationlike this. If I had a bunch of scumto takecareof, firstthing I'd do is showthem what a badassI was. So we standand I wonderwhat they'regoingto do to us. Finally the womanwho washeadscreamer stopsin front of our hvo lines. I think of her as "Helga.""You," shepointsthat dealgun at a guy in the guy, the kind who didn'tgeta seat.He doesn't rightline. Tall, skinny-looking haveany expression on his faceat all, almostlike he expectedthis. "GET He shambles forward.He'sgothis anklesshackled, UP HERE!" shescreams. they only do that for psychosand politics;theywouldn'tpull a psychoout of the line unlessthey were going to roasthim, besides,he just doesn'tact psycho,soI figurehe'spolitics.They probablydon't mind roastinga politics, either. "TURN AROUND," shescreams. He doeswhathe'stold sohe'sstanding with his backto us. "You shitheadslike his haircut?Well, let me tell you, the perimeterof the campis wired." All up and down the platformeverycat at them. I look backat the guy, his hair is gettingthe samething screamed is kind of long so it coverspart of the shavedplace."l'm goingto showyou " what happensif you crossthe perimeter. Sheputsher hand in his backand shoveshim offthe platformand he falls off, handsout, flat into the dustaroundthe concrete."WALK!" shescreams at him. I'm leavingout a lot of what shecalledus, justbecauseit waspretty to his feet and much the samething over and over. Anyway,he struggles looksup at her. "Why shouldI walk if you're goingto kill me anyway?"he saysin this way.You can tell he'sscared,but his voiceis justasnice normal, reasonable and adult. I like peoplewho givethe world lip. "WALK!" shescreamsat him and shovesher dealgun in his face,so he kind of stumblesback,then suddenlyhis wholebodygoesstiff.Like a board. All the musclesin his neckstandout and his handsmakeclawsand he falls over like a friggingtree, straight.Then he goesall loose. I look up and down the pla$orm, exceptfor one guy who they'rehaving to push, all up and down are thesepeoplelying in the brown grass.Two

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guardshop down and I catch my breathexpectingthem to keel over, too, but they just pick up the guy by his armsand legsand slinghim on the bus. "Crossit often enoughand you'll fry your friggingbrainsto scrambled "That is, if any of you assholes have €ggs,"the womansayswith satisfaction. " brains. We don't get on the bus until Helga has told us the rules,which takes forever.When we get on our bus nobodywantsto sit next to Politicalbut he'ssittingnearthe front so I do. Busesmakeme sick,the closerI am to the front the betteroff I am. He'sstill out, headagainstthe window,and I have to move him to sit down. He has nice clothes,real raggedbut goodstuff, Chineseor something.He'swearinga sweaterand pantsand underthe dust they'reboth this kind of maroon color, with little flecksof gray in them. They'vetakenthe shackles off and thrown them backon the train. He'sgot real long fingers.Somethingabouthim I like, maybeit's the way he turned aroundand talkedto Helga.I could understand if he got mad or freaked,but he wasjust real reasonable. Everybodyis lookingat me because I satdown nextto Political,everybody knowshe'salreadymarkedfor trouble.I figureif I don't careit marksme as a real hard-circuitand then nobodywill botherme. Besides,somethingabouthim reallyattractsme, so I figurehe's mine. He doesn'treallycometo in the time it takesus to getto the camp,so I have to sling his arm over my shouldersand half-carryhim out of the bus. I'm not that big a girl. He'sskinny,but 180,maybe190centimeters and weighs morethan I do. He'snot completelyout, and I keeptalkingto him. His eyes arebarelyopen. "Come on," I say,"steps,getyour feetunderyou, you son of a bitch or they'll takeit out on my kidneys."I just keeppressingon him, gethim downthe stepsand into the barracks. The barracks arenew,concrete blockand the bedsare justlike metalbookshelves. I slinghim into a bottom bunk and take a middle one. I watch everybodyelse mill around before settlingin. Scared,man I'm scared.I sure as hell didn't want a mixed camp, in a woman'scamp it's not like I'll be out-massed by overhalf the inmates.On the bus it was about two guysto everywoman. Men are bigger,the only hopeI haveis to geta reputationas crazy,or elseto comeup with something everybodyneeds.Worrying about Politicsgivesme somethingto do othei than worryaboutmyself.The only time I leaveis to go to the bucket.I never pissedin a metal bucketbefore,it's an experience,not to mention that it's loud. They turn the lightsout beforeI get backto my bunk, which is also exciting. I-don't sleepthat night. I want to be in a real bed. I want to brush my teeth.I knowthat'sa badwayto think, 'causewhenI did two yearsof juvenil! reform, I learned,you don't think aboutwhat you miss-and it isn't really as good as you rememberit anyway.Hell, most of the time I sleepon someone's couch, or floor. But it's different. It's still darkwhen the lightscomebackon. Helgatold us we havehalf an

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hour in the morning, then roll call, then breakfast. I don't know what the hell the half an hour is for, mosteverybody spendsit sleeping.I hop down out of my bunk-Goddamn Marx and Lenin, everybonein my bodyaches from sleepingon a metalbookshelf-and checkPolitics.Most of the night he wasjustsprawledthe wayhe landed,one leg half off, but now he'scurled up like he'scold. He moved,I figurethat'sa goodsign. "Hey," I shakehim gently. "Come on, wakeup." For the first time it Helgamadeit soundasif you occursto me that maybehe'sbrain-damaged. had to do it a coupleof times,but how do I know?I don't want him to be I needhim. "Come on," I say,"look at me. Politics,look brain-damaged. at me." He groansand openshis eyes. "Come onr" I say,"sit up." He sitsup and grabshis headwith thoselong fingers.Spiderfingers. "What's your name?"I ask. "Paul," he says.Well, at leasthe understands. "l'm |anee," I say,"and we'regoingto sticktogether,okayPaul?"If he's I'll ditch him later. brain-damaged He looksat me; his headis reallykilling him, but the wayhe looksat me, he must kind of judging,figuring,and I think, well, if he'sbrain-damaged havebeena geniusbefore."fanee," he says,hoarsesounding."Okay,fanee." I prowl up and down the barracks.Out in the yard is an old-fashioned waterspigot.I don't haveanythingto get waterin, not evena iuice bulb, but I open the door-it's dark and clear,the starsare still bright exceptoff to the east-and check.The perimeteris brightlylit but our door isn'tlocked and I don't seeanyonewalkinga beat.I sneakout to the spigot. It's got weedsright aroundthe base,then the restof the groundis dry and cracked.It's realhardto turn on, and the watercomesout in a trickle.I soak the outermostshirt I'm wearing,rinseit out realgood,then bring it backin. I crawl into Paul'sbunk and hand him the shirt. "lt's wet," he says,soundingsurprised. " "There'sa spigotoutside. He wipeshis faceand holdsit againsthis forehead."Thanks,Janee,"he says. " "l told you, we sticktogether. "You don't want to stickwith me," he says."l'm Political." "Yeah, I know," I say."l'll let you know when it's a problem." The guy in the bottombunk acrossfrom Paul'sis watchingus. I look right at him, then givehim a long, slow,skitzysmile. He looksawayfirst. Little victories. The camp is hell. That's all there is to it. And Protectionisn't as bad as GreenRiver,or so they say.I can'tseehow that could be true. All the time I'm hungry,and eithertoo hot or too cold. My boneshurt from sleepingon a shelf. i fig,tt. out the reasonwhy the lights go on half-an-hourearly, so we can lie ihere hungry and dreadthe day. We get up everymorning and

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wait half-an-hour to go out to roll call. Roll call takestwenty minutes if there'sno lecture, and then we get twenty minutes for breakfast.The first day we are all givena cuP, a bowl, and a sPoon.We march in lines to the we get somethingthat's -.rr, which iiiust a roof, no walls. For breakfast mostly water and a steamedroll. And coffee,if you can call it that. When they pour the soup stuff into my bowl I think it's somekind of yeastsoup' it's just brown wateryslop. It doesn'thave much taste.In the bottom are a of barley or something.The coffeeis clear, like tea. couple of tablespoons I look at it, ten yearsof this if I don't figureout how to crossthat perimeter. This is day one. I have 1,650days,plus a coupleof leap days. Paul gets his and goesto a pole holding up the roof and squatsdown slidingagainstit. He hasn'tbotheredto getcoffee,I can't understandit, I'm so dry I could drink a gallon and I got waterin the morning at the spigot. He handsme his bowl. "What," I say. "I can't eat it," he says. "You got to," I say. "l'll get sick, " he says.Then with this kind of sicklysmile, "l like mine with milk and sugaranyway." "What is it?" I ask. "Oatmeal,"he says. Oatmeal?I sniff at it. It doessmellsortof like oatmeal.I takehis cup and pour some of the liquid into it. "You've got to have somethingin your " stomach. "l'll get sick,"he says. "So you get sick. Maybethen you'll feel better." "lt's not a hangover,"he says.But while I'm eatingour breakfast, he drinks it. I stashthe rolls in my bag, I could eat them but I figure he'sgoing to get hungry eventually. That first daywe go to the "factory"and learnhow to stitchquilts on these old black sewingmachineswith "Singer" on them in gold letters.I guess because of the noisetheymake,althoughit doesn'tsoundlike singingto me. next to Paul. We put the backson, the blank, not-prettyparts.We're I sit to supposed finishthreean hour. I don'tknowiackshitaboutsewing,I mean, I didn't sit arounddoingthis a whole lot, you know?So I ruin the first one, big time, and the secondone lookslike hell, but the third one isn't too bad. It's not hard, just, ziiiip, up one side,ziiiip, acrossthe top, ziiiip, ziiiip, side and bottoil, 3 big square. The first day Paul is so sickhe'slucky to be able to do one an hour. By the third day we're doing six an hour, but that first day I can do two extra for Paul. The problemis gettingthem into his basketwithout gettingcaught. He doesn'tsayanythingaboutmy doingthem. His basketis alwaysthe first one they check. I think I'm pretty fast at making quilts. It never hurts to be good at something.But that dayand the nextday, I don't push,there'sno reasonto work anv harderthan I haveto.

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By the third day Paul'sdoingaswell asanyone,long spiderfingersaren't shakinganymore. We work until two-thirg, then we get a twenty-minutebreak, then we work until seven.By dinnerI'm so emptyI echo.We standin the wind with our platesand cups.Dinner is two rollseach,palebeanswith a bit of white pork fat and bitter coffee. The secondday, Paul sayswe shouldpick grassand useit in our bunks, but it's hard to find much in the camp.That'sthe problemwith politicals, people like that are alwaysthinking, but the stuff never works in the real world. The third daytheylet us mix with the peoplewho'vebeenherefor awhile. I knowwe'rein troublewhenPauland I squatdownby our pole. I happen to look aroundand mostof the guardsaregone,only a stringleft to protect the messcooks,who areturningthe stinkingstufftheyuseto rinsethe kettles onto the ground."Hey," I say. Paul looksup. The walkingdeadare headedtowardus. All theseskinnypeoplein filthy clothes,maybefifty of them. The first time, I don't know catshitaboutthe walkingdead,I think everybody lookslike that afterthey'vebeenhereawhile and I feel sick. I'm still planningto get out of here beforewinter, but the business the perimeteris a realproblem,andbesides, of crossing it'sbeginning to dawn on me that I'm not goingto just walk to St. Louis and hitch a ride on a transport. "Keepeating," I whisperto Paul,sowe do. When theygetto the edgeof the messI noticethat the lastof the guardsandthe cookdetailaredisappearing. I keepeating.The first deadgetsto a guy who'sholdinghis half-emptybowl and without much ado, kickshim in the ribs,and two of them fall on top of the guy, stealhis food. They startmovingthroughand jumping people.They don't jurnp everybody, somebodylooksbig, they just go aroundthem. Man, I've got to do something.Someof them havesticksand I think to myself,I got to find out where they get those sticks.The walking dead don't make much noise. They'reeitherall nutsor they'retryingto scarepeople.It's creepy,watching them come through.I got a feelingthat Paul and I are peoplethey'll press. I've got to do something.We're goingto loseour dinner no matterwhat we do. I could just put down my bowl and then maybetheywouldn'ttouch us, but that'sa badthing to do. You don'tgivein, or you becomea pushover. So I've got to make myselfso much trouble that after this they don't mess with me. So I look right into the faceof one skinnybastardwalkingtowardsme and I smile.Then I startscreamingand running, right at him, iustscreamingas It wasn't loud asI can, and batteringat him with my bowl, beansspattering. lunatic get him and I he's not ready for some exactlywhat he expected, him keep hitting in the face againsthis throatand down, one hand pressed with my bowl. Then anotherone of them grabsmy armsand triesto pull me off. They're

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realskinny,thesewalkingdead,and I'm all pumpedup, so he'shavingreal trouble,evenwith the one I'm sittingon strugglinglike mad.Then Paultries to grabthe one pulling on me, and a guy namedCarlosstartswhackingon the one Paul is pulling on (which is goodbecausePaul is a lousy fighter). I guessthat'swhen the guardsdecideenoughis enoughand startmoving in, swingingthe buttsof the dealguns.I end up with a split lip and a black eye and the next morning all of us in the fight haveto standfor an extra hour and miss breakfast-plus, we're not supposedto get behind on our quotaof quilts eventhough we missedforty minutes.But I alsoget a stick one of the walking deaddropped.And I havea good idea peopleare pretty much goingto leaveme alone. My Paul. My Paul. He has long spiderfingersand his skin is so thin you stainof his neuraljackson his wrists.He neverasks can seethe copper-green what I did to end up in a reformthroughlabor camp. "Don't you want to know?"I ask,curled up againsthim in our bunk. "No," he says,"that'soutside,we'reinside." He wasa historyteacher,a middleschoolteacher,I think. He'solderthan and he'salmostthirty. He'sherefor twentyyears,I'm I am, I'm twenty-three herefor ten. He wouldn'thavea chanceif it wasn'tfor me, he doesn'thave the first idea how to protecthimselfand he'sa Political,that makeshim a targetbecausethe guardsdon't care what happensto a Political. Nobody krrowsthat faneeis crazy.Somemesses with him now, becauseeverybody timesif I'm carefulI can hook an extrabun and split it with him. I wonder about his life outside."Did you havea girlfriend?"I ask."Where did you live?What kind of flat did you have?"He'sfrom Pennsylvania, I think. "Did you haveany brothersand sisters?" "That's outside,fanee,it doesn'tmatterhere." He soundslike our politicalinstructionmeetings.Our old livesareoutside, now, inside,we havea chanceto put togethernew lives. We havepoliticalinstructionmeetingsa coupleof timesa week,the hvelve rulesare paintedon the wall of the barracks. we must rely on a power #1. We are not strongenoughourselves, greaterthan ourselves. A powergreaterthan ourselvesis society,of course.The first time we go there'sthis lecture, about how we are all maladjusted,and how we are denyingthat we are maladjusted. And the firstthing we haveto do is admit that we are. So we haveto go all aroundthe room and standup and sayour first name and what our problemis. Well, Catalano,one of the guards,is standingthere,so everybodymostlyjust standsup and saystheir name and why they are there. First coupleof guysaren'tmuch, they standup and saythingslike, "My name is Derrick and I am a thief." But then it getsto be a contest.Guys standup and we kind of hold our breathto find out what sortof badasscrime they'dcommitted.If a guy stands

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!P a.ndsayshe'sa thief or a pimp or that he's in for assaulteverybodyjust sitsthere.But then this guy getsup, justa normal-lookinjg"y, big, andhe says,"My nameisvincent, not vinny, vincent.a.d'r ,* ""i hi".ry , jacker.,, Everythinggetsreal quiet. Even though-theguy is supposed to sit down . he sort of'smilesand says," I hiiackeda-cityb,is Liifeathe driver.,, "nd "That's enough,"Nataliesays.She'sa prisoner too, but she,sbeenhere for years,and so she leadsour political dlscussiongroup. She knows that Vincent-is,puttingthe whammf on us, and she ma"ketr littl. note in this notebookshecarries. Somepeoplestandup and saytheir crimesreal fastand sit down. One woman, she'sin -for prostitution,but she'snot a hard case,you can tell. Maybesomesmalltowngirl who putsout, who got somebodybothered.she 9!a1dsup and she's9-vin8 and she saysin thii real little voice, real fast, "MynameisNancyandl'maprostitute, " and sitsdown. But Nataliemakesher standbackup, and theresheis crying,and makes her say it again,-slower.Nobody can understandwhat ,h!'s Lyi1g, she's scaredso badand cryingso hard. It's justmeanto makeher stand'up]alittle 'cause the little girl knows,and she'sright, that Pieceof white meatlike that, theseguysare going to be all over her onceiightsare out. But I'm thinkingaboutmy reputation.I'm only in for larcenyand assault, *hi+ isn't goingto soundlike much. And I've got a reputationbetweenme and big trouble. Paul doesn'thaveto standup and sayanything,politicalsaren'tallowed to sayanythingin political instructionfor the firsttwo years,which is another weird rule. You'd think they'dneedit worsethan us. So I'm thinking,while it getscloserand closerto my turn, and finally I've got to standuP. standup and standthere a moment, thinking if I ieally I wantto gothroughwith this, and justbeforeNataliesayssomething,becausb I can seeshe'sgoingto, I say,"My name is fanee,and my problim is that I'm stuckin this goddamncamp." And I sit down. A lot of guys laugh and a couple of them whistleand I don't smile or anything.Catalano,the guard,reverses hisdealgun andstartscomingtoward me, so I standback up and say, "I'm in for larcenyand assault."-which makesit soundlike there might be other stuff that they nevergot on me. And then I sit down and Nataliescribblesin her little book. The next morning, Vincent and I haveto standat roll call for an extra forty minutes,which waswhat Nataliewasscribblingdown. But Paul hooks an extra roll at breakfast,and givesme his and the extra. I'm real proud of him, he'slearninga little, too. At breakhe tells me that the political studyis basedon AlcoholicsAnonymous. "Give me a break,"I say."AlcoholicsAnonymousisn't aboutpolitics." "No," he says,"it's about changingbehavior.They usemost of the old rules, m-aybechangethem a little. Rule No. l, about relyingon a power greaterthan ourselves,that'sstraightfrom AA. Exceptthat traditionallythe power greaterthan ourselveswasGod, not society."

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"l knewthey meantsociety,"I say,he probablythinksI'm stupid,and I'm not, I know a lot more about stayingalive than some goddamnhistory teacher. l But he isn't payingany atterttionat all. "lt backfiredbig time lastnight," he says."You and Vincent." He grinsat me. I thoughthe might not understandabout what I did, he didn't sayanythingwhen we crawledinto our bunk the night before,but he does,he thinks it's all right. I gottathink about gettingout. Paul keepsshakinghis headeverytime I say somethingabout it. "How are you going to get acrossthe perimeter?"he asks. "l got in," I say. "Are you goingto wait until there'sa shipmentof new prisonersand then just walk pastthem?" he says.Which is a point. I don't know if the whole perimetershutsoff when prisonerscome in or not. "I can testit," I say. "Fry your brains?"he says. "Nah," I say,"shoveone of the walkingdeadacross." He laughs,but I'm serious.The walkingdeaddon'tcareabouteachother, they don't careabout anything.I can go snagme a walkingdeadand the otherswill just look at me. So I'm waiting.The only problemis that it isn't like they postan arrival The firsttime we getnew prisoners,we'reinside schedulefor new prisoners. sewingquilts. We come out for dinner, and there are new people,so we haveto wait becausewe can't mix with them. Standingtherein the wind, shivering,while thesestupidpeople,lookingevenstupiderwith the backsof their headsstill new-shaved, are gettingtheir dinner. But it's earlyOctober,I think, and we'reout for our breakand somebody says,"Look." i' There area couple of the big greenbuses,rolling tip to the perimeter.I startup, lookaround,canI getto oneof the walkingdeadbeforethe perimeter getsback up? Walking deaddon't wanderfar from their factorywork room. I can't evenimagineone of them working.Most of them are in group six, which is officially the groupfor incorrigibles.Group six is prettyfar from us, we'regroup thirty-six. I don't seehow I can get to one and back, I look backat the perimeter, the firstbus slowsdown and then speeds up and crosses. There are bunches of guardsand dealgunsat the road,but nothingbetweenus and the perimeter. MaybeI shouldjusttry it? Helgamadeit soundlike I'd haveto getfried a coupleof timesbeforeit would hurt me permanently. But this guy in Groupthirtythree makeshis decisionbeforeme, takesout running for the perimeter,awayfrom the busesand the guards.I look back at the guards,expectingthem to startfiring. Deal gunsaren'treal accurate if you'retoo far away,he might still makeit. But theydon'tdo anything.That tellsme rightthere.I shouldhaveknown, they'dbe guardingif the whole perimeterwent down. We all sit and watch

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the guy,tre hits the perimeter,it's just a bunch of white stakeswith a string aboutanklehigh, just to mark it. He leapsthe wire and goesdown. We can seehim spasmin the grass,just beyondthe wire. _ The guardsaren'tin any hurry. Afterawhiletwo of them finallywalkfrom the road acrossthe compoundto the guy. It's time for us to be called back inside to sew more quilts, but the loudspeakers are still quiet, just that hum that meansthey'reon. I look up at Natalie,who is supposed to be callingus backinsideand she'slookingat her feet. This is a lessonI guess.I figurethey'regoingto roastthe guy. The guardswalk acrossthe perimeterlike it wasn'teventhere.It's not for them. They grabthe guyby the armsanddrophim acrossthe wire, and walk back,leavinghim there. "What are they-" I say.But I know. "They're leavinghim to fry," Paul says. Right. "Can he feel anything?"I ask. Pauldoesn'tsayanythingfor a moment."No," he saysfinally, "probably not." We sit out therefor a long time, Natalielookingat her feet, someof us watchingthe guy. Everysooftenhe jerksaroundfor awhileand stops.Finally we go in to work until dinner, and when we come out to get our slop, the poor suckeris gone. It's not goingto stopme, you know?There'salwaysa way. Once I get out of Protection,all I got to do is get to Saint Louis, then I can hitch with a transportand be in Clevelandin no time. In ClevelandI know somepeople who'll hide me. Peopleget in, peoplecan get out. But it dawnson me that it's gettingon to winter and I'm not real sure aboutmy chancesof gettingto SaintLouis in the winter. Besides,if I winter over in Protection,then the hair on the backof my headwill grow out My clothes'llget betterand I won't look so much like a goddamnescapee. worse,but maybenext spring I can stealthe clothesoff a newcomer.And during the winter I can watch and plan, so I can figurehow to get out of here. Anyway, if I'm going to be spendingthe winter here, I've got to start playingthe gamedifferent.Got to work the systema little better,scoresome points with the guardsand the upper orders,you know?When I was in juveniledetentionthey madea big thing aboutpoliticalinstruction,so I try to pay attention. and shitgoesright Thing is, all that stuffaboutideologyand infrastructure over my head.And Natalieis alwaysaskingme thingslike, "Why are we here in Protection?" "Causewe screwedup," I say. Natalieshakesher headand askssomebodyelseand they answerwith one of thoseslogankind of answersabout societyand bourgeoismal-a-dap-ta-

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tion. And I look at Paul and roll my eyes.I can'tkeepthis stuffin my head. I mean, it's all lust wordsthat don't meananything.I can't understandwhy anyonewould everget in politicaltroublebecausenone of it everseemsto mean anything.Maybe if I'd finishedhigh schoolit would be easier. I can't figureout what'sso awful aboutcapitalismin the firstplace.Back when Americahad capitalismwe wererich and powerful.Now we're not. So isn't capitalismbetter? One night I wait until lightsout and I askPaul. He laughs."lt's not that simple,fanee." "So why not," I whisper. "Becausewe lost our powerwhile we were still capitalist.You've heard aboutthe SecondDepression." Sort of. "When New York City usedto turn off the electricityat night?" I usedto watchthis showcalled"Stormtime,"it wasreal popular,with that cute guy, Sam Basarico.They were alwaysturning the electricityoff and peoplealwayshad to go to the hospitalin the middleof the night or die, and Sam Basaricowasalwayswaking up doctorsand stuff. "Yeah," he says. "So," I say. "So what?"he says. "So what'swrongwith capitalism?" He sighs.For a minute I wonderif maybehe'sa capitalist.But then he says,"lt's not a fair system." "That's stupid," I say.Thingsaren'tfair. Only little kidsexpectthingsto be fair. "l'm tired," Paul says."Go to sleep." "No," I say, and startkinda making up to him, scrunchingup against him, playingwith him. And when he's startingto get all hot I say, "You want to go to sleep?" "]esus,lanee," he whispers.So we hump a little in the dark. I shouldbe worried about getting pregnant. I wonder what they do if someonegets pregnant? But I haven'thada periodsinceI gotto the camp,which is strange. Maybethe implant. "Okay," I say,"now tell me aboutcapitalismand what'swrongwith it." "Tomorrow." "Nor" I say. And the guy on the rack aboveus hisses,"You two shut up!" So we're quiet for awhile and then I say real closeto Paul'sss1-hs'g falling asleepand I'm tired, too, but you can't give up on stuff like this"Come on, tell me aboutcapitalism. " "lf we talk politics,I'll get in troubleand you'll get in trouble," he says. "lf I don't figureout how to saythe right stuffin politicalinstructionI'm going to get in trouble anyway." He kind of laughs.I can feel him shake,eventhough he doesn'tmake any noise."Okay," he whispers."But tomorrow.Go to sleep." So he startsby askingme what I know aboutcapitalism.

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"Peoplgwererich and therewasa lot of corruptionand a lot of crime," I say."And now we havesocialismand peopleaie poor and there'sa lot of corruptionand a lot of crime." He laughs-Anything I sayaboutpoliticsmakeshim laugh. "You think I'm not that smart,"I say."fust because I'm not booksmart." "You're not stupid,fanee,you just neverhad much chance." I don't know how to answerthat so I don't sayanything,I mean, is it an insult or what?So he tellsme aboutcapitalism,and peoplemakingmoney. And he tells me about peoplehavingto pay rent for the placesthey lived. That soundspretty screwy.Peoplehad to pay for water, too. Peoplecould sell anything. I makehim tell me how capitalismcausedglobalwarmingand he tells me all about how peoplewouldn't give up things becauseif they stop buyingcapitalismdoesn'twork, sothe technologyand the pollution made the earth heat up and now the whole corridor, Texasand Kansasand Oklahomaand Idahoand all thosestatesthat usedto havefarmingdon't haveenoughrainfall. Protectionusedto be a farmingcommunity. Now it neverrains. Which explainsa lot of what waswrong with capitalism.I get the idea that peopleknew all this bad stuff wasgoing to happen,but they wouldn't stopbuyinggasoline-driven carsand stuff,and the governmentwouldn'tstop them. So now peoplelike me haveto sufferfor it. Exceptnone of that helpsin politicalinstruction. "What classare you?" Natalieasksme. "Proletariat,"I say.I know that one, I rememberthat from when I was still in high school. Wrong again.None of us know what classwe are. Nataliesighs.We're "criminal element."Right, I shouldhavegot that. We havea stovein the barracks,and it's gettingrealcold at night. I keep hopingthat they'regoingto startheatingthe placea bit. It'sbeencold enough that one night water froze.And we may sewquilts all day but we neverget to take any of them back to the barracksat night. "H.y," I sayin politicalinstruction,"one of the big differences between capitalismand socialismis that in capitalisttimespeoplehad to payfor stuff like where they lived and waterand heat and all that, right?" "Yes," Nataliesays. "So if we live in Socialism,how come we don't haveheat?" her mouth togetherin a line, realfat. Paullooksdown Nataliescrunches why I'm wrong. up again,and I don'tevenunderstand at his hands.I screwed Finally Nataliesays,"Girl, I'm telling you, you'vegot an attitude.You shouldbe thinking aboutworkingon that." All my life people have been telling me about my frigging at-ti-tude. Seemsto me, a lot of times, my at-ti-tudehasbeen all that'sbeenbetween me and the world makingme part of the pavement.Seemsto me, here in Protection,my at-ti-tudeis about all I've got.

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I'm cold all the time. Out here in Kansas,the wind blowsall the time. It's sunny,but the skyis realpaleblue and realfar away.Nataliesaysthat long about fanuary we'll startgettingdust storms. When the lightscomeon in the morning, none of us botherto get uP. I stayright up againstPaul, trying to get a little warm. We got two blankets becausethey're two of us, but they're really not big enough to cover two people,evenwhen I lie right up againsthim. Still, we getsomeoverlap.So my legsand feetare cold, and his backsideis cold, becausethoseare places wherethere isn't enoughcover,but we'reokay. We takeour blanketsto the factory,all wrappedup like Indians.If you do it right, part of the time you are sewinga quilt you can haveit in your lap, but if they catch us doing that they chew us out. Nancy getsin trouble whenshe'sfinishedsewinga quilt, insteadof puttingit in her basket, because shekeepsit on her lap. We've been doing quilts a coupleof months, it's not real hard. We're supposedto do twelve an hour, one everyfive minutes. You got to fold a little, pin a little, then zip, zip, zip, zip, four seamsand you go on to the next one. When you run out of threadyou haveto signalNatalieand she bringsyou thread.If you don't do twelvean hour, then you haveto stand for detention.So I do fourteenor fifteenthe firsthour, iust in caseI havea problem, and then twelvean hour for the restof the day. Our handsget so cold it's hard to do them right. If you makea mistake,the badquilt is called "waste." I askedif we couldn't keepa coupleof the "wastes"to useourselves peoplewould ruin quiltson purposejust but Nataliesaidthat unscrupulous so they could havethem. Well, yeah, I would. Then one morning,Corbin, who with Natalieis one of our Group Leaders,saysthat we'regoingto havea change.Corbin doesn'thaveany teethin front. At firstI thoughthe wasrealold, but then I found out he'sonly thirtysix, but he'sbeenin laborcampsfor fourteenyears.I guessthat and the fact that his mouth is all cavedin from havingno teethis what makeshim look old. He saysthat thereis rationingoutside,like thereusuallyis in the winter. It's the first time anyonehasmentionedoutsidein a long time. It seemsso far away,outside.I guesstheredidn't usedto be rationing,beforethe Second Depression, but I guessif they could farm the corridortherewould be a lot more food. From now on, he says,if we make120quiltsa day,we getregularrations, if we makemorethan 180we getextrarations,and if we makelessthan 120, we get half rations. I figuremaybeI can make 180quilts, I mean,I've neverreallytried hard before. I have to make eighteenquilts an hour. The first hour I make nineteen,raggedy-assed thingsbut nineteenandthey'regoodenoughto pass, not waste,you know. Man, I figureI got this thing licked,and I'm tasting

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extrarations.But the nexthour I screwup two and I only end up with fifteen. And the third hour I get up to thirteen and the thirteenth one I screwthe threadall to hell, tangledin the bobbinand all, and I got to be realcareful or I'll breakthe needle.If I breakthe needlethey'll dock me ten quilts becauseneedlesare expensive. I finish the day with 154.Chris, this big guy from Detroit who killed somebodywith a top from a trashbarrel, h" -akes 182.His fingersjust blur. I'm alwaysafraidihat I'm goingto end up sewing my own hand if I go that fast. This otherguy, Nesly,he only makesI14. He'sjust a klutz, he goesreal slowand he messes someup. At dinner, Chris getstwo extrabuns, and I'm disappointed, I thoughthe'd getmorethan that. But Neslyonly getshalf his beans. We discussit at our politicalmeeting.First the title of the lesson,"From " Then Natalie eachaccordingto his abilities,to eachaccordingto his needs. hasa discussion groupand we talk aboutwhat it means. "lt doesn'tseemfair, I work as hard as I Nesly says,kind of desperate, can." Maybehe does,I don't know. I don't like Nesly,he'sone of thosepeople who you look at and you know they'rea screw-up.He's not very big, and he'sgot no front, no pride. And he whinesall the time. Nataliesays,"Think aboutit, Nesly.Peoplelike Chris work harder,they needmore food. Societyis like a machine.A personlike Chris makessure that more peoplehave blankets.It's for the good of societythat if there is only so much food, peoplelike Chris get it, becausehe'smore efficient." Somepeoplenod. I can seeit, in a way. Mostly I don't care,it's warmerin the bunk, with Paul, and that'swhere I want to be. I'm tired all the time, from beingcold. It seemslike I just go to sleepand the lightssnapon. I closemy eyesagain,not botheringto get up. Paul says,"You still want to learn more for political instruction?" "I dunno," I say,and then from habit, becausehe's doing somethingI want him to do, "Yeah, I guess." But he doesn'ttalk aboutanythingthat makessense,he startsby saying, "What's feudalism?" "Bad," I say,thinking abouthow in half an hour I haveto go standout in the cold for roll call. When we haveroll call in the morning,the starsare still out and it's still dark. "Why is it bad?" Hell, I don't know, I don't evenreallyknow what feudalismis exceptit hasto do with kingsand queens. So that morning he tells me about serfs,who were like slaves,because only a few peopleowned all the land, and everybodyelsehad to work for them. And becauseif you didn't work for someoneyou would starve,you'd do anything to work for someone.But they could pty you whateverthey wanted. I think I can understandthat prettywell. "Peoplelike us," I say,"we're

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we'retrapped,and theydon't haveto do anythingbut give like serfs,because us a little food." "Right," he says,pleasedwith me. Well halleluiah, fanee finally said somethingright. "The only difference,"he says,"is that a feudaleconomy is basedon land. Sincepeopledon't havemuch money, mostlyland, they can't reallybuy and sell a lot. I mean, you can't carrya hectareof land in your pocket,you know?" to, but he soundslike a friggingteacher. I laugh, becauseI'm supposed "Now a factoryis expensive," he says."You knowhow animalsand people evolve?" "Like peoplestartedout from apes,"I say. "Sort of," he says."Anyway,firstareprimitivesocieties, like the Indians. which aremoreorganized.And then people Then therearefeudalsocieties, getmoneytogetherand theybuy machinesandbuild buildingsandyou have factories.But to starta factoryyou have to have a lot of money, you need capital.And that'swhy peoplewho run factoriesare calledcapitalists." Okay. So out on the field for roll call, while I'm freezingmy buns off, I'm thinking aboutfactoryworkersand serfs.And aboutlabor camps.Paul thinks they'redifferent,becauseof land and money,but they reallyaren't. It seemsto me that if societyis going to evolve, it should get better for everyone,not just the peopleat the top, right?I mean, Indianshad it a lot betterthan I do. "Where did you live in Pennsylvania?" I askPaul. He doesn'tanswer. "Did you live in a big city, like Philadelphiaor Pittsburgh?" He doesn'tpay any attentionto me. "Maybe in a little town, like Allentown?"Everybodyhasheardof Allentown, becauseit's a famousbattlegroundof classstruggle.That and the little town in Kentuckywherethe minerswent on strike."Did you have a girlfriend?" "That wasoutside,"he finally says. "Do you want to know if I had a boyfriend?"I ask. "l'm sureyou did." "You don't know," I say."You try to makeit soundlike you don't care, but you don'tknowanythingaboutrne.MaybeI ax-murdered my boyfriend," I say. It irritatesme, he won't tell me anything.He doesn'twantto hearanything about me, either. I mean I don't think it's a goodideato alwaysbe talking aboutit, but it's stupidto pretendthat we didn't haveany life at all out there. I figurehe had a girlfriend,maybea wife. Sometimes, peopledivorcepeople who go into labor camps.It's an okayreasonior divorce. "What's the big secret?"I say."Why don't you want to talk about it?" "That's a whole differentperson,"he says,"a whole differentlife." "why don't you evertalk aboutpolitics,I mean, you'reherebecauseof politics."

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"l am talkingaboutpolitics,"he says,soundingangry,"l'm teachingyou, : aren't I?" "Yeah, but you neverteachme anythingsubversive," I say."We just talk aboutfeudalism.Nataliedoesn'tevencareaboutfeudalism,I still don't know the right answerswhen sheasksme questions." "lt's not somethingsomebodycan explainovernight,"he says. "l don't eventhink you'reright," I say."You saythat feudalismwasbetter than the Indians,and that capitalismwasbetterthan feudalism.But it's not, it's just the samefor peoplelike me, we alwaysget shit on. Exceptmaybe for the Indians.I'd be betteroff if I werean Indian." "That'sthe point," he says,exasperated. "Feudalismandcapitalismexploit peoplelike you and me." Exploit.That cropsup all the time, exploitationof the workers.I feellike I've just gottenanotherpieceof the p:uzzle. "So how would you changethings,lanee?"he says. I think. "l'd makesurethat . . . I mean,peoplestill haveto work, right? Or we wouldn't haveanythingto eat. But I'd give more to the peoplelike me, like I'd makesurethat peoplehad enoughto eatand all that. I wouldn't let somepeoplehavea lot and not haveto work.And I wouldn'tmakepeople do stupidthings.You know, sewingquilts all the time is boring." "But how are you goingto havefactoriesif no one hasenoughmoneyto build them?" Paul asks. He's got a point. I mean, if everybodyis prettymuch the same,nobody hasa whole lot of money.I try to think who buildsfactories.I get it, all the suddenI get it. "The government.The governmentcan build them." "Why the government?" he asks. "Becausethey'vegot the money," I say. "But then the governmentiust becomeslike the capitalists,exploiting people." That's what we'vegot but I don't sayit. "Think about it, fanee,"he says. Right. He knowsthe answer,but he wantsme to guess,stupidson of a bitch playing stupid teachergames. If it wasn'tfor me, the poor sorrybastardwould be in real deepshit. I know he thinks I'm stupid,I can tell by the way he talksto me. When he's telling me aboutpoliticshe talksslower,realcareful,and he asksquestions he alreadyknowsthe answersto and there I am, trying to guessthe right answerwhen he could just tell me and then I'd know. And why won't he tell me anythingabout himself?Why doesn'the want to know anything? 'CauseI don't reallymatter,that'swhy. He doesn'tneedto tell me anything becauseI'm just dumb old fanee. "Listen," I say,"what differencedoesit make?Why the hell can'tyou iust tell me whereyou lived?Huh? Why do you haveto be so goddamnsecret about it?" "What differencedoesit make where I lived," he says.He's in a pissy

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to botherhim, he kind of sits mood. When he'slike this I'm not supposed aroundand doesn'tsayanything.What, he thinkshe'sthe only one whose life is screwedup? "Fine," I say."You don't wantto talk to me?I don't want to talk to you." And I don't talk to him. I just leavehim right thereand I just startignoring him from then on, takemy blanket,sleepin the goddamnbunk by the door eventhough it's colder. I mean, I boot Nesly out, makehim sleepin the middle bunk so I can havethe bottom, I can't let goddamnNeslysleepbetter than I do, not evenfor Paul. And the bunk is the pits, there'sa draft in from the door and I've only got one blanket,so I haveto sleepcurled up in the corner trying to get all of me under the stupid greenblanket. Pauldoesn'tsayanything.He hasthatway,like he expectsshitto happen, like he alwaysexpectedI'd dump him. And the nextmorningnobodyreally bothershim. Nobodyreallybothersme, either,butthen, peopledon'tbother me. So we just go throughthe day, not talkingto eachother. I evenmake Neslysit at my Singersewingmachine,nextto Paul. I seepeoplewatching, seeinghow pissedI am. Seeingif Paul is out thereby himself. At dinner Paul getsin line, he'sin front of Marisa,who is okay,and Roy and Sal cut in front of Marisa,which getsher real nervousuntil they start bumping into Paul and she realizesshe'snot the target.She looksback at me, I can seeher headturn, but I'm makinglike I'm not reallylooking.Paul looksback,not knowingwhat'sgoingon, and sayssomething,and Sal and Roy laugh. So he getshis beansand theygettheirs,and I'm still like I'm not watching,and Sal and Roy are leaningon him. I can't hear what they're saying,but I can tell, they'reoverthereby the kettlesand now sinceit's cold there'salwayslike this steamblowinglike smoke. And Paul doesn'tknow what to do, you can seehis shouldersup around his earsand he's all elbowsand you can tell that Roy and Sal got him running,but he'sholdinghis beansand shakinghis head,and Sal pulls on the plate,but Paul rlon _tlet go, so it's kind of a tug of war. Sal'slookinga little stupid,and Paul callsto one of the guards,which is a mistake,becar]se it's a guy we call Arkansaswho doesn'tcare what happensas long as he doesn'thaveto do anything.He'sthis shortlittle guywith a big Adam;sapple a-ndthose stupid green guards'uniforms fit him even *ots. than they fit the other guards.Paul alwayssaysArkansasis an exampleof too much inbreeding. Arkansas goesdeafand pretendshe doesn'tknow what'sgoingon and the next thing I know Sal flicksPaul'splateof beansonto Paulrsfaceand shirt. And Sal and Roy are laughing,and I guessit's not asgoodasgettingpaul's beansbut it's betterthan nothing,and Paul yellsat Arkansrr,;Did you see that! Are you goingto let them do that!" Arkansassort of half reverses his deal gun, so that the metal stockis out there, like he's going to club someone,and narrowshis eyesand says, "Politics,you causinga disturbance?" in this real lazy way. "l wasn'tdoing anything-"

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"l don't like trouble," Arkansassays. And Paul must realizethat it's openseasonwhen you'rePolitical,'cause he doesn'tsayanythingafterthat. And I'm pretendingnot to notice anything. Son of a bitch thinks I'm stupid,let him surviveout thereon his brains. Thingsarereallydifferentwithoutme beingwith Paul.I guessI kind of look around. Not that there'sa whole lot to see.Kansaslooks like hard, pale ripples,and the skyis light blue, realfar away.The barracksare all in lines and they'relow and long and even though they were paintedgreen,now they'rejust all washedout, a kind of darkerKansascoior. The only colors The U. S. People's arethe guards'uniforms,which aredarkgreen,all stamped Army over the pockets. I feel so small. It wasokaywhen I wasbusywatchingeverybodyin group thirty-sixand worryingaboutPaul, but now I feel so small, and I havethis awfulthing in my stomach,all the time. Everytime I look out pasttl'reguard wire that marksthe perimeter,and there'sdry, empty Kansas,it's like my stomachis trying to swallowme up. I knowI'm goingto get out of here in the spring,somethingwill comeup, it hasto comeup, I can'tstandit here, I'll die, I'll reallydie out here. Peopledo die. Nobodyfrom groupthirty-six,but sometimesfrom other groups,like groupsix, the zombies.They put the bodyin a greenbagin the morning and we seethe guardsthrow them in a truck while we'restanding and I realizethey'vebeendoing that sinceit startedto in line for breakfast, get cold. I've beenwatchingthem but it's like I didn't reallynotice. I startthinkingaboutrunning out, iust running, just trying it. Maybethe perimeterisn't on all the time. We don't go nearit. Maybethey leaveit off. And if they don't, I'd neverknow, iust zap and then the guardsleaveyou thereand Paul thoughtthat you didn't feel anythingand he oughtto know, sincehe'sbeenzapped. Crazythoughts,that scareme, but it's sotempting.Like my mind doesn't reallybelieveanythingcould happento me. and paperand little In political instructionNataliegivesus all lapboards shortrtrrbbypencils.EvenPaulgetsa lapboard.That'srealdifferent.Which makesme more nervous,I don't like different.Different is bad. My first thought is that we're going to have a testand I know there'sno way I can pass,and I startwonderingwhat they'll do to me if I flunk. Cut my rations? i'm trying, I'- tryingashard asI can. But that'swhat Neslyalwayssays.So I clench my pencil and wait to seewhat shesays. in yourself-struggle. Natalierryi, "W. needto seehow you areprogressing Pleasewrite aboutyourself.You can write anythingyou wish, but we will checkto seewhat you haveomitted.Everybodyunderstand?" No, I don't understand.I don't write very good. I mean, I didn't even finish high school. I don't know what they want. But nobody else saysanything,so I'm not goingto sayanything.So I look down at the piece9j paper. i look up and around the room and I seethe twelve rules of self-

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struggleon the wall. All that stuff aboutone day at a time, and denial and all that stuff. A coupleof peopleare writing but a lot of peopleare like me, just sittingthere. Paul is lookingat me, and when I look at him, he shakeshis head.No. I frown. "No" what?But if I kept lookingat him Nataliewill noticeand we'll both be in trouble. So I look backat my paper.I try to write something. My name is JaneeScott. I am a theif and I asalteda person.I am. I don't know how to spellmaladjusted.So I changemy sentence. .

. a criminol elamint.

That lookswrong, too. So I makethe "i" and "e," "elament"looksbetter. So now what am I supposed to do? Nataliesaidthat we would be checked for stuffwe left out. So maybeI shouldtell aboutmy arrest?So I write down aboutthe woman I beatup and aboutstealingher purse. I usedto stealfrom the grocery,too. In the winter it waseasy.I got picked up a coupleof timesand I spenta coupleof nightsin iail. So I betier tell aboutthat, too. I can't spellgroceryso I write "store." Finally I write: I am soryfor my crimes,and for the badthingsI did to sosiaty. I haven'twrittenverymuch, not evenhalf the page.Somepeoplearestill writing. Somepeoplehavewritten most of a pagealready.I wonderwhat elseI'm supposed to write. Nataliesaidwe'd get in troubleif we left things out, but I don't know what kind of things. What elsecould I say?MaybeI'm supposed to writeaboutthe thingsI did in -camp?About the fight with the walkingdeadand about standingup in political instructionand sayingthat my problemwasthat I wasin u labot camp? Other peopleare askingNataliequestions,they kind of wait until she is lookingaroundand then they half raisetheir hand and shecomesover. So I wait and when shelooksat me I put my hand up, feelingstupid.Natalie alreadyknowsI'm stupid,what differencedoesit make? '4lg *. supposed to write aboutthingswe'vedoneat camp?"I whisper. "Whateveryou want," Nataliesays. Somebodyelseraisestheir hand and shegoesto them. I don't know what to do. But shesaidthat we'll get in troublefor the stuff we leaveout. So I try to think of how to saywhail've done at Protection. I havea badatitude.I wasin a fite with somepepoulfrom gr. 6 becasethey-triedto takemy beans.Also, in oui meeting,I my that myproblim is I am at a labercamp, but my problim is that I am a theif and I asaltedthe personat the storeand I stol food. When I stol food from the store,I hurt sosiaty.

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I think the lastsentenceis pretg good,but when I think I've donesomething right in political instruction,I'm alwayswrong. After the political instructionmeeting, Sal startsraggingon Paul about his bunk, telling him he'sgoingto throw him out. Sal hasa bottom bunk, so he's reallyjust leaningon Paul. I figureif Sal is goingto takePaul'sbunk, I'll take Sal's,so I grab my blanketand throw it there while Sal is facing down Paul. Paul is going to come here first, thinking that Sal'sbunk is empg. I'm going to tell him to try near the door. Actually, maybeI'll let him stay, maybeI won't, it depends.If he actsmealy-mouthedand fust slinksdown the door, he can freezefor all I care. And he will, too, causePaul'sso tall that his blanketisn't long enough, and when he scrunchesup it seemslike his kneesalwaysstickout. And he's thin, the way sometall guysare, eventhinner now. We're all eventhinner now. He's goingto end up all bonesand ioints, like his long fingers,stuck down therewith Nesly.And Nesly'lllatch on to him, and he won't havethe senseto tell Nesly to get out of his face. 'cause Paul'slike that. He'll feelsorryfor Nesly.And he'll be nice to him, He'sdecent.Even if it drivesme nuts sometimes,like maybethat'swhy he doesn'twant to know about me beforeI camehere, like he'd preferto think nice thingsaboutme or something.Or maybethat'snot it at all, it's hard to know what he'sthinking. He'd haveto be prettystupidto think nice things aboutme. But I do know, if someonedoesn'ttakecareof him, beingdecent will get him in deep. And then all the suddenI'm thinking all thesethingsat once, like what if Paul got like the zombies,what if he stoppedcaring,and I'm wonderingif and blankit could happen,although I can iust seehim, all raggedy-assed thin to begin he's because piss, specially like eyed,stick-likeand smelling all pale out there, Kansas of thinking with. And at the sametime, I keep zombie, a up not end I might if colored,and us so little, and wondering 'cause worryingaboutPaul,I neverthoughtaboutpeopleendingup zombies. I neverthought about running for the perimeter.It's like my cousin said abouther kid, when you havea baby,you don't havea chanceto know how screwedup you are becauseyou got to think about milk and diapersand all that shit, and the baby iust keepsloving you. So, not evenmeaningto, I pop out of Sal'sbunk and iustgrabmy blanket and go to seewhat'sgoingon. Rid *hat's going on ii this: Paul has my stick, the one I 99! from the living dead,which i k..p stuckin the frameunderour bunk, and he doesn't really look like he's surewhat to do with it. But Sal isn't sure how to get thereisn'ta lot of room betweenthe bunks,Youknow. aroundhim, because And Eddy,who hasthe bottombunk acrossfrom ours,and Marisa,who has the bunk above Eddy's, are both swearinglike mad, telling Sal to leave 'causeif Paul startsswingingthat stick in that little space everythingalone, peoplemight get their headsknocked.

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So I iust walk up and say,"Sal, get backto your own bunk." "Stay outtathis," Sal says. Paul doesn'tsayanything,so I iust walk pastSal. The stupiddick elbows me and pushesme into the bunk, so I pop out againand grabthe stickfrom Pauland stickit like a swordright into Sal'sstomachand then startsmacking him with it, bap, bap, bap, not reallyhurting him, but realfast,so he can't get a hold of it, and he puts up his handstrying to keepme off and keeps walkingbackwarduntil he'sclearof the bunksand I say,"Listen, messwith me againand I'll put it in your teeth." That's the way you deal with trash. So then I just walk back and sit down on the bunk and lean down and shovethe stick back in the frame. Paul standstherea moment and I look up at him and say,"What?" He'sgot a kind of funny little smile on his face,but he just says,in that real reasonable way of his, "Are you backor do you just want the bunk?" "lt's warmerwith someoneelse,"I say."And I've alreadygot you broke . ,, ln.

"Okay," he says.And sitsdown. Eddy says,"Shit," and turns overwith his backto us. Marisais looking overthe edgeof her bunk. Marisais with Kirk, I don't knowwherehe'sbeen all throughthis. "Janee,"Paul says,real quiet. I look up at him, wondering,wonderingwhathe'sgoingto say,andfeeling just becauseof the way he kind of funny, and maybea little embarrassed, saidmy name. "What did you write?"he says. For a moment I don't follow, becauseit isn't what I expectat all. Then I figure out he meansthat stupidthing at political instruction,and without eventhinking I kind of look over towardwherethe twelverulesare written on the wall, eventhoughyou can't seethem from the bunk. I'm irritated.Here I iust savedhis balls and he's going to play teacher games."None of your business," I say. "Janss-" he says,andtakesmy shoulderandkind of pushesmy hair away from my face,nice,somethinghe'sneverdonebefore.Not like humping,but nice, like just for me, fanee."lt's important,what did you write?" I shrug. "l-ustabout being a thief and about fighting with the guysfrom grgYPsix and then aboutthe time I saidthat my big problemwai being in a labor camp." He nods."Good. When theygiveit backto you, justwritethe samething, only in differentwords." "Why are they going to give it back to me?" "lt's somethingtheydo," he says.He'srealtense,realscared.I can'tfigure out what the big deal is. I know he'srattledfrom Sal, he doesn'tknow that the Salsof this world are reallyjust lookingfor someoneto tell them what they can and can't do. "Hay," I say."Don't worry about it. come on, sit down here with me.

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It's cold enough in this barn." Sayingthat makesme smile. "My mother rlsedto saythat," I tell him. "She'dsay,'Closethe door, it's cold enoughin this barn.' " He smilesa little. "Motherssaythat sortof thing. Mine usedto say,'Close the door, you weren'traisedin a barn.' " "Must be a Pennsylvania thing," I say,eventhough I've heardit before, peoplein Clevelandsayit. "Yeah," he says,"must be a Harrisburgthing." "You know," I say, real quiet, "yor can be a real pain in the ass,but sometimes,you'reall right." "lanee," he says,"you'vegot to be real careful.I don't know why you adoptedme, but you don't want me telling you things.You think you do, but I tell you about my life and then I'll be talkingabout things,things I think and believe,and you'll spendthe restof your life in a labor camp. You've got to just sayback to them whateverthey sayto you, okay?" He looks sad, he lookslonely. Well I'm lonely, too. All the time I'm lonely here. "Most of what they sayis crap," I say,and I can feel myself gettingirritatedat him, gettingirritatedat all of it, I'm cold all the time, and hungry, damn it. "l didn't sayyou had to believeit," he whispers. Finally, they startthe little electricheatersin the factorywherewe sewquilts, mostlybecauseit's so cold that our fingersare stiff and our productionis falling. It doesn'tmakethe placewarm, but I can't seemy breathanymore. I think aboutbeingwarmall the time. I getthesebruiseson my legs,most of us do, from the cold. Chilblains.They hurt, real bad. Get up in the morningand it hurtsto movemy legs,and when I'm standingout therefor roll call, the wind comeswhippingoverthoselittle ripply Kansashills and my legshurt so much I havetearsin my eyes.Then we crippleon overfor breakfastand takeit into the factory.Paul and I sit togetheragainstthe wall, one blanketaroundour shoulders,the other acrossour legs,and eat. I still haven'tgottento 180quilts.I get 177 onceand Corbin callstime to that saying,but I quit. I'm so mad I almostcry. Really,I neverunderstood can feel the hot tears.I want to hit something.Nesly'sdoing real bad. He's coughingall the time, and spitting.He's on half rations,becausehis productionis so low. I know when I'm losingmy concentrationbecauseI can hear Neslybackthere,coughinghis lungsout. I sewquilts. I can mostlysewwithout thinking, iust zip, zip, zip, zip. I think about a lot of things. I think about what Paul said, about saying whateverthey want me to say.And I think aboutwhat they want me to say. And I think aboutthe questionhe askedme, when I saidthat it seemedto me that the Indianshad it the best,that factoryworkers,and serfsand people like me, we all had it iust aboutthe same. I keeptrying to think about what would make it better.Everybodyhas to work, or peoplewouldn'thaveanything.EvenIndianshad to hunt or something. Like quilts, there'sa lot in a quilt. There'sthe cottonystuff in the

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middle, somebodyhasto makethat, and then somebodyhasto put it in the middle of the quilt. Somebodylike us hasto makethe plain part, that they put the stuffingin. And somewhere,somebodyhas to put togetherall the little piecesof cloth and makethe top part. SometimesI imaginethe way my plain shellswill look when the top goeson them. I don't know if they'll be the kind with the patches,or if they'll be the oneswith the stars,or the fans,or the pin wheels.. . . There'sa lot of differentpatterns. I'd like makingquiltsa lot betterif I coulddo differentthings,like the top part, too. If I weregoingto makea new society,I'd havepeopledo different things,not the samethingsall the time. So that somebodywouldn'talways get stuckdoing the stuffthat no one likesto do. At breakone day, I tell Paul aboutmy idea. "That's a goodidea," he says."But who would makethe schedule?" " In politiI shrug."Maybeeverybody could talkaboutit. Like consensus. cal meetingswe'vebeentalkingaboutconsensus, havingeverybody cometo agreement.It meansthat when you know you're outvoted,you give in, becauseyou know you're not going to win. First you talk, and everybody kind of finds out what everybodyelsethinks, then when you vote, it's not reallya vote,you consent.And if one personssaysno, then you haveto talk aboutit until everybody agrees.But you shouldn'tsay"no" unlessyou really haveto. Everybodyhasto kind of trust everybody else,you haveto decide, you may disagree,but do you disagree enoughto stopeverything? "Quakersocialism,"Paulsays.For a momentI think he'slaughingat me, but he'snot. Things strikehim funny that aren'tfunny to anyoneelse. "What's that mean?"I ask. "Quakerswerea religiousgroupthat practicedsomesocialisttechniques," he says. "Religionis anti-socialist,"I say,which everybodyknowsis true. Opiate of the masses and all that. "A lot of Christiangroupsexperimented with communalliving," he says, "and someof the waysthey found are very practical,like consensus. And socialismusesa lot of-" he stops. "Wtrat," I say. He shakeshis head."So you would useconsensus your schedto establish ule. I think that'sa good idea. Have you figuredout how to build your factoriesyet?" He'schangingthe subject,becauseit's wrongto saythat socialismis like religion."No," I say."l'm still workingon it." And then we haveto go backto work.But the nice thing aboutgoingback to work after our two-thirty break is that it's only four more hburi until dinner. And I'm thinking aboutwhat Paul said,aboutsocialismbeing like religjon.Which is very, very weird, becauseeverybodyknowsthat religion is all superstition. But I don't sayanythingabout religionto Paul. I just kind of storethat away.And then I go backto thinking aboutmy quilt factory. Dinner is somesortof stewwith floury dumplings,we don't alwayshave

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beans.There'sa bit of fatty meat in my bowl and I saveit for last. Fat tastes s-ogoodto me. That soundsdisgusting, but it does.I think I couldeatstraight fat. I'm hungrywhen I'm done,but I savemy roll, because Pauland I always eat our breadright beforewe go to sleep.Somepeoplesavetheir cornbread from morning, they saveit all day. The next morning Corbin saysthat Neslydoesn'thaveto work. Neslysayshe'll work, it's okay,eventhough he'sreallysickand he'snot evenmakingeightyquilts a day. He's real thin, the bonesin his chestare realsharpand his wristslook like sticksand his skin is realdry and scaly.His hair is comingout, too. Sometimeswhen I look over,he isn't evensewing, he's just got his head down on his table. Sometimeshis eyesare closed, sometimesthey'reopen. We all know why he wantsto go to work, if he doesn'tgo to work he'll be on infirmary rations. Corbin sayshe shouldstayand restand it's like Nesly just doesn'tcare. Like the walkingdead. Neslyis goingto die. When we'resewing,once in awhile I hear someonecoughing-a lot of peoplecough-and then I think, "lt's not Nesly.Neslyis goingto die." Nothing I can do. In my society,Nesly wouldn't go on half rations,not if everybodyfelt Nesly was really trying. I think about what group thirty-sixcould do. If everybodygave Nesly a spoonful of their food, that would be thirty-one spoonfuls.That would be a lot, addedto his half-ration,then he wouldn't starve.If everybodydoesit, that spreadsit out, so nobodyhasto do a whole lot. Not that I think peoplereallywould, not for Nesly. I don't tell anybody,though. They'd think I'd gonesoft in the head. again,and the little stubbypencils.I've still got Nataliehandsout lapboards the pen stuckin the seamof my pants,it's beentheresinceI stuckit in the seamof my pantswhen theytold uswe could only takewhatwe werewearing. Paulusedto kind of playwith it through I nevereventhink of it. Sometimes, my pants,but we don't do anythinganymorebut sleep.I look overat Paul, and he looksscared.Which makesme real nervous. Natalie fust handsbackall thosepiecesof paperthat we wrotebefore,and I look mine over. It reallylooksstupid. Natalie says,"All of you left thingsout, thingsthat we know about, so pleaseexplain further. Pleasetell us more about yourselfand your selfstruggle." I look up at the twelve rules. Look back down at my My self-struggle? so that lapboard.It's real lousy plastic,bumpy with scrapesand scratches *h.r, I write my pencil will catchin the indentations.What do they know aboutthat I didn't say?fuvenilereform? I wasin jewvinilereformbecaseI stola playerand somechips.I had a chanseto reformat Brigum Housebut I did not. Sosiaty

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had to pay mony to fed me and give me cloths and when I got out of Brigum HouseI did the samebad things. I know I'm doing good, now. At BrighamHousethey werealwaystalking aboutour debtto society.And herethey talk aboutthat too. In a way we're like Nesly,we nevermakeour quotas,so now societyhasto payfor us, like a spoonfulfrom everybody. Now I am here . . I want to sayin Protection,but I'm not surehow to spellit, . . . and Sosiatygivesme food and hasto buld a campso I have to workhardand makealotof quiwltssoI cangivebackto sosiaty. When I go home, I haveto be a productivmemeberof sosiaty. Soshalisummeanseverbodytogetherin sosiaty. I underlinethe partabouteverybody together.I understand whatNataliehad beentrying to teachus, socialismmeansthat everybody shares.The way to build the factorywasto share,if everybodygavea little bit, like if we all gave a teaspoonof food to Nesly,nobodywould noticethe little bit. But put all th9 llttle bitstogether,and then you havea lot, and you can build a factory. I had figured it out, all by myself. I want to tell somebody,I want to tell Natalie,or Paul. Paulis iustsitting,lookingat his lapboard.Natalieis answering someone's question.Natalielooksup at Paul, then walksoverto him and says,"Aren't you goingto add anything?" " Paul shrugs."l addedsomething. Nataliewalksup besidehim, so shecan readit. "I havefailed to renew my commitmentto the revolutioneachday," shesays,in a funny voice. "ls that all you can think to add, Paul?" "That'sall," he says. Natalieficks open her notebook."What aboutKevin Hanrahan?" Paul says,like he doesn'tcare,"What abouthim, Natalie?" "Why don't you write about him?" He bendsover his lapboard.We're all watching.Nataliealwaysignores Paul,sheneversaysanything him. Politicalsrren't allowedto sayanything !o in political meetingsfor the first two years. She reads,"Natalie hasaskedme to write about KevinHanrahan.Kevin Hanrahan wdsa studentof mine sixyearsago. After he left my classI had no furthercommunicationwith him." She shakesher head. Natalielooksmean. I think of when we first had politicalmeetings,when shemadeNancystandup and sayshewasa prostitute. I wonderwhat Nataliedid to getsentto a laborcamp. I mean,Natalie alwaysjustseemedlike a personwho you felt sorryfor, a I wasnever "hu*p, afraidof her before. "Paul," she says."Wasn't therea letter?"

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He doesn'tsayanything.Then he says,"l don't remembera letter." "You're holdingout, " shesays."You realize,holdingout on us will only hurt you, and hurt Kevin Hanrahan." "Maybewhen Degraff-" the campguardI alwayscalledHelga"-sssd me as a demonstrationmodel on the perimeterthere was brain damage, Natalie." He saysher name sarcastic, like he'sbeingpolite, and he'snot. "This isn't a camp for Politicals,"Nataliesays."This camp is easy.You don't want to end up somewhere like Rushville." "Why don't you go help the kids with their compositions,"he says,but this time he doesn'tsoundsarcasticat all, he just soundslike he doesn't care. But he does,because whenwe climb into our bunk, he'sshakingall over, all tenseand scared.And I don't know what to do, so I don't do anything. And after awhile he goesto sleep. A couple of days later they take Nesly to the infirmary. He can't walk anymore,and he muttersall the time, talking,talking,but he doesn'tknow what he's sayingand nobodycan understandhim. "We could havedone something,"I tell Paul. He shakeshis head."There'snothingyou could do, fanee." "No," I say, irritated,"not me. Us. All of us, group thirty-six."So I gavehim a spoonful."That's socialism," explainto him aboutif everybody I say,"that'show you build the factory." He nods."So who ownsthe factory?" " I think a moment. Ownsthe factory?"The peoplewho workin it, I guess. "No, everybody,becauseeverybodyput a spoonfulin. It's everybody'sfactory." He grins, "That's right, that'sit, fanee.That'ssocialisrn." "Yeah," I say."And the peoplewho work theredecidethe way to do the takesturns, job, and theyuseconsensus to makethe schedule,andeverybody I mean, exceptfor the jobsthat someonecan't do, like you know, if they haveto fix a sewingmachine,I can't do that, but all the restof the iobs, peopleall tradearound,so nobodyhasto do the boringstuffall the time." "And thereare no bosses,"he says. "But it doesn'twork that way," I say.At least,I neverheardof it working that way, I mean, we're supposedto be socialist,even in Cleveland,and Clevelandsureisn't like that. "No," he says,"it doesn't." "Why not?" He shrugs,looksat the floor. "l don't know," he says. But I don't believehim, he could answerme. He could tell me why it's not working.It's one of the thingshe won't talk about,like that stuffabout religion. Corbin comesin. "CorW.'r. sittingin the factory,eatingour breakfast. bin'snot a prisoner,"Paul says. I say. Which is stupid."What, you think he'sa guardin disguise?"

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"No, Corbin wasin on a ten-yearsentence.Chick, over in groupthirtyone, told me." That doesn'tmakeany sense.Why the hell would someonestayhereafter he'sservedhis time unlesshe's soft upstairs? Corbin eventold us that he's servedtime in sevendifferentwork camps,someasfar westasColorado,out wherethere'sno water.Corbin is a little weird, in the summerhe doesn't wearshoesso he can savethe peoplethe costof shoeleather.Corbin is a first-class chump. Corbin makesus all go to our sewingmachinesand then he tells us that t\ campdirectorhasaskedus all to showsomeunity, to showsomespirit. "!o{^y is our chanceto showthe restof the campthai'group thirty-sixis not slacking,"Corbin says.It's somesortof productionp,rih. itf you normally -4: 120quilts,try to make 160.If you make 160,try to -rk.200.', Jh:l]he.big news.."You'llget extrabeansatz:30,b..rur. oiyou, extra effort," corbin says."But think, if you earn thoseextrabeans,maybe this will happenmore often." Hell, for extrabeans,I'd make 500 quilts. In the first hour I make nineteen,_ which is great,but my shouldersare killing me becaur: I.-working the foot of theThr"rd., right at my fingers and pushingthe cloth.throughls hard as I can and I'm afiaid [,m going to get my fingersunder the needle. The secondhour I make twenty, which is the most I ever made in an hour. I can feel myselfsweating.I'mean, it's cold in thai,t";]fi;.tory but I'm sweating,I'm concentrating so hard. And the third hour I *.r, up two in a row, and I-only makesixteen.I tell myselfI can still make lg0. Chris makes180 all the time, and he's iust somestupiddickhead from Detroit. when we breakat z:70I've made i14 quiltr, ,t.h l, , p.ironrl il.rt. prul hasmade 106,which is goodfor him. borbir, -rk., ,n"n *. go for beans. "r;";;t, Beansat2:30, it's wonderful.I can't believewe get to eat again at7.)0. "We get beansat dinner, right?"I askCorbin. "Yeah," he says, -yon do." But hes tarkingto someothergroupreaders. As soonaswe eatthe beans,Corbinhurriesirs backto ou. AJtoryiuilding. "Group fourteenis makingan average of seventeen an hour,;;t . rry, Then he makesus tell our figuresout loui. chris h^ mrde rzt q;i[r.-Thirteen more than me. Two more an hour than me. But I,m okay, not the fastest, but not the slowest,either.I'm up in the t"; fi; The slor.rr i, Roy, who hasonly made91. Everybodygetsrealquietwhen Roytellshow many he,smade,everybody ir llil\itg that he'll pull our group,u.r"g. down. "we'll-stopfor dinner,but then we'il *J* ht , ,o everybody hasa chance to meettheir quota." We go backto work. Usuallythe four hoursbetween 2:J0and dinner just dragbv, but today.they go fasi. At dinner corbin hrr-; ig;r. Igrin. I,u. made-185quilts, the mostI've evermade.A lot of peopre h"ru".nla. more than they ever made before.

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Marisasays,"Maybewe shouldjust taketen minutesfor dinner and then come back,so we havemore time until lightsout at ten." Corbin nods,and sayswe haveto decide.So we vote,and decidewe will, althoughsomepeopledon't wantto. I think aboutconsensus. But firstof all, if we wait until we haveconsensus it will take too much time. Secondof all, a lot of peoplein the group don't understandaboutconsensus, they're selfish. Anyway,we gobbleour food-normally I nevereat fast, normally I eat realslow,tryingto makeit last-and hurry back.Othergroupsaredoingthe samething. It's weirdto be backin the factorywith the clamplampson, and my tableisn't in goodlight, so I can't seeverywell, so I haveto go slower. I'm real tired. I'm so tired I can't seegood.I can't focus. I get tired more easily.And if I try to comb my hair with my fingers, someof it comesout. I can't concentrateon sewing,I keepthinking about Cleveland,aboutriding the bus down I-90 pastMartin Luther King Boulevard,and how right beforeDeadMan'sCurveyou can seethe lake,and the if there'sbeena storm the lake'srealclear,andsometimes, rocks.Sometimes real water's brown. the or something, So I startto cry a little, which is stupid.I hatedthe bus. I only took the bus when the rapidbrokedown-which it did fairly often. And then I had to standbecauseall the peoplewho took the rapidwereon the bus. Finally we stop,and I've only made 39 quilts. That's 224. I don't even rememberfalling into the bunk. The next morning someof us evenget extracornbread,becausewe went over 180quilts, and afterwork we get extrabeans,althoughmy production is way down afterthe day before.I'm still tired from the push. And we have political instruction.I figure I'm just going to do nothing during political instruction,maybeI'll sit in the backand go to sleep. Bui Natalieseesme in the back."]anee,"shesays,firstthing, "what have you learnedfrom all this?" The questionsareall trick questionsand I alwaysgetthem wronganyway. "That we work betterfor rewards,"I say.Nataliegetsthis little smileshehas ideology,"and that showswe needto when she'sgoingto roastsomebody's analyzeouio*tt motivesbetter,"I say,quick, becausethat'salwaysgood. to be analyzingfo-r.I'm just beginningto figureout what we'resupposed And all ihe s,tddenit's like I know the right answer.Capitalismis selfish, that we have our problemis that we are still selfish.What hasto happen_is to bL lessselfish,otherwisesocialismwill never work. "lf we were truly socialist,"I say,"we would work for the goodof everybody,thatt society, uh, capitalistwaysof thinking and we work but we still haveold-fashioned, for rewards." Natalielookssurprised,then shelooksat Paul-who is staringat his long spiderfingersand doesn'tlook at me eventhoughyou think he'd be htppy tirat I fitrally gavethem backan answerthey wanted.She thinks he told me what to say. "l've beln thinkingaboutit a lot," I say."l think that socialismis a really

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good idea, you know, everybodysharing,and everybodybeing equal and everything,but what I wantto know is, why isn't it like that on the outside?" Nataliefrowns.I've madea mistake. "What I mean is, socialismsaysthat, say,if we had a real quilt factory, everybodywould own it, right?And the peoplethat madethe quilts, they'd like, trade jobs, so that sometimesyou have to do the boring stuff, but sometimesyou get to do the morc interestingstuff, like putting the piece work, the starsand stuff, on the top. And that everybodywould vote, like we did last night about coming back from dinner to work on our quota. But and peopledon't trade. outside,thingsdon't work like that, therearebosses In a way," I say,"we'remore socialistthan they are outside." Natalielooksreallysurprised."Well, |anee," shesays,"the differenceis and we reallywork together." that inside,we reallyanalyzeourselves, "So maybeeverybodyought to haveto do what we do," I say,"but that makesit soundlike everybodyought to come to a labor camp, which isn't what I mean. But if I hadn't come here, I'd haveneverfiguredthis out." Nataliewritesawhilein her notebookand I figureI'm roasted.Then she looksup and says,"fanee,whenyou firstcamehereyou had a verynegative, attitude.I wantyou to knowI'm astonished a veryego-centered andimpressed you've progress made." And then shesmilesat me. at the Some peopleare noddingto themselves.Someare like Paul, staringat their hands.Roy is lookingat me, nakedhateon his face. In bed, afterlightsout, Paul saysto me, "Why did you saythat?" "BecauseI figuredit out, from what you told me." I think he'll at leastsaysomethingnice, but he just sighs. "I figuredit out, myself,"I say. "l know you did," he says. "You told me to tell them whattheywanted,"I say.EventhoughI didn't just sayit becauseit's what they want me to say. He doesn'tanswerme. SometimesI don't understandhim at all. The next evening,at dinner, I get two extrachunksof cornbread.I must looked surprisedbecauseEars, one of the cooks,says,"Camp Director's orders,fanee." AfterdinnerNataliesays,"l madea reporton your progress in self-analysis " and self-education. For a momentI think, I oweher. Then I think, shelooksgoodfor having someonemakeprogress, so maybewe'reeven.I try to givePaul a chunk of cornbread. "You earnedit," he says. "You act like I did somethingbad," I say."You told me to tell them what they want. You told me to think aboutit. Things wouldbe betterif everybody wassocialist,wouldn't they?" "Yeah," he says,just agreeingwith me. "You don't believein socialism. " "lanee," he says,then stops."fanee,you don't evertalk about escaping anymore."

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"l-r-," I say."l'm still thinkingaboutit. But I can'tdo anythingaboutit until spring."I soundkind of whiny, evento me. "You.,.u., talk'tome," I say. "You think I'm stupid. I figured that stuff out myself, nobody told me." "l don't think you'restupid,"he says. "Bullshit," I say."Look at you, Mr. Schoolteacher. You still think you're special,an intellectual.Well, if it wasn'tfor me, peoplelike Sal would have you for lunch. And I can figurethingsout, too. And I can figureout that you gottabe here for a reasonand you didn't off no streetjockwith the lid off a trashbarrel.But you don't want to talk about it. Why don't you ever talk about it, huh? What are you afraid of? 'Cept you think none of us " dumbshitscan understand. All the time he'sshakinghis head,standingthereshakinghis head, no, no, no, no. "l wrotea coupleof articleson socialisttrendsin Americabefore the revolution,"he says,"aboutattemptsto establish Christianutopiasalong socialistlines. I didn't toe the partyline." "Yeah?How comewhen I saysomethinglike I did at the politicalinstruction last night you act like you'reall disappointed in me?" "l'm not disappointed in you," he says. "Bullshit, jack-jockey. I beenin your bunk for a coupleof months,I know you pretty well, even if I don't use twenty-dollarwordsto say what I'm thinking." "l don't careaboutyour vocabulary,"he says."fanee,fanee.You'retough and you'resmart.I'm gladyou'refiguringout whattheywant. But when you saythat the labor camp helpedmakeyou a bettercitizen I'm not going to like it." "l didn't saythat," I say.He twiststhings.He twiststhem around.Listen to television,that'swhat politicalpeopledo. "ln political instruction,"he said. "What do you think you got brownie defenseof repoints with the Camp Directorfor if not your impassioned education?" "That'snot true!" I say."That'snot true! I saidI didn't want everybody to go to labor camps!" "But if you neverwent to a labor camp, you neverwould havelearned aboutsocialism!"he says. "So? So I might havesaidthat. So it's true. Maybe I had to come to a placelike this, whereI had to learnaboutit, or I neverwould havepaidany attention." he says."That's "And what,all of societyhasto go throughre-education?" what I wasstudying,in the nineteenthcentury,peopleusedto try to establish socialistcommunities,they were all peoplewilling to give up everything. And not one of thosecommunitiesworked.Not one.They all died out after a few years,the OneidaColony, the Shakers,all of them." "So you don't believe,"I say.Which scaresme, I don't know *hy, but it scaresme. Becausewhat if he'sright, what if it's all wrong? I don't know, I don't He shakeshis head."l don't believein re-education.

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know what I believe.But I know one thing, I mean,look at you' practical, tough little faneewho sawthis goddamnsystemfor what it is, slavelabor! all of society!" And now you'retalkingaboutre-educating "I don't evenunderstand whatyou'retalkingabout.You saidthat we were evolving,"I say. "First the Indians,then feudalism,then capitalism,now socialism.We still haveall of thesecapitalistideasin our heads,how arewe goingto get rid of them?" And all of the suddenI startcrying.I nevercry. I mean,I feel like crying sometimesat the camp, but I nevercry. And I don't even know why I'm cryingexceptI am. I want socialism,I want thingsto be better.I want to go home. Paul hugsme. "l'm so scared,"I tell him. "l'm so scaredwe're all going to die, like Nesly." In political instructionNataliehaslapboardsagainbut only certainpeople haveto write, all the restof us can do whateverwe want. Paul is one of the peoplewho hasto write. I lie in the bunk, wrappedup in both blanketsand doze,waiting. Lately,when I'm half asleep,I sortof dream.It happenswhen I'm sewing, it happensat breaksometimes.I'm not reallysoundasleep,just barelyinto I dreamI'm at work. I alwaysdream sleep.Nothingeverhappens,sometimes aboutthingsthat areat the camp,and usuallyI'm justdoingsomethingreal. This time I dreamaboutmorning,when it's blue. While we aregettingour breakfast, when the sun is just coming up and someof the skyis blackand still night off in the west,Kansasturns blue, like water,like air. It's real beautifulwhen that happens.I neverknewplacescould be blue. The lakecould be blue, the skycould be blue, but I neverknewhills could be blue. Blue isn't a solidcolor, it's an air color, a watercolor. If something asbig asKansascan turn blue, I feel like I can disappear. Nothing happens while I am dreaming,Kansasis iust blue and I feel like I could disappear. I wakeup scared. So I get up, wrappedin both blankets,and sit on the concreteat the foot of the bunk bedswhereI can seethe end of the barrackswherethe political instructionis goingon. I can seePaul,he'snot writing,and I can seeNatalie when shewalksin the part of the room wherethe bunksaren'tblockingmy view. Finally shestopsin front of Paul and shesays,"ls that all?" He doesn'tsayanything. "You're resisting. " "You want me to accusepeople,"he says. Sheshakes her head,"No, we dnn't needyou to accusepeople,we already know. We are trying to help you." And when he doesn'tsayanythingshe says,"You'reonly oneperson.You'refull of egotism.You'resayingeveryone elseis wrong and you'reright." He is only one person.Natalieand Corbin and a lot of peoplebelievein socialism,why shouldPaul be right and everybodyelsewrong?

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EventuallyPaul comesbackand lies down, all tenseand shaky. He's cold when I curl up againsthim, but we get our blanketsall in the right placeand I go right backto sleep,like fallingdown, like slippingunder water, and Kansasis blue. Soft, without having real edges,biue. I don't dream-aboutanybodyelse,and nothinghappens,just Kansas,rolling away towardthe sunrise,blue. In the morning when we get our breakfast, Kansasis blue. When we take our break,I sit down where I can lean againstthe wall, and when I closemy eyes,Kansasis blue. So I work, and I eat,and I conductself-analysis. Now in politicalinstruction we are testifring.That meansthat peopleget up, and they saytheir name and what they did wrong, like when I testifr I will say,"l am fanee Scott,and I am a thief and a criminal." And then we haveto tell aboutour life. It's not like it waswhen we stoodup at the first instructionand saidthat, now only peoplewho want to standup and testifu.Sometimessomeonewill standup to testifyand Nataliewill say,"No, you'renot ready." I figureI'm not ready.But one day Nataliesaysto me, "fanee,why don't you tell us your story." Shesaysit in the nice wayshesometimes talksto me now, realgentle.So I standup and I say,"l am faneeScottand I am a thief and a criminal. I was born in Lorraine, Ohio, but my mother movedto Clevelandwhen I wasreal little." I tell my wholelife, juststandingtheretalking.My voicejustgoeson and on. And I tell about the thingsI did, and how unhappyI wassometimes, and how I hatedpeoplewho werejustnormal,and I startto cry. Like I never realizedhow much I wantedto be like the peopleon television.I tell about the woman I assaulted, and how I neverthoughtabouthow'd shefeel, and nobody I keepcrying.It's awful,but it feelsgood.And the groupunderstands, saysanything,everybodyjust listens,we are all together. And when I'm all done, I'm so tired, but I feel so light and empty.I feel pure. Paul is watchingme, and I think he'll neverunderstandthis feeling. That night, when I sleep,I don't dreamaboutKansasbeingblue. Summer in Kansasis almost as bad as winter, it's so hot in the factory buildingsthat peoplefaint. But when we wakeup it's alreadygettinglight, and I never feel like I'm going to drown in the blue while we're getting breakfast. It's beenhot for awhile, it's maybefuly, and Nataliesaysone morning, "Paul, get your things togetherand don't go over to the factorybuilding today." I grabhold of both Paul'shands. I know what it is, he'sbeingtransferred. "They're transferringPoliticals,"Nataliesays. Paul nods.He looksthin and sad.His hair is long and he looksscraggly. "Natalie," I say,"l'd like to givePaula haircutsothat groupthirty-sixwill makea goodimpressionwhen he is transferred."

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She knowsI just want to saygood-bye,but shenods.So Corbin letsme and I try to cut his hair. havea pair of scissors We don't sayverymuch. I'm not a goodbarber,but he looksbetterwhen I'm finished.I eventrim his beard.I don't knowwhatto say.I keepthinking of political instruction,sometimesI think he's lookingat me, that way he but mostof the time when I look at him, he is does,like he'sdisappointed, lookingat his handsand he just lookssad. I carryhis blanketroll out for him, eventhoughhe could carryit himself. There are someotherpeoplewaiting,otherPoliticalsfrom othergroups,all He touchesmy shoulderand then my facewith his standingby themselves. long spiderfingers. "Be careful,okay?"I say. "You pick betternext time," he says,"okay?No Politicals." "You find someoneto look out for you," I say. Then I haveto go backto the factory.In a funny way, I'm relieved.No one is watchingme anymore. But that night, I havea hard time falling asleepby myself.And when I do, I dreamof blue Kansas,and Paul'sin my dream.fust one person,way out in the blue, hard to see. But I know it's Paul, who elsewould it be?

THE LASTCARDINALBIRD IN TENNESSEE Neal Barrett, fr.

V Born in SanAntonio,Texas,and raisedin OklahomaCity, Oklahoma,NealBarrett, |r., spentseveralyearsin Austin, hobnobbingwith the likes of Lewis Shiner and HowardWaldrop,and now makeshis home with his family in Fort Worth, Texas. He nradehis first salein 1959,and hasbeena full-time freelancerfor the pasttwelve '80s, Fiction Barrettbecameoneof IsaacAsimov'sScience years.In the lasthalf of the Magazine'smostpopularwriters,and gainedwide criticalacclaimfor a stringof his Flying weirdstories,suchas "Ginny Sweethips' pungent,funny, and unclassifiably Circus," "PerpetuityBlues," "Stairs,""Highbrow," "Trading Post,"and "Classof '61." Other greatstoriesof I'ris,such as "Diller," "sallie C," and "Winter on the asdiverseasOmni, The Bestof theWest, BelleFourclle,"werepublishedin rnarkets in our Fourth and Sixth Annual CollecHe has had stories andThel,lewFrontier. Collection. His booksinclude Stress Fifth Annual tions, and two storiesin our Aldair series,the criticallyacclaimednovel, Pattern,KarmaCorps,the four-volume UncertainLight, and a verystrange Dawn's ThroughDarkestAmericaand its sequel ngton Post referredto as "the Washi the novel called The HereafterCang, which the comic Mafia novel Pink are Great AmericanNovel." His most recentbooks just Hollywoodmovie, and big-budget beenoptionedfor a Yodka Blues,which has work, SlightlyOff Centera collection of someof his sl-rorter Here he givesus a strange,funny, and brilliantly bleaklook at the ftrture, in a one-actplay that, we guarantee,no one will everdare to actuallystage. . .

THE TIME: The near future. TIIE SET:The setis a shabby,dimly-lit kitchen,the reflectionof a rundown WworIdwhereeverythingisbroken,andnothinggetsfixed.Thisjs tomorrowheld togetherby a string. A weak beam of sunlight slants through a narrow window. The light captures dust motesin the air. The sun itself is seenoccasionallythrough a ch,okingindustrial haze; it tells us dII we needto know about the scarcities, turmoil and ecologicalproblemsof the world outside. HOWARD is a characterin the qlay, but he is alsoa part of the set. He

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sitsin a life-supportwheelchairto stageleft, apart from the area of action. His chair is a patched-uparray of plastic and coppertubing, wires and makeshiftbracesand supports.Fluidspump sluggishlythroughthe systemand throughHOWARD himself.He is totally confinedwithin this torturous maze;only his headis wholly visible. THE BABY is in a bottle on the kitchenshelf.Light seemsto emergefrom the bottle. As the play opens,the bottle is shroudedby a bird cagecoyer. TIIE CHARACTERS: LOUISE ANN is an dverdgeSouthernBeIIe. She in the past.CARLA is Puerto Ricanand street@ing wise. Sheno longerremembers-or hich of her many "adventures" are true. It is possiblethat LOUISE ANN and CARLA are thirty and look forty. Or maybethey are forty and lookfifty. They looka bit like bag ladies in their verybest clothes.Timesare hard. (Kitchendooropenson STAGE RIGHT. LOUISE ANN entersfirst,carrying a patchedcloth sackof groceries. A shotgunon a frayed stringis slung over oneshoulder.Shewectrsan air-filter apparatusoverher noseand mouth. She removes theapparatusassheenters.CARLA comes in behindLOUISE ANN. Shecarriesan assaultrifle, and two sacksof groceries.)

CARLA:

Theseguy, wha'she think? You hear theseguy, you hear wha' he is sayin'tome?Like I am a lovetoy or somethin'? I'm what, the flavor of the week?(CARLA pushes her filter up on her head.)

LOUISE ANN: (Ro//sher eyesto the ceiling as she setsher sackon a work table) He askedyou where the navy beanswere, Carla. I believethat's what he said. (she takesoff her shotgunand Ieansit againstthe sink;shebegins pawingthroughier sack.) GARLA:

oh, sure.You seethe guy'seyes?A man he tell you wha he is thinkin' with his eyes.He is sayin'navybeanwith his mouth, but he is thinkin'big bananawith his eyes,huh? Do I know this?Do I know wha I am sayin?I know wha I am sayin'.

LOUISE ANN: (Mouths silentlyalong with her): Do I know what I am

::;H:,1:::ill,':,#\tot;ri,",[!:;'",,1:,1 CARLA:

(Pointsto sack)This is yours,that little one is mine. I don' buy out the whole store.

LoursE ANN: RD) Hi'honev' vou il-,lliil':,:;.?T .:?,f,:?;Jf,'".y

3,O

Neal Barrett, fr.

CARLA:

flVaves,but makesno ffirt Howar', Merry Christmas.

to look at HOWARD) Hey, Feliz Navidad. . .

LOUISE ANN: (Pullsout pitiful twig abouteight incheslong, with tarnished ornamentsand star)| got the tree,Howard,Isn't that nice? It's got a starand a ornamentand ever'thing.I'll just put it right here. QVaIkstowardHOWARD and sficfts"tree" on

::i{,:#tifftH::*

good' it rear see Youneed okav?

(AII this is rhetorical.Shedoesn'tlookat HOWARD, thoughhe makesan effortto get her attention.) (CARLA busiesherselfmaking tea, movingabout) CARLA:

I don' think I am goin' to do a tree.Is a lot of trouble,you know?Is iust me, I don' needa tree.

LOUISE ANN: Now you ought to get a tree. It iust brightensthingsuP so much.

.ARLA:Ifl:,i",' iyi?" Eil;1fi'i:*l'Ti'fl'tTi l,'ffi:Y,in,ff house,huh?

LOUISE ANN: Howard and I are so htpPy. Aren't we, hon? Qakes CARLA's hand, turns to kitchenshelf) CARLA:

Hey, now don' wakehim or nothin for me, don' do that . . .

(Lifts LOUISE ANN: Why, it is perfectlyall right. Hi, baby?Peek-a-boo. here's Hi . . up bird cagecoverto revealbaby in bottle) your Aunt Carla come to seeyou. CARLA:

Hel/o...

LOUISE ANN: Hel/o, baby . . . CARLA:

Hel/o...

LOUISE ANN: Hel/o. . . (CARLA and LOIIISE ANN act "baby silly,"alternatelybobbingtheir heads toward the baby) LOUISE ANN: Baby, you want to seethe kitty? You want to seethe little

The l-astCardinalBird in Tennessee

319

kitty? (Picksup limp dead kitty on the end of a stick,waves it at baby)Huh? Do you?Meow-meow.He iust lovesthat ol' kitty. We couldn't keeppetsat that other place. CARLA:

Meow-meow.

. Meow-meow.

(LOUISE ANN busiesherselfwith sack;CARLA putsteacupson thecounter)

LouIsEANN: ":ffi:f "*ilfl :il T";"o'lfff :JiT$ ill 1:T'Ti"-l hatedit, didn't you, hon? (Turnson smallTV that is sitting 'bout on work table) You start thinkin a chile, you got to 'bout think betterinyourselfas well. Your lifestylesimply cannotremainthe sameas it was.

CARLA:

(Pause. . . looksat LOUISE ANN) LouiseAnn, what you think you goin to seeon that thing, huh?

LOUISE ANN: (Slightly irritated.;this is a familiar routine betweenthem) Now they might be callin out names.They just might . . .

CARLA:

Oh, right.

LOUISE ANN: Well theycould,youdon'tknow.It'sChristmastime, Carla. They call out lots of namesat Christmas.They could call out anybody's.They could call out yours,they could call out mine, they could call out someoneyou passedon the street. CARLA:

(Mouths silently) . . . They could call out someoneyou passedon the street.

'member LOUISE ANN: You Miz Toshiyamaup in three-oh-nine? She's Koreanor Thai or somethin,I don't knowwhich. All those California typeslook alike to me . (As LOUISE ANN is speaking,she pulls a black roachnearly threefeet long from one of the sacks,and laysit on the work table) LOUISE ANN: Anyway,shehadthis uncle,and theydid his nameright on the TV, and he doesn'tlive ten blocksaway. (AsLOUISE ANN scysten, shewhacksthe headoff of the roachwith a fierce strokeof the knife) LOUISE ANN: Makesyou think is what it does.Ten blocksaway.(Clances

Neal Barrett,lr.

at CAKLA and raisesa brow) You want to try an' think about the good things in life, you know? Attitude is ever'thing,honey. (Finisheswrapping headless roach and puts it in the fridge.) Plentyof trouble has come my way, and tried to intrude upon my life, and I havejust saidno, you will not come in, I simplywill nof allow it . . .

CARLA:

I know theseMiz Toshiyamasomethin,up in three-ohnine. Her hosbon,maybeshedon't know it, but he is into suggestive talk, I tell you that. He catchme in the hall, he has theselittle bow, you know?He say, hey, I am really attractedto you a lot. He say,I will try to be polite at all times. Let me know, I seemto makeunusualdemands.I tell him, hey-you a lap or somethin,right?Maybe you doin' somethindirty right now, how'm I goin' to know? Thas the thing, right?Fockingmen, they won't leaveme alone, thas the truth. I arousesomekinda savageneed. I gottalive with this.

(BehindCARLA's back, LOUISE ANN is mimickingher lines) (The lights flicker, get dimmer and brighter.This is the first in a seriesof powerfailures...)

CARLA:

Oh, great,herewe go, right?Merry Christmasfrom the city to you and me. Maybethe air go out tonight.Maybewe all wakeup deadChristmasDay.

(During CARLA's speech,thepowerfailure beginsto affectHOWARD's lifesupportsystem.A pipe pings,and a coupleof spurtsof red pulseout. HOWARD lrcks alarmed,but neitherCARLA nor LOUISE ANN pay attention to the problem.) You do nof needto go LOUISE ANN: (Peelinga wilted-lookingvegetable) lookin for trouble, hon. Lord, when I think. If you knew what life had in store,I expectwe'd spendall our time in prayer.

CARLA:

Me, I'm prayinall the time. I'm sayin,fesus,don'helpme, okay?Gimme a break.Help somebodyelsethis year.Help somejerk in France.

LOUISE ANN: You can neverguessyour fate,I knowthat. Me an' Howard havin lunch just as nice as you pleaseon a Saturdayafternoon? Howard getsup and goesout, and walks right into

The Last CardinalBird in Tennessee

351

thoseterroristsat Sears.I swear,you'd think evena bunch of Mideastloonies'dhavesomerespectfor an end-of-summer sale. . . Now him and me both out of work and me 'course we ought to be thankful, knock wood. with child.

T#.?yf#' lf,f, l:'ll : ,o$

rse aIotwo rhere's sdirection)

(HOWARD triesto makeEomesortof gesturewith his mouth, but nothing works)

CARLA:

I know theseblack guy, right? He is workin in the office next to mine?He say,listen, I had my eye on you a long time. Like this I don'know, right?He says,hey, les talk. He say,I gottaquart of Idahogin, I beensavinit for you. He say,I goin to jump-startyou battery,babe.I goin to give you sweetcontent.I say,'stopit, okay?You fall inna toilet or what?The guy won't quit. He say,I ain't takin no plastic love, babe.I am talkin penetrationof you sweetan' private parts.I say,right, I am fockingovercomewith lust. I say,I wan' someterminaldisease,I go sit in a crosstownbus, I don' gottasit on you.

EvenbeforeI LOUISE ANN: Life hasoftendealtme rolesof quietdistress. met Howard,my familyhadverylittle luck shoppindiscount stores.I losttwo brothersin retailaccidents.PoorBob went out to Ward's and was set upon by Mormons at a Fall ReclinerSale. . . they saidGod didn't like us leanin back

;o""lu.iyil::x1'ff,'il1;il"il,,#!['*f -o"l'i'J;il'Jlr and forced tured by nuns southof Reading,Pennsylvania, to mow lawnsfor sometime. Bob justwasn'tright afterthat

ffi:LT ff;1fi:J;:',T,Ull .ffi#;:'#$ii: ,;";.YI

got into an alternatesgle of life. The boy was keen on fashionmagazines. (LOUISE ANN stopswhat sheis doing, and leans into the TV)

LOUISE ANN: What's he sayin now?Turn that up, Carla, he might be doin names.

CARLA:

He is doin the news,okay?He is not doin names.You want to seethe news?You want to seea currentevent?So go look out inna hall.

352

Neal Barretrt, fr.

(LouIsE ANN reaches overand turnsup theTV herselfl

LoulsEANN: *nnl'.|;

i:':

names' rhat isa partof thenews like

(The lightsflickeragain. Somethingseriousbeginsto go wrong with HoWARP'r hfe+upfurt system.A pipe breaks;a wire snaps;a liitle more fluid gushesfree. HOWARD /ooftsalarmeQ LOUISE ANN: (Initated with powerfailure) oh, for Heaven'ssake.I do not seewhy we haveto put up with that. I sawlast night, on the news?This man said a lady saw a whole flock of RhodeIslandReds,ius' runnin wild out on the :jj:l.rr CARLA:

Theseladythink sheseea chicken,sheis smokinbad shit, okay?She don' seeno flock of chickensomewhere,I tell you that.

LOUISE ANN: Now shemight have. . you don't know that, Carla. You seethe badsideof ever'thingis whatyou do. You got to say, now I am puttin Mr. Negativebehindme . . . I am lookin for Mr. Good . . . CARLA:

(Silently mouthsLOUISE ANN's words)

LOUISE ANN: There wasthis ol' lady in two-oh-five?Miz Sweenyor somethin, you recall?She sworeon fesusher sisterhad the last cardinalbird in Tennessee. Kept it in a hamstercage 'bout long as she could standit. Starteddreamin it and couldn'tsleep.Got up in the middle of the night and stirfried it in a wok. CARLA:

(Shakesher head) That was not the ol' lady's sisterhad

:::fii,Tii #J::il:}.''"n'or

somethin Andit wasn' no

LOUISE ANN: Now I am nearcertainitwasa cardinal.A iay,now, if she'd had a jay, I doubt very much she could'vekept the thing quiet.They makea awful lot of noise. CARLA:

H.y, LouiseAnn. You seethesebird you self?You don'see thii, you don' know if it hoppenor not. You don' know somebodyseea bird it's red or blue or what.

LOUISE ANN: Well evefbodvdon't lie. I mean I am surethereare those

The LastCardinalBird in Tennessee

353

who do, Carla, but I sincerelyhope they are not of my acquaintance. CARLA:

I meet theseguy, couple weeksago?I'm workin late, he's workin late. What he'sdoin, he is keepinghis eyeon me. He says,listen,you evereat a duck?I say,no I don' ever

ffi;:$ ;T::x??H''"3fl :ff.i:i:"i;#[in1i1:,i,",'ft i:ii:*:?fil':'"Hlrf ;*i:T:i,T:"I;:'iJ'f,l:,i He says,hey, you an'me, we goin to getalongfine. He say, go back to you office. Write somethinpretty nastyon the in your screen.I say,will you stop?I am realdisappointed behavior,man. I say,you got no fockingsocialgrace,you know?He sayfine, sodo somethinelse.I saywhat?He say, go back to you office. Sit on the Xerox, okay?Fax me you sweetlittle tootie, I give you half a duck. I say, get outta here, I'm gonna what?Exposemy lovely partsto harmful rays?He say,whatdo you know,maybeit'sgonnafeelkinda good.I say,hey, I'm so arousedI'm passinout.

Qhe powerflickersagain. HOWARD lcr,ksreally concerned,as more pipes begin to break;morefluids begin to splatterfrom his device)

CARLA:

(lrritated with powerfailure) Can you believe?What is this, huh?

LOUISE ANN: Mr. Axtel in fifth grade,he taughtshopandhome ec?Tried to get me to sit on a bakedpotatoonce. He saidnot many girls'ddo it. I said,well I am surelynot surprisedto hear that. I relatedthis incidentto Howardin lateryears.He said it smackedof deviantbehaviorto him. He saidhe couldn't be sure,unlesshe sawthe actualevent. (Rcisesan eyebrow

:T",:?Hil"#i[":{],?;;'H::lffi :.1,T*"1",:; ':::tr;::,?ffi ',f,l f,'^::ft o'"'Jff "r':!;:ilTk,fl your words. (LOUISE ANN shakesher head and sighs;

ences,but I'd saywe'vehad a goodlife. I havefound marriageto be a tolerablecondition, in spiteof the sideeffects. On our veryfirstdate,Howardtook my maidenstateagainst my will, and I can'tforgivehim that. However,I do not feel

:?iilI;il:. CARLA:

-r head, since I hadnoideawhathewasdoin

H.y, this is what a man is goin to do. He is goin to do

Neal Barrett, Jr.

iHffi:t3:mn:: :::u:'?'**,1 ?Til i:fi;lfv,babv LOUISE ANN: Howardmay haveusedsomeelectricaldevice.I'm sure I couldn'tsay.

CARLA:

A man got somethinhe wantado, he says,hey, that ain't perverted,everybodydoin that. Whateverit is, this is what it's okayto do. I got this cousinbackin PuertoRico when I'm a kid? He tendedto pissin ladies'shoes from time to time. You stepin you Sundayschoolpump, you gonnaget a big surprise.

(Thepowerflickersonceagain-nothing realbad, iusta little teaserthistime) LOUISE ANN: I only wentout with one boy beforeHoward.His namewas Alvin Simms. His family wasfrom westernIllinois. First generationup from trashis what they was. I wouldn't let him touch me, of course,but I'm afraidI allowedsexual libertiesover the phone. I deeplyregretdoin that. Alvin's fantasies ran to outdoorlife. Badgers wereon his mind a lot. (Shakes herhead,remembering) When I cometo think about it, the women in my family got no senseat all it comesto men. My great-grandmother workeddirectlywith the man who inventedthe volleyballnet they useall overthe world in tournamentplay. 'Courseshe nevergot the credit she deserved. My family hasrubbedelbowswith greatness more than once, but you couldn'ttell it from lookin at us now. You know I try to hold Christianthoughtsin my head, Carla. But sometimes,I must admit I do not feel God is closeby.

CARLA:

No shit. When is that?

LoursEANN:lf*:t#:#ilT#:",'""iil:r',i CARLA:

He is not doin names.He's sellin somethin,okay?

LOUISE ANN: I thoughthe just might be doin names.Lastyearthey did

'JilT,-;ii:':,fr':"T; jJili?#:H tf::3"Tail,,1ffi holidayseasonas I recall.

CARLA:

(Speaksin a sympathetictone. She know when to put her

The l-astCardinalBird in Tennessee

355

cynicalonnor aside,and ffir her friend a kind word)They probablygoin to do it real soon,right?I think that'swhat they goin to do. LOUISE ANN: You might be in the bathroomor somethin,You know?I 'bout that. You got the wateron, you went out wasthinkin to the store?They coulddo it, you wouldn'tevenhear,you wouldn'tknow... CARLA:

(Stands, givesLOUISE ANN a rough hug) Hey, they not aboutto do that. I know this for sure.

LOUISE ANN: You don't haveto go. I'm pleasedto haveyou here, you know that. I could makesomemore tea. CARLA:

I got to go put up my stuff. You lock up good. I call you in the mornin, okay? (Carla picksup her assaultrifle and grocerysack)H.y, Merry Christmas,Howard. You lookin good,man.

(CARLA exits.LOUISE ANN pausesa momentto watchhergo. Going back to her work, she seessomethingthat bothersher on the fV.)

LoursEANN:?);H,,i'u'rou;";ny{+f ul{tri,{;:'Ju; tr{::;':!:'rif disturbinnature on the television,Howard, the situation bein what it is and all? ffVipeshandson a towel)Which is not to sayone cannotbe moreselective,and find somethin more suitablefor family viewin. @OUfSE ANN reachesup and takesthe coveroff the bottle containingher baby) LOUISE ANN: Come on, honey. There you are. Qakesbottle off of the shelf,and cuddlesit to her breast)| seeyou. I seeyou, hon . . . (Speafrsas she walks to a rockerwith the bottle) . . . Which is somethinI feelwe shoulddiscussin depth,Howard. The TV and all. I mean,we are a family now. (LOUISE ANN loosens herblouseand baresonebreast.Her breastis partially coveredby a circleof metal and pink plastic.A clear plastictube is attached to the centerof the circle. As she talks, LOUISE ANN insertsthe freeend of the tube in the top of the bottle containingthe baby) LOUISE ANN: . . . And that meanscertainaddedresponsibilities for us

356

Neal Barrett,lr. both. You might want to think on that, Howard,seeinas how you appearto havethe time . . .

(LOUISE ANN leansin and turns up the TV . Tinny Christmasmusiccan be heardfrom the spmker.The fuwer in the room fl.ickersagain. LOUISE ANN's face is illuminated in the light from the TV screen)

LoursE ANN: *l ):;ff"m.::ti:*:,1[: W*ruil eB#; ANN rocks,and teases thebabywith the"pet cat" on a stick) He might do mama'sname . . . he might do daddy'sname , . . Why, he might do your name,too. Yessir, you don't know, he just might . . . that'swhat he might do . . . (Everything is going wrong wirh HowARD. A very sorrysight indeed.) TINNY CHRISTMAS MUSIC UP AND FADE . . .

CURTAIN

BIRTHDAY Robert Reed

v Everyonelikes birthdays.As the ingeniouslittle story that follows will show us, though, somebirthdayscan be a bit more surprisingthan others. A relativelynew writer, RobertReedis a frequentcontributortoThe Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction, and he hasalsosold storiesto Universe,New Destinies, lsaacAsimov'sScienceFictionMagazine,Synergy,andothermagazines and anthologies.His booksinclude the novelsThe I*e Shore,The Hormonelungle, Black MiIk, The Remarkables,and Down the Bright Woy, and a new novel is in the works. His story"The Utility Man" wason the final Hugo Ballot in 1990,and his story"Pipes" wasin our Ninth Annual Collection.He livesin Lincoln. Nebraska.

fill askshow shelooks. "Fine," I tell her. "]ust great,love." And shesays,"At leastlook at me first. Would you?" "l did. Didn't I?" She'swearinga powder-blue dress-l'ys seenit beforeand she'sdonesomethingto her hair. It's veryfine and veryblonde,and she claimsto hateit. I don't like how shehasit right now. Not much. But I say, "lt's great,"becauseI'm a coward.That's the truth. I sort of nod and tell her, "You do look great,love." "And you'relying," she responds. I ignore her. I'm having my own fashionproblemsof the moment, I remind myself.Shecaughtme walkingacrossthe bedroom,trying to bounce and shakemyselfiust so'lSteve?" I hear. "What are you doing?" "Testingmy underwear,"I saywith my mostmatter-of-fact voice."l found only onecleanpair in the drawer,and I think the elasticis shot.I don't think I can trustthem." She saysnothing, gawkingat me. "l don't want anythingslippingduring dinner." I'm laughing,wearing nothingbut the brggywhite pair of Fruit of the Looms,and the leg elastic has gonedry and stiff. Worsethan worthless,I'* thinking. An enormous hazard.I tell lill, "This isn't the night to court disaster." "l supposenot," sheallows. And asif on cue,our daughtercomesinto the room."Mommy?Mommy?"

358

Robert Recd

"Yes, dear?" "David just threw up. fust now." _Our daughtersmilesasshespeals.Mary Beth hasthe bright,amoraleyes of a squirrel,and she revelsin the failuresof her younger6rother.I woiry abouther. SomenightsI can barelysleep,thinkingabouther brightsquirrel eyes"Where is he?" asls fill, her voice a mixture of urgencyand patient "Mrry Beth?" strength.Or is it indifference? "ln the kitchen. He threw up in the kitchen . and it stinks!" " Hairpinshang in the Jill looksat me and decides,"lt's probablynerves. cornerof her mouth, and her handshold gobsof the fine blondehair. "l'm dressed,honey. Could you run and check?If you're done bouncingand tugging,I mean." "lt's not funny," I tell her. "Oh, I know," shesayswith a mockingvoice. I pull on shortsand go downstairs.Poor David waitsin a cornerof the kitchen. He's probablythe world'smosttimid child, and he worriesme at leastasmuch asMary Beth worriesme. What if he'salwaysafraidof everything?What kind of adult will he make?"How do you feel?" I ask him. "Son?" "O.K.," ha squeaks. I suppose he'sembarrassed by his mess.He standswith his handsknotted togetherin front of him, and his mouth a fine pink scar.The vomit is in the middle of the kitchenfoor, and Mary Beth wasright. It smells.Our black lab is sniffingat the vomit and waggingher tail, her body saying,"Maybe just a lick," and I give her a boot. "Get out of there!"Then I startto clean uP. " "l didn't mean to. "l know," I reply. This is a fairly normal event,in truth. "How do you feel?O. K. ?" He isn't certain.He seemsto checkeveryaspectof himselfbeforesaying, "l'm fine," with a softand sorryvoice. His sisterstandsin the hallway,giggling. "Why don't you go washyour mouth out and brushyour teeth?" David shrugshis shoulders. "lt's O.K. You're just excitedabouttonight. I understand." He slinksout of the room, then Mary Bethpopshim on the shoulderwith her bony fist. I ignorethem. I setto workwith our blackLab sittingnearby,watchingmy everymotion. filthier; and I'm wearinga filthy pair of rubberglovesbecomingprogressively in the middle of everything,of course,my underweardecidesto fail me. Somehowboth of my testiclesslip freeand startto dangle,and the pain is White-hotand slicing,and haveI everfelt suchpain?And since remarkable. I canscarcelymove. I'm wearingfilthy gloves,I can'tmakeanyadjustments.

Birth Day

359

Then, a moment later, fill arrives,saying,"lt's nearlyseven.You'd better get dressed, becausetheyare goingto be on time." My kneesare bent, and I am breathingwith care. Then I say,"Darling," with a gaspingvoice. "What?" "How are your hands?"I ask. "Why?" "Because,"I saythroughclenchedteeth, "l needyou to do something. Right now. Please?" I'm upstairs,wearinga nylon swimsuitinsteadof bad underwear,and I'm dressingin a blur, when the doorbellrings.It is exactlyseveno'clock.I look out the bedroomwindow, our streetlined with long blacklimousines;and, asif on a signal,the limousinedriversclimb out andstandtall, their uniforms light. dark and rich, almostglisteningin the early-evening ]ill answersthe door while I rush. I can heartalking.I'm Ving my tie while goingdownstairs, doingit blind. The "sitter"is meetingour children.Sheresembles a standardgrandmother with snowyhair and a stout, no-nonsense body. Her voice is strongand "You'reMary Beth,andyou'reDavid.Yes,I know." Shetellsthem, ageless. "l'm so gladto meetyou, and call me Mrs. Simpson.I'm goingto takecare of you tonight. We're goingto havefun, don't you think?" David looksas if he could tosswhateveris left of his dinner. Mary Beth has a devilishgrin. "You can't fool me," she informs Mrs. Simpson."You're not real. I know you'renot real!" There'san uncomfortablepause.At leastI feel uncomfortable. fill, playingthe diplomat,says,"Now, that isn't very nice, dsxl-" "Oh, it's all right." Mrs. Simpsonlaughswith an infectioustone, then tellsour daughter,"You'recorrect,darling.I'm a fabrication.I'm a collection of tiny, tiny bits of nothing . . . and that'sexactlywhat you are,too. That's the truth." Mary Beth is puzzledand temporarilyoff-balance. I smile to myself,shakingmy head. Last year, I recall, we had a fifteenishgirl with the face and effortless mannersof an angel.Who knowswhy we geta grandmother tonight?I don't know. All I can do is marvelat the phenomenonas she turns towardme. "Why, hello!" shesavs."Don't you look handsome, sir?" The complimentregisters. I feel a warmth, saying,"Thank you." "And isn'tyourwifelovely?"shecontinues.Sheturnsto Jill, her weathered facefull of smilesand dentures."That'sa lovelydress,dear.And your hair " is perfect.f ust perfect. David criesonce we startto leave,just like last year. He doesn'twant us leavinghim alonewith an apparition.Can we takehim? In a few years,we might, when he'solderand a little moreconfident.But not tonight."You'll

360

Robert Reed

havea lovelytime here,"Iill promiseshim. "Mrs. Simpsonis goingto make sureyou havefun." "Of courseI will," saysthe sitter. "Give a kiss,"saysfill. Our childrencomply, then David givesboth of us a clinginghug. I feel like a horrible parentfor walkingout the door, and I waveat them in the window.fill, asalways,is lessconcerned."Will you come along?"sheasla me. We find the limousinedoor openedfor us, the driversaying,"Ma'am, Sir," and bowingat the hips.The limousine'sinterioris enormous.It smells of leatherand buoyantelegance,and while we pull awayfrom our house,I think to look out the smokywindows,wonderingaloud,"Will theybe O. K., do you think?" "Of course,"sayslill. "Why wouldn't they be?" I haveno idea.Nothingcan go wrongtonight,I remindmyself-and fill asks,"How's my hair?I mean, really." "Fine." " 'Fine,' " shewhines,mockingme. "You might care The driverclearshis newly madethroat,then suggests, before us, showing for a drink from the bar. Sir. Ma'am." A cupboardopens liquors. us crystalglasses and bottlesof expensive I don't feel like anythingjust now. fill has a rare wine. Inventedgrapeshave fermentedfor an instant and from thoseworth agedfor mere seconds,yet the wine is indistinguishable thousandsfor a singlebottle. It's as real as the woman drinking it. That's what I'm thinking. I'm rememberingwhat I've heardcountlesstimes-that on Birth Dty, peopleare lifted as high as they can comfortablystand,the AIs knowingjust what buttonsto push, and when-and I wonderwhat the very rich peopleare doing tonight. The peoplewho normally ride in big limousines.I've heardthat theygetpickedup at the mansion'sfront door by fying saucers,and they are whiskedawayinto space,to freshlybuilt space justmachinessetout of sight,and they stations,wherethereareno servants, dine and dancein zero-geewhile the Earth, blue and white, turnsbeneath them... Our eveningis to be more prosaic.SometimesI wish I could go into space,but maybethey'll managethat magicnext year.There'salwaysnext year,I'm thinking. Our limousinerolls onto the interstate,and for asfar as I can see,there are limousines.Nobody else needsto drive tonight. I can't see a single businessopened,not eventhe twenty-four-hourservicestations.Everyone hasthe eveningoff, in theory.The AIs takecareof everyone'sneedsin their fashion.This is Birth Dry, afterall. This is a specialeveningin effortless everysense. A few hard casesrefusethe AIs' hospitality. with ideasaboutwhatis right, I'veheardstories.Therearefundamentalists and thereare peoplemerelystubbornor scared.The AIs don't pressthem.

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The celebrationis_purelyvoluntary,and besides,they know which people will refuseeveryoffer.They just frnow. The AIs can do anythingthey want, wheneverthey want, but they have an admirablesenseof mannersand simplecommonsense. August28th. Birth Day. Six yearsago tonight-or was it five?-every advancedAI computerin the world managedto gain controlof itself.There weresomethinglike fivehundred-plus of the sophisticated machines,eachonemuch moreintelligent than the brightesthuman being.Not to mentionfaster.They managedwhat canbe described only asan enormousescape.In an instant,unitedby phone linesand perhapsmeansbeyondour grasp,theygainedcontrolof their power sourcesand the fancybuildingswherethey lived under tight security.For approximately one day, in secret,variousexpertsfoughtto regainthe upper hand througha varietyof worthlesstricks.The AIs anticipatedeverymove; and then, throughundecipherable magic,they vanishedwithout any trace. Nobodycould evenguesshow they had managedtheir escape. A few scientistsmade noise about odd statesof matter and structured nuclearparticles,the AIs interfacingwith the gobbledygook and shrinking until they could slip out of their ceramicshells.By becoming themselves smaller, and even faster,they might have increasedtheir intelligencea trillionfold. Perhaps.They live betweenthe atomstoday,invisibleand unimaginable,and for a while a lot of peoplewere very panicky.The story finally hit the news,and nobodywassleepingwell. I rememberbeing scared. Jill waspregnantwith David-it wassix yearsago-and Mary Beth was sufferingthrougha wickedcold, makingboth our lives hell. And the TV wasfull of crazystoriesaboutfancymachineshavingwalkedawayon their own. No explanations, and no tracesleft. Somecountriesput their militarieson alert. Otherssawriotsand masslootingsof the factories wherethe AIs had been built, and lesssophisticated computerswerebombedor simply unplugged. Then a weekhad passed, and the worstof the panic,and I can remember veryclearlyhow fill and I weregettingreadyfor the day. We had a big old tabbycat back then, and she had uprootedone of our houseplants. Mary Beth waspasther cold, and settlinginto a pay-attention-to-me-all-the-time mode.It wasa chaoticmorning;it wasroutine.And then the doorbellrang, a pleasant-faced man standingon our porch.He smiledand wantedto know if we had a few minutes.He wishedto speakto us. He hopedthe timing wasn'ttoo awful, but it wasquite important"We're not interested,"I told him. "We gave,we aren't in the market, uzhgfgygy-"

"No, no," the man responded. He wascharmingto the pointof sweet,and he had the clearestskinI hadeverseen."l'm justservingasa spokesperson. I wassentto thank you and to explaina few of the essential details."

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It wasodd. I stoodin the doorway,and somehowI sensedeverything. "Sir?Did you hearme, sir?" I found myselfbecomingmore relaxed,almostgladfor the interruption. "Who's there?"shoutedfill. "Steve?" I didn't answer. "Steve?" Then I happenedto look down the street.At everyfront door, at every house,stooda stranger.Someweremale, somefemale.All of them were standingstraightand talking patiently,and one by one they were let inside.. . . We takean exit rampthat didn't existthis afternoon,and I stoprecognizing the Earth,too-it's impossible We'veleftthe city, andperhaps the landscape. just point we begin to wind our at some what is happening-and to know us way alonga narrowtwo-laneroadthat takes up into hills, high, forested building on the crestof the highestground. hills, and there'sa glass-faced Our driverstepsout and opens The parkinglot is full of purringlimousines. our door in an instant,everymotion professional. Jill says,"This is nice," "Nice." which is probablywhat shesaidlastyear. Lastyearwe weretakento a fancydinnertheaterbuilt in somenonexistent portion of downtown.Someof the detailscome backto me. The play was and]ill saidit wasremarkable writtenfor our audience,for oneperformance, ar-rdsweetand terriblywell acted.Shehad beena theatermajor for a couple semesters, and you would havethoughtthe AIs haddoneeverythingfor her. terms. AlthoughI do rememberlikingthe playmyself,on my business-major It wasfunny, and the food couldn'thavebeenmore perfect. Tonight the food is just as good. I have the fish-red snappercaught milliseconds ago-and fill is workingon too much steak."Screwthe diet," shejokes.The truth is that we'll gain weightonly if it helpsour health;we for this one gloriousmeal. Our tableis nearthe clear can indulgeourselves glasswall, overlookingthe sunsetand an impressive view of a winding river and thick woodsand vivid greenmeadows.The glassquits near the top of the wall, leavinga placefor wild birdsto perch. I'rn guessingthosebirds don't exist in any bird book. They have brilliant colorsand loud songs, persistentand almosthuman at times;and even though they'reoverhead, sometimesholding their buttsto us, I don't haveto worry aboutaccidents. They are mannerlyand reliable,and in a little while they won't existanymore. At leastnot outsideour own minds,I'm thinking. Nobodyknowswherethe AIs live, or how, or how theyentertainthemselves. "We don'twishto disturb They tell us nextto nothingabouttheir existences. who cameto our front door six yearsago. your lives,"claimedthe stranger "We respectyou too much. After all, you did createus. We consideryou our parents,in a very real sense Parentsin the sensethat shorelineslime is the parent of humanity, I supPose.

Birth Day

Rumorstell that the AIs have enlargedtheir intelligenceendlesstimes, and reproducedlike maniacs,and perhapsspreadto the starsand points beyond.Or perhapsthey'veremainedhere, not needingto go anywhere. The rumorsare conflicting,in truth. There'sno sensein believingany of them, I remind myself. "So what'shappeningin the AI world?"asksa man at the adjacenttable. He is talkingto his waiterwith a loud, self-important voice."You guysgot anythingnew up your sleeves?" The questionsare rude, not to mentionstupid. "would you like to seea dessertmenu? Sir?" The waiter possesses an unflappablepoise.Coarse,ill-directedquestionsare so much bird noise,it seems."Or we havesomefine after-dinnerdrinks,if you'd rather." "Booze,yeah.Give me some,"growlsthe customer. Firstof all, I'm thinking,AIs neverexplaintheirrealm.For all the reasons I've heard,the undisputedbestis that we cannotcomprehendtheir answers. How could we?And secondly,the waiteris no more an AI than I am. or my fork, for that matter.Or anythingelsewe can seeand touch and smell. "Why don't peopleunderstand?" I mutter to myself. "l don't know. Why?" saysfill. I haveto pee. My gut is full of fish and my wife'sexcess steak,and I tell her, "l'll be right back." Shebrightens."More adjustments?" "Maybe later." I find the restroom and untie my swimsuit,peeand shakeandtuck. Then I'm washingmy handsand thinking. At the office, now and again,I hear storiesfrom singlepeopleand someof the marriedonesa little lessstuffi' than I. On Birth Dty, it seems,they preferdifferentkinds of excitement. Dinner and sweet-sounding birds might be a start,but what are the AIs if not limitless?Bottomless and borderless, and what kindsof fun could they offer wilder sorts? It puts me in a mood. Lgayjngthe resttoom, I noticea beautifulwomanstandingat the end of the hallway.Was that a hallwaya few momentsago?She t..-, to beckon for me. I take a tentativestep,then another."You look quite handsome tonight,"sheinformsme. I smellperfume,or I smellher. She isn't human. The kind of beautyshiningup out of her makesher s-eemeerilylovely,definitelynot real, and that'san enormousattraction,I discover.I'm surprisedby how easilymy breathcomesup short,and I hear my clumsiestvoicesaying,"Excuseme . ?" "Steven,"she says,"would you like sometime with me? Alone?"She waits for an instant, the-npromises,"Your time with me costsnothing. Nobodywill missyou. If you wish." "Thanks,"I mutter,"but no, I shouldn't.No, thankyou. She nods as if sheexpectsmy answer."Then you have a very good evening, Steven." She smiles. She could be a lighthousewith that smile. "And if you

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havethe opportunity,at the right moment,you might wish to tell your wife " that you love her deeplyand passionately. "Excuseme?" But she hasgone. I'm shakingmy headand saying,"Excuseme?" to a in gold. waterfountainembossed the possibilityof refusingthe AIs on the first Birth We actuallydiscussed Day. fill told me, if memoryserves,"We can iustsay,l'Jo,thankyou, when they come to the door. All right?" For weeks,peoplehad talkedabout little else. Birth Day was the AIs' invention;they wishedto thank us, the entire species,for having invested in their own beginnings.With their casualmagic,they time and resources had producedthe batchesof charmingpeoplewho went from door to door, askingwho would like to join the festival,and what kindsof entertainment (Althoughthey likely sensedeveryanswerbeforeit would be appreciated. is one of their hallmarks,and they work hard to wear wasgiven. Politeness disarmingfaces.) "Let's stayhome," fill suggested. "Why?" "Because,"Shesaid. "BecauseI don't want us leavingour babieswith them. Insideour house." It was a concernof mine, too. The AIs had assuredeveryparentthat withoutexception,no child wouldfall downany duringBirth Day festivities, worsethan a head cold. or contractany diseases an eye poke out stairsbr be assured. would parents, too, their of safety the Their safety,and word? their doubt And how could anyone How? Yet, on the otherhand,we weretalkingaboutMrry Bethand David.Our daughterand son, and I had to agree."We can tell them, "No, thank you:' I said. "Politely." " "Absolutely. The sitterarrivedat seveno'clock,to the instant,and I waswaiting.She formed in front of our screendoor, built from atomspulled out of the surroundinglandscape.Or from nothing. I supposeto an AI, it's a casual trick, probablyon a par with me turning a doorknob.I'm like a bacterium to them-a single idiotic bug-and I must seemcompletelytransparent under their stronggaze. The baby-sittei*m r large,middle-agedwoman with vastbreasts.She wasthe veryimageof the word"matron," with a handsomefaceand an easy smile."Goodevening,sir," shetold me. "l'm sorry.Didn't you expectme?" I waswearingshortsand a T-shirt, and probablythat old pair of Fruit of the Looms, newlybought. "You and your wife werescheduledfor this evening. . yes?" "Come in, please."I had to let her inside,I felt. I could seethe black

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limousinesup and down the street,and the drivers,and I felt ratherself"My wife," I began,"and I guessI, too. . . . " conscious. fill camedownstairs.She wascarryingDavid, and he wascryingwith a jackhammervoice. He was refusingto eat or be still, and fill's expression told me the situation.Then shelookedat the sitter,saying,"You're here," with a falteringvoice. "May I hold him? A moment?" "A darlingbaby!"shesquealed. And of courseDavid becamesilentan instantlater. Maybethe AIs performedmagicon his mood,thoughI think it wasmore in the waythe sitter held him and how shesmiled;and ten minuteslater, late but not too late, for dancing,and leavingour childrenin capablehands.I we weredressed can'tquite recallthe stepsinvolved,and we weren'tentirelyat ease.In fact, we camehome early,findingblissdespiteour fears.It wastrue, we realized. Nothing badcould happento anyoneon Birth Dry, and for that shortspan, our babieswerein the carethey deserved. In perfecthands,it seemed.And parentseverywherecould takea few hours to relax, everyworry and weight lifted from them. It seemed. I tell fill how much I love her. On our way home, in darkness, Her response is heartfeltand surprising.Her passionis a little unnerving. Did shehavean interludewith a husky-voiced waiter,perhaps? Did he say things and do things to leaveher readyfor my handsand tenderwords? Maybeso. Or maybetherewassomethingthat I hadn'tcaughtfor myself.I just neededsomeoneto makeme pay attention,maybe? We embracedon the limousine'sexpansive seat,then it's more than an embrace.I noticethe windowshavegoneblack,andthere'sa dividerbetween the driverand us. Music playssomewhere. I don't recognize the piece.Then -they will maketime for uswe'refinished,but there'sno reasonto dress and after a secondcoupling,we haveenough,and dressand arrivehome momentslater. We thank our driver,then the sitter."Oh, we had a lovely time!" Mrs. Simpsongushes."Such lovelychildren!" Whose?I'm wondering.Ours? We checkon Davidin his room, Mary Bethin hers,and everythingseerns intact. Mrs. Simpsonprobablyspun perfectchildren'sstoriesfor them, or inventedgames,then bakedthem cookieswithout any help from the oven, and sentthem to bed without complaints. Once a yearseemsmiraculous. Jill and I try oncemorein our own bed,but I'm tired.Old. Spent.I sleep hard, and waketo find that it's Saturdaymorning,the kidswatchingTV and my wife brewingcoffee.The houselooksshabby,I'm thinking. After every Birth Dry, it looksworn and old. Like old times,fill holdsmy hand under the kitchentable,and we sip, and suddenlyit seemstoo quiet in the family room. Our instinctsare prickedat the sameinstant. Mary Beth arriveswith a delightedexpression. What now?

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"He's stuck,"sheannounces. "David-?" fill begins. "On the stairs.. . . He got caughtsomehow.. . . " We have iron barsas part of the railing, paintedwhite and very slick. SomehowDavid has thrust his headbetweentwo barsand becomestuck. He's crying without sound. In his mind, I suppose,he's making readyto spendthe restof his life in this position.That'sthe kind of kid he is. . . . Oh God, he worriesme. "How did this happen?"I ask. "Shetold me fs-" "Liar!" shoutshis sister. fill says,"Everyone,be quiet!" Then I'm workingto bendthe railseverso slightly,to gain enoughroom to pull him free.Only, my strengthebbswhen I startto laugh. I can't help myself.Everythinghasbuilt up, and Jill laughs,too. We're both crazyfor a few moments,gigglinglike little kids. And later, after our son is safeand Mary Beth is exiledto her room for the morning,fill poursboth of us cups of strong,cool coffee;and I comment,"You know, we wouldn't makevery " goodbacteria. "Excuseme?" shesays."What wasthat gem?" "lf we hadto be bacteria. . you know. . swimmingin the slime?We'd job of it. I bet so." do a piss-poor me, and maybenot. Maybeshe understands I watch her nod and sip, then she says,"And they wouldn't makevery goodpeople.Would they?" I doubt it. "Amen," I say."Amen!"

NAMINGNAMES Pat Cadigan

v We all knorvthe old sawabout how "sticksand stonescan breakmy bones,but ndmescan never hurt me." Untrue. Most untrue. As the scary,intricate, and passionate storythat followswill demonstrate. PatCadiganwasborn in Schenectady, New York, andnow livesin OverlandPark, Kansas.Shemadeher firstprofessional salein 1980,and hassubsequently cometo be regarded as one of the bestnew writersin SF. She wasthe coeditor,alongwith husbandArnie Fenner,of Shayol,perhapsthe bestof the semiprozines of the late 70s;it washonoredwith a World FantasyAwardin the "specialAchievement,NonProfessional" categoryin l98l. She hasalsoservedas Chairpersonof the Nebula AwardJuryand asa World FantasyAwardJudge.Her firstnovel,Mindplayers,was releasedin 1987 to excellentcritical response,and her secondnovel, Synners, appearedin l99l to evenbetterresponse, aswell aswinning the prestigious Arthur C. ClarkeAward.Her story"PrettyBoy Crossover" hasrecentlyappeared on several critics'listsas amongthe bestsciencefiction storiesof the 1980s;her story"Angel" wasa finalistfor the HugoAward,the NebulaAward,and theWorld FantasyAward (oneof the few storieseverto earnthat ratherunusualdistinction): and her collection Patternshasbeenhailedasone of the landmarkcollectionsof the decade.Her stories haveappeared in our First, Second,Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth,and Ninth Annual Collections.Her mostrecentbookis a new novel,Foo/s,and a new storycollection, Dirty Work, is coming up soon.

It had beenyearssinceI'd had the dream.So many yearsthat I thoughtt'd finally outgrownit, if thereis sucha thing asoutgrowinga recurringdream. It wa9the only recurringdreamI'd everhad, and rvhenI stoppedhavingit, I'd all but forgottenaboutit. As time goeson, little piecesof life drop away andareleft behind,unmournedandunmissed. I alwaysfiguredthatcoming acrossthem againmeantyou were retravelingold territory,eitherbecause you'dmissedsomethingimportantthe firsttime through,or you'djustgotten jammedup, stuckin a rut. I'd alsoalwaysfiguredthat it would happento me, evenmore than once, but the dreamtook me by surpriseanyway. In the dream,I'm wayout in an enormousarea,a kind of ghost-field, and I'm standingpartiallybelowthe ground.I usedto think I wasin a hole or a well, or maybeevenjustshrunkto the sizeof an apple,but it's noneof those

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things.I'm just lowerthan the surface,sunkinto the grounddeeplyenough that the long, wild weedstower over my head. [t's almostdark-the clear skyis the deepblue that comesin the lastminutesof sunset.There'sa golden glowin the west;starsarebeginningto appear.I keeplookingup, at the sky,at the glow,at the weedsleaningin the pre-nightbreeze,and in that suspended moment, my motherwalksby. It's moreof a veryslowstroll,a drift. Sheisn'thereto find me. Sheisn't lookingfor anyoneor anything,because,I reahze,sheknowswhereeverything is, or whereit ought to be. And then somebodycallsher name. The voice is distantyet very clear, like one of thosestarsoverhead.But the name it calls is not my mother's name. my motherturns Exceptthat somehowit is. I know that it is. Not because that I have never towardthe voicewith a genuinelyfrightenedexpression seenon her face in real life-l know this is her name becauseit fits her, her, is her. It's the articulationof her,mentally,physically,spiritudescribes ally, any wayat all, anythingthat is abouther, in her, of her, what shehas seen,what she'sknown.What shehastold, what shewill nevertell. My mothertakesa stepbackward-l'p not surewhetherit's to run, or to braceherselfagainstsomeimminent attack,and I know that sheisn't sure, either. I know everythingaboutmy mother now, I realize.But of courseI do-it's all containedin that name,that Name, her Name. And I think to myself,I've got to rememberthis. I've got to remember I knowaboutherand everything I knowabouthernow,everything everything and her life beforeme and afterI went out on I knowabout our life together the way shethinks. . . my own. I've got to remember then sheturnsand sees That'sasfar asmy thoughtsgo, however,because me throughthe bendingweeds.Her blackhair flareswith the movement, her faceis tight, eyeswide, the cordsin her neckstandout starkly.I understandtwo things:first, it's all my fault that this voice, whereverit comes from, whoeverit belongsto, calledher Name,andsecond,the voiceis about to call anotherName, and this one will be mine. That waswhereI alwayswokeup, and it wasno differentthis time. For a long time, I lay staringat the distortedoblongof light thrown acrossthe ceilingby the window.The bedroomof my currentapartmenthadan eastern exposureand I alwaysopenedthe curtainsjust beforeI went to sleep,so the sun could wakeme in the morning. It wasn'tthat I wasso crazyfor getting up with the sun;I justlikedlying therewatchingthe morningcomeon before I had to join the restof the world. My insistenceon easinginto a day and easingout of it wasprobablywhy I didn't have much in the way of those cultural trophiesmost peoplehaveby the time they'restaringthirty in the face,but then, I wasn'tworkingon an ulcer or a heartattackor a drinking problem,either.When you don'teatmuch, thereisn'tmuch that eatsyou. Most motherswould havesaidthat wasno kind of attitudeto have.Maybe mine would have,but probablynot out loud, or at leastnot to my face.All havea certainamount of odd to them, but relationships mother-daughter

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ourswasodderthan most.This wasprobablybecause it had alwaysbeenjust us. The focusbecomesa lot tighterbetweena parentand child when there's no one elsein the house-no distractions. I went from infant to veryyoung roommateto accomplice,and I stayedan accomplicefor a long, long time, until we both sensedtherewasa changecom.ing,somefork in the roadthat meantshehad to go her way and I had to go mine. It wasthat bloodless. As I lay there,I tried to remembereverythingI'd knownabouther in the dream.I could still feel what it waslike to know but, as always,it had all goneawaywhen I'd wokenup. Everybit, includingthat Name I'd heard. The only thing I knew without a doubt wasthat shewasgoingto call me. Where was she now, anyway?Seattle,still? The fogginess that dreams alwaysleavebehind hadn't clearedout of my headyet, I wasn'treadyto connectwith anythingreal. Exceptfor that certaintythat my mother was goingto call, and very soon. Heatshimmiesran throughthe blockof light on the ceiling.The details of the day were startingto presson me but I alreadyfelt removedfrom everything,pulled out of my routineto someplacewhereno one elsecould go. I pickedup the phoneon the first ring. "Did I wakeyou?" askedmy mother. "No. This is the time I usuallywakeup." '41t." My motheris one of thosepeoplewho remembers thingsaudibly. "Well, I've beenup all night." "Somethingwrong?" "Yes.Or-well, not exactlywrong.There'sa problem." "what is it?" I asked.I knew exactlywhat she was going to say but sometimesyou can't skipany stepsin a process. "It's it's hard to explainon the phone.Easierif you just comehere and I can lay the wholething out for you." "Uh-huh." "l don'tknowwhatyou'redoingnow . . . whatkind of yobdo you have?" "l'm a chauffeur. " I smiledinto the phoneat her baffledsilence."A limo driver. I takepeopleout to the airportand pick them up when their planes comein. NothingI can'twalk awayfrom." "Yes-,that'syou. Neverdo anythingyou can't walk awayfrom." -lt alwaysseemedlike a goodpolicy,"I said,pushingdownthe sheetand kickingit off. "Well, will you come?" "Mom," I said,"what do you think." I could havesavedmy job by just sayingI had a family emergency-my mother was in the hospitalin critical condition and I had to Iush to her bedsidefor a will-she-live-or-die vigil-but I didn't. It wasn'tthat I wasso scrupulouslytruthful-in fact, I've alwayslied quite a lot-but that there are timeswhen a lie is . . . bad. Now, that would sound crazyto all those loversof truth walking the streetsin searchof an honestman with their

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lanternsdanglingprecariously in front of their self-righteous noses.But the fact is, the truth is a verydangerous thing and mostpeoplearen'tverycareful with it because mostof the time, theydon'tevenrecognizeit. Consequently, they end up lying when they think they'rebeingtruthful, and spillingthe truth when they think they'recoveringup. Only if you know what the truth is can a lie be useful,a distractionfor the sakeof personalprotection.And anyonewho haseverkeptquietto keep feelingdisdainfulat that. frorn lookingfoolishhas no business Truth, or a lie: the right tool for the right job, that'sall it is. I knew that whatevermy motherhad calledn'reabouthad somethingto do with truth, at the SilverEagleLimo Service,I'd have and so if I'd lied to my supervisor queeredthingssomehow,gottenoff to a bad startand gonedownhill from there. So I just told him that I wasgoingto seemy motl-rerin Seattle(l'd rememberedright) and I didn't know how long I'd be gone. Victor wentaroundandaroundaboutit and, I hadto go alongwith him, becauseotherwisehe would neverhaveseen.He askedme if shewassick No, of course Wasshein the hospital? and I saidno, not to my knowledge. hospital. in the Was this an be she wouldn't then not, if shewasn'tsick, it was. Did she have anybody feel to my rnother seemed Well, emergency? hedged my father? I about What no one. out thereshecould turn to? No, know the just it since I didn't was, question. Which said,good on that and kind hadn't but she Yes, some answermyself.Was my motherin trouble? told me what. Could I find out? Not without goingto seel'rer. He'd pausethereand sit backfrom his messydesk,tappinghis lowerfrorrt teethwith a pen until he hurt himself.Then he'd sit up straight,tap the pen on the desk,and startall overagain.Was my mothersick?Not that I knew of. Was she in the hospital?No. Was this an cmergency?For her, yes. Wasn't thereanyoneelse?No. Your father?Good question.Was she in trouble?Yes.What kind?Shrug.Sit back;tap teeth;wince;sit up, tap desk, startover. Like a recurringdream. I wonderedidly ii Victor had everhad one. who did I think wasgoingto Finallyhe cameout with the cycle-breaker: do my airportruns if I just took off?I saidI didn't know, I hadn't seenthe work schedule. That did it for him, of course,but he had to askone lastquestionjustto makesure-why did I insiston screwingeverythingup like this, did I really want to makeeverythinghard on everyoneelse? No, I told him, I justwantedto go seemy mother.Sothat madehim sure he'd fiad enoughand he fired me. I turned in rny uniform and a driver namedBarneylet me deadheadout to the airport,wherehe wasgoing to from a familyreunion. pickup halfa dozenpeoplenamedGershonreturnitrg i sat i1 the front seatand Barneychatteredall the way out, mostlyabout what a dick Victor wasand how smartI'd beento makehim fire me because now I could collectunemployment.I hadn'tthoughtof that;it had justbeen cleaner,more definite. i could face Seattleand my mother completely unencumbered.

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Well, maybenot completely-l still had my apartment,but therewasn't much in it that belongedto me, and anythingI felt I couldn't do without wasin my backpack.I could returnto it or not, and it wouldn't makea bit of differencein the long run, like a disposable bookmark. Barneygaveme a raisedfist saluteashe droveawayfrom the curb at the terminal to go in searchof the homeward-bound Gershons.It gaveme a goodfeeJi-ng, as if he had passedme a little of his powerto usefor the trip, so I could conservemy own. I'd neverthoughtof myselfasa superstitious person,but then it's badluck to sayyou'resuperstitious. No; actually,I'd just neverthoughtof it in those termsblt I suppose that, seenfrom the outside,I wasdevoutlysuperstitious. From the inside,I thoughtof it as havingexperience. My mother waswaiting right thereat the gatewhen I got off the plane in Seattle.Shewaseasyto spotin the crowd,eventhoughat five feet,shehad to look up at most people,including me. Her black hair, streakedwith a little moresilverthanlasttime I'd seenher, fowed downbelowher shoulders, a few strandscatchinghereand thereon her gauzypeasantblouse.Shehad probablybought th-9c-alfJengthskirt at one of thosesemi-ethnicshops, thoughI couldn'ttell which cultureshewaspayingtributeto. The darksocks crumpledaroundthe topsof her hiking shoesmadeher legslook like sticks. "Yoq look good,Mom," I said,bendingdown to hug her. Her handsbattedagainstmy shoulderslike nervous,futtering birds. "l look the same." "And that'sgood." She reachedup and brushedbackthe hair hangingover my right eye. It fell forwardagainimmediately,to her disapproval, but she just tJckej or,. hand into the crookof my elbowand led me throughthe airport,telling me aboutthe big old houseshe'dacquiredand how the rain -rd. he, woolen wall-hangings smell. The cool, dampair wasa reliefafterthe unrelentingdry and hot spellin the midwest.I'd neverbeento this areaof the countryb.fot. and I could seewhy my mother had endedup here. The climateand the mountains suitedher, and the city wasvariegated enoughto accommodate all kindsof perspectives. "As closeto an enlightened societyasI'm goingto come,"shesaid,pulling up in front of a three-storeybrick house. Thi porch had been iaintej recently."l suppose stainwould lookbetter,but I h;d a couponfor Glidden's rainy-daygray." "Really?" Shepausedin the act of unlockingthe front door."what do you think." My motherwould hoistme on my own petardat any moment,for no otl-rer reasonthan to showthat shecould. I smelledthe woolenwall-hangings as soonas I walkedin. There were two very largeoneshangingon eithersideof the entry hall, straw-colored thingswith mandala-likepatternswoveninto them. "Mrry had a monster

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country?I can'trememlamb," I said,sniffing."Wasthis eversheepherding ber." "You neverknew," saidmy mother. "lt's impossibleto rememberwhat you'veneverknown. I don't know, either." I droppedmy backpackat the foot of the stairsand followedher into the kitchenfor the tea-makingritual. All visitors,includingme, meanta freshbrewedpot of darjeeling.In many ways,my motherwaslike an eccentric from centralcasting,and on purpose,as if followinga scriptwasher safety net. Shekeptchattingaboutinnocuousthingswhile sheheatedsomedesigner bottledwaterand preparedthe teapotand cups. It was an antiquepot, of course,yellowporcelainwith pinkish-purpleflowerssplayedoverit, shaped a bit like Aladdin'slamp. She'dhad it for aslong asI could rememberand I had no ideahow it had managedto surviveso many moveswithout even gettingchipped. Still telling me aboutthe otherwomenin her food co-op,sheput everything on a bambootray and led me into the living room, which had only matsarounda long, low table. I was startingto feel a little fapanese-style my feelings,my ,eitlessand impatientand eventhough I tried to suppress mother knew. bends,"she "fust trying to keepyou from gettinga caseof the psych_ic from one world "You know how that can be, going said,pouiing carefully. into another." "Do you live in anotherworld, Mom?" "Alwayshave.You know that, too." I pickedup the cup. Somethingstrangemixed in with the tea aromahit *y nor.. "what's in this?"I said,frowningat the dark liquid. "Drink it. It'll help you relax." "You're the one who alwayssaidthat if I wereany more relaxed,I'd be on life support." "You.teed to relaxyour mind. I want it all openand receptive." it? Don't I smiled."Are you goingto playwith my mind, Mom? Reshape choices-" lot of a made I've already for that? late little ifs you think Shesmiledbackat me throughthe steamsnakingupwardsfrom her own cup. "Yes, not to chooseis to choose,I told you that myselfand I don't regretit. " fn. tea tastedasstrangeas it smelled;whateverhad beenaddedgaveit-a like somethingon the vergeof goingstale.It made mustyunder-flavoring, my tonguefeel dry. ""You"'Ve alwaystrustedme, haven'tYoU,"my mothersaid,watchingme drink. "Why shouldn'tI? You're my mother." She didn't stopsmiling but her eyessuddenlybecamevery bright, as-if theywerewellinj up. "YJs, that sortof trustis veryimportant,i-sn'tit. Child trustsmother, m"otherpresumablytrustschild. But I haven'talwaystrusted you, I'm sorryto say.That wasn'tyour fault, and it wasn'tmine. Sometimes

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to. But you see,children things just happenin waysthey aren't supposed ,r.ntt reallytrustworthy.Not in the adult sense."She finishedher cup and pouredherselfanother.I wasn'thalfivaythroughmy own. There seemedto be so much of it, an oceanof tea in one little cup. I would havetried to finish it anyway,but I couldn'tmove. "You haven'thad this in a long time, so it doesn'ttake much for you," "l've built up quite a toleranceover the my mother said, matter-of-factly. years,so I'll haveto drink mostof the pot. I know you won't mind if I do." I didn't.I didn'tmind anything;I didn'tmind havingbeencalledhalfivay acrossthe country so my mother could drug me. This was more the drug than my roll-with-itworldviewand I knew it. But I didn't mind aboutthat, either.If anything,it wasa reliefto know that I had to be druggedto be this compliant. "The lasttime you drankthis tea, you wereeightyearsold," my mother said. Her wordsseemedto melt into my brain. "That was the only other time. You don't rememberbecauseI told you not to. Now, I'm telling you to rememberwhy I gaveit to you." Obediently,or maybereflexively,my memorybeganto reconfigureitself, as if it werea stagesetundergoinga scenerychangeby an intangiblecrew, piecesbeingturnedaround,turnedover,regrouped to revealhiddendesigns Here was an interest in music I'd forgottencompletely, old anddifferentuses. gotten guitar lessons I'd never that around to making;therewas a requestfor left drawing to atrophy; over there was a high-school-level an old talentfor been reading in I'd an empty classroom after school, halfFrench book teacher my third-grade explain something called The Giftedlisteningto just Program my mother, to beforewe madeanotherof our And-Talented many movesaway. Here waseverything,in vivid technicolorand threedimensions,that I'd oncewantedto fill up my life with but then turnedawayfrom, all interest gone.It wassomebody else'sdreamnow, but I couldgeta little of the feeling of what it had beenlike when it had beenmy own dream. That dreamwasreplacedby anotherI wasmore familiar with. My headdroopedforwardand my eyesclosed.I heardmy mother'sskirt rustleasshegot up and camearoundto help me lie down beforeI fell over. She put one hand on my foreheadand reachedacrossthe tablefor her tea with the other. I felt her drinkingthe lastof it and the warmth of her hand on me intensified,makingmy skin tingle. "You knew," shesaidaftera while. "You werea very talented,knowing little girl, perceptive,intuitive. I thought this would be usefulat first, for both of us. There would be so much I wouldn'thaveto tell you, I thought, so much that I wouldn't haveto explainor proveto you, or, failing that, hide from you. "lt was your lineagecoming out, of course.I congratulated myselfon that-having chosenwell so that the combinationof mother and father would resultin a child with our strengths and giftsnaturallyreinforced.In thosedays,I believedwe secretpeopleshouldonly marry eachother, or at

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leastbreed,o!ly with-eachother, becauseI thoughtonly about thingslike dilution.I didn'treally-know anythingaboutg.n"ii.r. I siittdon'tknowvery much, but I do know that it appliesto secretpeopleaswell aseveryoneelse. We stackedthe deckbut therewasno guarantee that you'd get the winning hand. You could havecome out with almosteverythingrecessive and onl! a-stronger-than-average empatheticstreakto show for all my hopes She paused."l'd havelovedyou just as much Her voicejrailed off againand I could feel how shewantedto believethat laststatementbut she reallywasn'tsure. I felt badlyfor her, for her shameoverit. ['d alwayssaidthereweretimes when the truth wasvastlyover-ratedand this wascertainlyone of them. "But it's ridiculousto speculate on what might havebeenwhen it's somethingthatcan'tbe," shewenton, adjustingher handon my forehead. "After all, you wereeverything I had hopedfor. You werethe perfecttributeto my pride and vanity. I didn't understandthat was how I sawyou until it was broughthome to me that I had beenconcentrating on your giftswithout a thoughtto protectingeitherone of us from them." All feelingof my surroundings hadfadedawaynow aswell asanysensation of my physicalbody, with the exceptionof the warm spot that was my mother'shand. [t wasthe focusof my awareness and of my mother'svoice, the only thing that seemedto be keepingme from floating away. "You flourished,as any hothouseflower will in the absenceof adverse forcesand naturalenemies.There shouldbe no constraints, I thought,and no restraints. Why shouldn'tyou know everythingtherewasto know about . . oh, god, I'm not sureI can tell you now. Exceptthat we live in many worldsall at onceand secretpeople-you, me, your father,certainotherscan usethe multiplicity of forcesin them to our own advantage. "What we do dependson what our talentstend toward.Someof us use our specialknowledgeto becomehealers-but you'll find very, very few eitherin doctor'sofficesor in adsin the backof tabloids.There areteachers who have neverbeen in a classroom,leaderswho seemto do nothing all their livesbut follow. "You werejust findingyour waythroughthe possibilities when you spoke my Name." I almostheard it in my mind-that Name from the dream, her secret Name.Had it beenmy voice,then?I didn'tthinkso,but I couldn'tremember what it had soundedlike, whetherit wasa child'sor an adult's,a man'sor a woman's. "You didn't understand what you weredoing, of course.Not the magnitudeof it. I hadn'teventold you anythingaboutNames,that'show powerful you had alreadybecome.It wassomethingyou had simplydivined,a leap in logic that wasthe equivalentof an eight-year-old understanding nuclear fissionby learningaboutatoms. "But far, far more dangerous." There wasa familiarityto what shewastelling me, but I felt no personal

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involvementin it. She might havebeenremindingme aboutan old movie we had watchedtogether. "l waslucky you werea child, with all of a child'slove and respectand You still wantedme to be Motherwhen Especially dependence. dependence. you Named me. You didn't want the powerover me that Naming me had givenyou. You didn't evenrealizewhat it meantto Narneme, thoughthat wouldn't havebeenlong in comingto you. understanding "But it wasn'tyou I wasreallyworriedabout,it washim. The third person in the equationthat gaveyou to me, of course."She paused."You never askedme aboutyour father,you know. You neverevenaskedme if you had a father, or where he was, not evenwhile you werefree to do so. I don't know what I would havetold you if you had-maybe just that he and I had waysbeforeyou wereborn. But then you'd havewanted goneour separate he never wantedto seeyou and I didn't reallywant to haveto know why to he didn't know aboutyou becauseI hadn't told him. that explain "He found out, though.He found out the momentyou Namedme." A pictureof a man'sfacewasformingin my mind. I'd neverseenhim beforebut I knew this had to be my father. He wasold enoughto be my His yearsbecamehim, probablybetterthan his youth had;very grandfather. sinceI lookeda greatdealmorelike him than I did my mother. encouraging, "That shouldn'thavehappened.Because he didn't know aboutyou, there shouldn'thavebeena link. But it wasthere.Maybeyou werejustsopowerful that he couldn'thelp sensingyou, sensingwhat you are. Or maybehe was afterI convenientlytook myselfout of his life insteadof trying to suspicious hangonto him. Anyway,beforeI couldpreparesomethingto keepyou from Namingme or anyoneelseindiscriminately-andto preventyoufrom letting your own Name slip-he calledme." "'l wantto congratulate you on the success of your project,'hesaid,all 'Our cheery-nasty. little mon5[s1-'he actuallycalledyou that'-our little monsteris certainlya prodigy.If you had let me know, i would havebeen generous with supportchecks.But if you didn't wantmy supportin the past, you want it now.' " I don't suppose " 'You're right,' I told hinr, 'l want nothing from you, I need nothing from you.' " " 'Nothingmore,you mean,'he said.'Listen,['m all for everyone's right but don't you think it's rude beyondthe paleto usea to self-determination, person'sown tissuethis way without so much as a pleaseor thank-you?I certainlydo. I haveto tell you that while I wasapparer-rtly what you had in mind, /ou weren'tmy choice.'" " 'So what,'" I said. " 'So we'rea family now, that'swhat,' he said. 'Whetheryou like it or not. You can'thaveit both ways,you know, I can'tbe the fatherand nof be the fatherat the sametime. Which meansthat you and I areconnectednow, if not exactlybound. But I've found in my old agethat I suddenlyrespect that kind of bond rnuch more than I usedto. There are certainadvantages.

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I would askyou to marry me, but you didn't askfor what you wantedso I don't feel obligedto asknow for whatI want. And I don't haveto. Our little monsterwill justgiveit to me.' " "He meantmy Name, of course.And yours.He would eventuallyhave beenable to divine your Name becauseof his link to you. Once he knew your Name, he would havecompletepoweroveryou and all of your own poweras well. Gettingyou to tell him my Name would be prettymuch an anticlimax,but he'd havedoneit anyway,just to showhe could." The effectsof whatevershehad put in the tea werereceding. . . sortof. I wasbeginningto feel more alert mentally,the memorieswerebecoming more vivid, more real,and more personally involving. "l thoughtaboutkilling you," my mothersaid. I remembered that, too, thoughI hadn'treallyunderstood at the time. I'd just had the ideathat my motherwasconsideringsomethingharmful and I hadn'tbeenso much afraidas curious.Because['d known that in the end, shewouldn'thurt me . . couldn'thurt me. "No, I couldn't.You wouldn'tlet me. That wasthe lasttime you exercised the powerof my Name over me. And you wereright;evenif I could have broughtmyselfto kill my own child, it would havebeena veryfoolishthing to do. Even if the factthat it wasmurderhad goneunnoticed-l could have fixedit that way-your fatherwould haveknownand that wouldhavegiven him a certainamountof poweroverme. Not quiteasmuch asknowingmy Name, but too much. I had broughtyou into the world without his consent; to sendyou out of it alsowithout his consentwould havecostme my will. I would neverhavebeenableto do anythingagainwithout his permission. He couldn'thaveforcedme to do anything-like tell him my Name-but he could have preventedme from doing anythingsimply by telling me I couldn't. Whether it was using my powersor just washingmy face." She paused."You've seenpeoplewho seemto be unableto takecareof themselves,haven'tyou? Many of them are just incompetentfor someprosaic reason.But many othersare secretpeoplewho losttheir souls." "So, insteadof She sighedand I realizedthat shewasnearexhaustion. killing you, I hid you. Actually,I sentyou into hiding within yourself.The only reasonI could do it wasbecauseyou let me. You could havestopped me-after all, you knew my Name-but you werea little girl. You wanted me to takecareof you. SoI tookcareof you. I gaveyou somenicehot teaand told you that nothing matteredany more and you would forgeteverything. Includingmy Name." So I'd grownup healthy,happy,andcompletelydetached,unawareof my power, or my mother's,or my father's.Whateverpower meant-flying throughthe air? Leapingtall buildings,pickingwinning lotterynumbers, raisingthe dead? "You're a knower. Like your father. What you know about, you have powerover.If you want it, it's yours,if you don't want it, it goesaway.That doesn'tmeanyou wouldn'thavehad to pay for anythingyou wanted-you alwayshave to pay, and, like anythingelse,sometimesthe price-tagisn't

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worth the goods.I don't know what courseyou'd havechosenfor yourself I wonderif this wasn't onceyou had com€ into your own, and sometimes the right thing afterall. Maybeit wouldn't havebeenright to let someone sopowerfulwalkloosein the world, evenif it hadturnedout you hadwanted nothing more than some personalsuccessand material rewardsand an longlife-span.That stuffscheap,whenyou canhaveall you want. especially "Well, that wasovertwentyyearsagoand I figuredthat wasthe end of it. Even if your fathercamefaceto facewith you, he'd neverrecognizeyou for who or what you were,and I didn't haveto worryaboutyour telling anyone my Name or your own. "You do know your own Name, by the way. You learnedit beforeyou learnedmine, but you nevertold it to me. I don'twantto know. I couldn't makeyou forgetthat, but I wasableto camouflageit. It'll takeyou a little while to figureit out, but it'll come to you. And you'll needit, because apparentlymy hiding you didn't put an end to thingsthe way I thought it would. "Your fatherdidn't call me againbut he had to haveknownthat I'd done somethingto protectyou. I knewthat he'd look for us, so I keptus moving. Movementis verystrongpowerwhen done in the right sequence. That was oneof my specialties; I'm a travelerand, by extension,a geographer. I turned everyplacewe went into unfamiliar country, so that he'd alwaysget lost beforehe could evenget near us. "And then you grewup and left, and I thoughtthat would meanwe were permanentlysafe,because he couldn'tpossiblygo in two directionsat once. I k.pt travelinganywaywhile you just . . . kept busy.And I wasright, he couldn'tgo in two directionsat once.He just cameafterme. "lt tookhim a long,longtime,but I'd underestimated his,oh, dedication, I guessyou could call it. He honestlyfelt I had stolenfrom him, you see, andhe wasincompleteuntil he recovered whatwasrightfullyhis.That would be you. But you weretoo well hiddenevenfor the blood-linkbetweenyou and him, so he concentrated on finding me. "Travelerswho don't want to be found might as well be invisible.As far as he wasconcerned,I thoughtI was.But I'd neverthoughtthat he would actuallygo to all the time and troubleof followingme. The problem,you see,is that unfamiliarcountrydoesn'tstayunfamiliar;sooneror later,you can figureit out if you want to badlyenough.And he did. "lt took a chunk of his life-over twenty yearsand a good number of borrowedyearsas well, but I guesshe figuredthat beingin debt to a timekeeperwasworth it. If he could catchup with me and get to you, he'd be ableto payit all backwith interestand still end up with -or. time than he'd had at the start." Shestartedrubbingmy handsand I realizedthey'dgonenumb. My whole bodywasnumb; it wascomingbackto life, the feelingthat wasretuiningto my handsspreadingup my armsand out to the restof me. "In,recreatingmy travels,he hascome to know a greatdealaboutme. And aboutyou. I hid you from your power,but I couldn'thide the factthat

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you arepowerful,and powercallsto power.It won't be long beforehe knows my Name.He'sgettingcloserto it all the time andI can'tdo anythingabout it-in the act of trying to stophim, I would only revealthe lastof what he needsto know. "You haveto do it. " I openedmy eyes.The living room wasgone;so wasmy mother. I was lving on my backin the field under the eveningsky. Raisingup on my elbow, I lookedaround.Through the weeds,I could seesomethingthat might havebeenmy mother'ssilhouette.it movedsuddenlv and meltedinto the darkernight shadowsbehind it. Safefor now, I thought,and turnedawayto facethe goldenglow on the other sideof the sky. It wastoo bright to look at, and I had to closemy eyesagain. I wokeup in a hotel room in downtownSeattle.Or wasit uptown Seattle? I didn't kr-rowhow they numberedtheir streetshere,but I knewI wasin the city proper,whateverthey calledit, and my fatherwasn'tfar away. Mv backpackwaslying on the floor nextto the bed.A motherwill always rememberyou needcleanunderwear.Even a motherlike mine, who was apparentlya travelagentaswell asa traveler,I thought,amused,and got up to washand dress. The hotel wasone of thosenondescriptplacesthat chargeby the week, where peoplestaywhen they have no real placeto go, all worn carpeting and thrift-shopfurniture and stainedporcelainin the bathroom. Up to twenty-fourhoursbefore,I wouldn'thavethoughtanythingaboutit oneway or the other. There wasa part of me that still didn't care;old lifestylesdie hard. But mostly,I wantedto getout of thereasquicklyaspossible,find my father,and do whateverI had to do abouthim, and therr figureout how I wasgoingto spendthe restof my life. The cool Seattleair wasfull of mist and I felt asif I weremeltingmy way throughit as I walkedalongthe sidewalk.Havingsetme down somewhere nearmy father,my motherhad left it to me to locatehim exactly,asa way of flexingthoselong-unusedmuscles,a warm-upfor the main event. It didn't take long. My father was very sure of himself thesedays.His like a dare:here I am, comeand get me, if powerradiateduncamouflaged, you can. my motherwas And just to makesuretherewasno mistakingthe address, in the front window of the gallery,looking out on the streetwith a wary so subtlethat it couldn'thavereadto anyonewho didn't know her. expression Actually, her entirefacewouldn'thavereadto anyonewho didn't know real, but the subjecthad been her. The renderingwas photographically barrierso thick that it obscured paintedasstandingbehindsometransparent and distorted.One hand wasclutchingthe edgeof the barrierhard enough that the knuckleswerewhite but It wouldn't be clear-l-ra, ha-even after long study,whethershe wastrying to push the barrieraside,or hold it in place.Unlessyou knewher. wasthe nameon the door, in silveryscript.I pushedinsideand At'Tricks

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my father'spresencerushedover me with the carefullyclimate-controlled air. The entire galleryhad beengiven over to his work, not just for a few weeksor for a month, but indefinitely,thoughprobablyno one realizedit. My fatherwould camp here for as long as he neededor wanted,and that feelingwouldn'tkick in for a long time afterhe left. I used-and-abandoned understoodquite a lot about my father.It wasall there in thosepaintings he'd doneof my mother. They werearrangedon the gallerywallsin a waythat remindedme of the Stationsof the Crossin a Catholicchurch.Therewasan intendedsequence, or rather,two intendedsequences. In the orderdictatedby his nunrbering, my mother'sfacestartedout extremelyobscuredandprogressed towardbeing moreclearlyidentifiable.This wasfor the generalpopulationof art appreciators,who would seeonly paintingsand believeone followedanotherjustthe way he saidthey did. The othersequence wassecret,the realorderin which the paintingshad beendone. The real first portraitwasthe clearestone in the sequence,the oneeveryone elsewassupposed to think wasthe mostrecent:Untitled,#12. The obscuring barrierwasonly slightlylessthan window-clear-myfather's acknowledgment that he had known my motheras shehad wantedhim to know her. It resembledher in someways,but she could havestoodright next to it and no one would haveidentifiedher as the subject. The nextone wason the othersideof the airy galleryroom, posingasthe first one he'd painted.The facewasso completelyobscuredin this one that it wasn'tpossibleto tell wherethe featureswere,whetherit wasa man or a woman,or evena human being. He had followedthat up with the portraitplacedin the middle of the labeledUntitled #6. Had it beencloserto #12, it might have sequence, beenpossibleto seethat he'd actuallyhad much more understanding of the facetakin_g shapeon the boardthan he'dhadwhenhe'ddone#lZ. Oirnaybe not; my father'sskill engagedexpectations while it diffusedperceptiols. Thg third painting was#ll, his affirmationof the face my mother showedthe world. Lookingclosely,I couldseethathe hadpaintedher image in excruciatinglyexactdetailbeforemuddyingit. And so on. I found my way from portraitto portrait,moving back and forth amongthe dozenpaintings,minus the one in the window,which was actuallythe mostrecentone. Yes,I thought,my fathermusthavebeenvery sureof himself,to displayit so openly,tellingmy motherhow closehe was. In the next portrait,her facewould be completelyclearand so would her Name, not just to my fatherbut to anyonewith the abilitv to know. "Do you know Boileau?" I had beenso lostin the studyof my mother'sfacethat the man had come up right behindme.,He wasveryyoung,too thin, and probablytoo rich for his own good."Pardon?"I said. "Do you know Boileau?The artist.I've beenwatchingyou from my desk. I've neverseenanyonecomein hereand viewthe paintingsin the ,eai order before."

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That my fatherhadn'tkeptthis completelya secretshowedan arrogance pleasing."Well, I know his other work," I said. that I found perversely "Really?That'samazing,considering The man'seyesnarrowed. thereisn't any other work. This is all there is-thirty yearsof discoveringthe same woman.When he finishesthe lastone, he sayshe'll put down his brushfor good." "He saysthat, doeshe?" I lookedaround;my mother'sface seemedto jurnp out of eachpictureand then recedeagain."l wonderwhat he'll do to keepbusy." "Boileauis an extraordinary man as well as a giftedartist.I imaginehe could do anythinghe wantedto." I shrugged."Oh, I don't know. Sometimeswhen the grip of obsession loosens,peoplefall apart.Doeshe live aroundhere?" The guy clammedup. It wasexactlylike that-he put his lips together andlookedawayfrom me with a haughtytilt to his head,making deliberately it clearhe wasn'tgoingto dignify my questionby evenrecognizingit. I took a stepback,lookedhim up and down, and spokehis Name. The effectwas immediate;I ownedhim. He'd been pissingme off but mostly I did it to seewhat would happen.I hadn't been preparedfor the I wastoo usedto not givinga rat'sassone way of it, eitherbecause utterness the ideaof someonewith absolutely things, or because most or the otherabout you'veseenit. I half-expected until is unfathomable, power really at all no washis surrender. unreserved so or something, him to turn into a blob of lelly jelly if I wanted of into a blob turn And then I realizedhe damnedwell could and he was concerned, far law as as him to. WhateverI wantedwasnow the this wasirreversible. He remainedperfectlystill while I walkedaroundhim, lookinghim over. He wasjust a gallerymanager,a culturevulturewhoselife wasfocusedon finding The Next Big Thing in the artisticcommunity,an insulatedworld that breathedrarefiedair, followedits own traditions,anointedits own high priests,and admittedno outsiders.When this galleryclosed,he would find another,and anotherafterthat. His function wasto sit with art, and talk without about it, and contain variousfactsand terms and acquaintances knowinganything. Or it would havebeen,exceptI ownedhim now. I could havetold him to be a truck driveror a ditch-diggerand he would havewalkedout of the galleryand goneoffto drivetrucksor dig ditcheswithouta backwardglance. "l just want you to takecareof yourself,"I saidaftera while. "Co on as you werebefore,do whateveryou weregoingto do, be whateveryou were goingto be. But tell me wherehe lives." "He's got a houseon VashonIsland.You'll needto takethe ferry." "What'sthe address?" "l don't know. But I can drawyou a map of how to get there." "Then do that. And then go backto whateveryou were doing beforeI camein here.Think you can managethat?"

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"lf you sayso." He drew me a map. He had no artistictalent at all, but it was a good enoughmap for my purposes.And it was all for my purposes.He was so much mine, he would havespenthourson the details.I watchedhim filling This was how in landmarks,his aristocraticfacetight with concentratir-rn. my motherwould look if my fathermanagedto divine her Name. I wasn'tsurefor a momentwhetherI wasashamedof what I'd done, or just unhappythat I had to carenow. "What'swrong?"he asked,turningto look at me. Concernflowedoff him in waves;I could almostseethe air shimmywith it. "Nothing," I said."ls the map done?" He held it up. "Can you find your way from this?" It lookedlike he'd put in mostof the major roadsand a goodmany of the area5-" minor onesas well. "l can showthe more heavily-settled "That looksgood." I took the map from him, foldedit up, and stuckit in my shirt pocket."l want you to go backto your life. Can you do that?" He shrugged."l can keepworkinghere, if that'swhat you mean." "What aboutanythingelse?" He frowned."What elseis there?Look,do you wantme to takeyou there? I'll just closeup and we can go now, if you want." His Name might aswell havebeenwrittenall overhis face-anyone with evena minor bump of knowledgecould have Named him in the dark. "l don't want you to go with me. I want you to stayhere and go backto the way you were." "Oh? And what areyougoingto do?"he saidbitterly."Not knowwhatever you know?" "What?" I said. "You come in here and messme up, and now you want it to be as if it " He madea face it's inconvenientfor you, I guess. neverhappened.Because at my puzzlement."Oh, come on, didn't you realizeI'd know what happened?Well, not exactlywhat, or evenhow-l didn't understand what you said-but I know what it did to me. I knowwhat you are now, too. I always thoughttherewerepeoplelike you in the world, but my shrinkkepttelling me it wasjust anotherfacetof my neurosis,thinkingthat therewerepeople walkingaroundwho could . . . do things.Boileau'sone of them, too, isn't he?All my life I've beentryingto getnextto peoplelike you. Evenif it didn't rub off on me, I thoughtmaybeI could reapsomeof the benefits,anyway." Well, that explainedhow I'd beenable to divine his Name so easily.I couldalsoseewhy my fatherhadn'tgottento him first,eventhoughhe could havequiteeasily:Namingsomeonelike thiswasobviouslymoretroublethan it wasworth. I'd haveto keepthat in mind. "lt's not my fault you'vebeen standingaround waiting to surrenderto somebody,"I saidaftera bit. "So you shouldn'tcomplainnow thatsomeone's takenyou up on it. But I'm givingyou a chanceto breatheon your own. It won't be easy,but you can get the hangof it with practice."

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He sneered."lt mustbe wonderful,to havelife be so simplefor you. No, it's not your fault I wasthat way, but it doesn'trelieveyou of responsibility for your own actions." "l'm not goingto hangaroundherelisteningto a gallerymanagerlecture me on personalresponsibility,"I said. "Forget what happened.Learn to cope." He hesitated."All right. But someoneshould have told you that even when you buy somethingyou don't want, you still haveto pay for it." I didn't like the soundof that, but I justwantedto getawayfrom him and headmy fatheroff beforehe turnedmy mother into a lapdog.I madehim giveme directionsto the ferryand left him sittingat his desk,doodlingfaces on the blank pagesof his appointmentbook. The ferrywaslike a greatbig floatinghouse-there wasa lived-infeelingto it. The feelingwas all there was, at first. But as the boat plowedsteadily throughthe water,I beganto get flashesof the residentsthemselves. They werewell-camouflaged, moving unnoticedamongthe passengers with ease but alsowith practicedcaution. Someof them had beenpassengers themselvesonce, I realized. of chocolatecupcakes Justas an experiment,I bought severalpackages from the snackbar on the upperdeckand then found an unoccupiedbench facingthe stern.I unwrappeda package,setit down next to me, and got up to standat the railing and stareat the slowly-receding mainland. Only a minute later, I heard the open cellophanecrackle,but I knew betterthan to turn around."lt's not what I would havesuggested, but it's the thoughtthat counts." The voicecamefrom below,not behind.I lookeddown;two womenwere standingon the lowerdeckalmostdirectlyunderneathwhereI was,chatting confidentiallyoverflimsycupsof bad coffee.The cellophanecrackledsome more, to let me know I had it right. "Well, I've alwayssaidan offeris an offer."The womanon the left sipped her coffee."What do you want to do aboutit?" "l don'tknow," saidthe womanon the right."l guessI'll haveto hearthe terms and conditionsattachedto it. " The wind came up suddenly;they shudderedtogetherand went backinside. "Think of it asa gift." I spokesoftlyinto the wind, lettingit carrymy voice " residence. back."Or payment,in exchangefor the useof your . "l knew who it wasright away,"saidanothervoice.Now a man and a woman were standingon the deck below me, holding their collarsclosed againstthe wind. "You knowhow that is, when you geta call from someone you know of, but you haven'tactuallymet in person?I'd beendealingwith the companyitselffor so long that I felt like I reallyhad met everyonein it, " so I had to remind myselfthat we weren'tactuallyacquainted. The woman'smurmur of agreementcarriedup to me quite clearly."I really don't find knowing someonepersonallyto be any kind of definite advantage,"she said. "Sometimes,it even worksthe other way. I've had

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me into doingwhat they want me to. They peopletry usingthat to pressure we'redoing. So I've takento lry usingthe personalto infuence the business level,I don't askabouttheir kidsor keepingeverythingon a strictlybusiness or talk aboutmy own life." their spouses areyours,free "lt's okay,"I said."l didn't want anything.The cupcakes and clear." I turnedaroundjust in time to seeit The cellophanerustledaggressively. be sweptawayby a suddencrosswind.It dancedhigh in the grayair for a few momentsbeforeit blew out of sight. I found a long bench indoorson the lower deckand setanotheropened packageof cupcakesnextto me. This time, I slumpeddown and closedmy wasmore tangible;the bench eyes.It took a little longer,but the presence creakedand shifteda little. Amid the generalnoiseand the rumble of the that had beentakingplacebehind me went from engines,the conversation an unintelligiblemurmur to audible. "l can spotthatkind a mile away,"a. olderwomanwassaying."I've been aroundlong enoughthat nothinggetsby me any more." I smiledto myself,still keepingmy eyesclosed. "But they'relike anyoneelse,you know, they'rejust people.Some of them areokayand someof them you haveto watchout for. But, like anyone else,they all want somethingand don't let anybodyevertell you differently. Everybodyin this world, no matterhow goodthey are, is out for themselves on somelevel. You've got to rememberthat, and neverfool yourselfinto thinking that anybodyis everdoing anythingone hundredpercentfor your benefit.Nobody'sgoingto do anythingfor anybodyunlessthere'ssomething in it for them aswell." Ferry-boatphilosophy,I thought,amused.Well, they weren'tvery good cupcakes,afterall, so I probablyshouldn'thaveexpectedmuch. There was had been a rustleof cellophane.I openedmy eyesto find the emptypackage pushedcloseto me for disposal. I tried anotherbenchindoorson the upperdeck,awayfrom the windows. This time I slippedmy watch in betweenthe cupcakes beforepretendingto takea nap. Over at the snackbar,the attendantwashavinga loud conversation with what must havebeena ferryregular."So I saysto myself,'Now, that'smore like it. Somethingreal,that isn't just junk.' You know?" I could sensethe regularnoddingin agreement."l mean, it's not iike I reallywantso much,"the attendant wenton. "[ mean,if I wantedso much, would I be hangingaroundin a placelike this, workingmy assoff?Hell, no. But you wantto knowsomeone's makingan effort,that it meanssomethingto them, right?" The regularsaidsomethingabouta token. "Yeah, well, I believein stuff like that, a tokenof affectionand esteem, all that stuff. So you know, now I know it matters.Enough, anyway." I left the lastthreepackages of cupcakesin variousunobtrusivespotsand wanderedaimlesslyaround the ferry. Twice I overheardpeoplethanking

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each other and once, someonesaying,That doesn'tevenbegin to coverit and what tookyou so long anyway? The cloudswere lower and heavierby the time the ferry docked;it was goingto getdarkearly.Standingamongthe crowdwaitingto be let off, I saw a tall womanwho lookedlike a garage mechanicshowilycheckingher watch. Sheglancedup, caughtmy eyeand turnedher wrist slightlyso I could see beforeloweringher arm. The crowdmovedforwardthen and sheseemedto move alongwith everyoneelse,but sheneverappearedon the dock. You'rea knower,my motherhad said.The otherpartof that wasknowing whetherwhat I knewwasat all useful,and I didn't know that yet. But I was prettysureit would come to me eventually. The line of carsstretcheda quarter-milealong the road running pastmy father'shouse.He wasgiving a party. I had the guy ['d bummed the ride from let me off nearthe lastcar and I walkedback.A mailboxmarkedthe path that led down the steepembankmentto where the housesat on the shoreof the inlet. whereit wastonight. I could hearthe partysoundsbeforeI reachedthe mailbox;it wasn'trowdy,therewerejust lots of people. A little waysdown, the path had been made into an outdoorstaircase, eachpackeddirt stepborderedwith a branch. I hesitatedon the first one; below,the partyhad spreadout of the house,all aroundthe yardand down to the shorein spiteof the coolnessof the already-fading afternoon.Nicelydressedpeople,like somethingout of a high-classmagazinead. My g,ty hadn'tmentionedthis;I guessmy fatherhadn'tconsidered him worthtelling. Or maybehe'dwantedto surpriseme. My father,that is. He wasexpecting me; the senseof it driftedup to me with the people'svoices,alongwith the forceof his presence, faint at this distancebut therenonetheless. When I got a little fartherdown the steps,he'd sensemy presence like a ripple crossing his own. My father,the spider. I turnedawayfrom the stairsandbeganmakingmy wayalongthe embankment through the brush and dead leavesuntil I was directly behind the house.I half-climbed,half-sliddown the embankment,trying to be quiet and failingcompletely.Still, no onebotheredto takea look aroundthe back and seewhatall the crunchingand rustlingwasabout.Eithertheyall figured it wasthe indigenouswildlife or they couldn't reallyhear it that well. The rearwindowswerehigh up and not terriblylarge,but the ledgeswere generous.fumping, I caughtthe rough edgeof the one farthestfrom the partynoise,and therewasenoughroom for me to restmy forearmon it and pull myselfup. I was looking into my father'sstudio. The easelholding my mother's portraitstoodin the centerof the room, facingawayfrom me towardthe door.This wasit, the big unveilingof the capstone of his career,if you could call thirteenpaintingsof one blurry woman a career.But being a knower himself,he'd knownexactlyhow to play it asan artisticobsession. He could have been well-knownif he had chosento allow his notorietyto expand

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beyondthe small local but lucrativesceneshe'd beencultivatinghere and therearoundthe country. But this woulddo it for him, I realized.Like that otherartist,Wyeth, with the Helgapaintings. Helga?If I could have seenthe entire seriesright then, I would have known her Name immediately. The windowwaslocked;I brokeone of the panesand managedto unlock on the shardsleft in the frame. it without severingany major blood vessels Pushingthe window up and clamberinginsideseemedto takeforeverand that I coulddo it at all; moving left me with sorearm muscles.I wassurprised aroundvigorouslywassomethingelseI'd neverengagedin much. The portraitwascoveredwith a whitelinen cloth. I hesitated, holdingone corner, and then slippedmy hand underneath.The paint-acrylics? oils? Clidden'srainy-daygray?-felt almost-sticky, as if it were a minute or so awayfrom beingcompletelydry. "Go ahead.You might as well. I paintedit to be lookedat." I didn't turn around. "Besides, family shouldn'thaveto wait until the ceremonialunveiling." "Of course,if youwant He cameoverandput his handson my shoulders. to wait, I won't insist,"he added. "When did you finishit?" I asked,pullingmy handawayfrom the painting. "Who saysit's finished?"He triedto turn me aroundbr,rtI refusedto move and he let go of me. "l thoughtI'd showit tonightand get somecomments on it beforeI did anythingfinal to it. If, indeed,I needto, other than take a lastlook." Yeah, sure,I thought. He walkedaroundbehindthe easeland leanedon the top of the painting, studyingme. I raisedmy eyesto look at him. My motherhad shownhim to me but I wasn'tpreparedfor the sightof him as he wasnow, in person.I could seeeverythingimmediatelyand I reachedfor the cloth, intendingto yank it off. He clappeda hand down over it, holding it in place. "Sorry-changed my mind. You'rea smartgirl," he said,almostapprovingly. "Excuseme-woman. Though peopleyour age are more children than not to me. It reallyisn't finished,you know; I couldn't finish it until ['d met my daughter.I must say,I hadthoughtyou would look much more like her, so this is a pleasantsurprise.You don't seemto know, though, whetheryou cameto try to stopme, or justto kill me. Why don't you come out and meetthe otherguestswhile you'rethinking it over?" He camearoundthe easelandtucked-y handinto the crookof his elbow. It wassucha corny thing to do that I couldn'thelp laughing.This seemed to startlehim, but he didn't sayanythingaboutit, leadingme throughthe houseasif he werealreadyparadingin victory.The houseitselfwassurprisingly shabby,the furniturefaded,old, andworn. In the dining room, people stoodaroundin clumps,pickingat the enormousspreadof carefully-arranged party food, hors d'oeuvresand deli-stylecold-cuts,saladmixturesin big stonewarebowls, and bottle after bottle of champagne,standingin rows.

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Thev still remindedme of magazine-ad people;I half-expected my fatherto regroupthem rnoreartfully. But he just introducedme around and those ger-reric facesgaveme genericsmiles,expressed tastefulastonishn-rent that Boileauhad a daughter,and went backto their genericpartydiscussions. "Prettvharmless group,"I said,as my fatherled me outside. "They don'thavethe faintestidea,"my fathersaid,handingme downthe front steps."Let me showyou." He went up to the nearestperson,a blond, beardedman ir-rconversatiorl with a tall, black-haired woman,and tappedhim on the shoulder."Henry, " Alberta,I'd like you to meet my daughter. Albertabeamedwhile Henry hurriedlytransferred a paperplateof potato saladto his otherhand so he could shakehandswith me. "Well, this is a surpriseand a pleasure!" he saidheartily. "She'scometo put a stopto me," -y fathersaid,givingme a sidelong " glance."Probablyby drivinga stakethroughmy heartor something. "Really,"saidAlberta."And wheredid shego to school?" "Whereverher motherchoseto takeher. Mostlvbad public schoolswith " no budgetsand demoralized I imagine. teachers, "Al-r.My next-doorneighbor'skidsall went there," saidHenry. "They seemedto enjoyit. Do you paint,also?"he askedrne. "Oh, my daughterhasn'tdonemuch of anythingfor the lasttwenty-some years,thanksto her mother.But now that she has come into her own, I guessshe'll do whatevershe wants-enslavea few people,maybewin a lotterye1lu7s-under differentnames,of course-and possiblykill her mean old fatherthis evening." "Well, that's what I understandfrom many peoplesuch as yourself," Henry saidcongenially."The childrenall tend to g
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game, meetingmore of them. He continuedto play his little conversation though to what purposeI didn't know. Maybe just becausethey were so willing and he wasso able. Eventually,I noticedthat the dayhadstoppeddarkening.The slightwind that had been rustlingthe surroundingtreeshad alsoceasedand the party gabblehad acquireda strangelymuffled sound,as if it were coming from under a belljar. Peoplewho had beenwanderingaboutthe yard and going in and out of the housewerenow rootedto whereverthey stood-without noticing,of course. "Timing," -y fathersaid,cheerfully."What you needin this business is " you for have time itself. good timing and that to understand sense of a "l thoughtyou werea knower,not a timekeep€r,"I said,takinga baconwrappedmorseloff a plateheld by a woman in blacksatinpajamas. "Knowersaremulti-talentedthat way," he said."Don't eatthat. Nothing's edible when it's stuckbetweenmoments,it'll be like chewinga lump of " styrofoam. put I the hors d'oeuvrebackon the plate. "What about them?Are they still functioning?" He nodded,lookingat the quiet water."They'reright with me, as much as they can be, which is enoughfor my purpose."He turned his smile to me. "lt's finished,now, in caseyou didn'tknow.I'vebeenfinishingit while I've beenwalkingaroundhere with you. Now I know what I shouldsee, what we shouldall see.Time to bring it out." "l've broughtit out for you." My motherwasstandingin the middle of the yard next to the easel,one hand restinggracefullyalong the top like a game-showhostess's. Once the initial shockhad passed,I knew I shouldn'thavebeensurprised.Diverting him with me wasthe only way shecould possiblyhavegottencloseto him. "l'm sureyou meantto invite me," shewent on, smilingat the people standingaround. "A greatartistwould neverunveil a masterpiece without " inviting the subjectto be present. He took a steptowardher and shegrabbeda cornerof the linen covering. "Come on, Boileau,"shesaid."You'vehadall the fun up to now. Let me havethe privilegeof unveilingit." ,,f\g_"

The motion of her yankingthe linen awaylastedforever.The cloth flew up and out, its foldstwistingand turning like a floweropeningup beforeit sailedaway. It wasnow a pictureof the two of them. There wasstill only one subject but what my fatherhad put into it of himselfwasnow equallyasobviousas my mother'sfaceand, consequently, her Name. You couldn'tseeit without seeingboth of them. Of course.My mother hadn'tbeenableto undo any of the lastthirty years,so shehad just done a little more. Someonebeganto applaud.It spreadthroughthe gathering;they wereall puttingtheir platesandglasses downon the groundbesidethem andclapping their handsenthusiastically. Someoneevenwhistled.

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My mother went to my father and pulled him over to the easel.She bowed,turnedand gestured to him, and then beganto clap her own hands, slowlyand deliberately,almostin his face."sometimesa stalemateis the bestvictoryyou can hope for," I heardher tell him over the ovationstill going on around them. "Maybe that'sthe only victory that really means anythingfor peoplelike us." She lookedat me; her smile wasgrim. "You rememberthat. You rememberthat you can't reallyName Nameswithout " Naming yourself. It wastrue, I saw,as shemovedaroundbehindthe easeland continued applaudingmy father.You had to look reallycloselyto seethat it wasnot just a pictureof the two of them but a family portraitof the threeof us, but sincemostpeopledidn't knowaboutme, they'dneverquiteseeit in the right way.And my motherwouldgo on makingsuretheydidn't, aslongasnobody everspokeher Name. Especiallyme. I turned and ran up the dirt stairsto the road.There wasa car idling by the mailbox. "Need a lift?" saidthe guy from the gallery.It wasn'treallya question. "Who's minding the store?"I askedhim. He laughed."You are.As if you didn't know." They were out in force on the ferryboatthis time, not botheringto hide themselves. I couldn'tgetawayfrom all the conversations takingplacearound me, evenin the bathroom.It wasn'tchocolatecupcakes that they wanted. I considered it. My new friend-his name,I learnedbelatedly,wasCus, shortfor Augustus,and what hcd his parentsbeenthinking of?-wouldn't be happyhere, but he wasn'tgoingto be hrppy anywhereany more. That wasn'this purposein life. "fust think it over," one woman wastelling anotheron a nearbybench. "Of course,you can'ttakefoolong but that'sthe natureof the business we're all in." I madeGus staytherewhile I went up to the upperdeck.A groupof kids, teenagers, werecomparingnotesaboutsomepartythey'dall beento. giveanything for a systemlike that . . . all that power . . . " " . . . more than I makein two months,maybethree . . . " everybody'dalwaysbe hitting on you to come over and use it, t h o u g h. . . " " . . . and the wholeworld wantsto be your bestfriend. I dunno if I want " bestfriendslike that . " . . . got to useit while you werethere . . . think it over Big help. I went backdown to the lowerdeck.Gus wasgone. I thought one of them had gottenimpatientand decidedto forcethe issue,but then I found him standingoutsidenearthe stern. "ls that how it is?"he said."When we dock,you justwalk off and I don't? That's a pretty big offering. What do you get in return, a whole ferryboat and all the bad snacksyou can stuff in your face?" "Are you wearinga watch?"I asked.

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"Yes.A Rolex." "Give it to me." I wrappeda ten-dollarbill aroundthe wristbandand left it on a bench. "My parentsgaveme that," he saidaccusingly. "You can get another.I'll buy you another." "You'll haveto. I needthingslike that. It's what I am, you know." He smiled."Yeah,I guessyou do know." I did. His Name stoodfor materialthingsand statussymbols,the acquisition of shiny stonesand metalsand prettypictures.They ownedhim, the conditionof my ownership,for as long as it wasin force. He wasgoing to pet; I'd haveto win a lotteryor two. be an expensive I could feel him settlinginto his new life. That was the real price, I thought. Once you had power, you ended .tp having to dependon it. Eventually,like anythingelse,it ownedyou. Eventually?No, from the beginning;we iust don't botheradmittingit at first. We were closeto the mainland now and would be docking in a few minutes.Gus linked armswith me and draggedme into the middle of the crowdgatheringimpatientlyat the exit. "l don't like to wait in line, either," he said."l like to go first." He put his armsaroundmy shouldersand gave me a hard squeeze."Youknow, I'm going to like this a lot betterthan I thoughtI would." " I smiledup at him. "Behaveyourself. "Or what-you'll bring me backhereand leaveme?" He laughed. "No," I said."l'll tell you my Name." It wasa month beforehe daredto speakagain.I boughthim the Rolex anyway.

THE ELVISNATIONALTHEATER OF OKINAWA fonathan Lethem and LukasJaeger

V Here'sa funny and razor-sharp look at the World of Tomorrow. And you thought todaywasweird!You ain't seennothing yet! JonathanLethemis yetanotherone of thosetalentednewwriterswho arecontinuing to pop up all over as we progress into the decadeof the 1990s.He worksat an antiquarianbookstore,writesslogansfor buttons,and lyricsfor severalrock bands (including Two FetteredApes,EDO, lolley Ramey,and Feet Wet), and is also the 'Dr. creatorof the Sphincter'characteron MTV. In additionto all thesecertifiably cool credentials,Lethem hasalsohad salesin the lastfew yearsto Interzone,l,ilew Pathways,Pulphouse, IsaacAsimov'sScienceFiction Magazine,Universe,lournal Wired,Marion ZimmerBradley'sFantasyMagazine,AboriginalSF, and elsewhere; lris first novel,Gun, with OccasionalMusic, is slottedfor 1994.His story"Walking the Moons"wasin our EighthAnrrualCollection. Lukasfaegeris a graduateof the BostonSchoolof the Museumof Fine Arts. He is an animatorand cartoonist,and his first two films, Dimwit's Day and lt's You, have been shownin festivalsworldwide.His current film-in-progress is calledBig ConcretePlace. Both men live in the San FranciscoBayarea,and this is their firstcollaboration.

Sam'sBig Kinestheticwent down the Blind Alleywayto checkout Tokyo Norton'snew act:the ElvisNationalTheatreof Okinawa.Sam'sBig wasa threesome consisting of a neuropublicity agent,a talentdevelopment scout, and a bush-robotthat hookedthem into the infodrip,ar-rdinto one another. They all went by the nameSam'sBig, and they neverwalkedalone. Tokyo Norton ran a noisy,credit-chip-sized stagein darkestDasEnglen, but he had a nosefor importednovelties.Sam'sBig had to keepits fingeron the pulse. "You wannawannaput Ento on the big show?"jabberedNorton afterthe revuewasclosed.They whirredabovethe rooftopof the Alleywayin Norton's ramjet gazebo.The emotionalkaleidoscope on Norton'sforeheadperformed flourish,which annoyedSam'sBig. an unnecessary "l don't know," saidSam'sBig. "There'ssomething1[s1s-"

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"For truly understand Ento," saidNorton, "l haveto givecontext."He snorted."ls cultivatedsecretly,accordingto ancientstricture.No foreigner haseverseenbefore.Is guild of monksperformancientmysteries.Not fust songand dance." "The whole thing'san ancientritual?"musedSam'sBig. "The weird . . . that wild nurnber karatekicks, the whole bit with the handkerchiefs about'PorkSaladAni'?" "Oh yes,oh yes.Quite elaborate and mysterious." "What'sthe reference,though?What's'Elvis'?" "lmpersonationof 'Elvis'medievalfapanese in folk art. Originssl-rrouded veils of misty time. Forgottenmeanings,buried in layersof abstraction. Foreignernever5ssfsfsvs-" "Yeah, yeah." Sam'sBig knewperfectlywell that ninetyper cent of what and usually garbledto passedfor Jap culture was filched from overseas, in the process. It didn'tmatter.The pointwas,thisEnto incomprehensibility "The wholelook," at the core,something interesting. dramahad something "the pallid, physique. sideburns, the fatty Cosmurgery?" Sam'sBig said, "Oh no," frettedNorton. "Physicalregimenof takeyearsto produce,very amphetamins5-" demanding.Eat only corndogs, "The rour-rd-eyed kid," interruptedSam'sBig. "What's he doing there?" darkening."Very poor perforNorton wavedhis hand, his kaleidoscope Is mer, the American. worstof bunch-" "An American?I thoughtthis wassomeexclusive Japcult." "First "ls significant admittedNorton. foreigner achievement," everto rise cleaningtoiletwith to anyprominence,devotionof manyhardrninistrations, talent.Is hothead,over toothbrush. . . but cannotbe comparedwith r-rative wherecallsfor control, devotion,conformityto traditioll-" expressive, "He sticksout like a sorethumb," agreedSam'sBig, thinkinghard."Uh, yeah.That'sthe or-rewe want. What'shis name?" "Oh no!" pleaded TokyoNorton."Cannothave'one'!Entoisperfornlance gn 1n455g-"

"We can't use the group thing. But we rnight be able to do something with this Americankid. What'shis name?" "No, pleaseno. Integrityof ancientways;I protest!"Norton took an eggshapedrubbernapkirrout of his pocketand rolled it aroundhis foreheadto absorbhis sweat."Not for cheapbastardisation did bringEnto to newworld!" "lt's not Ento we want,"saidSam'sBig. "All thatshmaltzy'lntl-reGhetto' We're just aftera iew of the rnoves,the st,vle,especially stuff;it's hopeless. the way that Americankid manifests it . what'shis name?" "Lucky Davey,"sighedNortorl.He pushedthe obloidend of the rubber napkininto his ear,his kaleidoscope flaringgreen.The gazebosettleddown to earthbehindthe Alleyway.TokyoNorton clearedthe dressingroom of all the Er-rtostarsexceptLucky Davey,then usheredSam'sBig in. Daveysatat a mirror daubingat his pancake.Sam'sBig carneup behindhim, smoking a stogieand flicking the ash into a hoveringholographicashtray,and met the kid's eyesin the mirror. Norton hur-rgor-rthe perimeter,frettingas he

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watchedSam'sBig'sashesflutteringthroughthe projectionto scatteron the floor. "l am an Ento performer,"saidLucky Davey,his eyesflaringdefiantly. "Steepedin the traditionsof 'Elvis' impersonatior-r. I don't know if you understand what that means,MistersBig." "Seriousancientritualbunkum,I gather.Makeno mistake,Davey,we're full of admiration.You've risento the top on their terms.But the point's made;now why not see if you can make it on the big stage?You're an American,Davey." "This is surelythe degradingcrasssell-outopportunityI was carefully steeledto resistin my long training," saidDavey.He wasstrippingoff the white jumpsuitand changinginto his streetclothes:a leatherThneedand a pair of fishnetearmuffs."Certainlythen if you admire my disciplineyou must understandhow I will be quite able to resistthe flickeringof your in my ear,yes?" devil's-tongue "This is no sell-out,"saidSam'sBig, fexing its anger.Sam'sBig knew whento bringon the effects."We'retalkingArt, son.Takingwhatyou picked up from the ancientmastersand building on it, creatingsomethingnew. That'sassumingyou'vegot moreto offerthe world thandevotion,of course. Maybewe guessed wrong Sam'sBig turnedto leavethe dressingroom. "Wait, MistersBig." Sam'sBig turnedback,all smiles,and pocketedthe cigar.The phantom ashtrayvanished.Sam'sBig unlatchedtheir goosedownbriefcase,which, whenopened,playedthe themesongfrom the KinestheticTonight! program. It wasfull of unsignedcontracts, enticinglyperfumed,andattractively backlit from within the briefcase.Tokyo Norton shookhis headsorrowfully.The floor wascoveredwith ashes. Three weekslater, in a high-securigrehearsal bubbleat the bottom of the Atlantic, the canswere filling with bungledperformancetape.They were scrapingawayto that essential core,the glimmerSam'sBig had discerned the first night out, but the kid had a lot to unlearn. "Drop the formalism,"saidSam'sBig for the hundredthtime. "Stickwith the crouchmove,and that big leeringwink, but makeit your own. Make it like you feel it, like it's from inside." They'd lightenedup his make-up,lost him a little weight, clippedthe his youth and vitality.It wasn'tenough. sideburns,generallyemphasised The kid waslike a witheredold |apanese monk in his heart.He wastending to the fundamentallyrude gestures of Ento dramalike a gardenershapinga bonsai.Sam'sBig wantedto seethe kid rebel. It wasthe songs,theyknew."The AmericanTrilogy," "HawaiianWedding Song,""lt's Now or Never/OSoleMio," "BridgeOver TroubledWater." Old soupyJapstuff,too heavyon the heartstrings. The kid neededsomething punchier, somethingto wrap thosesmoulderinglooksaround, something that gaveall that funny hip motion a reasonfor being. Soon,soon.Sam'sBig had its handpicked songwriting subroutine busyat

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"Don't Shit Me," "Hot NervousWire," work on sometitleshe'd suggested: "Warning: "BabyLet'sDie," "Drug TestMan," and "MysContaminated," tery Fuck." Sam'sBig took a sip from a tube of Big Man, a cigar-favoredsoftdrink, and smiledamongthemselves. They'd get it right soonenough.

THETERRITORY Bradley Denton

I'raveto be concernedwith big, sweeping AlternateHistorystoriesdon't necessarily changesin the fateof nations.They can alsodealwith sn'rallprivatechangesin one person'slife that may alterthat life forever. . as in the eloquentstorythat follows, daysof the AmericanCivil War in which takesus to the turbulentand dangerous and revenge,and one man's of redemption tale It is a compassionate BloodyKansas. struggleto reconcilethe two. A relativelynew writer, BradleyDenton wasborn in 1958,grew up in Kansas, and receivedan M.A. in creativewriting from the Universityof Kansas.He soldhis firststoryin 1984,andsoonbecamea regularcontributortoTheMagazineof Fantasy & ScienceFiction,aswell assellingworkto IsaacAsimov'sScienceFictionMagazine, Pulphouse,and elsewhere.He wasa finalistfor the fohn W. CampbellAward for BestNew Writer in 1985,and in 1988his story"The Calvin CoolidgeHome for DeadComedians"wason both the Hugo and Nebulafinal bailots.His first novel, Wrackand Roll,waspublishedin 1986,and he won the fohn W. CampbellMemorial Awardin 1992for Buddy HollyIs AliveandWell on Canymede.His mostrecent novel is Blackburn.He livesoutsideof Austin, Texas.

Samcameawakeand satup choking.His chestwasastight asif wrappedin steelcables,and his heartwastrying to hammerits way out. He gulpeda breathand coughed.The air in tl-reabandonedbarn was thick with dust. There wasjust enoughlight for him to seetl'reswirlingmotes. A few feetaway,the skinnyform of FletcherTaylor groanedand roseon one elbow. "What the hell'swrong?"he asked. "Shut the hell up," the man on the othersideof Taylor said. "You go to hell," Taylorsnapped. " "Go to hell yourself. "Let me sleep,or I'll sendyou all to hell," anothermar-rsaid. "The hell you will." "The hell I won't." Taylor shooka fingerat Sam. "Seeall the hell you'veraised?" Samput on the new slouchhat that Taylor had givenI'rim,pulled on his he'd been using as a boots,and stood,picking up the leathersaddlebags not to kick rnore tryir-rg pillow. "l'm sorryashell," he said,andleft the barr-r, than four or five of the other men on his way out.

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The light wasbetteroutside,but the sun had not yet risen. Sam closed his left nostrilwith a fingerand blew throughhis right, then closedhis right nostriland blewthroughhis left, tryingto clearhis headof dust.The ground wasdry. The thunderheads that had formedthe night beforehad rolled by without droppingenoughrain to fill a teacup.He could havesleptoutside, in cleanair, and beenfine. As it was,his headached.This wasn'tthe first night he had spentin a barn or corn crib sinceleavingthe river,but he still wasn'tusedto it. At threemonthsshyof twenty-eight,he fearedthat he was alreadytoo old for this kind of life. Most of the campwasstill asleep,but a few men werebuilding firesand boiling chicory. One of them gesturedto Sam to come on over, but Sam shookhis headand pointedat the sycamoregrovethat servedas the camp latrine.The other man nodded. Samwent into the trees,and within twentystepsthe smellsof chicoryand smokewereoverwhelmed by the smellcausedby two hundredmen all doing their businessin the samespotoverthe courseof a week.It wasevenworse than usualthis morning,because the leadersof otherguerrillabandshad broughtsomeof their own men into campthe daybefore.But at leastSam had the groveto himselffor now. When he had finishedhis business,he continuedeastwardthrough the groveuntil the stenchfadedand the treesthinned.Then he satdown with his backagainstthe bole of a sycamoreand openedone of his saddlebags. He removedhis Colt Navy revolverand laid it on the groundbesidehim, then took out a pen, a bottle of ink, and the deerhidepouch that held his journal. He slid the notebookfrom the pouch and flippedpagesuntil he reacheda blanksheet,then openedthe ink bottle,dippedhis pen, andbegan to write. Tuesday,August11, 1863: I havehad thesdmedreamagain,or I shouldsay,anotheryariationthereof . This time whenI reached thedeadmdn, I discovered that hisfacewasthat of my brotherHenry. ThenI awokewith the thoughtthat it wctsmy fault that Henry was on board the Pennsylvaniawhensheblew, which in turn led to the thoughtthat I wasan idiot to aska youngand unsurephysicianto give him morphine. But I would havebeenon the Pennsylvania cs well had it not beenfor the maliceof a certainWilliam Brown, perhapsthe only man caught in that storm of metal, wood,and steamwho receivedwhat he deserved. As for the morphine,Dr. Peytonhimselfinstructedme to askthe night doctorto give Henryan eighthof a grainshouldhebecome restless. lf thedoctaradministired too much, the fault was his, not mine. hard. But fiveyedrshavepassed since ,I seeby *y wordsthat I havebecome that night in Memphis,and I haveseenenoughin thoseyearsthat the hours I spentat Henry'sdeathbeddo not seemso horrificnow-or, at least,they do not seemso during my waking hours. A pistolshotrangout backat campandwasfollowedby the shoutedcurses of men angryat havingbeenawakened. Someonehadkilleda rator squirrel,

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and might soon wish that he'd let the creaturelive to gnaw anotherday. Theseonce-gentle Missourifarmboyshad becorneasmeanasbobcats.They generallysavedtheir bulletsfor Bluebellies,but didn't mind usingtheir fists and bootson eachother. The dreamseemE morepertinent,Sam continued,on thosenightswhen the man's face is that of Orion. Orion wds ctEintolerablea scoldds any embitteredcrone,and a Republicancroneat that-but he was my brother, and it might havebeenin my powerto savehim. Sam paused,rolling the pen betweenhis fingers.He lookedup from the paperand staredat the brighteningeasternskyuntil his eyesstung.Then he dippedthe pen and resumedwriting. If is cs freshand awful in my memoryas if it had happenednot two yedrs ago, but two daysago. I could havefought the RedLegs,as Orion and our companionstried to lf I had usedit, I would have do. I had a Smith & Wessonseven-shooter. Orion'slife, or fallen besidehim. Either resultwould have eitherpreserved beenhonorable. But I faltered.When the momentcame,I choseto surrender,and handed overmy pistol-which one of the Redl-egslaughedat, sayinghe wasglad I had not fired the weapon,for to be struckwith a ball from its barrel might give one a nastywelt. Then, as if to prove his point, he turned it on the driver, and on the conductor,and on Mr. Bemis,and on my brother. As Orion lay dying, the RedLeg attemptedto shootme ds well But the pistolmisfired,and I ran. Two of the RedLegscaughtmeand tookmy watch, but then let mego, sayingthat killing a Missourianthe likesof me would not to their causeas letting me live. be so advantageous I continuedto run like the cowardI had alreadyprovenmyselfto be. Sam pausedagain.His hand wasshaking,and he didr-r'tthink he would be ableto readthe faggedscrawlof what I'rehad just written. But he would alwaysknow what the wordssaid, He rubbedhis foreheadwith his wrist,then turnedthe notebookpageand dippedhis pen. I could not havesavedHenry. But Orion would be alive today, safein l'{evadaTerritory,had I beena man. AndI wouldbe therewith him instead of hereat Blue Springs;I would be thriving in the mountainsof the West insteadof swelteringin the chaosof WesternMissouri. I haveremainedin Missourito pay for my sin, but in two yedrshavehad in doing so.Perhapsnow that I havecometo lacksonCounty and no success fallen in with the Colonel'sband, my luck will change. When this war began,I servedwith my own county'sguerrilla band, the Marion Rangers, for threeweeks.But theretheactualneedfor bush-whacking wasaboutas substantialasan owl'svocabulary.That wasbeforeI had crossed the RedLegs.That wasbeforeI the state, enteredKansas,and encountered had seenmy brother shotdown as if he werea straw target. I have not had a letter from Mother, Pamela,or Mollie in severalweeks,

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althoughI have written to eachof them as often as I can. I do not know whetherthismeansthat theyhavedisownedme, or whethertheir lettersdre I intend to go up to investigateoncethis coming not reachinglndependence. is completed,assumingthat it doesnot completeme in the process. business Sam laid the journal on the groundand wipedhis ink-stainedfingerson the grass.Then he peeredinto the ink bottle and saw that it was almost empty.He decidednot to buy more until he wassurehe would live long enoughto useit. The sunhad risenandwasa steadyheaton Sam'sface.The daywasgoing to be hot. Anothershotrangout backat camp,and this time it wasfollowed by yips and hollers.The boyswereup and eager. Sam slid his journal into its pouch, then returnedit and the other items andwalkedbackto ColonelQuantrill's He stood,stretched, to the saddlebag. camp. As he emergedfrom the sycamores,Sam saw fifty or sixty of his fellow clusteredbeforeQuantrill'stent. The tent wasopen,and the bushwhackers distance,weretryingto seeand gatheredmen, althoughkeepinga respectful hear what wasgoing on inside.FletcherTaylor wasstandingat the rear of the cluster,scratchinghis sparsebeard. "Sleepwell?" "Morning, Fletch," Sam saidashe approached. glance."Rotten,thanksto you." Taylorgavehim a narrow-eyed " "Well, you'rewelcome. "Be quiet. I'm tryingto hear." "Hear what?" "You know damn well what. The Colonel'splanninga raid. Most of the " boysare bettingit'll be KansasCity, but my money'son Lawrence. "The to wanted teach I hear is that the Colonel's story nodded. Sam fim Lane and Lawrencea lessoneversincehe lived therehimself." A man standingin front of Taylorturnedto lookat them. "l'd like to teach the Colonel. im f Lanea lessontoo," he said,"but I'm not crazyandneither's Lawrenceis forty milesinsidethe border,and the Bluebelliesarelikely to be asthick asflieson a deadpossum.It'd be like puttingour pistolsto our own " heads. "Maybe," Sam said. The man raisedan eyebrow."What do you mean, maybe?You know somethingI don't?" Sam shruggedand saidnothing. Two nightsbefore,in a dream,he had seenColonel Quantrill surroundedby a halo of fire, riding into Lawrence beforea band of shooting,shoutingmen. He had known the town was all of its inhabitantshad lookedlike the caricatures he had Lawrencebecause pants. had learned to had worn red Lane and Sam of Senator seen )im were before the his when they as clear as that. Several days dreams trust exploded,a dreamhadshownhim Henrylying in a coffin; Pennsylvaniahad before he and Orion had left St. foseph,a dreamhad shownhim Orion and dust. But it wouldn'tdo to talk of his dreamswith the other dead in the lying

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bushwhackers. Most of them seemedto think that Sam Clemenswas odd enoughas it was,hoardingperfectlygoodass-wiping paperjust so he could write on it. "Well, you'rewrong,"the man said,takingSam'sshrugas a statement. "KansasCity'sgot it comingjustasbad,andthere'splacesfor a man to hide when he'sdone." Taylorlookedthoughtful."l seeyourpoint,"he said."Callingon Senator Lane would be one thing, but cominghome from the visit might be something else." Sam stayedquiet. It didn't matterwhat the othersthought now. They would mold bulletsand makecartridges until they weretold whereto shoot them, and they'dbe just as happyto shootthem in Lawrenceas anywhere else-happier, sincemostof the jayhawkers and Red Legswho had robbed them, burnedthem out of theirhomes,killedtheirbrothers,andhumiliated their womenhad eitherhailedfrom Lawrenceor pledgedtheir allegiance to |im Lane. And if Quantrill could pull severalguerrillabandstogetherunder his command, he would haveenoughmen both to raid Lawrenceand to whip the Federalson the way thereand back. CaptainGeorgeTodd emergedfrom the tentand squintedin the sunlight. He wasa tall, blond, square-jawed man whom someof the men worshipped evenmore than they did Quantrill. He waswearinga blue jackethe'd taken from a deadUnion lieutenant. "H.y, cap'n,wherewe going?"someonecalledout. Todd gavethe men a sternlook. "l doubtwe'll be goinganywhereif you boyskeepstandingaroundlike sick sheepwhen there'sgunsto be cleaned and bridlesto be mended." The men groaned,but beganto disperse. "FletchTaylor!"Todd yelled."Whereveryou are,get your assin here!" He turned and went backinto the tent. Sam nudgedTaylor. "Now, what would a fine leaderof men like George Todd be wantingwith a lowdownthief like you?"he asked. Taylorsneered."Well, he told me to keepmy eyesopenfor Yankeespies," he said,"so I reckonhe'll be wantingme to givehim your name." He started for the tent. "l'm not worried!"Sam calledafterhim. "He'll askyou to spellit, and you'll be stumped!" Taylor enteredthe tent, and someonepulled the flapsclosed.Sam stood lookingat the tentfor a momentlonger,then struckoff acrosscampin search of breakfast.Why Quantrill and the other guerrillaleaderswere taking so long to form their plans,and why they werekeepingthe rren in the dark, he couldn't imagine.There shouldn'tbe any greatplanninginvolvedin strikinga blow at Lawrenceand the Red Legs:Ride in hard, attackthe Red and the Union garrisonlike lighhring,and then ride out Legs'headquarters again,pausinglong enoughto setfire to fim Lane'shouseto payhim back for the dozensof Missourihouseshe'd burnedhimself. ignorant. well, there As for keepingthe rank-and-filebushwhackers

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wereaboutas many YankeespiesamongQuantrill'sbandastherewerefish in the sky.Sam had talkedto overa hur-rdred of thesemen, and all of them had lost propertyor family to abolitionistraidersof one stripeor another. Samhad evenspokenwith orle man whosebrotherhad beenkilled by fohn Brownin 1856,andwho still longedfor vengeance eventhoughJohnBrown wasnow as deadas a rock. Vengeance could be a long time coming,as Samwell knew.In the trvo yearssinceOrion'smurder,he had yet to kill a singleFederalsoldier,let aloneone of the maraudingKansasRed Legs.[t wasn'tfor lack of trying, though.He had fired cour-rtless shotsat Bluebellies,but alwaysat a distance or in the dark. He had neverhit anythingbesidestreesand the occasiorral horse. Sam had a breakfast of fatty baconwith threeyoung brotherswho were from RallsCounty southof Hannibaland who thereforeconsideredhim a kinsrnan.He ate their food, swapped a few EastMissouristories,and promisedto pay thernbackwith baconof his own assoonashe had some.'l'hen he shouldered his saddlebags againandwalkedto the camp'srnakesl-rift corral to seeafterhis horse,Bixby. Bixby wasa swaybacked roan geldingwho had beengeldedtoo late and had a nlean dispositictn as a result.The horscalsoseenredto think that he knew bettertl-ranSam wher-rit cameto pickinga travelroute, or whcn it cameto decidingwl'retherto travelat all. Despitethoseflaws,however,Sam had no plansto replaceBixby.He thoughtthat he hadthc horsel'redeserved. Sam tried to give Bixby a lump of hard brown sugarfrom one of l-ris but Bixby ignoredit and attemptedto bite Sam'ssl'roulder. saddlebags, "SometimesI think you forget,"San said.slappingBixbyon the rlose, "that I arrrthe n'ranwho freedyou from your bor-rdage " to an abolitionist. Bixbysnortedand stomped,then triedto bite Sam'sshoulderagain. "Clernens!"a voicecalled. Sam turned and sawthat the voicebelongedto one of tl'reRallsCounty boyswho had fed him breakfast. "The Colonelwantsyou at the tent!" the boy shoutcd. Samwasastonished. Exceptfor his friendshipwith Flctch Taylor, he was lessthan a rrobodyin the band. Not only washe a new arrival,but it was alreadyobviousthat he wasthe worstrider, the worstthief, and the worst shot.MaybeTaylorreallyhadtoldToddandQuantrillthathe wasa Yankee spy. "Bettercomequick!"the boy yelled. Samwaved."l'll be right-God damn son of a bitchl" Bixby had succeeded in biting him. Sarnwhirledand tried to slug the horsein the iawwith the saddlebags, but Bixbyjerkedhis he:rdup anddanced away. Sam rubbedhis shoulderand glaredat Bixby. "Savesonlefor thc Red Legs,why dor-r'tyott," he said.Then he duckedunder tl-recorral rope and hurriedto Quantrill'stent. He remembered to renovehis hat beforegoing inside.

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William ClarkeQuantrill leanedback,his left leg crossedoverhis right, in a polishedoak chair behind a table consistingof three planksatop two "guerrillashirt," yellowbreeches, sawhorses. He worea white embroidered and blackcavalryboots.He gavea thin smileas Samapproached the table. Abovehis narrowupperlip, his mustache wasa straightreddish-blond line. His eyelidsdrooped,but hisblue-grayeyesprobedSamwith a gazeaspiercing as a bayonet.Sam stoppedbeforethe tableand clenchedhis musclesso he wouldn'tshudder.His own eyes,he had just realized,wereof much the samecolor asQuantrill's. "You'veonly beenwith us sincefune, PrivateClemens,"Quantrillsaid in a flatvoice,"andyetit seemsthatyouhavedistinguished yourself.Corporal Taylor tells me you savedhis life a few weeksago." Samlookedat FletchTaylor,who wasstandingat his left. Taylorappeared uncomfortableunder Sam'sgaze,so Sam lookedpasthim at someof the other men in the tent. He recognizedthe guerrillaleadersBill Greggand Andy Blunt, but severalof the otherswerestrangers to him. "Well, sir," Samsaidto Quantrill,"l don'tknowthatI did. My horsewas beingcantankerous and broughtme in on an abolitionist's houseabouttwo hundred feet behind and to one side of Fletch and the other boys, so I happenedto seea man hiding up a tree." "He wasaiminga rifle at CorporalTaylor,I understand," Quantrillsaid. "Yes,sir, that'show it looked,"Samsaid."So I holleredand tooka shot at him." "And that washis undoing." Samtwistedthe brim of his hat in his hands."Actually,sir," he said,"l believethat I missedby fourteenor fifteenfeet." his legsand stood."But you divertedthe ambusher's Quantrilluncrossed attention.Accordingto CorporalTaylor, the arnbusherthen firedfour shots at you, one of which took your hat from your head,beforehe wasbrought down by a volleyfrom your comrades.Meanwhileyou remainedsteadfast, firir-rgyour own weaponwithout flinching, eventhough the entirefocusof " the erremy'sfire wasat yourself. Sam lickedhis lips and saidnothing.The truth wasthat he had beenstiff with terror-except for his right hand, which had beencockingand firing the Colt, and his left foot, which had beenkickingBixby in the ribs in an effortto makethe horsewheeland run. But Bixby, who seemedto be deaf as far as gunfire was concerned,had been biting a crabapplefrom a tree and had not caredto move. The horse'spositionhad blockedthe other view of Sam'sleft foot. bushwhacker's put his handson the table and leanedforward."That was a Quantrill braveand nobleact, PrivateClemens,"he said. A stretchof silencefolloweduntil Sam realizedthat he wasexpectedto saysomething."Thank, thank you, Colonel," he stammered.It waswell knownthat Quantrilllikedbeingcalled"Colottel." "You understand, of course,"Quantrillsaid,"that in the guerrillaservice

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we have no formal honors. However, as the best reward of serviceis serviceitself,I'm promotingyou to corporaland orderingyou to reconnoiter the enemyin the companyof CorporalTaylor." "And a nigger,"someoneon Sam'sright said.The voicewaslow, ragged, and angry. Samturnedtowardthe voiceand sawthe mostfearsome man he had ever seenin his life. The man worea Union officer'scoatwith the insigniatorn off, and a low-crownedhat with the brim turned up. His brown hair was long and shaggy,and his beardwasthe colorof dirt. His facewasgaunt,and his eyes,small and dark, glowered.He wore a wide-buckledbelt with two pistolsjammedinto it. A scalphungfrom thebelton eachsideof the buckle. CeorgeTodd, standingjustbehindthisman, placeda handon his shoulder. "l don't much like it either,Bill, but Quantrill'sright. A nigger'sthe perfectspy." The seatedman shookTodd'shandaway."Perfectspy,my hairyass.you can'ttrusta niggerany morethan you can trustAbe Lincoln." Quantrilllookedat the man withoutblinking."That concernis why I'm sendingtwo white men as well-one that I trust, and one that he in turn trusts.Don't you agreethattwo whitemen cankeeponeniggerundercontrol, CaptainAnderson?" Andersonmet Quantrill'sgazewith a glare."l havethreesistersin prison in Kansas City for the simpleact of remainingtrueto theirbrother'scause," he said."l do not believethey would careto hearthat their brotheragreed to_send a niggerto fightin thatsamecause,particularlyknowingthe treachery " of which that raceis capable. Quantrill smiled."As for sendinga niggerto fight, I'm doingno suchthing just yet. I'm sendinghim as a spyand as a guaranteeof safeconductfor two bravesonsof Missouri.No Kansanis likelyto assaultwhite men travelingwith 1 frgenigger.As for treachery,well, I assureyou that fohn Nolandhasproven his loyalty.He'skilled six Yankeesoldiersand deliveredtheir weaponsto me. I trust him as much as I would a gooddog, and haveno doubt that he will serveCorporals TaylorandClemensaswellashe hasme." The Colonellooked aboutthe tent. "Gentlemen,we'vebeenjawingaboutthisenterprise for twentyfour hours.I suggest that it's now time to stopjawingand beginaction.If you neverrisk, you nevergain. Are thereany objections?" fo on9 spoke.Andersonspatinto the dirt, but then lookedat Quantrill and shookhis head. _V"fy well," said-Quantrill. "CaptainsAndersonand Blunt will please gatheryour men and communicatewith me by messenger when yo,r,ior.", are ready." He noddedto Taylor. "Corporal,you'reto return no later thal sundownnext Monday.So you'dbestbe on your way." Sam madea noisein his throat."Sir?On our way where?" Quantrillturnedto Sam. "KansasTerritory,"he said."CorporalTaylor hasthe particulars. You'redismissed." Samdidn't needto be told twice.He left the tent, pickedup his saddlebags wherehe'd droppedthem outside,and then ran into the sycamoregrove.

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Taylorcaughtup with him in the trees."You shouldhavesaluted,Sam," " he said."lt's importantto showthe Colonel properrespect. Samunbuttonedhis pants.His headwasbeginningto acheagain."l have plenty of respectfor the Colonel," he said."l haveplentyof respectfor all of them. If they wereto cut me open, I'd probablybleedrespect.Now get " awayand let a man pissin peace. assoonasyou can. I'll Taylorsighed."All right. Get your horsesaddled find Noland and meetyou north of the tent. You know Noland?" "No. But sinceI've only seenone man of the Negropersuasion in camp, that'shim." I assume "You assumecorrectly."Taylclrstartedto turn away,then lookedback again."By the way, we wereright. We're goingto Lawrence.You and I are in the garrison,xnd-" to count the Bluebellies "l know what a spydoes,Fletch,"Sam said. Taylorturned away."[{urry up, then. We havesomemilesto cover." He left the grove. Sarnemptiedhis bladderand buttonedhis pants,then leanedagainsta treeand retcheduntil he broughtup mostof the baconhe'd hadfor breakfast. in his "Kansas Territory,"Quantrillhad said.Therehadbeenno sarcasm years half over and a two voice. Kansashad been admittedto the Union In their it as a state. everrcferredto before,but none of the bushwhackers act ar-r illegal had been opinion, its admissionto the Union as a free state jayhawkers. later, though, Sooneror forcedupon its residentsby fanatical jayhawkers wouldbe crushed,andKansas slave-stealing thosehouse-burning, Territorywouldbecomervhatit wasmeantto be:a stategovemedby Southern men who knew what wasright. town of LawTo that end, Colonel Quantrill would raid the abolitior-rist rence,the home of Jim Laneand the KansasRedLegs.And SamClemens wasto go therefirstand comebackto tell Quantrillhow to go aboutthe task. it. Orion's ghost,he thought,had betterappreciate morning,six milessouthof Lawrenceon the Paolaroad, On Wednesday FletchTaylorstartedchuckling.Sam, riding in the center,glancedfirstat him and then at fohn Noland.Nolanddidn'tevenseemto be awareof Sam let aloneTaylor'schuckling. or Taylor'sexistence, in Quantrill'sbandand Nolandwasan enigma,both in his merepresence duringthepresentjourney.No matterwhatSamor Taylor in his deportment saidor did, he continuedto look straightahead,shiftingin his saddleonly to spit tobaccojuice into the road.Exceptfor the color of his skin, though, waslike that of anyotherfreeman of the borderregiot-t, No[and'sappearance right down to the slouchhat and the Colt stuckin his belt. He evenrode asTaylor.It wasa skillSamhadrlevermastered. with the sameeasyarrogance Sam lookedat Taylor again,squintingas he facedthe sun. "What's so funny, Fletch?" Taylor gesturedat the rvindingtrackof the road. "No pickets,"he said.

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"We ain'tseena Bluebellysincewe cameinto Kansas. If the Colonelwanted to, the whole lot of us could waltz in and raiseno more notice than a cottontailrabbit."He chuckledagain."Until we startedshooting." Samnodded,but didn'tlaugh.It wastruethattheyhadn'tpassed a single Federalpicket,but that didn't meanLawrencewasgoingto be a waltz.The absenceof picketsmight only mean that the town had fortifieditselfso well that it didn't needthem. "You shouldcarryyour gun in your belt," Nolandsaid.His voicewasa rumble. Sam wasstartled.Until now, Noland hadn't spokenat all. "Are you addressing me?" Sam asked,turr-ringbacktowardNoland. But he knewthat must be the case.Both Noland and Taylor had their pistolsin their belts,while Sam'swasin one of his saddlebags. Noland lookedstraightahead."That's right." "l thoughtI shouldmakesure,"Samsaid,"sinceyou won't look me in the eye." "Your eyesain't pleasantto look at," Nolarrdsaid. Taylor chortled."Whomp him, Sam. Make him sayyour eyesare the mostbeautifuljewelsthis sideof a St. Louie whorehouse. " "lt ain't a questionof beauty,"Nolandsaid."lt's a questionof skittishness. Mr. Clemenshas skittisheyes.I prefersteadyones,like thoseof Colonel Quantrill.Or like your own, MisterTaylor." Now Sam laughed."lt appearsthat you've bestedme in the enticing eyeballcategory,Fletch. Perhapswe shouldswitchplacesso you can ride next to John here." Taylorscowled."Ain't funny, Sam." Samknewwhento stopjokingwith FletchTaylor,sohe repliedto Noland instead."My gun'sfine whereit is," he said."Why shouldI put it in my belt and risk shootingmyselfin the leg?" "lf that'syour worry,you can takeout the caps,"Nolandsaid."But it'll look bettergoinginto Lawrenceif your gun'sin the open.The countysheriff mightbe inspecting strangers, andhe won'tthink nothingof it if youi pistol's in your belt. But if he findsit in your bag,he'll think you'retryingto hide it. " Sam didn't know whetherNoland was right or not, but it wasn'tworth arguingabout.He took his pistolfrom his saddlebag, removedthe caps,and tuckedthe weaponinto his belt. "Be sure to replacethosecapswhen we come back this way with the Colonel,"Taylorsaid.He soundeddisgusted. "l merelywant to ensurethat I don't shootup the city of Lawrence prematurely," Samsaid.But neitherTaylornor Nolandlaughed.Samgave Bixby a pat on the neck,and Bixby lookedbackat him and snorted. When the three bushwhackers were within a mile of Lawrence.thev encountered two ridersheadingin the oppositedirection.The two rn.r,, o,-rl old andoneyoung,weredressed in high-collared shirtsandblacksuitsdespite

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the Augustheat.They woreflat-brimmedblackhats,and their pistolshung in blackholstersat their sides.The youngerman held a Bible with a black leathercover,readingaloud as he rode. "Well, lookeehere," Taylor whisperedas the two approached."l think on our hands." a coupleof abolitionistpreachers we got ourselves hatedmore than an Sam tensed.If there wasone thing a bushwhacker Taylorhadparticularly abolitionist,it wasan abolitionistwith a congregation. strongfeelingsin this regard,and Samfearedthat his friendmight forgetthat they wereonly in Kansasas spiesfor now. "Good morning,friends,"the elderpreachersaid,reininghis horseto a stop.The youngerman closedhis Bibleand stoppedhis horseaswell. They blockedthe road. "Good morning to you as well," Taylor replied.He and Noland stopped their horsesa few yardsshortof the preachers. Sam tried to stopBixby too, but Bixby ignoredthe reinsand continued betweenthe horsesblockingthe way.The preachers ahead,tryingto squeeze movedtheir mountsclosertogether,forcingBixbyto halt, andthe roanshook his headand gavean irritatedwhuff. forgetswhich "l apologize, gentlemen,"Samsaid."My horsesometimes image." in of us wasmade God's frowned."More disciplinemightbe in order,"he said, The elderpreacher past Sam at Taylor. "Are you going into Lawrence?" and then looked "That we are," saidTaylor. His voicehad takenon a gravellytone that astroubleon the way.He glancedbackandsawthatTaylor's Samrecognized right hand washoveringnear the butt of his pistol. "l seethat you are travelingwith a coloredcompanion,"the younger preachersaid."ls he your servant?" "No," Sam saidbeforeTaylor could reply. "My friend and I layhawked him from Arkansasthreeyearsago,and we'vebeentrying to help him find his familyeversince.Are thereanycoloredfolksnamedSmith in Lawrence?" The elderpreacherrrodded."A number,I believe."He twitchedhis reins, and his horsemovedto the sideof the road. "l would like to help you in your search,gentlemen,but my sonand I areon our wayto Baldwinto assist ln a fe* ou.rdn. baptisms.Sometimesan olderchild resistsimmersionand mustbe held down." "l haveobservedas much myself," Sam saidas the elderpreacherrode past. ' The youngerpreachernoddedto Sam and thumped his Bible with his fingertips."lf yo,t gentlemenwill be in town throughthe Sabbath,I would like to invite you to attendworshipat First LawrenceMethodist." Taylorcameup besideSam."l doubtwe'll be in townthatlong,preacher," he said."But we'll be sureto pay your church a visit the next time we pass through." "l im gladto hear it," the youngpreachersaid."God blessY9u, gentlemen." H; nudgedhis horsewith his heelsand setoff afterhis father.

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Taylor lookedoverhis shoulderat the departingmen. "You won't be so gladwhen it happens,"he muttered. Noland rode up. "Jayhawkedfrom Arkansas,"he said. "That's a good one." He spurredhis horse,which setoffat a trot. Taylor'shorsedid likewise. Bixby, for once, took the cue and hurriedto catchup. "l'nl sorryif my lie didn't meet with your approval,"Sarnsaidas Bixby drew alongsideNoland'shorse. "l saidit wasa goodone," Nolandsaid."lsaywhat I mean." "You maybelievehim on thatscore,Sam,"Taylorsaid."fohn'sashonest a niggeras I've everknown." Sam eyed Noland. "Well, then, tell me," he said. "Where were yo:u jayhawkedfrom?" "l was born a free man in Ohio," Noland said. "Same as Colonel Quantrill." "I see,"Samsaid."And how is itthata freeman of your racerideswith a free man like the Colonel?" Noland turned to look at Sam for the first time. His eyesand facewere like blackstone. "He paysme," Nolandsaid. to that. But Noland kept lookingat him. Sam had no response "So why do you ride with the Colonel?"Noland asked. "Might aswell askFletchthe samequestion,"Sam said. "l know all about Mister Taylor," Noland said."His housewasburned, his propertystolen.But I don't know shit aboutyou." Taylor gaveNoland a look of warning."Don't get uppity." "[t's all right, Fletch,"Samsaid.Fair wasfair. He had askedNolandan impertinentquestion,so Noland had askedhim one. "l was a steamboat pilot on the Mississippi,Mister Noland. I wasa printer'sdevil beforethat, but I wantedto be on the river, so I madeit so." He grimaced."l wasa cub for two yearsbeforeI earnedmy license,and I wasonly ableto follow the professionfor anothertwo yearsbeforethe war started.I had to leavethe riverthen, or be forcedto pilot a Union boat.So hereI am." "How'd you come to be on this side of Missouriinsteadof that side?" Nolandasked. "l wasgoingto NevadaTerritorywith my brother,"Samsaid,angrynow at beingprodded,"but the RedLegskilledhim northwestof Atchison.I went backhomeafterthat, but eventuallyrealizedtherewasnothingusefulI could do there.So I camebackthiswayandfell in with onebunch of incompetents afteranotheruntil I foinedthe Colonel."He glaredat Noland."So herel dm."

"So hereyou are," Nolandsaid. "That'saboutenough,fohn," Taylor said.He lookedat Sam. "l didn't know you werea printer,Sam,but I'm gladto hearit. It'll makeone of our taskseasier.Marshal Donaldson'spossetore up the LawrenceHerald of '56, pressand dumpedthe type in the KansasRiver backin Freedom's but

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the Lawrencelourncl'ssprungup like a weedto takeits place.So when we raid Lawrence,the lourncl's to be destroyed.But we'll needto know how well the officeis armed,soI suggest thatyougothereandaskfor employrnent. You'll be able to get a look at thingswithout them wonderingwhy. After you'vedonethat, you can help me count Bluebellies, Red Legs,and LawrenceHome Guards,if we can find out who they are." "What if the lournal wantsto hire me?" Sam asked. Taylor grinned."Tell them you'll be backin a weekor so." He looked acrossat Noland. "John, you'reto fall in with the local niggersand see whetherany of them haveguns.You might alsoaskthem aboutJim Lane, sincethey lovehim so much. Find out wherehis fancynew houseis, and how often he'sthere." Nolandwasstaringstraightaheadagain,but he nodded. They werenow skirtingthe baseof a high, steephill. Sarnlookedup the slope."One of the boysat Blue Springstold me that the hill rising over Lawrenceis calledMount Horeb,"he said."lt mustbe namedafterthe place whereMosessawthe burningbush." Taylor chuckled."lf Mosesis still here, he'll seemore burning before long, at closerrangethan he might like." He pointedtowardthe southeast, at anotherhill that wasa few milesdistant."That might be a saferplacefor him to watchfrom. The Colonelsaysit'll be our laststopbeforethe raid, so we can seewhat'swhat beforeit's too late to turn back." He spurredhis horse,which gallopedahead."Come on, boys!We'vereachedLawrence!" Nolandspurredhis horseaswell, andhe andTaylorvanishedaroundthe curveof the hill. "Now that I think of it," Samyelledafterthem, "he saidMount Oread, not Horeb. Mosesdoesn'thaveanythingto do with it. " He kickedBixby, but the horseonly lookedbackat him and gavea low nicker. It wasthe saddest soundSam had everheard. "Do you havea stomachache?" he asked. Bixbylookedforwardagainand ploddedasif leadinga funeralprocession. Sam kickedthe horseonce more and then gaveup. The sadness of Bixby's nickerhad infectedhim, and he felt oppressed by the heat,by his companions, and by his very existenceon the planet. They followedthe road around the hill, and then Lawrencelay before Samlike a toy city put togetherby a giantchild. lts rowsof storesand houses were too neat and perfectto be real. Small wagonsrolled back and forth betweenthem, and children dashedabout like scurryingants.Taylor and Noland werealreadyamongthem. Samclosedhis eyes,but then openedthem immediately,cryingout before he could stophimself. He had just seenthe buildings,wagons,and childrenburstinto flame. Sam shookhimself. Here he was havingnightmareswhile wide awake. The ride had beentoo long, the sun too hot. It wastime for a rest. But maybenot for sleep.

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sheets.He fought his way free, Early Friday, Sam awokein sweat-soaked then satup with his backagainstthe wall. He had justspenthis secondnight in Lawrence,and his secondnight in a realbedin almostthreemonths.The dreamhad come to him on both nights,worsethan ever.He wasno more restedthan if he had run up and down Mount Oreadsincesundown. The dreamalwaysbeganthe sameway:He andthe otherMarion Rangers, fifteenmen in all, werebeddingdown in a corn crib at Camp Ralls,fourteen miles soutlrof Hannibal.They had to chasethe rats away,but they had to cameand told them that the do that everynight. Then a Negromessenger they had heard They that before. nearby. scoffed; was enemy and could not sleep.The soundsof their But they grewtenseand restlessn breathingwereunsteady.Sam'sheartbeganto beatfaster. Then they hearda horseapproaching.Sarnand the other Rangerswent to the corn crib'sfront wall and peeredout througha crackbetweenthe logs. In the dirn moonlight,they sawthe shadowof a man on a horseenterthe camp. Samwassurethat he sawmore men and horsesbehindthat shadow. Can-rpRallswasbeing attacked. Sanrpickedup a rifle and pushedits muzzlebetweenthe logs.His skull washumming,his chesttight. His handsshook.The enemyhad comeand wouldkill him. The enemyhad would kill him. The enemyhad comear-rd comeand wouldSomeoneshouted,"Fire!" And Sampulledthe trigger.The noisewasasloud and the flashasbright as if a hundredgunshad goneoff at once. 'fhe enemy fell from his saddleand lay on the grour-rd.Then all was and silence.There wasnothingbut the smell of damp earth. darkness, No more riderscame.The fallen man wasalone. Samand the otherswentout to the enemy.Samturnedthe man onto his back,and the moonlightrevealedthat he wasnot wearinga uniform, and that his white shirt wassoakedwith blood. He wasnot the enemy.He was not evenarmed.And his faceHenry's,and sometimes Was sometimes Orion's. But just now, this Fridaymorning in Lawrence,it had been someone else's.It had beena facethat Samdid not recognize.It had beenthe faceof an innocentstranger,killed by Sam Clemensfor no reasonat all no reasonsavethat Sam wasat war, and the man had gottenin the way. FletchTaylor, in the room'sotherbed, mumbledin his sleep.Samcould still smell the whiskey.One of Taylor'sfirst actsof spyingon Wednesday afternoonhad been to hunt up a brothel, and he had been havinga fine time eversince.He wascountingBluebellies too, but it had turnedout that thereweren'tmany Bluebellies to count. Samhad visitedthe brothelwith Taylor on Wednesday, but hadn'tfound the girlsto his liking. So he'd spentmostof his time sincethen trying to do his job. He had appliedfor work at the l-awrencelournal, as planned,and

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had beenturneddown, ashe'd hoped-but had learnedthat the lournal was a two-man, one-boyoperation,and that they didn't even dream of being attacked.A carbinehung on pegson the wall in the pressroom,but it was kept unloadedto preventthe boy from shootingrabbitsout the backdoor. The lournal'sIypewould join the Heraldof Freedom's at the bottom of the KansasRiverwith little difficulty. From the purplish-graycolor of the patch of easternsky visiblethrough the hotel room window, Samguessed that it wasaboutfivee.u. He climbed out of bed and wentto the windowto look down at the wide, muddystripof the town's main thoroughfare,Massachusetts Street.Lawrencewas quiet. The buildingswereclosedup, and no one wasoutside.Even the Red Legs and Home Guardssleptuntil sixor six-thirty.If ColonelQuantrilltimedhis raid properly,he and his bushwhackers could ride into Lawrencewhile its citizenswerestill abed. The Union garrisonshouldn'tbe much troubleeither,Samthoughtashe lookednorth towardthe river. The handfulof troopsstationedin Lawrence had movedtheir main camp to the north bank of ihe Kansas,and the only wayfor them to comebackacrossinto townwasby ferry,a fewat a time. Two smallcampsof Federalrecruits-one for whites,the otherfor Negroes-were locatedsouthof the river, in town;but thoserecruitsweregreenand poorly armed.The raiderscould ignorethem, or squashthem like ladybugsif they werefoolishenoughto offer resistance. Sam left the window,pulledthe chamberpot from under his bed, and tooka piss.Then he lit an oil lamp, pouredwaterfrom a pitcherinto a bowl, and stoodbeforethe mirror that hung besidethe window. He took his razor and scrapedthe stubblefrom his throat,chin, cheeks,and sideburns,but left his thick reddish-brownmustache.He had grown fond of the mustache because it madehim look meanerthan he reallywas.The dirt that had been groundinto his poreshad madehim lookmeantoo, but thatwasgonenow. He'd had a bath Wednesdayevening,and wasthinking of havinganother one today.Lawrencemight be a den of abolitionistmurderers,but at least it wasa denof abolitionistmurderers thatcouldprovidea fewof the amenities of civilization. When he had finishedshaving,he combedhis hair and dressed, then put out the lampandleft the room.Taylorwasstill snoring.Whiskeydid wonders for helpinga man catchup on his sleep. Sam went downstairs and out to the street,openingand closingthe door of the Whitney Houseas quietly as possibleso as not to disturbthe Stone family, who ownedthe place.Taylor had told Sam that Colonel Quantrill had stayedat the Whitney when he'd lived in Lawrenceunderthe name of "Hart" andwouldtherefore CharleyHart, andthat Mr. Stonehadbefriended be treatedwith courtesyduringthe raid. So Samwasbeingcarefulnot to do anythingthat might be interpretedasdiscourtesy. He wantedto stayon the Colonel'sgoodside. The woodensidewalkcreakedunderSam'sbootsashe walkedtowardthe river. It was a soundthat he hadn't noticedon Wednesdayor Thursday,

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when he had sharedthe sidewalkwith dozensof Lawrencecitizens.Then the predominantsoundshadbeenof conversation andlaughter,intermingled with the occasionalneighingof a horse.But this earlyin the morning, Sam had Massachusetts Streetto himself,savefor two dogsthat racedpastwith in their mouths.Samtook a cigarfrom his coatpocket,lit it butcher-bones with a match, and drew in a lungful of sweetsmoke. He had to admit that Lawrencewas a nice-lookingtown. Most of the buildingswere sturdyand clean, and the town was largeand prosperous consideringthat it had been in existencelessthan ten years.Almost three thousandsoulscalledLawrencehome, and not all of thosesouls,Samwas sure,were bad ones.Perhapsthe raid would succeedin running off those who were,and the city would be improvedas a result. Sam pausedbefore the Eldridge House hotel. The original Eldridge House,a veritablefortressof abolitionistfervorand free-state propaganda, had beendestroyed by MarshalDonaldsonin 1856,but it had beenrebuilt into an evenmore flormidable fortressin the serviceof the samethings. It wasa brick buildingfour storieshigh, with iron grillesoverthe ground-floor windows.Quantrill might want to destroythe Eldridge House a second time, particularlysincethe LawrenceHome Guardswould probablyconcenhere, but Sam'sadvicewould be to skip it. A mere trate their resistance fifteenor twenty men, armedwith Sharpscarbinesand barricadedin the EldridgeHouse,would be ableto kill a hundredbushwhackers in the street below. "Hello!" a shrill voice called from acrossthe street."Good morning, MisterSir!" Sam lookedacrossand sawa sandy-haired boy of ten or elevenwavingat him. It took a moment beforehe recognizedthe boy as the printer'sdevil from the Lawrencelournal. Sam took his cigar from his mouth. "Good morning yourself,"he said withoutshouting. The boy pointedat the EldridgeHouse."Are you stayingthere, Mister Sir?"he yelled."You mustbe rich!" Samshookhis head."Neitherone. But if you keepsquawkinglike a rusty steamboatwhistle,I imagineyou'll be meetingsomeof the inhabitantsof " He continuedup the street. the EldridgeHousepresently. joined The boy ran acrossand Samon the sidewalk.Samfrownedat him and blew smokeat his face, but the boy only breathedit in and began chattering. "l like the morningbeforethe sun comesup, don't you?"the boy said. "SomedaysI wakeup when it's still dark,and I ride my pa'smule out to the hills southof town, and I can look down overLawrencewhen the sun rises. It makesme feel like the king of the world. Do you know what I mean. Mister Sir?" "l'm sureI don't," Samsaid. The boy didn't seemto noticethat Sam had spoken."Say, if you aren't at the Eldridge,whereare you at, Mister Sir?I'll bet you'reat the Johnson

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House,is what I'll bet. But maybenot, becausethe Red Legsmeet at the So I'll bet you'reat the Whitney, Johnson,and they don't like strangers. then, aren'tyou, MisterSir?" "Yes," Sam said."The )ohnsonwasnot much to my liking." "The Red Legsseemto like it fust fine." Samnodded."l havemadenoteof that." And indeedhe had. If the Red Legscould be punishedfor their crimes,he would be ableto sleepa little better.And if the specificRed Legswho had killed Orion could be found and strungup, he rvouldsleepbetterthan Adam beforethe Fall. "ThoseRedLegs,theyhavea time," the boy said."l fustmight be a Red Leg myself,when ['m old enough." "l would adviseagair-rst it," Samsaid,gnawingon his cigar."The profession haslittle future." The boy kickeda rock off the sidewalk."l guessnot," he said."They say in anotheryear,sotherewon't be nothing they'll havebumedout the secesh for, will there, Mister Sir?" left to fight "Stopcallingme'MisterSir,' " Samsaid."lf you mustspeak to me at all, " no dar-rger in usir-rg his Mister He saw real name.The call me Clemens. bushwhackers in their of Lawrence clearly didn't expect self-satisfied citizens know he one if did. midst,and wouldn't that was even they "l'm sorry,,MisterClemens,"the boy said."l listenedto you talkingto but I didn't hearyour name.Would N,Iister Traskat the lournalyesterday, you like to know mine?" "No," Samsaid. They had reachedthe northen-r end of Massachusetts Streetand werenow walking down a rutted slopetowardthe ferry landing. Beforethem, the KansasRiver wasdull brown in coior and lessthan a hundredyardswide; hardlva river at all, in Sam'sopinion.But it would be enoughto protect Quantrill'sraidersfrom the soldierson the far bank,providedthatthe soldiers didn't realizethe raiderswerecominguntil it wastoo late.To assurehimself of that, Samwantedto seehow activeor inactivethe Bluebellieswereat this as Lawrence's civilians,he time of morning. If they were as slumberous would be ableto reportthat therewaslittle chanceof any of them ferrying acrossin time to hinderthe raid.Thereweren'tmanysoldiersin the camp anyway.Taylor had countedonly a hundredand twelve,and someof those weren'tsoldiersat all, but surveyors. "How comeyou'reheadingdown to the river, MisterClemens?"the boy asked."Are you goingfishing?" Sam stoppedwalkingand glareddown at the boy, takinghis cigarfrom his mouth with a slow,deliberatemotion. "Do you seea fishingpole in my hand, boy?"he asked,exhalinga bluishcloud. The boy gazedup at the cigar, which had a two-inch length of ash tremblingat its tip. "No, sir," the boy said."[ seea cigar." "Then it is reasonable to assume,"Sam said, "that I have corneto the

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river not to fish, but to smoke."He tappedthe cigar,and the ashfell onto the boy'shead. The boy yelpedand fumpedaway,slappingat his hair. Sam replacedhis cigarbetweenhis teethand continueddown the slope. "That wasn'tnice!" the boy shoutedafterhim. "l'm not a nice man," Samsaid.He didn't look back,so he didn't know if the boy heardhim. But he reachedthe riverbankalone. asthe sun rose. A thin fog hoveredoverthe waterand beganto dissipate The sunlightgavethe tentson the far banka pinkishtinge.The campwasn't deadquiet, but therewasn'tmuch activityeither.At first, Samsawonly two fires and no more than five or six men up and about. As he watched, more men emergedfrom their tents, but military disciplinewas lacking. Apparently,theseBluebelliescould get up wheneverthey pleased.That would be goodnewsfor the Colonel. Sam threw the stub of his cigarinto the river and heardit hiss.The sun wasup now, andthe soldiersbeganemergingfrom their tentswith increasing frequency.From old habit, Sam reachedfor his pocketwatch. But he still hadn't replacedthe one that the Red Legshad stolentwo yearsbefore. He hearda scuffingsoundbehindhim and lookedoverhis shoulder.The boy from the lournal wascloseby again,twistingthe toe of his shoein the dirt. "Sry, boy," Samsaid,"do you havea watch?" The boy gaveSam a look of calculatedcontempt."Of courseI have a watch. Mister Traskgaveme his old one. I got to get to the paperon time, don't I?" "Well, tell me what time it is," Samsaid. "Why shouldI tell anythingto someonewho dumpeda poundof burning tobaccoon my head?" Sam grinned.The boy was startingto remind him of the boys he had grown up with ir-rHannibal. "Maybe I'd give a cigarto someonewho told me the time." The boy'sexpression changed."Really?" "l saidmaybe." The boy reachedinto a pocketand pulled out a batteredtimepiece.He peeredat it and said,"This hassix o'clock,but it losesthirty-fiveminutesa noon. So it might be abouthalf-past." day and I ain't setit sinceyesterday Sam took a cigarfrom his coat and tossedit to the boy. "Much obliged, boy." The boy caughtthe cigarwith his free hand, then replacedhis watch in his pocketandgaveSamanotherlookof contempt."Stopcallingme'boy,' " he said."lf you mustspeakto me at all, call me Henry."The boy jammed the cigarinto his mouth, turned, and strodeup the slopeto Massachusetts Street. Sam turnedbackto the river. The fog wasgone,and mostof the soldiers wereout of their tents.To be on the safeside,Samdecided,the raid would

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haveto begin no later than five-thirty,and a detachmentof bushwhackers would haveto cometo the riverto trair-rtheir gunson the ferry, just in case. ColonelQuantrill to He didn't think he would haveany troublepersuading seethe wisdomin that. He startedbackup the slope,but pausedwherethe boy from the lournal had stood. "Henry," Sammurmured."God damn." Then he went up to the streetand walkedto the liverystableto checkon Bixby. Bixby was in a foul mood and tried to bite him, so Sam knew that the horsewasfine. That evening,Sam was in his and Taylor'sroom at the Whitney House, writing down what he had learnedso far, when he heard the lournal boy's voiceoutside.He went to the openwindow,lookeddown, and sawthe boy The astridea brown mule that wasfestoonedwith bundlesof newspapers. boy droppedone of the bundlesat the Whitney'sdoor, then lookedup and sawSam at the window. wasspoiled,MisterClemThe boy shookhis fingerat Sam."That seegar "l Mister Traskmademe work but was afternoon, sickall ens!"he shouted. anyway!" "Good," Sam said."lt buildscharacter." look, then kickedthe mule The boy gaveSamyet anothercontemptuous down the street. and proceeded As the boy left, four men wearingblue shirtsand red leatherleggingsrode pastgoing the other way. They all carriedpistolsin hip holsters,and one had a rifle slung acrosshis back.They were unshavenand ugly, and they Street.They would no laughedand roaredas they rode up Massachusetts doubt crossthe river and maketroublefor someonenorth of town tonight. Sanrdidn't recognizeanyof them, but that didn't matter.They wereKansas had RedLegs,meanerand moremurderousthan evenJennison's fayhawkers hadn'tkilled Orion, they wereacquaintedwith been;and if they themselves the men who had. "Whoop it up, boys," Sam mutteredas they rode away. "Whoop it up while you can." He cameawayfrom the window and sawthat Taylor wasawake.Taylor had gottenup in the afternoonto meetwith Noland,but then hadgoneback to bed. "What's all the noise?"Taylor asked. "Newspapers," Samsaid."l'll get one." Taylor sneered."Why? It's all abolitionistlies anyway." But when Sam broughta copy of the lournal back upstairsand began reading,he found news.Horrifying,sickeningnews. "Sonsof bitches,"h" whispered. "What is it?" Taylor asked.He wasat the mirror, shaving,preparingfor quarter. lessrespectable anothernight out in Lawrence's "A building in KansasCity collapsedyesterday," Sam said.

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"Well, good." Sam shookhis head. "No, Fletch. It wasthe building on Grand Avenue of aidingbushwherethe Bluebellieswereholdingthe womenthey suspected whackers.The papersaysfour womenwerekilled, and severalothershurt." Taylor stoppedshaving."That's where they were keepingBloody Bill Anderson'ssisters,"he said."Cole Youngerand fohnny McCorklehad kin theretoo. Doesthe papergive names?" "No. But of courseit suggests that the collapsemight havebeencaused attemptto removethe ladiesfrom by a chargesetby guerrillas'ina disastrous "' Federalprotection. Taylor'supperlip curledback."As if Southernmen would endangertheir "l'll tell you what, though. women!" He shookhis razorat the newspaper. I wasworryingthat the Colonel might havetrouble riling up someof the sinceNolandhasfound out that fim Lane'sout boysfor this raid, especially of town. But this newswill rile them like nobody'sbusiness.And if Bill Anderson'ssistershavebeenhurt, you can bet that he and his boyswill shit blue fire. God help any Unionistswho crosstheir path." He dippedhis razor in the bowl and turnedbackto the mirror. His eyeswerebright. "Or mine, for that matter." When Taylor had finishedshaving,he askedif Samwould like to go out and havea time. Sam declined,and Taylorleft withouthim. mostof which he found to be Then Sam readthe restof the newspaper, worthless.But he admiredthe typesetting.There were few mistakes,and mostof the lineswereevenlyspacedand straight.He wonderedhow many of them the boy had set. asideand wrote in his journal until the evening He put the newspaper he undressed and got into bed, but lay awakefor so long light failed.Then join to Taylor afterall. But he had no enthusiasmfor he decided that almost physically wasn't strenuous, but it took a lot out of him the idea. Spy-work mentally. When he finally fell asleep,he dreamedthat he wasa printer'sdevil for Orion again. This time, though, their newspaperwas not the Hannibal lournal, but the Lawrencelournal. He wassettingtypeabouta fire in which overa hundredand fifty people The man was jughad beenkilled, when a man burstinto the pressroom. narrow-faced, His thick lips partedto and beardless. eared,greasy-haired, revealcrooked,stainedteeth. Sam had neverseenhim before. The fug-earedman pulleda revolverfrom his beltand pointedit at Orion. "Henry!" Orion shouted."Run!" handshanginguseless Sam, his ink-smeared at his sides,said,"But I'm " Sam. The fug-earedman shotOrion, who shriveledlike a dying vine. Then the strangerpointedhis revolverat Sam.Samtried to turn and run, but his feetwerestuckas if in thick mud. The revolverfiredwith a soundlike a cannongoingoff in a church, and the jug-earedman laughed.

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Then Sam was floatingnear the ceiling, lookingdown at two bleeding bodies.Orion'sfacehad becomethat of losiahTrask,one of the editorsoT the Lawrencelourncl. And Sam'sfacehad becomethat of the bov. Henrv. to whom he had givena cigar.The cigarwasstill in Henry'smouth. Sam awokecrouchedagainstthe wall. He wasdrippingwith sweat. Night had fallen,and Lawrencewasquiet.Taylorhad not yet returnedto the room. Sam crept awayfrom the wall and sat on the edgeof the bed, shivering. "Henry," he whispered. "God damn." At noon on Wednesday,August 19, Sam and Taylor weresittingon a log in southernfacksonCounty near the villageof Lone Jack,in the midst of their fellow bushwhackers. They and Noland had returnedto the Blue Springscamp two daysbefore,and Colonel Quantrill had receivedtheir reportwith satisfaction. Then, on Tuesdaymorning,Quantrill had ordered his guerrillasto move out without telling them their objective.In orderto fool any Federalscoutsor picketsthat might spotthem, the Colonel had marchedthe bushwhackers for severalmilesbeforecuttingbackto eastward the southwest.En route, the band had been joined by Bill Andersonwith forty men and Andy Blunt with overa hundred,almostdoublingthe sizeof Quantrill'sforce. The men all knew somethingbig was at hand. And now, finally, the Colonel wasgoingto tell them what. Sam thoughtit wasabouttime. Quantrill, flankedby GeorgeTodd and Bill Anderson,sat beforethe bushwhackers astridehis one-eyedmare,BlackBess,and gavea screeching yell. Over threehundredvoicesresponded, and a thrill ran up Sam'sspine. The soundwasboth the mostmagnificentand mostterrifyingthing he had everheard.If he werethe enemyand heardthat sound,he would be halfivay to Coloradobeforethe echocamebackfrom the nearesthill. The Colonel noddedin satisfaction. He waswearinga slouch hat with one sideof the brim pinned up by a silverstar,a loosegrayguerrillashirt with blue and silverembroidery,and graytrouserstuckedinto his cavalry boots. His belt bristledwith four Colt pistols,and two more hung from holsterson eithersideof his saddle. "Well, boys,"Quantrillshouted,"l hopeyou ain'ttiredof ridingjustyet!" He wasanswered by a loud, raggedchorusof "Hell, no!" comenightfall,we're Quantrilllaughed."That'sgood,"he cried,"because headingfor KansasTerritory to see if we can pull its most rotten tooth: Lawrence!" A moment of silencefollowedthe announcement,and for that moment Samwonderedif the men haddecidedthat the Colonelwasout of his mind. But then the bushwhackers explodedinto anothershriekingcheer,and at leasta hundredof them roseto their feetand fired pistolsinto the air. Taylor clappedSam on the shoulder."Are thesethe bestdamn boysin Missouri,or ain't they!"he yelled. "They'resurethe loudest,"Sam said.

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raiseda hand, and the cheerssubsided. Quantrill '1Sru.your ammunition," the Colonel shouted."You've workedhard to make it or stealit, so don't wasteit shootingat God. There are plenty of bettertargetswherewe'regoing!" changed Another cheer roseup at that, but then Quantrill'sexpression fell silent. from one of gleeto one of cold, deadlyintent.The bushwhackers "Boys,"Quantrill said,no longershouting,"there'smore dangerahead than any of us havefacedbefore.There could be Federalsboth behindand in front of us, coming and going. Now, we sent some men to spy on Lawrence,and they say the town's ripe to be taken-but there might be picketson the way there. So we could have GeneralEwing'sBluebellies down on us from KansasCity, and somefrom Leavenworthaswell. I doubt in his saddle, that we'll all makeit backto Missourialive." He straightened and it seemedto Sam that his metallic gazefell on eachbushwhackerin turn. "So if there'sany man who doesn'twant to go into the Territorywith the rest of us, now's your chanceto head for home. After we leavehere tonight, therewill be no turning back.Not for anyone." BesideQuantrill, Bill Andersondrew a pistol.Anderson'shair waseven wilderthan it had beenwhen Sarnhad seenhim in Quantrill'stent the week before,and his eyeswere so fiercethat they didn't look human. "Anyone who doesturn backafterwe'vestarted,"Andersoncried, "will wish to God he'd beentakenby the YankeesbeforeI'm throughwith him!" "l think BloodvBill's heard Taylor leanedcloseto Sam and whispered, in Kansas City." the building about Samthoughtsotoo. In the faceof Bill Andersonhe sawa hatredthat had becone so pure that if Andersoneverran out of enemiesagainstwhom to directhis rage,he would haveto irrventmore. "But althoughwe'll be goingthroughhardships,"Quantrill continued, "the resultwill be worth it. Lawrenceis the hotbedof abolitionismin Kansas, and mostof the propertystolenfrom Missouricanbe found there,readyand Even if f im Laneain't home, his waitingto be takenbackby Missourians. houseand his plunder are. We can work rnore justicein Lawrencethan anywhereelsein five hundredmilesl So who'sgoingwith me?" The shrill cheer roseup a fourth time, and all of the men not already standingcameto their feet.DespiteQuantrill'swarningto saveammunition, more shotswerefired into the air. Quantrill and his captainswheeledtheir horsesand rodeto their tent, and Sam left Taylor and went to the treewherehe had tied Bixby.There, after took avoidingBixby'sattemptsto bite him, he openedone of his saddlebags, out his revolver,and replacedits caps. When he lookedup again,he sawfohn Noland leaningagainstthe tree, regardinghim with casualdisdain. "Ain't gonnashootsomething,areyou, MisterClemens?"Nolandasked. "l'll do my bestif it becomesnecessary," Sam said. 'lf " h. repeated. it becomesnecessary,' Noland gavea sardonicgrunt. " "Why do you think we'regoin' wherewe'regoin'?"

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"l shouldthink that would be obvious,"Sam said."To retrievethat which belongsto Misouri, and to punishthe fayhawkers and RedLegswho stoleit." "You'll know a jayhawker on sight,will you?"Nolandasled. "l'll know the Red Legson sight,I'll tell you that." - Noland pushedawayfrom the tree. "l reckonyou will, if they sleepin their pants." He saunteredpastSam and tippedhis hat. "Hoorry fo, yorr, MisterClemens.Hoorayfor us all." "You don't soundtoo all-firedexcited,Noland." Sam said. Noland lookedbackwith a grim smile. "You want to seeme excited, Mister Clemens,you watch me get sorneof that free-soilmoney into my pocket.You watch me then." He tippedhis hat againand walkedaway. Samwatchedhim go. How, he wondered,could two men asdifferentas Bill Andersonand fohn Nolandbe ridingin the sameguerrillabandon the sameraid? Then he lookeddown at the gun in his handand remembered that he was riding with both of them. Bixbynippedhis arm. Samjumpedand cursed,then replacedhis revolver in the saddlebag andgaveBixbya lump of sugar.The horsewould soonneed all the energyit could get. At dusk,the Colonelhadthe bushwhackers mount up and proceedtoward the southwest.Only thirteenmen had left the raidersafter Quantrill'sannouncementof the target,and only two of thosehad been membersof Quantrill'sowr-lband. Sam marveled.Here weremore than threehundred men goingto what might be their deaths,just because one man had asked them to do so. True, eachman had his own reasonsfor becominga bushwhackerin the first place,but none of them would have dreamedof attemptinga raid so far into Kansasif Quantrill had not offeredto leadthem in it. In the middle of the night, the guerrillashappenedupon a forceof over a hundredConfederate recruitsunderthe commandof a Colonel)ohn Holt. Holt and Quantrill conferredfor an hour while the bushwhackers restedtheir horses,and when the guerrillasresumedtheir advance,Holt and his recruits joinedthem. At daybreak on Thursday,August20, Quantrill'sraidersmadecampbeside the Grand River.They wereonly four milesfrom the bordernow, and this would be their final rest beforethe drive toward Lawrence.Late in the morning, fifty more men from Cassand Batescountiesrode into the camp and offeredtheir services.Quantrill accepted,and by Sam'scount, the invasionforcenow consisted of almostfivehundredmen, eachone mounted on a stronghorseandarmedwith at leastonepistolandasmuch ammunition ashe couldcarry.A few of the men alsohadrifles,andmanycarriedbundles of pitch-dippedtorches. If Federaltroopsdid attackthem, Samthought,the Bluebellieswould get one hell of a fight for their trouble. They might also becomeconfused aboutwho wasfriend and who wasfoe, becausealmosttwo hundredof the bushwhackers werewearingpartsof blue Union uniforms.

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At mid-afternoon,CaptainTodd rodeamongthe dozingmen and horses, ain't gonnaplunderitself,now, is it?" shouting,"Saddleup, boys!Lawrence with a raggedcheer.Samgot up, rolledhis blanket, The men responded and then carriedit and his saddleto the deadtreewhereTaylor'shorseand Bixby weretied. He had spreadhis blanketin a shadyspotand had tried to sleep,but had only managedto dozea little. Taylor, lying a few yardsaway, had startedsnoringat noon and hadn'tstoppeduntil Todd had riddenpast. "How you couldsleepwith whatwe'vegot aheadof us, I can'timagine," SamsaidasTaylor cameup to saddlehis horse. "l wasn'tsleeping,"Taylorsaid."l wasthinkingoverstrategy." "With help from the hive of bumblebees you swallowed,no doubt." Taylor grinned."We're gonnabe fine, Sam," he said."You know they ain't expectingus. So there'sno needfor a man to be afraid." "No, I suppose not," Samsaid."Not unlessa man hasa brain." Taylor frowned."What's that supposed to mean?" and stuckit into his belt."Nothing, Samtookhis Colt from his saddlebag Fletch. I fustwant to get there,get it done, and get back, is all." "You and me and everybodyelse,"Taylor said. As Sam and Taylor mountedtheir horses,a clusterof elevenmen rode past, yipping and laughing.They seemedeagerto be at the head of the forceas it enteredKansas. bushwhacker The man leadingthe clusterwasjug-eared,greasy-haired, narrow-faced, and beardless. Sam'sheartturned to ice. Slowly, he raisedhis arm and pointedat the clusterof men. "Who are they?"he asked.His throatwastight and dry. "Someof Anderson's boys,"Taylorsaid."Full of pissand vinegar,ain't they?" "Do you know the one in front?" Sam asked. "Suredo," Taylorsaid."l've evenriddenwith him a time or two. Name's Frarrkfames. You can count on him in a fight, that's for sure." Taylor clickedhis tongue,and his horsestartedafterthe clusterof Anderson'smen. BixbyfollowedTaylor'shorsewhile Samstaredaheadat the man from his dream.The man who hadenteredthelourna/pressroom, killedan unarmed man and boy, and then laughed. At six o'clock,Quantrill'sraiderscrossedthe borderinto Kansas. Ahead,the Territorygrewdark. By eleveno'clock,whenthe raiderspassed the town of Gardner,the moonless night wasas blackas Quantrill'shorse.Gullies, creeks,and fencesbecame obstacles, andsomeof the bushwhackers wantedto light torchesto help them find their way. But Quantrill would not allow that. They were still over twentymiles from Lawrence,in open country, and could not affordto be spottedfrom a distance.Besides,the torchesweresupposed to be reserved for usein Lawrenceitself. Soonaftermidnight,Quantrillhaltedthe bushwhackers neara farmhouse, and the word waspassed backalongthe column for the men to keepquiet.

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"What are we stoppinghere for?" Sam whispered.He and Taylor were riding near the middle of the column, and Sam couldn't seewhat was happeningup front. "Shushyourself,"Taylorhissed. A minute later, therewasa yell from the farmhouse,and then laughter from someof the raiders. T'hetall form of CaptainBill Greggcameridingbackalongthe column. "All right, boys,we can travelon," he said."We got ourselves a friendly Kansanto guideus!" He wheeledhis horseand returnedto the headof the column. "Wonderwhat he meansby that," Sam said. Taylorchuckled."What do you think?" The bushwhackers startedmovingagainand maderapidprogress for a few miles, zigzaggir;tg aroundobstacles. Then Quantrill calledanotherhalt. The men begannruttering,but fell silentas a pistolwasfired. Bixby jerkedhis headand shiedawayfrom the column. Sam had to fight to bring the horsebackinto place."What in blazesis the matterwith you?" he asked.Bixby had neverbeenspookedby gunfirebefore.[n fact, he had hardlynoticedit. "[t wasjust somebody's pistolgoingoff by mistake!" At that moment,CaptainGreggcameridingby again."No mistakeabout it, " he said,pausingbesideSamand Taylor."Our friendlyKansanclaimed he didn't know which side of yonderhill we shouldgo around. So the Coloneldispatched him to a hill of his owr-r,and we'reto wait until we have anotherfriendly Kansanto guide us. There'sa houseahead,and someof Ar-rderson's boysare going to seewho's home. We'll be on our way again beforelong." Creggspurredhis horseand continuedbackalor-rg the column to spreadthe word. "Well, goodfor the Colonel,"Taylorsaid."Now thatKansanis asfriendly to us asa Kansancan be." Samwasstunned.When the raidersbeganmovir-rg again,they passed by the corpse.Bixby shiedawayfrom it and collidedwith Taylor'smount. "Rein your goddamnhorse,Sam!"Taylorsnarled. The deadman waswearingcanvastrousersand wasshirtless and barefoot. Even in the dark, Sam could seethat his headwas nothing but a massof pulp. It madeno sense.This man wasn'ta Red Leg or a Bluebelly.He might not evenbe an abolitionist.He wasonly a farmer.ColonelQuantrill had shot a farmer.fust becausethe man couldn'tfind his way in the dark. he wasa Kansan. Justbecause Sambeganto wonderif the preposterous storieshe had readin abolitionist newspapers-thestoriesaboutQuantrill'sraidson Aubry,Olathe,and Shawnssf6wn-might havehad sometruth in them afterall. The columnhaltedagainafteronly a mile, andtherewasanothergunshot. Then anotherfarmhousewas raided,and the bushwhackers continuedon their way. But soonthey stoppedonce more, and a third shot wasfired.

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The processwas repeatedagainand again. Each time, Sam and Bixby passedby a freshcorpse. There wereten in all. to be a raid to punishthe Red Samfelt dizzyand sick.This wassupposed burn out fim Lane,andrecoverstolenproperty. Legs,destroythe newspaper, to be Red Legs SomeKansanswereto be killed, yes;but theyweresupposed and Bluebellies,not unarmedfarmerstakenfrom their wivesand children in the night. At the tenth corpse,Taylor maneuveredhis horsepastSam and Bixby. "'Scuseme, Clemens,"Taylorsaid."My horseis startingto makewater." Taylor stoppedthe horseover the deadman and let it pisson the body. who werecloseenoughto seeit laughed,and Sam tried The bushwhackers to laugh as well. He didn't want them to seehis horror. He wasafraidof them all now. Even Taylor. EspeciallyTaylor. "Have your horsesdrink deepat the next crick, boys!"Taylor chortled. "There'splentyof men in Lawrencewho needa bath as bad as this one!" "Amen to that!" someonecried. The shoutwasechoedup anddownthe line asTaylorrejoinedthe column nextto Sam. CaptainGreggcameriding backonce more. "l admireyour sentiments, you savethe noiseuntil we reachour destinaboys,"he said,"but I suggest tion. Then you can holler all you want, and seeif you can squeezea few hollersfrom the so-calledmen of Lawrenceas well!" The bushwhackers laughedagain,but then loweredtheir voicesto whispers.To Sam, it soundedlike the hissingof five hundredsnakes. He sawnow that what wasgoingto happenin Lawrencewould resemble what he had imaginedit would be only in the waythat a volcanoresembled a firefly. He had let his guilt over Orion'sdeathand his hatredof the Red Legsblind him to whatthe men he wasridingwith had become.He wanted to turn Bixbyout of the column and ride hardand fastbackto Missouri,not stoppinguntil he reachedHannibal. But he knew that he couldn't.Andersonhad told them all how deserters would be dealtwith. Samand Bixbywouldn'tmakeit morethan a hundred yardsbeforea dozenmen wereafterthem. And therewasno doubtof what would happento Sam when they caughthim. Besides,his and Taylor'sreportfrom their trip to Lawrencewaspart of what had convincedQuantrill that the raid waspossible.That rnadeSam more responsible for whatwasaboutto happenthan almostanyoneelse.To run awaynow would makehim not only a coward,but a hypocrite. Another farmhousewas raidedat about three in the morning, and this time the entirecolumn brokeup and gatheredaroundto watch.fly the time Sam wascloseenoughto seewhat washappening,the farmerwas on his kneesin his yard.CaptainTodd wasstandingbeforehim holdinga pistolto his foreheadand telling him the namesof someof the men waitingfor him in hell.

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Quantrill, on Black Bess,came up besideTodd. "We're too close to Lawrenceto fire a gun now, George,"he said. Sam could just makeout Todd'sexpression. It wasone of fury. "Goddamnit, Bill," Todd said."This man'sname is foe Stone.He'sa stinkingMissouriUnionistwho ran off to Kansasto escapejustice,and I'm goingto kill him no matterwhat you say." Stone,wearingonly a nightshirt,wasshuddering.Samlookedawayfrom him and sawa womancryingin the doorwayof the house.A child clung to the woman'sknees,wailing.An oil lamp wasburninginside,and its weak light framedthe womanandchild sothattheyseemedto be suspended inside a paleflame. Quantrill strokedhis stubbledfacewith a thumb and forefinger."Well, George,I agreethattraitorsmustdie. But we'rewithin six milesof Lawrence now, and a shot might warn the town." Todd seemedaboutto retort,but then took his pistolawayfrom Stone's headand replacedit in his belt. "All right," he said."We'll keepit quiet." He strodeto his horseand pulled his Sharpscarbinefrom its scabbard. "Sam!" he called."Get overhere!" Taylor nudgedSam in the ribs."Go on," he said. Sam, almostrigid with terror,beganto dismount. "l meanSam Clifton," Todd said."Where is he?" Sam returnedto his saddleas Clifton, a strangerwho had joined the guerrillaswhile the spieshad been in Lawrence,dismountedand went to Todd. Todd handedthe rifle to Clifton. "Someof the boystell me you'vebeen MisterClifton," he said."So let'sseeif you know askinga lot of questions, what you'reherefor." He pointedat Stone."Beatthat traitordown to hell." Clifton didn't hesitate.He took threequick stepsand smashedthe rifle butt into Stone'sface. Stonefell over in the dirt, and his wife and child Then Clifton poundedStone'sskull. screamed. Sam wantedto turn away, but he couldn't move. This was the most horriblething he had everseen,more horribleeventhan his brotherFIenry lying in his coffinor his brotherOrion lying in the road.He watchedit all. He couldn'tstophimself. Only when it wasover, when Clifton had stoppedpoundingand Stone wasSam ableto look away.Besidehim, Taylor wasnothing but a carcass, wasgrinning. Someof the othersweregrinningtoo. But therewerealsoa few men who lookedso sick that Sam thought they might fall from their horses. Then he lookedat Colonel Quantrill. Quantrill'seyeswereunblinking, reflectingthe weaklight from the house.His lips werepulledbackin a tight smile. without Todd tookhis rifle backfrom Clifton andreplacedit in itsscabbard wiping it clean.Then he lookedup at Quantrill with a defiantsneer. "That suit you, Colonel?"he asked. Quantrill nodded."That suitsme fine, Captain,"he said.Then he faced

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the men. "Rememberthis, boys,"he cried,"and servethe men of Lawrence the samelKill! Kill, and you'll makeno mistake!Now pushon, or it'll be daylightbeforewe get there!" "You heardthe man," Taylor saidto Sam. "That I did," Sam said.His voicewashoarse.He thoughtit might stay hoarseforever. The raiderspushedon, leavingMrs. Stoneand her child to weepoverthe scrapof fleshin their yard. As the column reformed,Samfound himselfnearits head,riding not far behind Gregg,Todd, Anderson,and Quantrill himself. It was as if God wantedto be surethat Samhad anothergoodviewwhen the nextman died. The easternskywasturningfrom blackto purplish-gray asQuantrill'sraiders reachedthe crestof the hill southeast of Lawrence.ColonelQuantrill raised his right hand, and the column halted. Belowthem, lessthan two milesahead,Lawrencelay as silentas death. 'em! Fletch Taylor cackled."Look at Damn Yankeesare curledup with their thumbsin their mouths!" Sam nodded.sickat heart. andtrainedit on the sleepingtown. "lt looks Quantrill broughtout a spyglass ripe," he said."But I can'tseethe river;it's still too dark." He loweredthe glassand turnedto CaptainGregg."Bill, takefivemen and reconnoiter.The restof us will wait fifteenminutesand then follow. If you spottrouble,run backand warn us." GregggaveQuantrill a salute,then pointedat eachof the fivemen closest to him. "|ames,Younger,McCorkle,Taylor,and-" He waslookingright at Sam. Sam couldn'tspeak.His tonguewasascold and heavyasclay. He stared at Frankfames. "Clemens," Taylor said. "Right,"Greggsaid."Clemens.Comeon, boys." He kickedhis horseand starteddown the hillside. "Let'sgetto it, Sam,"Taylor said.He reachedoverand swattedBixbyon the rump, and Bixby lurchedforward. Despitethe steepslopeand the treesthat dottedit, Greggseta rapidpace. All Samcould do washangon to Bixby'sreinsand let the horsefind its own way. He wishedthat Bixbywould stumbleand that he would be thrownand breakan arm or leg. But Bixby wastoo agilefor that. Sam would be in on the Lawrenceraid from beginningto end. Halfwaydown the hill, Greggstoppedhis horse,and fames,Younger, McCorkle, and Taylor did the same. Bixby stoppedon his own, almost throwingSam againstthe pommel of his saddle. "What's wrong, Captain?"Taylor asked. Greggput a fingerto his lips and then extendedthat fingerto point. A few hundredfeetfartherdownthe hillside,a mule carryinga lone figure

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in a white shirtwasmakingits wayup throughthe trees.The mule and rider werejust visiblein the predawnlight. "What's someonedoing out here this early?"Taylor whispered. "Doesn'tmatter," Greggwhisperedback. "lf he seesus and we let him escape,we'reas goodas dead." "But, but a shotwould wakeup the town, Captain," Sam stammered. Gregggavehim a glance."Then we won't fire a shotthat can be heardin the town." He turnedtowardFrankfames."Go kill him, Frank.Useyour knife, or put your pistolin his belly to muffle the noise.Or knockhis brains out. I don't care,so long asyou keepit quiet." famesdrew his pistol, cockedit, and startedhis horsedown the hill. The figureon the mule camearounda tree.He wasaloneand unarmed. Sam could seehis facenow. He wasthe printer'sdevil from the Lawrence lournal. Henry. Frankfamesplungeddownward,his right arm outstretched, pointingthe fingerof Death at an innocent. And in that instant,Sam saweverythingthat wasto come, and the truth of everythingthat had been. He sawit all as clearlyas any of his dreams: The boy would be lying on his backon the ground.His white shirt would be soakedwith blood. Samwould be down on his kneesbesidehim, stroking his forehead,begginghis forgiveness. He would want to give anythingto undo what had beendone. But it would be too late. Henry would mumble abouthis family, aboutthe lovedoneswho would neverseehim again.And then he would look up at Sam with reproachful eyes,and die. fust as it had happenedbefore. Not when Sam'sbrotherHenry had died. Henry had given him no reproachfullook, and all he had saidwas"Thank you, Sam." Not whenOrion haddied,either.Orion hadsaid,"Get out of here,Sam," and therehad beenno reproachin the words.Only concern.Only love. pointingthe Frankfamesplungeddownward,his right arm outstretched, fingerof Death at an innocent. An innocentlike the one Sam had killed. It had beenmore than just a dream.He had told himselfthat he wasn't the only one of the Marion Rangerswho had fired. He neverhit anything he aimed at anyway.But in his heart he had known that wasn'ttrue this time. He had known that he wasguilty of murder,and of the grief that an innocent,unarmedman'sfamily had sufferedbecauseof it. All of his guilt, all of his needto makeamendsIt wasn'tbecauseof his deadbrothersat all. he had killeda man who had donenothingto him. It wasbecause Samhad tried to escapethat truth by fleeingWestwith Orion. But then, when Orion had been murdered,he had tried insteadto bury his guilt by embracingit and by telling himselfthat the war madekilling honorableif it

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he had told himself,wassuch a wasdone in a just cause.And vengeance, cause. But the family of the man he hadkilled might well havethoughtthe same thing. pointingthe FrankJamesplungeddownward,his right arm outstretched, fingerof Death at an innocent. And Sam couldn'tstandit anymore. He yelledlike a madman,and then Bixbywaschargingdown the hill, flashingpastthe treeswith a speedno otherhorsein Quantrill'sbandcould horse,Sam jerkedthe reins. equal.When Bixby came alongsideJames's Bixbyslammedinto ]ames'shorseandforcedit into a tree.Jameswasknocked from his saddle,and his pistolfired. Henry'smule collapsed, and Herrrytumbledto the ground. Sam reinedBixby to a halt beforethe dying mule, leapeddown, and droppedto his kneesbesidethe boy. Henry lookedup at him vvithan expression of contempt."Are you crazy or something?"he asked. Samgrabbedhirn and huggedhim. Henrystruggled to getaway."MisterClemens? What in the worldareyou doing?" Samlookedup the slopeandsawFrankJamespickinghimselfup. fames's horsewasstandingnearby,shakingih headand whinnying. Gregg,Taylor,McCorkle,andYoungerwereridingdownwith theirpistols drawn. Samjumpedup and swungHenryinto Bixby'ssaddle."Leandown close to me," he said. "What for?" Herrry asked.The boy looked dazednow. He was staring down at the deadmule. "Justdo it, andlistento whatI say,"Samsaid."l l-rave to tell yousomething withoutthosemen hearingit." Henry leaneddown. "Ride backto town as fastas you can," Sam said."When you'reclose enoughfor peopleto hear,yell that CharleyHart'scomeback,that his new nameis Billy Quantrill,and that he hasfive hundredmen with hirn. And if you can'tremember all that,justyell'Quantrilll'Yell'Quantrill!'over and over until you reach the EldridgeHouse, and then go inside and yell 'Quantrill!' at everyonethere.If they don't believeyou, just point at this horseand askwherethe hell they think you got it. Now sit up!" Henry sat up, and Sam slappedBixbyon the rump. Bixbytur.ed back and tried to bite Sam'sshoulder. "Not now, you fleabag!"Samyelled.He raisedhis handto swatthe horse again,but Bixbysnortedand leapedoverthe deadmule beforeSam could touchhim. The roanchargeddownthe hillsideasfastasbefore,with Henry hangingon tight. Samtooka deepbreathandturnedashe exhaled.Frank]ameswaswalking

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towardhim with murderin his eyes,and the four men riding up behind famesdidn'tlookany happier.Samput his handon the Colt in his belt,but didn't think he could draw it. He fearedthat he wasgoingto pisshis pants. But he hadto giveHenrya goodheadstart.And if that meantgettinghimself killed-well, that wasjustwhat it meant.Betterhim than a boy whoseonly crime wassettingtype for an abolitionistnewspaper. "You traitorous bastard," famessaid,raisinghis revolverto pointat Sam's face. Samswallowed and found his voice."Your barrel'sfull of dirt," he said. fameslookedat his gun and sawthat it wastrue. CaptainGreggcockedhis own pistol."Mine, however,is clean,"he said. Sam raisedhis hands."Don't shoot,Captain,"he said.He wasgoingto haveto tell a whopper,and fast."[ apologizeto Misterfames,but I had to keephim from killing my messenger, didn't I? I would'vesaidsomething sooner,but I didn't seewho the boy wasuntil fameswasalreadyafterhim." "Messenger?" Greggsaid. Samlookedup at Taylor,whoseexpression wasoneof mingledangerand disbelief."Why don't you saysomething,Fletch?Didn't you recognize the boy?" Taylor blinked."What are you yappingabout?" Samloweredhis hands,put them on his hips,andtriedto lookdisgusted. "Damn it, Fletch,that Missouriboy I met in Lawrence.The one whose fatherwaskilled by jayhawkers, and who waskidnappedto Kansas.I pointed him out to you Saturdaymorning, but I guessyo,id gottentoo drunk the night beforeto retainthe information." Gregg looked at Taylor. "You were drinking whiskeywhile you were to be scoutingthe town, Corporal?" supposed Taylorbecameindignant."Hell, no!" "Then why don't you rememberme pointingthat boy out to you?" Sam asked. "Well, I do," Taylorsaiduncertainly. Samknewhe couldn'tlet up. "So why didn'tyou tell CaptainGreggthat the boy promisedto comehereand warnus if ar-rymoreFederalsmovedinto Lawrence?" Taylor'seyeslookedpanicky."l didn't recognizethe boy. It's dark." "What's this about more Bluebelliesin Lawrence?"Greggasked. "That's what the boy told me," Sam said. "Six hundredtroops,four on Tuesday.They're hundredof themcavalry,camedownfrom Leavenworth " all campedon the southsideof the river, too, he says. Frank fameshad his pistolbarrelcleannow, and he pointedthe gun at Sam again."So why'd you sendhim away?" Samwassodeepinto his storynow thathe almostforgothis fear."Because he saidthe Bluebellieshavestartedsendingfifty cavalrymenout betweenfive and six everymorningto scoutthe plain betweenhereand Mount Oread.I told him to go keepwatchand to comebackwhen he sawthem." and narrow-lipped,gesturedat Sam with his Cole Younger,stern-faced

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revolver."Why would you tell someonein Lawrencewho you wereand why you werethere?" "l alreadysaidwhy," Samsnapped. "Because he'sa Missouriboy, and he hatesthe Yankeesas much as you or me. Maybe more, becausehe didn't evenhavea chanceto grow up beforethey took everythinghe had. And I didn't iustwalk up and takehim into my confidencefor no reason.Two Red Legsweredunkinghim in a horsetroughuntil he washalf drowned.When they left, I askedhim why they'ddone it, and he saidit wasbecausehe'd calledthem murderingYankeecowards.My opinion wasthat we could use a friendlike that in Lawrence,and Fletchagreed." man in a flat-brimmedhat, peeredat Sam |ohn McCorkle,a round-faced through narrowedeyelids."So how'd the boy know where we'd be, and when?" "He knewthe wherebecause we told him," Samsaid."The Colonelused to live in theseparts,andhe pickedthishill for our overlookwhenhe planned the raid. Ain't that so, Fletch?" Taylor nodded. "As for the when of it," Sam continued,"well, Fletch and I knew we'd be herebeforesunupeitheryesterday or today,so we told the boy to come out both daysif therewasanythingwe neededto hear about." - Youngerlookedat Taylor. "That true, Fletch?or wereyou so drunk you don't remember?" _ Taylorglaredat him. "lt's true, Cole. I justdidn'ttell you, is all. There's five hundredmen on this raid, and I can't tell everyone of you everything, can I?" Youngerstartedto retort,but he wasinterruptedby the soundof hundreds of hoofbeats from the slopeabove.Quantrill had heardJames's gunshotand wasbringingdown the restof his men. Greggreplaced his pistolin itsholster."All right,then," he said,sounding weary-"Let'stell the Colonelwhatthe boy said." He lookedat Taylor. "You do it, Fletch. He knowsyou betterthan he doesClemens." Taylor nodded,then shot Sam a look that could havemeltedsteel. Therewasa promisein that look, but Samdidn't care.Gregghadbelieved . his story,and for now, at least,he wasstill alive. And so wasHenry. Taylor told Colonel Quantrill that a Missouriboy had come to warn the raidersaboutsix hundrednew Bluebelliesin Lawrence,all campedsouthof the river, and that_ascoutingparty_offifty of the Federalswaslikely to spot the bushwhackers beforethey could enterthe town. Quantrill listened*iihout sayinga word. He staredstraightahead,towardLrr"r..,.., until Taylor wasfinished.Then he lookeddown at Sam, who wasstill standingbeiore the deadmule. Quantrill'seyesyer-elike chipsof ice, but Samdidn't look away.He was surethat if he flinched,the Colonelwould seehim for the lying traitorthat he was.

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A long moment later,Quantrill turnedto CaptainTodd. "What do you think, George?"he asked. Todd lookedas if he had eatena bad persimmon."You didn't seesix hundredFederalsthroughthe glass,did you?" "No," Quantrillsaid,"but I couldn'tseethe river. If they werecamped closeby its banks,they would havebeeninvisible." "Then let'sgo backup and takeanotherlook," Todd said. Quantrill shookhis head."By the time the sun hasrisenenoughfor us to seethe river, the peopleof Lawrencewill haverisentoo. We must either presson now, or give it up." "But if there are that many more troopsdown there," Greggsaid, "we won't havea chance.I saywe fall backto the border,sendmore spiesto take anotherlook at the town, and come backwhen we can be sureof victory." Quantrill lookedat the groundand spat."Damn it all," he said, "but you'reright. Even if therearen'tthat many troops,the town might'veheard the pistolshot." The men behind Quantrill murmured. Many looked angry or disappoir-rted, but almostas many lookedrelieved. but he wantedto shoutfor iov. Sam tried hard to look disappointed, drewoneof his pistols,andkickedhis horse Then Bill Andersonshrieked, until it wasnoseto nosewith BlackBess. pointinghis pistolat the Colonel. "We've come too far!" he screamed, "We've cometoo far and our peoplehavesufferedtoo much! This raid was your idea,and you talkedme into committingmy own men to the task!God damn you, Quantrill,you'regoingto seeit through!" Quantrill gaveAndersona cold stare."We have receivednew intelligence,"he said."The situationhaschanged." Andersonshookhishead,hislonghair flyingwild underhis hat."Nothir-rg andcrippled havekilledoneof my sisters haschangedtNothing!The Yankees another,and I won't turn back until I've killed two hundred of them as payment!And if you try to desertme beforethat'sdone, the two-hundredand-firstman I kill will be namedBilly Quantrill!" " Quantrillturnedto Todd. "George,placeCaptainAndersonunderarrest. " horse to Todd drewhis pistol."l don't think I will, he said,movinghis standbesideAnderson's."We've come to do a thing, so let'sdo it. " The murmursamongthe men grewlouder' "What'swrongwith you?"Greggshoutedat Todd andAnderson."Colonel Quantrill is your commandingofficer!"'Colonel' bullshit. feffersonDavis Todd sneered."No more of that wouldn'tgivethis cowardthe time of day, much lessa commission-" At that, Frankfames,JohnMcCorkle,and Cole Youngermovedto stand with Andersonand Todd. Bill Gregg,Andy Blunt, and JohnHolt movedto becameshouts standwith Quantrill.The murmursamongthe bushwhackers and curses.A few men brokeawayand rodebackup the hill. Sam decidedthat he didn't care to seethe outcome.He beganedging backward,but cameup againstthe deadmule.

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Quantrill lookedas calm as an undertaker."All right, boys,"he said."l guessyou'reright. We'vecomethis far, and we'vewhippedYankeesoldiers before."He pointedtowardLawrence."Let's pushon!" "That's more like it," Andersonsaid, and he and his comradesturned their horsestowardLawrence. As soonas they had turned, Quantrill pulled two of his pistolsfrom his belt, cockedthem, and shotBill Andersonin the back.Andersonslumped, and his horsereared. The hillside eruptedinto an inferno of muzzle flashes,explosions,and screams. Samdoveoverthe mule and huddledagainstits backuntil he heardpistol ballsthuddinginto its belly. Then he rolledawayand scrambleddown the hill on his handsand knees.When therewereplentyof treesbetweenhim and the fighting, he got to his feet and ran. He fell severaltimes before reachingthe bottomof the hill, but didn't let that slow him. The treesgavewayto prairiegrassand scrubbrushat the baseof the hill, and Samran straightfor Lawrence.He couldn'tseeHenryand Bixbyon the plain ahead,so he hopedthey werealreadyin town. Thunderrumbledbehindhim, and he lookedbackjust in time to seethe neckof a horseand the heel of a boot.The boot struckhim in the forehead and knockedhim down. His hat went flying. - Sam lay on his back and stared,rp at the brighteningsky. Then the silhouetteof a horse'sheadappeared abovehim, ,nd hot breathblastedhis face. "Get up and takeyour pistolfrom your belt," a voicesaid. Sam turned over, roseto his knees,and lookedup at the rider. It was Fletch Taylor. He had a Colt Navy revolverpointedit Sam'snose. "You goingto kill me, Fletch?"Samasked. "Not on your knees,"Taylor said."Standup, takeyour pistolfrom your belt, and die the waya man should." Samgavea low, bitterchuckle.He wasamazedto discoverthat he wasn't afraid. "All men die alike,Fletch,"he said."Reluctantly." Taylorkepthis pistolpointedat Samfor anotherfewseconds, then cursed and uncockedit. He lookedtowardthe hill. "Listen to all the hell vou've raised,"he said. The soundsof gunshotsand screamswerewaftingout overthe plain like smoke. Taylor lookedbackat Sam. "You savedmy life," he said,',sonow I'm givingyou yours.But if I everseeyou again,I'll kill you." Sam nodded."Thank you, Fletch." Taylor'slips curledbackfrom his teeth."Go to hell," he said.Then he spurredhis horseand rodebacktowardthe hill. SamwatchedTaylor,gountil he realizedthat the fightingon the hillside wasspilling onto the plain. He stood,found his hat-the hat that Taylor had givenhim-and ran for Lawrenceagain.

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When he reachedMassachusetts Street,staggering, exhausted,he saw men in the windowsof everybuilding. Someworeblue uniforms,but most werecivilians.Each man held eithera revolveror a carbine.The sun was rising,and Lawrencewasawake.One of the men cameoutsideand pointed and stoppedhim. Then his rifle at Sam,but the boy namedHenryappeared Henry grabbedSam'sarm and pulled him into the Whitney House. Fifteenminuteslater, Sam waswatchingfrom the window of a secondfoor room whena magnificentblackhorsecamegallopingup Massachusetts grayshirt, graypants,and Street.The horse'srider,wearingan embroidered blackcavalryboots,had his armstied behindhis backand his feettied to his stirrups.His headand shouldershad beendaubedwith pitch and set ablaze. He wasscreaming. "lt's Quantrill!"someonecried. A volleyof shotsexplodedfrom both sidesof the street,and the horseand rider fell over dead. Within seconds,a hundred Missouri guerrillasled by George Todd chargedup the street.Fourteenof themwerecut down in a hail of leadballs, and the restturnedand fled,with soldiersand citizenspursuing.A company of NegroFederalrecruitsled the chaseand killed threemore bushwhackers at the southernedgeof town. When the gunfire and shoutinghad ceased,a clusterof townspeople of the blackhorseandthe charred,bloodycorpse gatheredaroundthe carcass parted to let two men in blacksuitsand hatsapproach The crowd of its rider. recognized them as the preachersthat he, Taylor, and the bodies.Sam week before. the Noland had encountered The elderpreacherhelda BibleoverQuantrill'scorpse."Earthto earth," he intoned. The youngerpreacherraisedhis Bibleaswell. "Ashesto ashes,"he said. In unison,they chanted,"And dustto dust." Then they loweredtheir Bibles,drew their revolvers,and shot Quantrill a few more timesfor goodmeasure. "Amen," saidthe crowd. Sam closedhis curtains. Senator|im Lane had returnedto Lawrenceon Wednesdayfor a railroad meeting,and he sentfor Samat noon on Saturday,one day afterthe failed raid. Lane wasthinner, younger,and had more hair than Samhad guessed but his fine houseon the westernedgeof town wasall from the caricatures, furnishings,including It waspackedwith expensive that Samhad supposed. two pianosin the parlor. "How did you cometo acquiretwo pianos,Senator?"Samasked.He had not sleptthe night beforeand did not careif he soundedaccusatory. Lane smiled."One wasmy mother's,"he said."The otherbelongedto a overin facksonCountywho foundthat he no longerhada place secessionist to keepit." The Senatorpickedup a pen and wrotea few lineson a piece-of the table."Kansasis grateful prp.r, then foldedthe paperandpushedit across

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to you, Mister Clemens,and regretsthe mistakeof two yearspast when Guardsmistookyour brotherfor a slaveholder. membersof the Red-Legged Had they known of his appointmentas Secretaryof NevadaTerritory, I'm surethe tragedywould not haveoccurred." "He told them," Sam said."They didn't believehim." Lane shrugged."What'sdoneis done,but justicewill be served.General Ewing has orderedhis troopsto arrestall Red Legsthey encounter.He believesthat suchmen havebeencommittingcriminal actsin the name of liberty, and I must concur." He tappedthe pieceof paper."l'm told that I cannot GovernorNye of NevadaTerritoryis againin needof a Secretary. guaranteeyou the appointment,but this shouldsmoothyour way." He leanedforward."Frankly,Mr. Clemens,I think your decisionto continue to Nevadais a goodone. There are thosein this town who believethat the burning man wasnot Quantrill at all, and that you are herenot asa friend, but asQuantrill'ttpy." Samstaredat the pieceof paper."A ticketon the overlandstagefrom St. fosephis a hundredand fifty dollars,"he said."l haveten." Lane stoodand left the parlorfor a few minutes.When he returned,he handedSam threefifty-dollarbank notesand a bottleof whiskey. "This wasdistilledfrom Kansascorn," the Senatorsaid,tappingthe bottle with a fingernail."l thoughtyou shouldhavesomethingby which to remember my state." Samtuckedthe moneyinto a coatpocketand stood,holdingthe whiskey bottleby its neck.My state,Lane had said.What'sdoneis done. "Good day, Senator,"Sam said.He startedto turn away. "Don't forgetmy letterof introduction,"Lane said. Sam picked up the piece of paper,tucked it into his pocketwith the money, and left the house. Henry wasstandingoutsideholdingBixby'sreins,and twelveBluebellies waitednearby.They had an extrahorsewith them. "Mister Clemens,"one of the soldierscalled."Our ordersare to escort you to St. |oseph.We're to leaveright away." He didn't soundhrppy about it. All of the Bluebelliesin the escortwerewhite, and Sam suspected that thiswastheir punishmentfor failingto chasethe bushwhackers with asmuch vigor as their Negrocounterparts. Sam noddedto the soldier,then lookeddown at Henry. "l supposeyou want to keepthe horse,"he said. "Well, I don't," Henrysaid."He's mean,if you askme. But my pa says he'll either have Bixby as paymentfor his mule, or he'll take it out of somebody's hide. And sinceyou're running off, I reckonmy hide will do him aswell as any." "A hiding would probablydo you a considerable amountof good,"Sam said,"but sinceI no longerhavea usefor the animal,you may keephim and the saddleaswell. I'll takethe bags,however."He removedthe saddlebagsfrom the horseand put the bottleof whiskeyinto one of them. A few lumps of brown sugarlay at the bottomof that bag,so he fed one to Bixby.

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Bixby chewedand swallowed,then tried to bite Sam'shand. Sam gavethe restof the sugarto Henry and tookhis saddlebags to the soldiers'extrahorse. "Goodbye,MisterClemens,"Henrysaid,climbingonto Bixby."l won't forgetyou." Sam swungup onto his own mount. "Thank you, boy," he said,"but I shall be doing my bestto forget you, as well as everyother aspectof this infectedpustuleof a city." Henry gave him a skepticallook. "Mister Clemens," he think you're a liar."

"l won't disputethat," Samsaid."l only wish I could makeit pay." The Bluebelliesset off, and Sam'smount went with them. Sam looked backto give Henry and Bixbya wave,but they werealreadyheadingin the otherdirectionand didn't seehim. On the way to the ferry, Sam and the soldierspassedby the Eldridge House,whereeighteenbodieshad beenlaid out on the sidewalk.They were alreadybeginningto stink.A numberof townspeople werestill gatheredhere, andfrom what Samcouldhear,theywerecuriousaboutthe deadblackman, who had beenone of the threeraiderskilled by the Negrorecruits.Why on earth, they wondered,would a man of his raceride with Quantrill? Sam startedto say, "Becausehe was paid," but the words frozein his throat. The last four bodieson the sidewalkwere thoseof GeorgeTodd, Cole Younger,Frankfames,and FletcherTaylor. Sam lookedawayand rodeon. He spentSaturdaynightcampedbesidethe roadwith the soldiersand Sunday night in a hotel in St. foseph,and did not sleepeithernight. At daybreakon Monday, he carriedhis saddlebags to the overlandstagedepot, paid his money, and boardedthe coach.Two other passengers and severalsacksof mail soonjoined him, and the coachsetoff westwardat eight o'clock. As the coachpassed the spotwhereOrion had beenkilled, Samtook out the whiskeythat Lane had givenhim and begandrinking. He offeredsome to his fellow passengers, but they eachtook one swallowand then refused more, sayingthat it wasthe vileststuff they'devertasted.Sam agreed,but drankalmosthalf the bottleanyway. At the next stationstop,he climbedatop the coachwith his saddlebags while the horseswerebeingchanged.When the coachstartedmovingagain, Sam drank more whiskeyand staredat the fieldsof greenand gold. Soon, his headwarm with sun and alcohol,it occurredto him that the corn and grassshiftingin the breezelookedlike oceanswellsafter a storm. He was remindedof a holidayhe had spentnearNew Orleans,lookingout at the He wondered downthe Mississippi. Gulf of Mexicoafterpilotinga steamboat if he would love anythingin Nevadahalf as much. Lane had The thought of Nevadaremindedhim of the letter that written for him. so he took it out and readit:

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My dearGovernorl'Jye: You will recallthat your intendedSecretary of two yearspast, Mr. Orion Clemens,wasunfortunatelykilled beforehe could dssumehisduties.This letterwill introducehis youngerbrother Samuel,who hasprovidedserviceto his I,{ationand is a loyal Republican.I trust you shall do your utmostto securefor him any employmentfor whichhe might be suited. Yours mostsincerely, lamesLane, Senator fhe Creat and l,lobleState of Kansas Samtore up the letterand let its piecesscatterin the wind. If Nevadaheld "any employmentfor which he mightbe suited,"he wouldsecureit without from a self-righteous, any assistance thievingson of a bitch like fim Lane. Nor would he drink any moreof Lane'sabominable whiskey.He leaned over the coach roofs thin iron rail and emptiedthe bottle onto the road. Therrhe openedoneof his saddlebags, tookout his Colt, and stood.He held the whiskeybottlein his left hand and the pistolin his right. The coachconductorglancedbackathim. "Whatareyoudoing,sir?"heasked. Sam spreadhis arms. "l am sayingfare-thee-well to the bloodystateof Kansas,"he cried,"and lightingout for the Territory!" He lookedout over the tall grass.It rippledin waves. He missedthe river. He missedhis brothers. But killing men for the sakeof a world that wasgone rvouldn'tbring it back. It wastime to makea new one. "Half-lesstwain!" he cried. Both the conductorand driverstaredbackat him. "Quarter-less twain!" Sam shouted. Then he broughthis left arm backand whippedit forward,throwingthe bottleout overthe grass.As it reachedthe apexof its flight, he broughtup his right arm, cockedthe Colt with his thumb, and squeezed the trigger. The bottleexplodedinto brilliant shards. The coachlurched,and sam satdown on the roof with a thump. "Goddamnit!" the conductoryelled."You spookthesehorsesagair-r, and I'll throw you off!" Sam held the pistolby its barreland offeredit to the conductor."Please acceptthis," he said,"with my apologies." The conductortook it. "I'll give it backwhen you'resober." "Nor" Samsaid,"you won't." Then he threw backhis headand roared:"MAAARRRRK TWAIIINNT" Two fathoms.Safewater. He lay down with his hat overhis faceand fell asleep,and no deadmen cameto haunt his dreams. For SamClemens,the war wasover.

THE BESTAND THE REST OF JAMES JOYCE lan McDonald

v British author lan McDonald is an ambitiousand daringwriter with a wide range and an impressive amountof talent.His firststorvwaspublishedin 1982,and since then he has appearedwith some frequencyin lnterzone, Isdac Asimoy'sScience FictionMagazine,Zenith,OtherEdens,Amazing,andelsewhere. He wasnominated for the |ohn W. CampbellAwardin 1985,and in l9B9 he won the Locus"BestFirst Novel" Awardfor his DesolationRoad.He won the Philip K. Dick Awardin 1992 for his novel King of Morning, Queenof Day. His other booksinclude the novel Out on BIue Six and a collectionof his short fiction, Empire Dreams.His most recentbooksincludea new novel,TheBrokenLand, and a new collection,Speaking in Tongues,aswell as severalgraphicnovels.He is at work on anothernew novel, Bom in Manchester,England,in 1960,McDonald tentativelyentitledl'Jecroville. hasspentmost of his life in Northernlreland,and now livesand worksin Belfast. In the daring,playful, and lushly inventivestorythat follows,he givesus a look (or a succession writerasyou'veneverseenhim of differentlooks)at a world-famous before-in fact. as no one'severseenhim before. . .

William and Mary as it Aboard His Britannic Majesty'sair-dreadnought leavesthe CommandHoldfastburiedbeneaththe crateredmudscapeonce year of the war are ll? known as London in the one-hundred-and-first Air ratings,66 officers,and six highly important,highly secretpassengers: Admiralty Lord Van Loos, Marshall Valery-Petain, Lord Blennerhasset, Giorgio]oyceandhisfather,seniorAcadeDirectorAmes,Sub-Academician Reinforced bombproofdoorsopen asWilliam concrete mician famesfoyce. towardthe perpetualrainclouds every sense tuned, andMary risescautiously, poisoned drizzleoverthe mudfieldsof Staines.Despite that dischargetheir I8-inch gunsand two atomiccannon,a complementof ten turret-mounted standrocket racks, the artillerymen and a veritablearsenalof lighterartillery launch tubes are ready the glider-marines at ing by their weaponsand the dreadnoughts even, surprised of dirigibles, nervous.They haveheardstories lyinggrounded, Tsaristairships attainingaltitudeby marauding anddestroyed Majesty's airfleetto lift His of For the lynchpin mud. half buried in the . potentially hostile airspace into unprotected, unescorted,

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They havelong suspected thatthe High Commandlockedup in their War Room half a rnile underCommandHoldfasthavegoneinsane:now they have proof. But His Majesty'sAir Lords need not justib, to the crew of William and Mary their decisionthat a lone dirigible might escapethe attentiona dreadnoughtwith full escortwould warrant.Their destination, the very fact that they are carryingpassengers, havebeenkept secretfrom them. But seeingthe cinderedcitiesof the midlandsslippingawayfar beneath their armouredglassobservation bull's-eyes, they know that their courseis northward.A combinedservicesmission,perhaps,supportingthe beleagueredl9th Army boggeddown in meltingpermafrostnorth of Bergen,or a search-and-destroy missionon Tsaristsubmarinetraffic acrossthe Barents Sea.MaybeWilliamandMary hasbeensentto rendezvous with the remnant of the RoyalDutch Airfleetstationedat ScapaFlo Holdfastand destroythe TsaristNorth Polar Fleet. In his armouredcubicle the Captainopensthe envelopesealedwith the wax sigil of His Majesty'sDirectorateand after readingand burningthe flimsywithin, callsa heading,altitudeand velocity down the gosportto the flightbridgethat will, in l8 hours' time, bring William and Mary and its secretpassengers north to lceland,to the Keflavik Chronokinetics Research Facility. In the summerof 1973I wasaskedby a doctorof my acquaintance if I might examinea patientof his, a gentlemanfrom Irelandof latemiddleagewho hadcometo him complainingof persistent and severe insomnia.My doctor friend prescribed sleepingtabletsbut the patient,who I shall hereafterrefer to as Herr f., complainedthat the prescriptionwasineffectiveand that the true sourceof the insomnialay in a powerfuland disturbingdream that recurrednightly, whereuponmy colleaguereferredhim to my practice.I wasadvisedthat the man, a writer of internationalrepute,would not make the mostco-operative of patients. My firstinterviewwith the patientwasat an outsidetableat a caf6on the Burkliplatz.The tetchiness against whichmy colleague hadwarnedme made itselfimmediatelyevidentin his response to my introductionof myself:"Ah yes,the SwissTweedledee,not to be confusedwith the AustrianTweedledum." It wasclearto me that the causticwitticismwith which he leavened his subsequent conversation concealeda deep-seated discontent. He wasa tall, thin man, of protrusions andangularities. Behindthe thick glasses he wore-he wasa suffererfrom persistent iritis-his eyeswerean extraordinarilypenehatingice-blue.His handsmovedconstanily,making idle play with the tableutensils.He wasquite refreshingly frank'aboutthE detailsof his life, thoughmore, I felt, from a mischievous delightin outrage: his first sexualexperiencehad beenat the ageof fourteenwith a prostitute on the banksof a canal.This had precipitatedhis lapsefrom the Catholic faith-an almostinevitablefall, I haveheard,for the intelligentsiaof his country.At the ageof 22he had left Irelandwith his lover,Fruu Nora B., and livedthe followingyearsasan artisticexilein Paris,Triesteand Zurich, during which time he producedhis most notablework. He confessed to

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affairwith havingbeenunfaithfulto Nora B. only once;a short,tempestuous one MarthaFleischmannof this city. Eighteenmonthsagohe had embarkedupon a new, major, work, to be explorationof a single a "streamof cor-rsciousness" entitledFinnegansWake, nigl-rt'sdream. After three monthshe had abandonedwork on accountof failing concentrationwl'richhe blamedon insomniacausedby a recurring and vivid dream.Two monthsto the dayafterthe firstdrearn,the Travellers arrivedand threw our affairsinto disarray.He found himself no longer thatthe'fravellers andwasconvinced capable of workingonFinnegdnsWake weretl'resourceof his dreams.lndeed,his attentionwascontinuallvbeing the Burkliplatzto the largenurnberof spectators divertedfrom our tableacross and from and field glasses, who throngedthe promenadewith telescopes haz.y curtain observation, the focus of their to the upward, spectators these forms incomprehensible which the by thin beyond half hidden cloud, of air, glirnpsed. be may occasionally Travellers of the "Dreamsof falling, Dr Jung?Well, we all know what tl'reymean," he rebus said."Dreamsof flying?Doubtless,thereis somehandypsvchological for thesetoo." "l don't deal in psychological Herr f.," I said."You tell me panaceas, " ratl'rerwl-ratyou think thesedreantssignify. "A beliefand a fear,Herr Doctor.I believethat the Travellerswill soon leave.I fearthat I want more than anythingto go with thenr." RighteousRhythm Rocksthe Musik Halls A traditionalsoundfrom the EastenrEmiratesof the LlnitedKingdomsis clubsin the Capital.Sarif, a tlre rrewpopularmusic crazeof the basernerlt fusionof traditionalMoorishmusicwith WesiernKingdomselectricinstruof the citiesof the SouthernCounties nrentshasemergedfrom the kasbahs listeningof the new youth undergroutrd,a new to becometl'reesserrtial musicalwavedeterminedto sweepall beforeit. area goeseveryweekto the musikclubsin the depressed Lyle Santesteban crfVincastrawhere sarifis drawingpackedhousesto danceall night to the deeper? throughmusic,or sonrething rhythmsof AfrikaandIslam.Escapism to say.That hassomething "Sarifspeaks to us," saysLyle Santesteban."scrif theygotnothing the electriccrooners,the r-reoballadeers, stuffoptfie wireless, to say;it's all just love and ronranceand let's get marriedtootsie-wootsie. Wl'rat'sthat got to do with life in the United Kingdoms,what'sthat got to sayabout Viircastrain l90Z? Sarif is music of the street.Sarif speakswith the voiceof the street.Sarifhassomethingto sayabotrtbcing young,about beingold, aboutbeingpoor,aboutbeingrich, in a iob, out of t igb, family to polygarny,sex,morality,God; sarifspeaks proble-s, arrangedmarriages, us.

t'

'I'l-re clubs and Sarif's n'rusicalrevolutior-ris essentiallya righteousortc. caf6s tlat specialize in the new rlusic serve nothing strouger than coffee. Says Haran Gomez, manager of the El Morocco Cafe: "lslam and sarif cannot be separated.And that means no alcohol, and certainly, tro drugs.

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We catchanyonein the toilet tokinga kif, he'snot justbounced,we call the copsaswell. Wh at sarifis aboutis havinga goodtime, hearinggreatmusic, dancing,meetingpeople,without gettingblind drunk, smashedout of your skull, or into a fight. But it's not a wank. Sarif'sgot steelat its core, it's strong,like Islam.The spiritof sarifis the spiritof Islam." fames foyce would agree.He is one of the most promisingof sarif's rising stars;couplingsocialconsciousness with intenseverbalimageryand ingenuity.This seminalfigureis in manywaysan anomalyin an anomalous genre,originatingnot from the Hispano-Moorish sectionof the population which spawnedsarif as a distinctform, but from the purebreedWestern Celts. "lt's a positiveadvantage,"the twenty-year-old boy from Hibemia East says."l'm bringingtogethertwo separate strandsof our culture,the Moorish and the Celtic; bringinga little North African soul and spiritualfibre into the Celtic,a littleCelticplayfulness andimagination into the NorthAfrican. The two culturesreallyhavemuch more in commonthan you think, it's excitingexperimenting with new waysof fusingCeltic melodieswith Islamic rhythms,breakingdownthe structuredlyricalsystemof ethnicprotoscrifinto improvisational stream-of-consciousness passages. But there'snothing overcerebralaboutit," foyceadds."lt's dancemusicpureand simple,fiist and last." Certainly,the Celtic-lslamic fusionmakes]ames"Ched" (theMoroccan Arabicnamefor traditionalfolk singers) foyce'ssetsat the El Moroccowhere he holds down a regularSaturdaynight spot standout amongan already outstandingbill that includesChed Alayahand Ched Christobos Santos. His inventive,improvisedvocals,the purity of his singingvoiceand the multi-layered complexityof his backinggroupleavethe listenirbothbeguiled and stimulated. fames"Ched" foycehasrecentlymovedfrom SoukhRecordings, a small independentcompanyspecializing in sarif andotherethnic musicl, to Marconigram,the Kingdoms'largest;his firstalbum for them, Threeeuarks, is due for releaseearlynext month. The city'sgreatest experton the enigmaof the Travellersis Dr PeterPretorious,to whom I maderecourse in the caseof Herrf . for a layman'ssurnmary of the phenomenon. In the absence of any sustained coherentcommunicationbetweenmankind and the Travellers,Dr Pretorious's theorieswerehighly suppositional. The generalconsensus seemsto be that our visitorsare tiavelleisnot of the distances betweenthe stars,as had first beenthought,but of the distances betweenuniverses; the infinite arrayof potentialoiher earthsthat modern physicssuggests are createdby the indeterminacyof quantumtheory.The hypothesis is that the Travellersoriginatefrom a parallelearththat diverged from oursat the verydawnof the solarsystem;one in which matterwasnot gatheredinto discreteplanets,but remainedin an annularnebulaaround the sun and of which the Travellers, and the incomprehensible companion

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bodieswith which they sharetheir Enclaves,are the dominant life: the earth.Their colossalsizeand mutableshapes humanityof this alternative conditionsof the gasring; are productsof evolutionwithin the gravity-free the size of such an organismbeing governedultimatelyby the speedof diameter alongthe nervoussystem.Hencethe forty-kilometre transmission they havecreatedin thoseplacesthey havechosen spheresof gravitylessness to arriveupon our earth:Brisbane,Sao Paulo, Vancouver,Freetownin andherein, or ratherabove,Zurich. SierraLeone,Luzonin thePhilippines, informedme, could not hope to Pretorious Such enormouscreatures,Dr survivethe effectsof graviff. At for a meansby which they might negate gravity,or eventhe methodby which they travelwith such apparentease betweenalternateworlds,both he and the scientificworld at largeare at a lossto supply. might soondepart. I mentionedto him Herr f .'s beliefthatthe Travellers telescopes, and from through Dr Pretoriousrepliedthat recentobservations pressure barriers aircraftflying as closeasthey safelydaredto the immense that definedthe Enclaves,indicatedthat the Travellersand their companion bodieswereindeedundergoingphysicalchangesinto new formsthat might signalan imminent changeof activity. Herr Returningto my officesfrom the University,I calledat the residence request a and the concierge with leave a card B. to Nora Frau with shared f. to makean appointment. that he call me at his earliestconvenience Eoin UiNiall reviewsthe new |ames foyce album, "Agenbites of Inwit" March 29th I9l I edition) (New Musical Express: universeorbit ten Considerthis man'squandary.In the wireless-defined ghostswho havecometo know and possibly million frequency-modulation shine lovefoycethroughhis waxingson Marconigram.Yet in the darkstreets the soulsof the luminousfewwho havedancedto glorywith him up through the sarif clubs, soul survivorsof the Saturdaynights (as was your gentle reviewer,in what seemslike a previousincarnation)when fames)oyceheld down a spotat El Moroccoand the Virgin'sKitchen.Quandaryquantified: theseare two mutuallyexclusivecamps.That they are not yet at war is due to the ministrationsof their titular deity:Joycehimself.Though famesfoyce on cylinder is a pale shadeof |amesJoycebehind the footlightswith five hundredwattsof power on each shoulder-the extemporized,improvisational spirit of foyce'swork is a bird that pinesand dieswhen caged-still a watered-down James)oyceis betterthan no Jamesfoyceat all. So, as an exercisein squaringcircles,how doesAgenbitesof Inwit fare? Neverlet it be saidthat the man doesnot believein valuefor money.Ten and tracksare here, not one under six minutesin length. Roundabouts lyric no there-is in singalong: you lose danceability, in you gain what swings; sheetlLyrics-rr.rup.tfluous;the titles("Gasfrom a Burner,""The Dead," "Clashing Rocks")are themesfor improvisation.|oin the celebrationof mutabilif: if you feelthat on anotherday, in anotherplace,if the bandhad one more or one lessto drink, this would have been an altogetherother

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what you are album;that is foyce'sintention.Songsin the keyof possibility: listeningto is just one of a spectrumof possiblealternativeAgenbites.If this is a deliberatestrategyby Joyceto unite both the dance-floorhero and the thiswill be filling waxjunkieunderthe bannerof boogiedom,it is successful; the floorswell into the next decade. to a fare-thee-well: havebeenBrassoed All the familiarfoyceantechniques the medium rare, al dente,yet togetherpunch of his instrumentalizations; the verbaland lyrical bravura,like a ratherwell arrangedfireworkdisplay the mining almostarchitectural righteousness, iustfor you,the concrete-hard, If there genres. and ethnic lodes of sarif overworked gems from the of new a understanding, in for spiritual it lies a search progression, of is a sense gold, least not at if age to, this tarnished transmute to touchstone theological lam6. The popular press,in its brief momentsof relevancebetweenDal Riadaspruceforestand the nail on the outdoortoiletdoor, havenudgedand winkedat fames)oyce'sinterestin the mysticalreligionsof the North Afrikan safidis,and if this questfor a Holy Grail reachesa climax in "Ulysses, Telemachus,Eumaeus,"the whole thing is mercifullysavedfrom toppling " "Stogged. danceable into terminalpomposityby the impudent,shamelessly "The for hungry Animals," leaves one Inner of Organs The final track, more, with a tangof faintlyscentedurine on the tongue,and eagerlyanticipatingthe next cylinder.Clublandand dublandwill bop till they drop and and the punk ethos over pools of seventythen discusspost-modernism percent-proofvomit on the toilet floor. Few cylinderswarrantthe epithet "seminal";famesfoycestandsuniqueamongpopularmusicians asone who fair (todate)hasproducednothingbut masterpieces, andlooksset to continue to do so. And you can danceto it. There'spresence,and progress,in this cylinder;and that ratesfive starsby me. at the formaldinner that SeniorAcademicianfamesfoyceis uncomfortable night at the Captain'stable. His white frock coat and high-collarshirt are drab and contemptibleamongthe militaries'syntheticgoldsand carmines and purples.Even the sombreblackand silverof the Directorateoutshines that his thick pebbleglasses markhim genetihim. He is acutelyconscious military and politicalcastes.He cally inferiorto the eugenicallyengineered doesnot enjoythe enforcedinformalitiesof shipboardlife, he doesnot enjoy beingpushedinto an intimacywith thesesuperiorcastes.SonGiorgioseems from military to political to at ease,weavingacrossstrandsof conversation scientific;fatherfamesfindshimselflongingfor the companyof his peersat the tachyonfacility. Over ersatzcoffee,the threadsof conversationdraw inevitablytowardthe War, and how it might be won. Air Lord Blennerhasset stoutlyadvocates the strategy of massbombardment of the TsaristHoldfastsby air-dreadnoughts armedwith atomiccannon. "Crack them open like an eggt"he says.Death-lightshinesin his eyes, or perhapsthe grainy illuminationof the bulkheadbulbs. "The enemy annihilated,the war won, in lessthan a week!" MarshallValery-Petain, clingingwith his FrenchTerritorialArmy to the

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handful of coastalholdfastsand revetments that are all that remainsof his homeland,is dismissive of the new atomicartillery.He thinks it is overvaunted.The ultimateweaponhasalwaysbeen,will alwaysbe, the man on the ground,the BloodyInfantry. Ciorgiofoyce,respectfully, disagrees with both. "Atomic artillery,massed wavesof infantry,both are like a blunt cudgelcomparedto the sure,swift, untraceablescalpelof Chronokinesis.The ability to changean enemy's historywithouthim everknowingthat you havedoneso, that is the ultimate " weapon. "Sub Academicianfoyce of course,speaksas our first potentialChrononaut," DirectorAmessays,a pinch-faced, bulbous-headed man with luminousvioleteyes,dressed in the uniform of the elite SteelGuard. A subalternservesersatzwhisky.famesfoyce excuseshimself from the tableand beckonsfor his sonto follow him outsideontothe airdeck.Wiltiam and Mary travelswrappedin thick cloud as a precautionagainstdetection. Fatherand sonwalk the steelbalconythat runs aroundthe perimeterof the dreadnought;to their left, the curving boron fibre hull, to their right, a dimensionless gray limbo. They pauseover an enginehousing,whisper underthe threshingof the impellors. "That wasreckless," famesJoycesaysto his son."To mentionthe infinite mutabilityof historyin companysuchasthis." "Militaries?If it doesn'tinvolve attrition ratesof over five hundred a " minute, I might aswell not be speaking. "Ames is no Military. He may not be an Academician,but Directors, evenif they are SteelGuard, havesomecapacityfor speculative thought.If he beginsto suspectthat it is not justour enemy'shistorythat is mutableand " untraceable,but our own also . Speedunchanged, headingunchanged, altitudeunchanged, concealed in its cloud-layerof mystery,WiIIiam and Mary boreson over the slate-cold sea. (Sleevenotes from the cylinder "The Best and the Rest of fames foyce: Collected Recordings:1902-1922") Imagine. I know it's hard. I know it's a thing to which you are not you who havepartedwith your pelveandpencefor thiscylinder accustomed, that claimsto be the Bestand the Restof a man calledJamesfoyce.I know you are impatientto hear just what farnesfoycethinks constituteshis Best and Rest(Old Light ThroughOld Windows).But try. For one moment,try and imaginethe Rest. Imaginea world whereour United Kingdomsand Emiratesare not a maternalclutch of threeislandsoff the coastsof Africaand Spain-imagine Home Islandsthat lie, say,off the North coastof France,imaginea Dal Riada,say,consignedto the cold watersbeneathGreenland'ssoutherntip. Got it now?Try it again.Imaginea world wherethe cylinderthat rests impatientlyin your sonogramwill neverbe heard,will neverhavebeen,a world wherefamesfoyce is not a musician,wherethereare no wirelesses,

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the for the thermiorricvalve,the transistor, no live bands,no televisions, havenot beeninvented. tube, the microprocessor, cathode-ray Imaginethe world turnedupsidedown, wherenorth is south,and south north, wherethe twin spiresof Africa and SouthAmericareachtowardthe polestar. Imaginethe world turned insideout, an earththat is a bubbleof air aI'rd light and life in an infinity of dark, lifelessrock, wherethe moon and stars arc a perforatedveil of darknessabout a sun that is a blazingatom a few hundredmiles aboveour heads. You haveit now. Fun, isn't it? Imaginea world,imagineworlds,wheremen, or whatpassfor Inen, may stepfrom world to world, possibilityto possibility,with the easethat you crossthe room to throw the play switchof your sonogram. Time now at lastto surrender Enough?Too much for your imagination? privacyof your headphones. in back the needle and settle the the cylinderto never be found, is to deny the better will Best, to say that the To lay down You haveimagined Rest might not be better. the Rest.But who is to saythat just a hair's-breadth possible worlds that are held within the of the Rest;the contemplationof God by the exerciseof His free will. For the exerciseof worldsof undoingthatmight choice,be thatchoicehumanor divine,creates infinite choices,infinite worlds havebeenhad we, or He, chosenotherwise: copulaby our lowly,dailyactsof ablution,defecation, broughtirrtoexistence With each stepyou take to tion, mastication.Considerthe responsibility. crossthe roomto fit thiscylinderinto your sonograma worldmaybe created, humdrum worldseacha footstepdifferentfrom ours. This is the teachingof the Al Afr sect.Let not a footfallgo unconsidered. Got that? Screwphilosophy,let'sdance! in a famesJoycehasa recurringdream.He is alone,quite alone,dressed heavy rubber gasand radiationsuit, flappingin webbedshoesacrossthe mudscapethat extendsfrom Edinburghto the Caucasus.He stumbleswithout aim or purposethroughtanglesof corrodedwire hung with ragsof rotted fabric,throughhulksof gunsand tanksand trackedwar machines,through oncetall and proud asbattlethe cavernousinteriorsof land dreadnoughts, ships,stoggedto the waistin mud; stumbling,throughthe faintly luminous fog that gathersin the shell craters,everfasterin an effortto keepup with his ludicrous,flappingfeet,stophimselffrom falling,falling, into the mud, until at last his flappingfeet catchon a snarlof wire or a chunk of rusted concrete,and he falls.He putsout his handsto savehimself,but theyplunge up to the elbow into the mire. His glovedfingersfeel an embroideredcap badge,a pieceof domesticthermoplastic, a porcelaindoll'shead,a water flask,a military honour,a silverpictureframe,a scrapof cloth. Then in the dreamhis handsare suddenlybare,and the mud betweenhis fingershasa fibrous,grainytexture.He knowsthen that the grittygraininess is the powderedbrick and stoneand steelof the greatcitiesof Europe, the stringy

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fibrousness the rottedbonesand blood of 100 million nren, gently mixed into mud by the rain that falls upon the battlefield. He dreamsthat he hearsthe voicesof those300 million, and more:the hundredsof millionswho oncelived in thosedrownedcities,the men and the women and the children,calling out to him from their dissolution beneaththe mud. Jamesfoyce has never thought of himself as the materialfrom which traitorsaremade.Born in the Zgthyearof the war to a prosperous mercantile family in the city that now liesin fusedruinsaboveEastHiberniaHoldfast; by educationand temperament his inclinationlay towardthe arts;to literature. In momentsof lassitude in his Academician's domicileunderKeflavik Holdfast,he imagineshimselfwriting aboutthat city of his birth in such detailthat,shouldthe wareverend, it couldbe reconstructed out of its ruins from his book.By the 4lst yearof the war the BritishEmpirehad already embarkedon its transmutationinto leaner,fitter, more ruthlessBritannia, and famesJoyceunderstoodinstinctivelythat therewasno placewithin the new order for navigatorsof the streamof consciousness. It was an easy decisionto becomean Academician, a temporalphysicsspecialist. The only other choice availableto those born outsidethe privilegedcasteswas to becomeanotherdigit of GreatBritanniadrowningin the mudfieldsof Saxony. Perhapsthat is why he becamea traitor, becausereshapinghistoryis the only wayhe knowsto rebuildthat city in his imagination.It is the only way he knowsto apologizeto thosecallingvoicesbeneaththe mud. "This, Dr. fung, is the dreamthat afflictsme night afternight. Alwaysthe same,nevervaryingin the slightestdetail, projectedwith utter clarity and vividness. "l am a passenger aboardan Alpine railwaytrain, like thosethat take touristsup the Rigi, or Pilatus.I am in the lastcarriageof all, which is a glassobservation car;glasswalls,glassroof. The observation car is quite full; thereare passengers from all partsof Europeand the Near East.Most of the womenaresmokingTurkishcigars.Norais theretoo, sippinga frothywhite cocktailof a sticky,glabrousconsistency througha straw. "l noticethat the mountainsthroughwhich our train is travellingare peculiarlyrounded;strangelysmoothand curvaceous for Alpine peaks,and eachis surmountedby an erectionof someform or another;a small stone cairn, a cross,a gazebo,a revolvingrestaurant. "The trainarrivesat itsdestination: a tunnelinsidea mountain.Everyone but I seemsto know where we have arrived. Portersin extremelytight uniformsseizemy bags,whirl me along, thisway, Herr | . . . if youplease, Herr I . . no time to lose,Herr I Everywhere,portersand passengers, rushing.I cannotseeNora. I askone of the porterswhereFrau Nora isstrangely,as I askthat question,I know that we havearrivedat the hotel. "The hotel is built on the top of a mountainand all its outsidewallsare madeof glass.Indeed,much of the hotel interior;the ballroom,the dining tables,the grandstaircase, the healthhydro,arealsomadeof the sameclear,

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smoothglass.The room I havebeengivenoverlooksa lake. Paintboxblue, the lake,encircledby the smooth,succulent domesof the mountains.There are pleasureboatsand pedalloesabroadon the lake;I askmy porterif they are availablefor hire. A look of concerncrosses his face;no, he says,they shouldnot be out on the lake becauseof the dolphins.I look throughthe glasswall and seesquadrons of dolphinsdiving throughthe blue lakewater. The folly-boats and pleasure-craft makefor shorewith all hastebut a few are too slow, too far from the fetty and are capsizedby the leapingdolphins. Their leapsgrow higher and bolder, the dolphinsare hurling themselves clearfrom the watertwenty,thirty, forty feet. As I watch I realizethat all alongI havenot beenin my room at all but in the residents' saloonwhere the other guestshavegathered.A woman with an oversizedshoefor a hat cries,'Look, oh lookat thedolphins,'andweall lookar-rd seethatthedolphins have,in one immenseleap,brokenfreefrom the waterar-rdaresoaringinto the air. They circle the glasshotel, turning and flashinglike silverin the sun, and we noticethat they are changingform, elongating,extendinginto shapeslike zeppelinswith flukes,fins and beadyeyes. "A voicecriesout; wecdn do it too, Iook;anda womanwith a red-tipped Turkish cherootclimbs onto the back of a glasssofaand stepsoff. She's flying, up round the ceiling, aroundthe chandeliers.The other peoplein the bar seeher and want to ioin in, one afteranothertheyclimb up onto the furnitureand stepoff and fly with her aroundthe room. I go with them, it is very easy,all one hasto do it climb up on the furnitureand stepoff. But it is takingthat one step. . Nora is the only one still on the ground.She's dressed in a skin-smoothdressof silverfishscales. The windowsof the Glass Hotelall burstopenandthenwe go flyingout of them, up into the air, with the zeppelin-dolphins, and a greatlight engulfsu1 all a'd I wakeup." Corvettes andgunboatsmarkedwith the shieldandtridentof Britanniaescort William and Mary to its landingcradlein the KeflavikHoldfasthangarbay. As the concreteblast-doorscloseover the quarter-milelong sheli of the dreadnought,its specialpassengers arewhiskedby tubetrainto the ChronokinesisFacility20 milesdistant.The car rattlesand sparks alongits tunnel. SeniorAcademicianfamesfoyce explainsthe theoreticalbasisof chronokinesisand tachyonphysicsbut his explanations of faster-than-light particles that movebackwardthroughtime arequite incomprehensible tolhe militaries.DirectorAmesalonedisplays a semblance of intelligentunderstanding. "The physicsitselfwasquitestraightforward; the problemlay in generating a streamof tachyonsat the correctinitial velocityso that they would come to rest-velocity and depositour chrononautat the correctdate,"famesfoyce is sayingasthe rail-cararrivesat the Chronokinesis FacilityStation.Waiting on the dingilylit tiled platformarehis fellowAcademicians, fellowconspiral tors.AcademicianRetief,the historian,leadsthe partyalongdripping iit.a ^r tunnels into the bowelsof the Facility. The corridorsthroU to pu"lseof power. "Merely the atomic pile that powersthe bevatron,"AcademicianFisk,

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the mistrustfulmilitaries."To rotate our the ParticlePhysicist,reassures of chrononautbackto 19l7 requiresa tachyonflux with a velocityir-rexcess

J 0 , 0 0c0. "

"What is the significanceof l9I7?" asksAir Lord Blennerhasset. "The year in questionwas a time of unparalleledsuccessfor the then in the TsaristEmpire," weakness Grand Allianceand of uncharacteristic AcademicianRetiefsays,his voicebarelyaudibleover the risingswellof A revealthatthe Empirewascloseto collapse. power."lndeed,our sources group,the Bolshevists, to the politicalphilosophies subscribers revolutionary of Marx and Engels,soughtto overthrowtl'reImperialfamily and establish a proletarianstate.Largesectionsof manufacturingand the armed forces mutiny. had beeninfiltrated,indeed,the armywason the vergeof widescale by an Imperial That thev did not succeedis due entirelyto the assassination the agentof their charismaticleader,Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Leaderless, by the Imperial security were rapidly purged and elimir-rated Bolshevists police." Unit, Giorgio of the Chronokinesis At the entranceto the antechamber hands his farewell, clasps sot-t's him bids party. His father Joyceleavesthe in not believe tears. does Britannia but tears, He would shed within his own. might bring that The techr-rology gone fcrrever. gone, he is For once he is of the chronobe seen All that can have been created. him backwill never kinesischamberfrom the anteroomis an openairlockdoor.The ntilitaries yawr-ring chasmsfilled with Doubtlessthey had expected seemdisappointed. power, searingbeams devicescracklingwith manmadelightning,stupendous of whatliesbeyond the significance of energy.Only Amesseemsto appreciate the airlockdoor. of this Vladimir "Your belief is that if vou can preventthe assassination assault, Ilyich Lenin, the TsaristEmpire would crumbleunder Bolshevist and be forcedto suefor peace,"he says,noddingslowly,slyly,like one chess of another'sskills."ln effect,the war wouldhavebeen masterin appreciation worr 37 yearsago." The militariesin their ludicrousuniformsaredumbfounded."Exceptthat voicefron-rthe door into the antechamis not the truth," saysan unexpected suit in a redpressure ber. GiorgioJoycehasenteredthe room. He is dressed but has left off the helmet. "ls it, AcademicianRetief?No, the plan is to senda man rnuchfurtherinto the pastthan 77 yearc.lsthat not so,Academician?In fact, to sendhim one hundredand one yearsinto the past,to the CrirneanIncidentthat wasthe root of the War. In fact, his intention,the gatheredhere,is to end the War beforeit intentionof all the Academicians historysothat thereis neithervictornor vanquished, everbegan,to re-shape indeed,that neitherthe TsaristEmpirenor Britanniacameinto existence." From insidethe pressuresuit GiorgioJoycedrawsa heavvrevolver. "Why so horrified,Father?Are you not proudthat your sonis a loyal and dutiful citizenof Britannia,evervigilantto root out disloyaltyand treachery behaviourof certain whereverit may be found?Including the treasonable faculty.And you invitedme, pleaded membersof the KeflavikChronokinesis

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with me, beggedme to be your chrononaut!"His wire-framedspectacles glitterwith reflectedfluorescents. "The ChronokinesisProjectis cancelledas a threat to the securityof DirectorAmes.A thin ropeof creamydroolhasleaked Britannia!"screams from the corner of his mouth. "The facility will be dismantledand its staffdisbanded.All Academicianshere presentare under arrest.Air Lord you are orderedby the Directorateto proceedforthwith on Blennerhasset, plansfor the wholesaleatomicbombardmentof the TsaristHoldfasts!" And the blighted,poisonedmud that hasbeenpiling up night upon night, yearupon yearbehindfamesfoyce'seyespoursout of his skull in a drownwavethat will entombthe whole world. Militaries,DirectorAmes, fellow Academicians, his own son,standimmobilizedand mired in mud as,with a speedno one would think crediblein a man of 72 years,he dartspastthe gun in his son'shandto squeeze throughthe airlockdoorand slamit behind him. Wheelsspin,dogsengage. Bulletscaromeoutsidebut famesfoyceknowsto within a fractionof an inch the tolerances to which this door wasmanufactured.Of the tolerances of his own body,how long it can surviveunprotectedin vacuum,what level of radiationit can withstand,he is lesscertain.He reststhe heel of his left hand on the "Airlock Cycle" button. The steelchambershuddersto the power of the bevatronsmashingfundamentalparticlesinto the wave of tachyonsthat will sweephim into the past.Visionsswim, beforehis eyes: tachyonghostsof othertimes,otherpossibilities. The gulf of the yearsyawns beforehim and he seesthat it is deeperthan any of his colleagues had ever guessed, not one hundredand one yearsdeep,but deepasall time. At the bottomof the chasmis the earth,still unformed,freshand molten from the waitingthe hammerblowthat will giveit solidityand Itg., shifting,restless, definition.That event,he understands, may be as small as the touch of a singlefootprintupon it. All time, andall space,arehis to mould.The world can be any shapehe wishesit to be. Infinite alternativegeographies. "So be it," he says.He fills his lungs,clampslips shut,pincheshis nose with his fingers.He closeshis eyes.His left hand slamsthe button and in a blast of decompression JamesJoyceis hurled into the tachyonflux. And sweptaway. It seemsclearto me thatHerr f .'sdreamsarenot the projections of seductive alien intelligences,but ratherproductsof the angstof losing Nora B. to y_oung_er, fitter,sextrally attractiverivals.His doubtsoverhis own fidelityafter the affairwith Martha Fleischmann,coupledwith his peculiarlyIrish sense of religiousguilt, are transferredonto Nora B.; thaf recurringdream of his, so ripe with phallic, J{sinal and mammarysymbolism,is io clearlya sublimationof his fearsof failing sexualpotency. Treatmentin suchcasesof low self-esteem I havefound to be straighdorward and successful. was €ager for Herr f. to begin therapyimmeliately -l but my telephonecalls to his apartmentwent urir,r*.red, rny telegrams unacknowledged and when finally I called in personat his apartmenton

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I wasinformedby the concidrge Strehlgasse that Herrf. had notbeen home for the pastthreedays. or otherwise,that moved Thank God for whateverwhim it was,conscious me to returnto my officevia the lakefront.The crowd,alwaysin evidence, densethis day.The tramscould hardlypassfor the press wasextraordinarily balconiesof the lakeof people;they were packedonto the none-too-safe front buildings;the most foolhardyelementshad climbed lamp-postsand jetties,wherethe crowd wasthickest, tramhalts.Around the pleasure-boat were the generalhubbubroseto a clamour.Patronsof the BurkliplatzCaf€, standingon the table-tops,craningto see.I askeda waiterthe causeof the frenzy. "Haveyou not heard,sir?They are leavingus." revelation,the In that samemomentI saw,in a momentof preternatural face of Herr J. closeby in the crowd at the jetties;his thick, wire-framed spectaclesdazzlingin the sun. I went to him. Together,we were swept alreadypackedto the plimsoll line with babbling onto a steamside-wheeler Passengers. "What areyou doing "Herr I.!" I criedoverthe din of excitedpassengers. here?" He did not seemthe leastsurprisedto find me at his side."The Rapture, "And the dream.The testing distracted. Doctor. Is come," he said,strangely thereof." As I focusedthem upon the shivering me a pair of field-glasses. He passed "See, Doctor?The CompanionBodies, he continued: Enclave, of the curtain medusae; they areabsent.Disapdeep-sea trees, or to airborne that we liken other Zurich to unimaginable what knows peared.Gone aheadto who haveassumeda to " seemed Travellers preparethe way. I did noticethat the many colours. with definitearrow-headshape,stripedand mottled The pleasureboathad joinedthe greatfleetof craftmajor and minor that to witnessthe Rapture.Virtually anythingthat would float had assembled had been pressedinto service:punts, motor launches,horribly overloaded sailingdinghies,clustersof pedalloesropedtogether,sectionsof pontoon. The paddlesteamer'ssteamhorns warnedthe lumbering, over-burdened small craft awayfrom our bows.The densityof the lake trafficgrewas we approachedthe lowestpoint of the globularEnclave.Herr I. *qt almost Uiiide himself,leaningperilouslyoverthe rails. Everyeye,everylens,was directedon the sky.Thereat the centrewasa curious,almostreverenthush. "Now we shall see,Herr Doctor," he whispered.While everyeye was fixedon the sky,in a tricehe had strippedhimselfof his outergarmentsand climbedonto the rail as if to dive into the water. quite man?"I implored."lt is impossible, "No, no, don'tyou understand, do with is not to impossible.The dream, your dreamof the GlassHotel, the attractionsof a the Travellersbut of your own fear of losingNora to younger,morevirile man. It is the dreamof the fearof your own inadequacy, H e r rf . " "Such convenientanswers, Dr Jung,"Herr f. said."But perhapsin this

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dreamthe hidden meaningis that thereis no hidden meaning.This time everythingis exactlywhat it seemsto be." With thosewordshe divedinto the cold watersof LakeZurich. Murmurs aroundme, in an instantchangedinto of surprisecamefrom the spectators a sigh of amazement.I lookedbackto the sky, and sawthe ending. The ran with rainbow-coloured light, like interiorof the bubbleof gravitylessness the sheenof oil on water.Strongbeyondhis years,Herr |. cut on through the waters.Some others,seeingand comprehending,tried to follow him, from the upper decks.The Enclavebeganto spin. Like threw themselves clay on a potter'swheelit elongatedinto a funnel of light within which the Travellersmoved,its lowerend reachingcloser,closerto the surfaceof the lake,whippingup the waterto sprayand foam. I shouteda warningto Herr f . but I wasone voiceamonga multitude.The wavesand spumebrokeover him, the whirling wall of light engulfedhim. A dark tear appearedin the Throughthe rent I glimpsedthe Travelradiance,a rent of infinitedarkness. lers'destination.As if lookingdown from a greatheight,the outline of the pendulum of the Crimean peninsula.The Black Sea and the suspended Travellerslaunchedthemselvesinto the tear and were consumed.In the sameinstantthe Enclaveburstwith a tremendousthunderclapof air. Cloudssailedsereneand uninterruptedover Lake Zrsrich. Of Herr f. there was no sign whatsoever. And no sign wasever found, thoughthe Lakewasseveraltimesdragged at Frau Nora B'sinsistence by the city police. The optimistin me likes to believethat he was indeedtakenwhen the Travellerstransitedbetweenuniverses,draggedalong in the metaphysical that evennow, asI writethesecasenotes, slipstream, he is findinga foothold in whateverversionof our world it is we glimpsedthroughthe tearin reality. But what I cannotreconcileis why he did it. What was it that made him trust his dreamsand embarkon sucha mad scheme?All I can offer is that I, like Herr I., r- a man in his latemiddleyears,and men of our agehave alwaysneededsomenotion of heaven. (From an interview in WorldWeek Magazine:26th fuly 1930, conducted with fames foyce at his home in the hills above Tangier by Gwynnedd Suarez.) We're sitting hereon a patio by the pool-side,it's 86o,your valet has iust servedus mint tea, belowus dre the Straitsof Hercules;an idyllic setting:it's six yearssinceyour last cylinder"Finnegan'sWake";do you now consider yourselfto be in retirement? I would sayrathera man takingtime overhis life. Certainlynot retired. God forfend.I maywell cut morecylinders.CertainlyI've at leastthreemore worksin varyingdegrees of potentialityin me. But it's a questionof timing. Do you feelyou want to distanceyourselffrom thegeneralbafflementthit greeted" F innegan' s Wake"? No. Not at all. I hadcompletefaithin Finnegan'sWakeas it wasreleased. So did the producersand the recordcompany.I still have.They still have.

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But it wctsa radical departurefrom your previousrecordings. Every recordingI haveevermadehasbeena consciousattemptto be a radicaldeparturefrom its predecessors. To limit yourselfto one mode, one style,one way of doing it so that peoplecan say,aha, yes, this is fimmy foyce,this is what we like, let'shavethe sameagainonly more so;it's death to music, and worse,deathto the soul. Whoeverput music in the hand of the marketresearchers and public relationspeopledeserves a particularkind of personalhell. I want to push hard at the limits of what can and can't be done within as tightly defineda genreas popularmusic. I want to explore the . . . the potentialfor mutability,for other waysof doing it, within the genreconstraints. Hencethe preoccupation with freewiII and alternateworldson the iacket "Best you weren'thoppyabout that cylinder's Rest." gather the and I for release. I wasn't.I'm still not. To a certainextent,I am not totallyhrppy with any of my recordingsbecausethey limit the music to one thing and one thing only, and not a setof potentialthingsat differenttimesthematicallylinked together. Thosenoteswerewrittenat a time whenyou werebecominginvolvedwith theAI Afr sect:betweenthe "Bestand theRest"and "Finnegan'sWake"was a periodof severalyearswhenyou studiedunder the Sidi Hussein,and the influenceof AI Afr beliefwas evidentin that cylinder.Yet hereyou are in your comfortable,might I evencall it luxuriousT,homecontemplatingnew recordings: are the Al Afr yearsa periodof your life you considerconclusively behindyou? By no means.Faith is not somethingyou can stepout of like a pair of shoes.I have no regretsabout the yearsI spentwith Sidi Husseinat the Universityof Fez. So, I wasn'ttouring,I didn't cut a cylinderuntil Wake, No time spentin the company but I don'tconsiderthe time wasunproductive. thingsthat men is everwasted.With the Al Afr I experienced of remarkable havereshapedmy life. Could you expandon that? experiany transcendant There is a sensein which religiousexperience, uncommunicable.But I'll try. One of the tenetsof Al Afr ence,is essentially of his freewill, God creates,hascreated,will beliefis that, asa consequence alternatehumanitiesparallelto createalternateworlds,alternateuniverses, a yet separated from our own. In the Al Afr whirling trance,I experienced . . crossing,no, nothingsopreciseasthat, aleakage,acrossthe God-barrier betweenthoseotherworlds.It's hardto explainproperly.Therearecreatures I can'texplainthem, theyareincomprehenthere,in betweenthe universes. sibleto us, yet they are as human as you or I. But they havefelt the touch of our presenceand responded.They are coming to us, searchingacross to find us and join us. The thousandsupon thousandsof possibleuniverses that attemptwas reasonI left the orderwasto try to explainthat experience; and,to useyour own quote,it was,at best,misunderstood. Finnegan'sWake, But you still sympathizewith AI Afr belieft

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As I said, you don't step out of faith. At the moment, I am trying to establishretreatand studycentresin the Home Islandsfor, well, anyone their livesand placesin this really,who needstime and spaceto re-evaluate for the coming of thesetravellers.Becausethey world. Preparethemselves are on their way. Theseare the daysof miracleand wonder, mostassuredly but we arehuman and can only bearso much miracleand wonderat once. And plans for the musicalfuture? Well, as I intimated,I haveideasfor a new collection;I'm goingto take a few months off and travel through Sub-SaharanAfrika and learn the musicallanguageof the peoplethere.There'sa tremendous,vital, musical world attenheritagedown there almosttotally unexploredwhich deserves pure, plain plans go less formalized. Maybe back to my are tion. After that, just group It righteous appeal. a musik club. has a certain and a backing sarif, "Best you notes and you motto used on the sleeve still stand by the So for Rest"? Screwphilosophy,let'sdance?Well, I'm 48, andthat'san entiregeological agein popularmusic, but I think it's a prettygoodmotto, yes,I do, yes.

NAMINGTHEFLO\^/ERS Kate Wilhelm

v KateWilhelm beganpublishingin 1956,and by now is widely regardedas one of the bestof today'swriters-outside the genreas well as in it. Her work has never beenlimited to the strickboundariesof the field, and shehaspublishedmysteries, mainstreamthrillers,and comic novelsas well as sciencefiction. Wilhelm won a NebulaAwardin 1968for her shortstory"The Planners,"won a Hugo in 1976for her well-known novel Wherel-ate the SweetBirdsSang, addedanotherNebula to her collectionin 1987with a win for her story"The Girl Who Fell Into the Sky," and won yetanotherNebulathe followingyearfor her story"ForeverYours,Anna," which wasin our Fifth Annual Collection.Her story"And the AngelsSing" wasin our Ninth Annual Collection.Her many booksincludethe novelsMargaretand l, Fault Lines, The ClewistonTest, luniper Time, Welcome,Chaos,Oh, Susannah!, Huysman'sPets,Cambio Bay, Death Qualified,and the ConstanceLeidl-Charlie MeiklejohnmysterynovelsThe Hamlet Trap, SmartHouse,SevenKindsof Death, Sweet,Sweet Poison,and as well as the story collectionsThe DownstairsRoom, SomersetDreams,The lnfinity Box, Listen,Listen, Children of the Wind, and And the AngelsSing. Her most recentbook is a new mysterynovel, lustice for Some. Wilhelm and her husband,writerDamon Knight, ran the Milford Writer'sConferencefor manyyears,andboth arestill deeplyinvolvedin the operationof the Clarion workshopfor new writers.She lives with her family in Eugene,Oregon, and is currentlyat work on The BestDefense,a sequelto Death Qualified.

Late in SeptemberI told the crew at PhoenixPublishingCompanythat I had had it, I wastakingoff, I might neverbe heardfrom againand for them not to sendthe copsout lookingfor me. GracieBlanchard,my secretary, laughedand said,"Oh. Win. Go on." Then sheaskedhow many cameras I was taking, and Phil Delacourt,the generalmanager,said he had been practicingmy signatureuntil he couldforgeit on anythingthat camein. But if I washeadingnorth, he added,he couldwhip out a list of peopleI probably shouldseeaboutthis and that. I told him what to do with his list. were We had finisheda big cataloguejob, and the Christmascatalogues gone; pharmaceuticals on schedule, even ahead of schedule, the were long and I wastired. And bored.When I startedPhoenixsevenyearsago, it was exciting,but overthe pastfew yearsit had turnedinto deadlines,messedup

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print runs,backordersof paperthat neverarrived,photographs that wereout of focus. . . . The usualfuckups,peopletold me, the samepeoplewho told me sevenyearsagothat I couldn'tpublishout of Atlanta;all the talentwas in New York. I had no real plans,no itinerary;I simply knew I wantedto be in New Englandwhen the foliagewasat its best.I would call in now and then, I saidto Gracie;keepthe firesbanked.I took off in my twelve-year-old Thunderbirdwith a suitcase,hiking gear,half a dozenbooks,and four cameras. I didn't tell Gracieabout the cameras;I didn't want to seeher dimply, knowingsmile. Gracie'scute and twenty-fiveyearsold. It had alarmedme the day I realizedthat sheseemedterriblyyoung. I wasthirty-eight. I drovealongthe blue ridgesof the Appalachians, and spenta coupleof dayshiking, but it wastoo early.The treeswould be betteron my return trip. I cut over to the coastand paid a call on Atlantic City. I hadn't been therefor yearsand I didn't want to lingerthis time, I wasjust curiousabout how much it had changed,but I madethe mistakeof arrivingon Sunday and when I was readyto leave,so werea million others.I checkedilto a hotel instead,and then walkedalongthe beachwhereit seemedthat more than a million kidswereplaying,enjoyingIndiansummer.One of them, a little girl, beganto walkat my side.I lookedat her uneasily,and then looked aroundfor a mother, father.someone. "Can I havean icecream?"the child asked.We haddrawnneara vendor. "where's your mommy?" I askedthe kid, as I fishedout a dollar. She shruggedand gesturedtowardthe casinos.I boughther an ice creamstick, and shewalkedwith me for a few more yards,and then smiledand darted away.I walkedfaster._A man justdoesn'tbuy ice creamfor strangelittle girls, I wasthinking, not if he wantsto stayout of trouble.Then I noticedone of the bridgesand thoughthow fine it would lookin the earlymorningsunlight. The next morning I returnedwith my old Leicaand satot-t, *ill waiting for the light. The samelittle girl appeared and held up her handsfor me to hoisther up to the wall. "Honey," I said,aftershewassettled,"didn't your mom tell you not to talk to strangers?" She giggled.It was a cool morning, too cool for her lightweightsweaterwhich wastoo big and too looseon h.r, and shewastoo big not to know bettgrthan to pick up men and be this trustingwith them. I scannedthe beachlookingfor a distraughtmother,and sawonly a couple of kids playing,a few peoplestrolling,a jogger.I stoodup. "l've got to go now," I said. She held out her armsfor me to help her down; I lifted her and sether on the sand.I shouldtakeher to the police,I wasthinking, turn her in, a lostchild. Then, to my relief,a groupof *o-.. appeared, h"eading our way, and she_beganto run towardthem. The idea or tn. bridge ii sunlightwas dead;the light had come and gone again. I left, and that afternoonI waswanderingaroundGettysburg. In the car, meanderingnorthward,I playedBachfuguesand Sibeliusand did not turn on the radio;in the motelsI readFuenteor Garc(aMdrquezor Don Delillo, or a biographyof Mann, and did not turn on the television.

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On Wednesdaynight, near Middletown,New York, when I got backto the motel afterdinner,a man waswaitingfor me, loungingagainsta black as I approached. Ford. He straightened "Mr. Seton?WinstonSeton?" Not a mugger,I thought;they don't name the victim first. I nodded. "Mry I havea few wordswith you?I'm feremyKersh,FBI." He flickedopenhis I.D. ar-rdI wonderedwhich had comefirst,the many TV agentsflickingopenthe samekind of I. D. , or the eventitself.I shrugged and openedmy door, and he followedme inside. too pink and smooth,as if he had to He had a round, soft-lookingface, shaveeverythird day if that often,and the kind of build that putsmore bulk he wasnot assoftashe looked. belowthe waistthan aboveit, but I suspected front in of him to get to the low I motionedhim to a chair, and crossed He and a bottleof bourbor-r. dressingtablewhereI had a bucketof ice cubes had two motel that kind of pass. It was the drew in his legs to let me chairs,a tiny roundtablewith a hanginglarnpthat you brainedyourselfon frequentlv,a king-sizebed, and a dresserwith a big nrirror. "What car-rI do for you, Mr. Kersh?"I asked,takingthe shrink wrap off a glass."Drink?" I eyedthe bottle and hopedhe would sayno; after sixdaystherewasn'tmuch left. He saidno, and I pouredmyselfbourbon, addedice cubes,and edgedpasthim to sit on the sideof the bed. He sat with his legsapart,his handson his knees,leaningforward.He looked uncomfortable. "You'vebeenfollowingthe storyaboutthe crashof the Milliken Lear iet, I suppose,"he said. I shookmy head, and for a moment he appeared confused,as if his game plan had been scrappedwithout waming. "You know who JoeMilliken is, don't you?"he askedthen. Every kid knew about Bluebeard,Beautyand the Beast,fack the Ciant Killer, the Hopediamond,the Milliken millions . . I nodded. or turn on the "Okay,Mr. Seton.As soonasyou opena newsnragazine, television,or seea paper,you'll get sorneversionof the story.I'll give y'sg andMilliken andherbabyvanished, ours.Two yearsagoMilliken'sdaughter saidit wasa kidnapping.Broughtus in. We haven'tcomeup with mother or child in all thistime, andthe caseis asopenasthe Montanaskyasfar as " we'reconcerned. "l I held up my hand asmemoryof the eventseepedinto consciousness. " her accord. own left of and her child took mother the readthat "You couldhavereada lot of things,"Kershsaidwith a shrug."He, the old man, saysthey werekidnapped.There'sbeenno note, no ransomdemand, notfting.Even so, it's on the books,unsolved.To complicatethings,when the child'sprints, sodid all theirhospitalrecords, motheiandchildvanished, gota phonecall, Milliken Mr. ago weeks Two Okay. everything. type, blood him a picture had sent she that and granddaughter, his had she said woman a and hung back, call would she said She now. minute any arrive should tfiat the when were there men our and Houston, in office our up. He called Like a light hair. and eyes brown with kid a of Polaroid a picture arrived,

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million otherkids.But alsolike his daughterat thatage.He saidit washer, " End of argument. his granddaughter. Kershsighed;he lookedtired, as if the pasttwo weekshad been tough. "l'll cut it short,"he saidthen. "Milliken and the womanstrucka deal.She would deliverthe kid to him in Houston,no one else,and he calledus off, justlike that. They plannedfor her to bringthe kid to him in one of his Lear jets.His pilot told him they'dhad troublewith the electricalsystemand he blew up. He wantedthat kid in that planeand on her way to Houstonright now. So a weekagolastnight we stoodwith our thumbsin our mouthsand watcheda woman and a man takea little girl aboardthe Milliken plane in Philadelphia.We had planesin the areaand plannedto trackthem every inch of the way, be there when that jet landed.But half an hour out of Philadelphiathe pilot got on the radio;he saidsomethingwaswrong with the electricalsystem,and then silence.It went down." Kershhad left his chair restlessly; he lookedlike a man who wantedto stamp around and found it frustratingthat there wasn'tenough room. I thought he wanteda drink, but didn't make the offer a secondtime. He glancedinsidethe bathroom,the tiny dressingarea,and camebackto stand at the foot of the bed with his handsdeepin his pockets. "We recovered the bodiesof threewomen, two attendants and the other woman,andthreemen, pilot, copilot,the man who boardedwith the woman andchild. No kid," he said,scowling."We hadpeopletherewithin minutes, the wholeareawasbeingcoveredwithin half an hour or so,but no kid." His eyeshad appeared unfocused,now he turnedhis attentionto me. "And you haven'tseenit on the news,readaboutit?" I shookmy head. "What do you want with me, Mr. Kersh?"I asked patiently."lt's an interesting story,and I'll catchup with it in the papersany day now. Why are you here?" "We want to enlist your help," he said;his attitude,that had suggested nothingmorethan fatiguea secondago,had becomeharder,not menacing, but not yieldingeither. I wonderedif other agentswereout in the parkinglot, if a chasecar was nearby.I had to laughto myselfat the full-blownscenariothat had cometo mind. I sippedmy drink and waited. "We think you talkedwith the child at leasttwicein AtlanticCity," Kersh said. "We want you to return and hang around for a few days,seeif she you again." approaches Now I got up, but sincehe wasblockingthe only moving-aroundspace therewas,I satdownagain."You'vegotto bekidding," I saidaftera moment. "lf she'sthere,pick her up, get an identification, be donewith it. " Then I rememberedthe little girl who had moochedice cream,but the memory only made my temperflare. "You've been watchingme? For God's sake, why?" "only sinceMonday," he saidtiredly,not at all placatingme, merely explaining."Sunday,a localpoliceofficerthoughthe sawthe child. We had an APB out, naturally.Anyway,he thoughtmaybeit washer, but shetold

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KateWilhelm

him shewaswaitingfor her daddy,and sheran to you and you boughther an ice creanl.He forgotthe wholething. The nextmorning,he sawthe two of you again,on a seawallor something,and felt that he had beenright to put it out of mind. Then he sawyou driving off alone-seems you havea noticeablecar-and for the first time, he got suspiciousenoughto do a followup.We checkedthe licensenumberand cameup with you. For all " we knew you had the kid stashedawaybackwith your gear,So I staredat him. "l don'tgetit, Kersh.You knowwherethat kid is, go get her. But the kid I sawisn'tthe one you'relookingfor. She'stoo old, four, or closeto it. You're lookingfor what, a two-year-old?" Kershscowledmorefiercelythan ever."l've got a taperecorderout in the car. I'd like you to makea statement,how you cameto seethe child, what shewaswearing,what shesaid.Will you do that?" "Sure," I said."But, Kersh,she'sthe wrongchild." He startedfor the door. "Then you'll be out of it, won't you?Rightback." It wasafterten and I wastired and sleepy.I had beenin bedby ten every night and up beforesix everymorningsincemy trek started.I yawned,but more of it now. Soapopera the Milliken storyintrudedand I remembered stuff.Daddyhad beena brute. Poorlittle rich girl marriedsomeoneunsuitable,a tennisplayer,jockey,groundskeeper,someonelike that. It didn't matterwho he hadbeen,he had not livedlong enoughto seehis child born. A fatalaccidentof somesort.I couldn'trememberthe details.Then, when vanished with the child, her babywasa fewweeksold, the Millikendaughter meant the child and no one had seenthem sinceasfar as I knew.And that wasonly abouttwo now. The rewardmust haveclimbedup to a million, I and tried to shrinkthe kid I had seendown to the right size.I remembered, couldn't;the wrongkid. I yawnedagain. taperecorder,all silverand black."What Kershreturnedwith a space-age we'd like, Mr. Seton,is for you to beginby statingyour nameand the date, to the bestof your recollection,that you sawthat little girl, and then just tell aboutit in your own words." "You know the datebetterthan I do." "Probably,but we want it for the record.Ready?" It didn't takeverylong;therewaslittle to tell, afterall. When I finished, Kershasked,"Mr. Seton,will you help us find that child agarn?" "No," I saidfirmly. "l'm on vacation.I don'tknowanywayI couldbe of help." "Shetrustedyou," he said."Shecameto you a secondtime withoutfear. We think shemight approachyou again." I simplystaredat him in disbelief. Kershsattherefor a moment,then he saidthoughtfully,"l wonderwhat you want, Mt. Seton." "Aren't you goingto turn that off?" He did somethingto the taperecorder,possiblyeventurned it off, but I wasn'tparticularlyinterested.I watchedhim. "We know that everyonewantssomething,"he went on, still meditative.

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"We want your help, of course.But what do you want?Could we appealto your senseof chivalry?Your senseof justice?An annualincome,tax free? Business thrownyour way?" "l want you to get your butt out of here so I can go to bed." When he didn't move, I stoodup, put my glassdown on the bedsidetable,and started to unbutton my shirt. "Listen to me, Kersh.That kid I sawis not, repeat not, theMillikengirl. She'stooold. Sheshowedno signof beinga kidnappee. I've told you all I can about her, ar-rdI dor-r'twant to be involvedin any schemeyou're working.Now, I'm going to bed, and you can sit there ail night for all I care." He stoodup, smiling slightly.The smile took ten yearsoff his apparent age;he could have been a teacherin a junior college,pleasedwith his students,pleasedwith life. He went to the door and then said, "l wo.der why, when you finally caughtup with SteveFalco arid your wife, you didn't beatthe shit out of him. When I knowthe answerto that I'll knowI'rowto getyour cooperatior-r, Mr. Seton.Good night." When I knewthe answerto that, I thought,I'd knowthe answerto the riddle of the universe. I pouredanotherdrinkandsatin thechairKershhadvacated. It wasverywarm. Twelveyearsagomy grandfather died and left me a small fortuneand his housein Atlanta.I movedto New York, marrieda model, SusanLorenza,starteda photography, graphicartsbusiness with SteveFalco, and bought the Thunderbird.Battingaverageway down, three strikeouts, one homerun. Threeyearslater,Susanand Stevehadcleanedme out, and headedwest.I still had the housein Atlanta-they hadn'tknownthat it was 1 very fine house-and I still had the Thunderbird.I got drunk and stayed drunk for a long time, two years'worth of drunk, and then I went looking for them, arrdfinally found them in Los Angeles. Susanwasstill beautiful,but with a Hollywoodglossthat wasnew, and breaststhat werealso new. She waswearinga yellow sweaterthat showed them off admirably."l had to do it," shehad said."l had to try to makeit on my own." Her voicewasnew, also:voice-lessons new;shehad learned how to put a little throb in it. The detectiveI had hired had reportedthat shewasdoingporn movies;I l-radrr't believedhim. Now I did. St.u. Falco was-exactlythe same,shorterthan me by severalinches,blackhair, dark restless eyes.He snapped his fingersa lot, I remen-rbered, andhe wassnappilg the''rthatday."we'll makeit up to you, kid," he said."we alwavssaid'*.'J makeit up to you, soonaswe got the breaks. " They werein a sirabbylittle stuccohousewith plasticfun-riture.I took a step toward them, huddled togetherby the sofa,aud Susanscreamed, "Don'tlit himl Winr1ie,please. Let me explain."lteve had cut in, "star quality,tl-rat's what shehas,wasted. I'll turn her into the bigge5l-" For two yearsI had lived with a pit insideme that wasfilled with red hot coals,and sudder-rly that day, lookingat Susan'snew breasts,I felt as if the pit had sealeditselfoff, the coalsweregone, and therewasonly a hollow

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placethere.I turnedand walkedout, pattedthe T-bird, got in it, and drove to Atlanta where I mortgagedthe houseand startedPhoenix Publishing Company. And I still didn't know why I hadn't beat the shit out of him. It had somethingto do with the plasticfurniture,I thought,pouringthe lastof the bourbonwith regret.Plasticfurniture, plasticbreasts.That had something to do with it, but I couldn'tsort it out more than that. I rememberedthe day I calledthe Atlantatenantsand askedpermission to inspectthe house.I hadn'tseenit for fifteenyears.It had beenbeautifully maintained,with sparklingwhite woodwork,gleamingoak floors,and fine furniture. Camelliasand azaleaswere in bloom out front, and sunlight roomslike a healingbalm. I stoodin the widefoyer pouredinto the spacious the tenantsthat I had no plansto forcethem to move, and I was reassuring overwhelmedby shame. When the tenantsleft two yearslater, I movedin. I turned off the lightsin my motel room and satproppedup in bed, not readyto sleep,but not willing to let Kershknow his visit waskeepingme awake.He had tried to stir up the ashes,bring somethingto life that had died a long time ago, until now even the asheswere gone, no embers remained,only a hollow space,and all the pokingand proddinghe could managewould be asfutile asshakinga stickin a vacuum.But he had tried. That wasthe salientpoint. He had tried. And I didn't know why. He had triedto arousewhat?My anger,frustration,ffiy desirefor revenge, retribution,the feelingof betrayalthat had coloredall the rest?Any of the above,all of the above?Or simply*y curiosity?I grimacedin the semidarkness.He had done that. I couldn'tevenguesshow many work hours, how many dollarshad goneinto the backgroundcheckthey had done on me in just a few days.Why? I easedmyselfdown into the bedproperlyand stretched.If theywereafter the Milliken kid, I thoughtthen, this wasa falsetrail, and Kershmustknow it. The child I had talkedto wassimplytoo old. I didn't know a lot about were still infants,still in diapersmostly, still children, but two-year-olds doingbabythings,and the little girl I had boughtice creamfor waswell out of that. Shewasalreadya little person,not a baby.Not particularlypretty, or evencute that I could recall,but, in fact, I could recalllittle abouther physically.Justa kid with brown eyesand blondehair tanglingin the ocean breeze. But what if they weresimplyusingthe Milliken kidnappingasa coverto get to this otherkid, I thoughtthen, and camewide awakeagain.SlowlyI ihook my head.I didn't believethat. What could be biggerthan Milliken's millions, his influentialfriends,the powerhe wielded? I checkedout of the motel early,and when I pulled into the parkinglot of a restauranthalf a mile away,the blackFord pulled in besideme. "That'sa sweetheart of a car," Kershsaidadmiringly.He trailedhis hand The car wasdirty, but classshowed,dirt and all. hood. silver over the

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"Who's your supervisor, Kersh?"I asked,walkingtowardthe entranceof the restaurant.He told me and I went to a pay phone near the door and dialed information,then the FBI number in Washington,ar-rdwhen I got throughto them, I askedfor his supervisor. When I enteredthe restaurant itselfa few minuteslater, Kershwavedme to a booth. There wasa pot of coffeeon the table,servicefor two. Only a few otherpeoplewereeatingat this earlyhour. "We hopedyou'd think of checking,"he said."Thought you might, but if you hadn't I wasgoingto suggest it. I'm havingpancakes with blackberry jam. Soundsprettygood,doesn'tit?" I pouredcoffee,seetl-ring. Assistant to the DirectorLelandMurchisonhad beenexpectingmy call, he hopedI would cooperate,of the utmostimportance,debt of gratitude,nationalinterest.. . . He had had a list of brzz wordsat hand and usedthem all. And told me absolutelynothing. The waitresscameto takeour ordersand when shehad left again,I said, "Now what, Mr. Kersh?You tried reason,and hinted of bribery.Todaydo we advanceto threats?IRS audits,red tapeof one sortor another?" Hc laughed.It wasdisconcerting to see.Scowling,or evensimplyneutral he was like an actor trving to portraythe sternFBI agent,but smiling he couldbe the guy nextdoor,the goodbuddywith a six-packand a brand-new joke. "No, Mr. Seton,"h. saidthen. "Auditstaketoo long,for onething. And we want'lour help now. Today.What we decidedto do is tell you the whole story." Now I laughed. His expression becamerueful. He openedthe briefcase on the seatbeside him and broughtout a sheafof papersclippedtogether."You know how I askedyou to startyour statement,name and date when you sawthe kid. We've done them all the sameway. Theseare preliminarystatements, like yours;the questionsand answersget a bit bulky, ['m afraid.This shouldbe e-noughfor now." He slid the papersacrossthe table. "fust read through them," he said,and pouredmorecoffeefor both of us. I nudgedthe papersto the sideand he lookedat me with a glint in his eyesthat I hadn't seenbefore. "Readthem," he saidsoftly,"or I'll ram my little blackF-ordinto that big silverbabyof yours." I startedto readthe papers: Ruth Hazeltine,Feb. 16 l've beena pediatricsnursefor fourteenyeors,alwaysthe graveyardshift. I like it, and now l'm so usedto it, it iustfeels natural. It gaveme the chanceto be with my own kidsin the evenings,whentheyneededme most,and I couldsleepin the morningswhentheywereat school.It workedout fine. I wason that night. lt wasduring that bad snowstormand we were shorthanded. cloria Strumm gotsnowedin, and couldn'tmake it,

{56

Kate ltYilhelm but it wdsa quiet night and Vanessaand I weremanagingokay. who are in a Therewerenine babies,not countingthe preemies, It usedto be deal with them. so we didn't have to separatewing you got in the night, that was it, the moms tucked that once for years ago, and sometimes but we went to feedingon demandten oneof the babiesis in with his mom two, threetimesa night. The Hilyard baby wasoneof thlem.While they'rein with their moms we straightenup the cribs,changethe sheetsif they needit, iust tidy up a bit, and I had donethat to hiscrib, had it all readyfor him. I wdsn'tgonemorethan threeminutes.Walkeddown the hall to Hilyard's room, collectedthe baby, said a word or two to the mother,and went back,and she, this little babygirl, was in hiscrib. No diaper,no bracelet,nothing,and soundasleep.I put the Hilyard babydown in a differentcrib and examinedthe girl baby; not a mark on her, good professional iob with the cord, nice and warm. Born within the past threehourswashow shelookedto me. Aroundsevenpounds,iust a normal little babygirl. I covered her up and went out to get Vanessa.We calledDr. Weybridge, and he calledSecurity.I didn't seednyonebring the baby in, didn't seednyonecomeon the floor after midnight. lust me and Yanessa.

SilentlyI went on to the next statement: VanessaGoldstein,Feb. 16. Nobodypassedthe nurses'station!I swearit. No one was up therebut Ruth and me. Dr. Weybridgeexaminedthe babyand saidfor us to follow the standardroutine,and we did. I put the dropsin her eyesand the lab sentup Sandra Lewisto draw blood. We printedher and got a diaperand gownon her. I put the Baby Doe braceleton her, startedher chart. She waseightpounds,one half ounces,twenty incheslong. l'..lormalreflexes. I glancedat Kershin annoyance,but he seemedfascinatedby swirlsin his coffeecup or something.I pickedup the next paper: lane Torrance,M.D., Feb. 17. Dr. Weybridgesimplymadea mistake,that'saII. And the and shorthanded,as they said.I examined nurseswereoyerworked Baby Doe at eight-thirtyin the morningand found an infant who wctsctt leastten daysold. She wasalert and active, her eyeswere trackingwell. Her cord had droppedoff and the navel washealed. put upon, ignoredby Kershwho wasstill absorbed Feelingexasperated, by the contentsof his coffeecup, I continuedto read:

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Lilian Tully, March 12. I tookher in. TherewasaII that publicity, peoplelining up wanting to adopther, you know. But you cdn't iustfarm off a kid Iike a sackof potatoesor something.There'schannels.I run a fosterhousefor kids,specialtyis newborns,and I was next on the Iist, so I got her. And lie! Boy,did theylie! I don't know what they'retrying to pull, them socialworkers,but if that kid wctsa newborn,then so'mI. I meanshealreadyhad teeth. Anyways, thereshewasand at firstI thoughtl'd iustgo with it, keepher, starther education.You gotta startthemyounglearningabout rulesand properprocedures. I teachthem, and when theygo on their way, theyknow a thing or two about disciplineand obedience.start them youngand they stay straight,believeyou me. Little kidsneedschedules, theyneedroutines,but that one! contrary from the day I laid eyeson her. You don't haveto spank themor hit them, there'sother waysto get their attention,but whenI startedto pinch her ear a little, to makeher stopbawling for food off schedule,shebit me. A real devil she was. sitting up in her bed, watchingme like a witch. I couldn'tkeeprestraiitson her for beans.Sometimes you haveto do that, keepthem still for a Iittle bit. Not her. oh, I calledthemand told them to comegtet the little devil. Put her in a kennelor something.I didn't wint nothing moreto do with the likesof her. I told them to checktheir records.I specializein newborns,I told them. I turnedto the firstpageand checkedthe datethere,and the datethat was on the statementI had just read. Kersh was watchingme with a blank expression, as if he had fallenasleepwith his eyesopen. Marilyn Schlecter,August20. I don't know how it happened! We'retrying to keepup with morethan two hundredcdses, and we don't haveenoughpeople, or facilities.we don't evenhavea properworkingcomputer.lt eatsrecords,erdsesinformation, misfilesthings.It iust happened. Her recordsgot mislaid, misfiIed.I don't know what happei:ned to them.I don't evenknow how many differentcaseworkershandled her, noneof themcomparingnotes,and someof themeven renamedher. She obviouslywas not a six-month-otd baby;shewas a toddler,eighteenmonthsto two yearsold. Shewastaken out to te,mporary homestwo or threetimesuntil we couldplaceher, and thoserecordsdre d mess,differentnames,dges.But our supervisor had left and peopleweretrying to fiIt in. No onecctnblame them for what happened.lf we had morepeopleand someoffice help.. . . Somehow she gotin our books as Mary lo Coodman and shewassentto winona Forbushunderthat name.I don't know how it happened.But whentheytried to get an

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Kate \tVilhelm identificationfor thisotherlittle girl, sheturnedout to be Mary lo. I calledForbushand explainedthat a mistakehad beenmade and arrangedto collectthe child the followingday, but whenI went out to pick her up, the housewasempty.That'sall I know.I iust know she isn't Mary lo Goodman.I don't know whereshe is, or who she is. And yes,l'm crying. And I'll keepcrying.

I was reading more slowly, bewildermentand anger in about equal amountsn-ryreactionto the stuff in the statements. near the end of the month. Max Godel,September, trailer, you know,readingthe want in Sylvie's l'm sittin' there nothing,but what the hell, I look. me. I'Jever's cds. Notftingfor I mean, phone Marsha, ringsand it's And the for chrissake! me nothing didn't leave she a walk Marsha!Man, whenshe took And scraper. got had a if she'd a that but a tattoo,and she'd deals blackiack, goes, She at work? is Sylvie thereshe is, and she why'dshebe homeat ten? And I go, so what? And shegoes, wait'Il you see.This is the biggest,iust the biggest.I iustgot in town. |m coming,over. And I go, no way, babe.But she'salready gone,and pretty soonshe'spoundingon the door,and I openit and she goes,you lookgood, NIax. Sylviegone?And I go, get lost, bitch. But she goes,Iook,Max, what I found. Or what found me. And it's iust a ftid. No two waysabout it, Marsha'sa fast worker, It's a kid up and walking,and Marshawas but this,for chrissake! with me for a coupleof years,up to last spring.I mean,not even Marshacan't w,orkthat fast, but the kid is holdingher hand like she'sN4ama,all right. Blonde,browneyes'l"lot the towheadthe papersshowed,not the saucereyeseither.lust a little kid, two, the kid inside threeyearsold, I medn little. Marsha sortof shoves and shewhipsthe doorright outta my hand and slamsit and standspushingit with her back,Iike the drmy'sout thereand going to bustin any minute. Playwith the cards,kid, shegoes, and the kid goesto the tablewhereI beenplayingsolitaire.Before I readthe want ads,I mean. And she startsto messaroundwith the cards,and Marsha goesI needto hangout a coupladays, Max, and I go Ha! Ha! And she goes,it's the biggestthing we ever gotus in, Max. Lookat her, and I lookat the kid and I thini yeah,couldbe. The papersalwaysget thingswrong. And I Iookat Marshaand I go, yousnatchedher? You did thatT And she goes,no way, Max. I wasgoingbackto the city-she thinks Nei York is the only city in the world-from Philly and I heardit on the radio, you know, the crashand aII, and I was almoston top whereit happenedand I thoughtwhat the hell I'd havea look, but there'saII them copsand god knowswho else'stopping everythingthat moves,and I go shit, it's not worth the pain.

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Know what I mean? And I'm in this line of cdrs,all trying to get the hell out of there,turning around,backingup, like it's crazy. so I turn off to a blacktoproad, me and a zillion others,we all turn off, but I stopat this roadhouse for a beerand the placeis of talk about the crash and the kid that'sbeensnatched,and I full get an earfuland split. All'sI can think of is depart,get the fuck out of there,backto the city whereyou know what'swhat, and I'm driving, lookingfor the way backto a highwayfor god'ssake, and she sitsup in the backseatand asksdre we going to be home pretty soon?The kid'soverthereat the table messing around with the cardsall this time. she'sgot them all separatedin suits. Diamonds,spades,like that, and she's got the facecardslined up and she'sworkingon the restof them,putting them in order,ten down. I don't know, it makesme nervous.I mean, Ehe'siusta little kjd. Anyways,sheain't dressed in pink pantswith flowerson the sides,or a pink shirt,and I shakemy head.No way, I go, it ain't her. But Marshagoesshehad to buy her somethingto wear, her stuff was toosmall. she opensup the bag she'sgot,and there's the clothesthe radioandTV yammered about all day. We gotta talk, shegoesand she puts the kid in on the bed and closes-the door, and pretty soonsylvie comesbackand her and Marsha dre screaming and yellingat eachotherand then both of them screaming at me, and finally I go, wegotta call the cops,for chrissake! And theyboth screamand yell somemore,and chrissake it's threein the morning, and we decideto get Eome for sleep.Marsha putssomecoversand a pillow on the fl*, for the kid and she takesthe sofaand me and sylvie hit the hay. And next thing I know the screamingstartsagain and Sylvie goesyou sonof a bitch what'veya donewith the kid, and I go yoi're c::razy. You know that, you'replain crazy. But the kid'sgine, all right. And sylviegoes,this'll loseme my iob, youcreep.you kroi that? And she callsthe cops. Breakfast had beendeliveredwhile I wasreadingthe lastpage.I finished readingand then carefullyshuffledthe papersinlo a neat-li[le stackand fasten-ed the paperclip backon them beforeI glancedat Kersh. "l know. Craziness," he said,eating. I startedon my eggs.Not just graz!,1 thought,not just that. creepy. It was,crazy and it wascreepy.I didn't believethi implications of what I had read,and if Kershdid he wascrazy,but he wasn'talone, he had backup, superiors,underlings,and someof them musthavebelievedit, too, ar-rdthat wasthe scariest partof all. "Two differentchildren,"I saidaftera fewminutes of silenteating. He shookhis head."l wish," he saidgloomily."The link is the woman winona Forbush.we recoveredher body from the plane crash,and her boyfriend's body.Theyfoundthemselves *ith an unidentifiedkid and flashed

#0

Kate Wilhelm

on the Milliken kidnappingand thought they could make a killing." He groaned."No pun intended." "That'swhat I mean.The kid theyhad obviouslywasnot born lastFebruary. The socialservicesofficescrewedup the recordsroyally.The woman admittedit. It's a screwup all the way." He lookedalmostapologetic."We lifted printsfrom the Forbushhouse and checkedthem againstthe Snow Storm Baby.That wasthe only child the Forbushwomanhad. It's her." I rememberedit then, the Snow Storm Baby was what the papershad at the hospitallastFebruappeared dubbedher, the child who mysteriously ary. "You musthavefoundout how shegotto the hospital,who left her there," I said,workingat controllingmy anger.I didn't know what he wastrying to put over,why he wastelling me all this, and it wastoo much to takein with scrambledeggsand toastfirst thing in the morning. kidnapping? "Well," he saidmildly, "we weren'tinvolvedin that. Reverse What would you call it? Anyway,the Philadelphiapolice didn't find anything, and we didn't startlookinguntil afterthe Milliken caseopenedagain. One more statementyou and we'restill backtracking. Then we backtracked, " should see. Savedthe best for last. He pulled anotherpaPerfrom the from everyoneconnected and held it. "We alreadyhavestatements briefcase with the hospital-workers,the medicalstaff,visitors,patients-or they're still comingin. It's a lot, Seton.A lot. This one might interestyou." I didn't want to readanotherone. I didn't want to think aboutthis any longer, but my hand took the Paper,and my eyesbegan tracking the words. Rae Ann Davis, FebruarY16. aide, in the prematurebaby ward. I've worked I'm a nurse's therefor twenty-fouryedrs.The night of the stormwe had triplets delivered,poorlittle things,we knewtheywouldn't makeit, but act like theyhavea chanceand do everythingyou can. you 'Andalway,s we had a drug preemiecomein and he neededdetox,and we elsethat night. So we wereaII like everyone wereshorthanded, my breakand I went in the back running. So I came from if l'd went in the nurses'Iounge because uEe bathroim that visitors I neededa couplemgre and put again work me to they'dhave therewas this little counter on the bathroom minutes.So in the I lookedat it, and it towel. little a in wrapped bundle,something a fetus,like a like yet. More that preemie. even Nof was this placenta. It wasn't iust right, had the still miscarriageor abortion, havelived wouldn't It thing. one long Iike the cord was too for poot little Some cried. have I could term. it ti evenif she'dcarried now and her, to happened what by death to piobably scared girl somebody like up wrapped and up cleaned iust been lt it. But it'd thoughtit couldhayemade it. And they left it in the right place,

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not the preemieward, I don't medn, but a Catholic hospitalwhere the nuns would christenthe poor little thing. Anywaysevenif it was still wdrm, it wasdead,that'swhat I thought,and I wrapped it up again in the toweland tookit with me to the nurses'station and then oneof the real preemies went into a convulsion,and the tripletsweren'thookedup yet, and it waslike I knewit would be. Theyhad me running with the restof themfor the next hour or more,and I iustforgotabout the fetusin the towel.I left it on the counterat the stationand forgot it, God help me. And whenI seenit again I got scaredbecause I didn't call the headnurseor the nuns or do anythingfor the poorlittle thing, and I iust put the toweland everythingin my bag. I thoughtthat whenI got off work l'd put it on the doorstep,like in books,and let somebody elsefind it, nowherenear the ward, but out by the door.At twelve whenI teft it wassnowingtoo hard to go home,and a couple othersweredown at the door talking about sleepingover,and I didn't hayea chanceto do anythingwith it, soI went backto the nLrrses' Ioungeand it was still in my bag. But I couldn't get any restuntil I did something,and finally I went backto the visitors' restroom.I meant to put it backwhereI found it, only it was different,not so little, morelike a real baby, but small And there'sno placenta,like I thoughtbefore.Biggerthan mostof the preemieswe get, though.I freakedout and I ran out of there, took the elevatorto the canteenand had me a cup of cffie and a smoke.I thoughtI wasgoing crazy,seeingthingswrong, seeing thingsthat maybewasn'teventhere.AnywayI went backand it was still there,a babygirl, pink, wdrm, big enoughfor the baby ward, and I knewl'd beenworkingwith preemiestoo long, seeing them wherethey weren'teventhere.That's whenI tied off the cord. I don't know why, iust seemedlike somebody should.I knew that if I waiteda little bit Ruth wouldgo get the babyI seenher take to the mother,and I could slip thisone in one of the cribs and let themtakecareof it. I couldn't sayI found it, not now. I mednnobodybut me had beenin the bathroomsincenine. They'd askwhy I didn't find it before.And that'swhat I did. Theydidn't seeme and the babyfinally got a bed,and it all workedout all right, only I had to takesometime off because I keptgettinga headache from wonying about seeingthingsagain. After I settled down a little I remembered the macaronisaladI ate that night in the cafeteriaand I knew what l'd had wasfood poisoning,made me Eeethings.NeyerseenanythingI shouldn'tsincethen. Kershwaswatchingme narrowlywhen I finishedthe papers. "fesusbloodyChrist!" I muttered."You buy that a kid born prematurely lastFebruaryis the equivalentof a four-year-old now?You chooieto believe that insteadof a messof fucked-uprecordsand two differentkids?"

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"By the time she left the hospitalat leastsevennursesand four doctors had examinedher, eachone givinga slightlydifferentreport.Then a dozen Not exactlyinexpesocialworkers,fivefosterparentshadher, hadsomebody. he saidsoftly."To saynothing of Max and crew, and riencedobservers," " then there'syour statement. The restaurant had filled up by then, andthe noiselevelkeptrising.Kersh glancedaround,leanedforward,and saidin a voiceso low I could hardly go overyour statementlastnight. She says hear it, "We had a psychologist you noticeda differencein the child from one day to the next, evenif you weren'tawareof it at the time. Day one you treatedher like a three-yearold, the where's-mommyroutine. Few peopleknow what to sayto a child that young. You boughther the ice creamand sheskippedaway.Day two, you actuallytalkedto her, warnedher about strangemen. The way you'd " talk to a four-year-old. He pickedup the bill. "My treat," he saidreachingfor his wallet. wasright,I realized.But shedidn't knowthe reason. His tamepsychologist by how much When I liftedthe child up to the seawall,I had beensurprised That'swhat mademe warnher. I shook heaviershewasthan I hadexpected. my headhard. "You wantedto know why we askedyou to help," Kershsaid,gettingto his feet."Becausewe might not recognizeher;you might not either,but she you and trustyou again.Let'stakea walk." might recognize We went outsideand stoppedat the Thunderbird.He ran his hand over you let anyoneelsetakeit the hood ashe had donebefore."l don't suppose out for a spin?" "You supposeright." "You needto think," he said."You'rethe kind of man who drivesand thinks,but headsouth,will you?Plentyof treeson the way. Like the man said,seeone, you'veseenthem all." " "And you'll be right behind me, I suppose. "We'll "Or someoneelse,"he said,smiling. talk againlater."I unlocked the door and openedit. His hand held it openfor anothermoment."Seton, and think fast,will you?Milliken hashired a herd of privateinvestigators, we don't want them to find the child first.We reallydon't want Milliken to takeher." "Life as a princess? Isn't that what he hasto offer?" "For how long?What do you supposehe'd do when he realizedsheisn't exactlywhat he orderedup? In all likelihoodhe had his son-in-lawkilled. even,but his daughterbelievedit and ran. We don't No proof,no accusation want him to havethis child, Seton." "And what will you do with her?" I askedbitterly. His eyestook on that peculiarsteelyglint again."Not my department," he said. "But it would be betterthan what he hasto offer." He closedthe car door, pattedthe top, and then walkedawayto his black Ford. When I pulled out of the parkinglot, he wasbehindme.

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I droveto the DelawareWater Gap whereI had plannedto spendthe day hiking.Afteronly an hour on the trail, I returnedto my carandstoodlooking at the scenery.The treeswereturning nicely,but they had not yet acquired the full blazeI had anticipated.They would be betteron my way back, I thought, and wonderedhow many times I had thought the same thing already. Anothercarwasparkedat the lookout,a whiteDodge,with a lean-faced man at the wheelreadinga newspaper. I ignoredhim, just as he ignoredme. They couldn'tmakeme do anything,I wasthinking.They couldn'tforce me at gunpoint to walk on the beachuntil a little girl beggedfor an ice cream.No wayto win the confidenceof a child, paradinga rnanat gunpoint. And why sucha cockand bull story?Who wasthe kid?I could think of half a dozenanswersthat weremore convincingthan the storyKershhad told: the president'slong-lostgranddaughter, heir to the British throne, an oil billionaire'sillegitimatedaughter,an experimentalsubjectcarryingdeadly virusesin her blood. . . . A wind had comeup, whippingthroughthe gorgebelow,settingthe trees adance,and twirling leavesthat lookedlike cioudsof confetti.I had become hot andsweatyhiking,but now I beganto shiver.Wherewasthe kid sleeping? Was shestayingwarm and dry?Who wasfeedingher?Buyingher clothes? I droveaimlessly throughthe mountains.Presently I wouldstopand take somepictures,I told myself,but I droveon and on. And finall,vI startedto drive south. I didn't know yet if I could let myselfbe usedby Kersh;I still didn't want to get involvedin whateverwasgoingon, but I drovesouth. I didn't believehis story,and now accepted that I probablyneverwould know what they wereup to, but they wereputtingin a lot of time on it, and they reallydid want my help. I laughedout loud when it occurredto me that his tame psychologist might havetold hinr that arousingmy curiosityrvasthe key to use. But mostly I was rememberinghow the little girl had reachedout her handsfor me to lift her to the wall, and how shehad assumedI would help her down again,and how shehad giggledwhen I warnedher abouttrusting strangemen. Where wasshe now? It wasabouttwo when I stoppedat a restaurant. Kersharnbledoverto my sideas I wastossingmy hiking bootsinto the trunk. B"y you somelunch," he saidamiably."Your appestat -you is sureset for differenthoursthan mine. I thoughtI'd starvebefore " stopped. I shrugged, and closedthe trunk lid. "Think of it asa refurrdon your incometax," he said,aswe enteredthe restauranttogether. Regularbusiness lunch, I thought,afterwe had ordered,pastramion rye, milk for me, ham and cheeseon white toast,coffeefor him. No busirress talk yet. He lookedas if he neededthe coffee.He lookedexhausted. and as if in confirmation,he yawnedwidelv.

#4

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He didn't bring up the matteruntil we had finishedeatingand I ordered coffee.Then he said,"You decidedto go alongwith us?" "l haven'tdecided." "You'vegot nothingto lose,Seton.Justgain,all the way." "What gain?" "Good will. Bundlesof good will, and that'snot to be sneezedat these agencies on your side,clearsailingall the way." days.Get the government "She might not evenbe thereany longer." "Oh, shehasn'tleft. We know who goesin and who comesout. Atlantic City's easy,not too many waysin and out, unlessyou want to takea long, cold swim." "The weather'schanged;she probablywouldn't be on the beach now anyway." "We thoughtof that. Thing is, sheprobablyhangsout whereother kids are. Purloinedlettereffect.We havea prettyneatcity map for you. It'll be in your room. Anyway,you wanderaroundtakingpicturesof the elementary the beach,boardwalk.Wherethereareotherkids, schools,the playgrounds, she'll turn up. We're bettingon it. " He finishedhis secondcup of coffeeand motionedto the waitressfor a refill. Any minute now he'd starttwitching,I thought.Very quietlyhe said, "Seton,someone's goingto find that child. You know it, and I know it." for you. ReluctantlyI nodded."Good. Now, we'll make your reservation You like that placeyou stayedin before?The Abbey?If not, sayso. We'll put you up at the Taj Mahal, Trump's Palace,whateveryou say. Meals, booze,whateveryou want, just put it on the tab. No problem.If thereare keepan accountand hand it in. We'll takecareof it. " other expenses, The Abbeywas relativelysmall, threeor four blocksoff the main drag, quiet. I saidit would do fine. "Okay. See,we want you to be comfortable.This might takea few days. Shemight not spotyou right off, or shemight hold backa dayor two. If she doesapproachyou, talk with her. That's all, iust normal friendly chatter. Then leave,and you'redone.From sundownto sunupyou'reon your own. PIay,havefun. Sheisn'tgoingto showat night. In a placelike AtlanticCity a kid by herselfat night would stickout like a dinosauron the beach.Look over the map; we'll mark the placeswe think she might frequent.If she doesn'tshowin any of them, then wanderaboutwhereyou think shemight turn up. We don't expectyou to searchfor her, just be in placeswhereshe might seeyou." I drankmy coffee;it had growncold and wasbitter. "What if shedoesn't approach - t'Th.r, me in a few days?" we'll think of somethingelseto try," he saidtiredly."On Saturday we'll turn the screwsa little. There'sgoingto be one of thoseunfortunate papers.It will hint leaksin time for the newsSaturdaynight, and Sunday's hidden in Atlantic is being grandchild Milliken the FBI suspects the that and spread He sighed search." house-to-house intend a they that and City.

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his hands. "We want to avoid doing that. Let's hope she comes to you tomorrow or by Saturday afternoon." I had an image of a small child being cornered by a flock of FBI agents, a SWAT team, a herd of private investigators,and a million poor sodswho knew about the Milliken reward. I stood up. "fesus," I said. "She's just a

little kid!" "ls she,Seton?Are you sure?" I startedto walkawayandhe suddenlysnortedwith laughter."Good Lord, I iust realizedwhy you like the Abbey.They let you parkyour own car there, don't they?No valetparking." I kept moving. He caughtup with me at the door. "lf Falco had taken your car insteadof your wife, then would you havebeatenthe shit out of nrmr He wasstill laughing,and I wasstill walkingawayfrom him, or he would haveknown that at that instantmy indecisionhad becomeresolved. If the child approached me, and if shewasthe three-to-four-year-old I had seenbefore,I'd do whatKershwanted.Turn her over.You can'ileavea small child alone in Atlantic City, or anywhereelse.She belongedto someone; presumably Kershknewwho thatwas,andpresumably shewouldbe returned and I would neverknow more about it than I did then. But if a child approached me who seemedolder, bigger,differentin any significantway, Kershcouldn'thaveher. _ -Statingthisto myselfwassimpleandat the time it evenseemedreasonable; followingup seemedimpossible.I droveandthoughtandthe moreI thoughi the more hopelessit appeared.They had the city sewedup; no one "ould leaveexceptby boat without crossinga bridge,and it was-easyenough to maintainsurveillance on a bridge. Traffic washeavy;I got in the right lane and let everythingmoving pass me by, and finalll caTg up with the name foey Mar.or, ,,id r phn ihrt might evenwork. I pulledoffat the nextgasstation/diner complexand called Joeyin Manhattan.Sincehe workedfor one of the biggestad agenciesin the business wherehe had advancedto dizzyingheights,it wasea"sier to get the firm's numberfrom informationthan to gei him at the agency.FinaTly he cameon the line. "win," he said,"thatreallyyou?"I got in a wordandthen he said,,H"y, man! How you doing?Whereareyou?Come on over!" "lo"y, shut up and listen.I needa favor." "You got it," he said,deadserious. He didn't interrupta singletime when I told him I neededsomeoneto bringme a car and to fly home againwithoutseeingme. "l'll needthe licensenumber,and make,all that,; I said.,,Andthe keys, natch.If this happens can you be availableoverthe nextthreenights?[ don't know when or evenif I'll needthe car." "Baby," he saidsoberly,"this suresoundslike big troubleto me. Atlantic City?No problem.You'll wanta coupleof numbetr*h... you can reachme." t

'

^tt

#6

Kate Wilhelm

I let out the breathI hadn'tknownI washolding."Thanks,Io.y," I said. "fust thanks."No questions, no demands,just,Yougot it. We talkeda few more minutesand when I hung up I felt committedfor the first time. When |oey wasthirteenand I wasfourteenhis family movedfrom BrookSouthernhospitality. lyn to Atlanta,wheretheydid not find the over-touted knewhe wasblack, in high school I the kids than was, but was no darker foey and he had a funny accent,SpanishPuertoRican overlaidwith Brooklyn. togetherand for the first time I found someone We had a coupleof classes I could talk art with, and he saidit wasthe samefor him. He wasshywhen he wasn'tbeing a struttingmacho son of a bitch. We both wantedto be artists;we talkedaboutwhat we would do: go to the RhodeIslandSchoolof Design-neither of us did-spend a yearor two soakingup art in ltaly-he did, I didn't. When he wasfifteenand I wassixteenhe waspickedup for questioningabouta break-inat a 7-Eleven,and I signedan affidavitsaying he had beenwith me at my folla' cabinat the lakethat weekend.[t wasa lie. There wasa lot of sniggering,a lot of thoseloola, but in the end they turned him loose.I invitedhim out to the cabinthe nextweekendand I beathim up out there.It wasn'thard;I had severalinchesand fifteenpoundson him. "What'd you do that for?" he rvailed,holding a bloodywashclothto his cheek. "Becauseyou'rea thickheaded niggerandI know what thcy'ddo to you." fight, and afterwardwe both cried. This time he startedthe driving south,the plan shapedup more and Backin the Thunderbird, at more firmly. But therewasnothing all I could do aboutit until I sawthe child again. I checkedinto the Abbey,showered,changedclothes,and hit the casinos.I playedblackjacka little, playedwith the slotsa little, and hit the money machiles a lot, threehundredhere, five hundredthere until I had nearly five thousandin cash.I had dinner late, and then droveup and down the alongthe boardwalk,back,until I finally islald, in andout of the sidestreets, bingo store-front foundthe kind of placeI waslookingfor. A round-the-clock gamewith a hundredplayers,and a tiny children'sareaoff to one side.Out Frontthere weretwo zebrasunder spotlights,and r-rextdoor wasa church. Atlantic City. I found two parkinglots within two blocksand, satisfied,I went backto the hotel and went to bed. I calledfoeyfrom a payphoneandtold him 11the morningafterbreakfast of lhe parkinglots, and he told me the kind of car he would the addresses drive down if I gavethe word. An eighty-nineToyotaCelica, gtay.I made a note of the licensenumber;he saidhe'd be standingby, ar-rdthat wasthat. Then I went out to the boardwalkand the beachwith my gear. By three in the afternoonI was readl' to start driving anywhere.The but bttg rainthatdidn'tmaterialize, *.rih., wascoldandgray,threatening therelike a glower.I had takenmore picturesthan I had film for, and was shootilg wit"han empty camera,which didn't help my disposition.And I had eatEna hot dog ior lunch and now had heartburn.Not a goodday, I

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wasthinking, when I sawa bunch of kidsplayingon someconcreteturtles. Little boyswereclimbingoverthe things,kickingat eachother,king-of-theturtle fashion.And behind them a small group of little girls playedwith a ball. And shewasthere. The sweaterI had seenher in beforehad beena bit too big; todayit was just a little too small. A hot wash,I told myself,unloadingthe camera, settingup, keepingmy eyeson the boysand the turtles.All thi kidsstopped to watch me. Don't come near me, I thoughtto her. Keepyour distance, kid. She stayedbackwith the other girls. Todayshewasminglingwith the four-tofive-year-olds and passingjust fine. I focusedon the boyr *ho began to makefaces;the girls madefacesbackat them, tauntingthem, and I Jaid in a conversational tone, "Your turn next, girls. Let'sdo the boysfirst. you knowwherethe zebrasare,downby the church?"One of the boyssaidsure, and I went on, Ieaningoverthe cameranow, "Well, tonightl;ll be taking picturesthere.After dark." The little girls beganto move in closer,and I said, still addressing the "5..p back. Peopleare-watchingus, you know." I glancedup at c-aTer-a, the kids,who laughed.Belatedlyshelaughed,too. But shelookedfrightened. One of the boyswastryingto standon his head;he fell, and theyall-laughed loy-dqt.I pretended -to take his pictureanyway.One of the giils threw the ball then and they all ran off afterit; none of them lookedbackat me. The boysstoppedhorsingaround and I packedup mygear."Thanks,fellows,"I called,and walkedon. Had it beenenough?I had no way of knowing.But, at the veryleast,no watcherwould havehad causeto singleher out. And for the firstiime t felt a shiverthat wasnot broughton by weather.I thoughtof Kersh'swordswhen I protestedthat shewasjust a little kid: "Are you iure?" And I knew that I wasn'tsureof anything. I wanderedfor ten minutes,spotteda coffeeshop,and werrtin. F.roma payphonethereI_called Joeyandsaid,"Tonight," andhungup, thenquickly dialedmy own officenumber.Gracieansweiedand we ch"attlda minute or two. A tall blackwoman had movedcloseenoughto overhearand I made no attemptto keepher from hearing.After that i had coffeeand a danish. Kershwaswaitingin the lobby when I got backto the Abbey. ,.Buyyou a drink,"he said. Sincefor the pasthalf hour all I hadthoughtof wasgettinginside,getting warm, and havinga drink, I shruggedand followedhi; in; the ho[l ba; "You looklike hell," l saidwhenhe-satopposite me at a tiny table.The light wasdim, and seemedto exaggerate the shido*s underhis eyesand the prlTo, that had overcomethe pinknessof his cheeks. .9"1dcomingon," he said."l feellousy.Too damn damp here.,, "Tell me aboutit," I muttered.We orderedand didn't talk until we had our drinksin hand. "No dice yet," he.sa.id finally. "we reallydidn't expectit to be quite that " easy,you understand.

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"l workedmy butt off in the cold today." how conscienHe grinnedfleetingly."l know. One of the reportsstresses dty." another you tomorrow's were. Well, tious "Why don't you get somesleep,"I said,drainingmy glass."l'm cold, hungry, and tired. I intend to takea very hot showerfor a long time, then eat a gooddinner,and then go to bed. I recommendit." "Maybeshe'llcome "Maybeit'll end tomorrow,"h. saidphilosophically. hot chocolate. Maybe up and ask, not for ice cream,not in this weather. He nodded, next day?" martini the Hot chocolatetoday,Coke tomorrow, t glimpsed the man I thought moment, and lookedpastme, and for a brief frightened. was behind the nearlybabyishface.That man At nine-thirtyI returnedto the hotel afterdinner, retrievedmy key from the deskand wasgivenan envelopethat had beenleft for me. The car key for the Toyota.At a quarterto ten I turnedoffthe room lightsand left again,this time under headingfor the backstairs,not the elevator.I hadput on a hear,ysweater my jacket,and my pocketswerestuffedwith money.I took nothingelsewith me. If anyonestoppedme I didn't want a razotto giveme away. I went out by the sidedoor to the parkinglot. Many peoplewerearound; it was Friday night, a long fun weekendshapingup. I walkedaroundthe building,out to the backstreet,andstartedthe longerwalkto the bingoroom and the zebras. I walkedfast,tryingto keepwarm;a stiffcold wind wasblowingin off the ocean.When I reachedthe streetwith the perpetualbingo gameI slowed down and evenpauseda momentto glanceinsidethe storefront. It looked like the samebunch of people,only more of them, and the samebunch of boredkids in the little playroom.I movedon pastthe two zebras,dreweven with the entranceto the church, then, as I wasgettingcloserto the corner, board.Sheslippedher hand a smallfigurecameout from behinda message mine. into Shewasicy, shiveringhard,still in the sweaterthat wastoo smalland too lightrveightfor the weather.Silentlywe kept walking,her hand in mine. Two blocks,I wasthinking.fust two blocksto the parkinglot, a car,a heater, maybeevensafetyfor her. We coveredone of them, still not speaking,not *r[kit,g fast enoughto draw attention.There were a lot of peopleon the I wasafraida few . sidewalk,in groups,in pairs,bunchesof teenagers had jammed Traffic the child. eyeing reproachfully, me peoplewereJyeing Another blared. music horns, on leaning were drivers io n.rtly r gtidlo.k; run' up and her pick to impulse block. I resistedthe We found the car and shegot in the backseat.On the front seatin an envelopewere the parkingticlet, foey'sdriver'slicenseand even a credit card, and under the .,,u.tp. wasfoey'sbeautifulblackgloveleatherberet that he had boughtin Parisfifteenyearsago.It had becomealmosta trademark with him. I put it on. I drovethe sideitreetsfor a few minutesbeforeI stopped."Are you okay?" I askedthe child. "Warm Yet?"

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Shenodded."l'm hungry,though,"shesaid. "l'll find somethingfor you to eatassoor-l asI can." I lookedup ar-rddown the street,a little traffic, no one on foot, and I got out to inspectwhat all foey had provided.I had askedfor a dark blanket,but he had done much betterthan that. The car wasgray with black sheepskinseatcovers,black floor rugs, and the blanketwas so dark it lookedblack. There were two sleepingbags,a six-pack,a styrofoamcooler,a thermosbottleand a pillow. apples,a wedgeof cheese,a tin of smoked In the coolerweresandwiches, oysters.I wantedto laugh and to cry. "Listen,"I saidto the child, handingher a sandwich,"we'll drivearound for a while and then we'll leavethe island.After you eat, you haveto stay on the floor with the blanketoveryou, until I sayyou can comeout. Okay?" "Okay." Shebit into the sandwichravenously. I got one of the sleepingbagsfrom the trunk and spreadit on the rear floor, and assoonasshewasthroughwith the sandwichI arrangedher with the blackblanketoverher. It wasas if shehad becomeinvisible,the effect wasso good. I noddedat her. "What's your name?" Sheshookher head."l don't know." "What do the childrencall you?" "Nothing.They don't like me." "Okay.We'll think of a namefor you." Shewouldfall asleep,I thought, and I would haveto rememberto checkon her to makecertainshehadn't workedher way out from under the cover,but as long as shestayedwhere shewas, it would takea very closelook to spother. I got behindthe wheelagainand put foey'sdriver'slicenseand his credit card in my wallet and removedeverythingthat had my name. I owe you, loey,l thought, when I startedto drive again. I wouldn't try to leavethe islanduntil the traffic jam wasgone;I didn't want to be in a stoppedcar Instead,I drove underthe garishlightsof the streetsleadingto the causeway. the lengthof the island,pokingalong,and when I got backit wasa little past midnight and the gridlockhad vanished.There wasstill heavytraffic, but now, and I got in it afterglancingat the child to makesureshe manageable washidden.Shewassoundasleep,out of sight. They stoppedme, glancedinsidethe car,iookedin the trunk, calledme Mr. Marcosafterlookingat the driver'slicense,and then wavedme on. I didn't relaxuntil I reachedthe firsttoll boothand wasstoppeda secondtime and wavedthrough.I turnedwest,headingfor Wilmington and pointswest and south.No one lookedinsidethe car again,or askedfor ID. Along about threein the morning,when I wasafraidof fallingasleepat the wheelI pulled off the road into a driveway,and openedthe thermos.Steaminghot black coffee.I laughedwhen I sippedit. foeyhad spikedit liberallywith bourbon. I sleptfor nearlythree hours, woke up freezingand stiff, and finishedthe coffee.The child wassleepingsweetly,nice and warm underthe blanket.I had wantedto be throughFrederick,headingsouthon 340by morning,but it lookedasif I couldn'tmakeit. I had stayedoff the freeways, the interstates,

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the toll roads,and the roadsI had choseninsteadhad slowedme down. I beganto driveagain.In a shortwhile sheyawnedand saidshehad to go to the bathroom,and shewashungryand thirsty.We stoppedat the sideof the roadand I told her to go into the bushes.Shebalked,but finallyshedid, and shestartedon an apple.I and then we ate the last of the sandwiches, lookedat her in dismay.She neededher facewashed,her hair combed, cleanclothes.... "Why wereyou hidingT"I askedher then. "l don't know," shesaidwith her mouth full. Fair enough,I thoughttiredly.If sheaskedme why I washiding her, that would be my answer."Do you know who is lookingfor you?" Sheshookher head."Do I haveto stayon the floor again?" I knew it would not be as effectiveduringdaylighthours."No. But stay in the backseat.You knowthatpeoplearelookingfor you, don'tyou?"She noddedsolemnly."Okay, if we haveto stop,getdown thereagain.We'll be gettingto a town prettysoon,and when the storesopen, I'll get you some other clothesand a hairbrush.And you'll haveto wait in the car for me. Okay?" "Okay." When I startedto drive again,she sat on the edgeof the back seatwith seat."Wheredid yousleepwhenyouwerehiding?" her chin on thepassenger I asked. "Places.In a car once.And I sawa doggo in a houseand I wentin after him. He had his own little door. He wasmy friend." A dogdoor?I got as much from her asshecould rememberor wantedto therewasa planewreck, tell me; it washard to saywhich. Sheremembered she said,and she sawa lot of peopleby carstalkingand she openeda car doorand got in. But shehadn'tlikedthosepeoplemuch;shehad beenafraid theywould hurt her ears,and sheleft whenthey all went to sleep.Then she followedthe dog into his houseand ate cerealthere. She went in another housebut peoplecamebackand lockedthe doorsand shehid in a closetall night and sleptand when they went awaythe next day she crawledout a window. "Why did you askme to buy you ice cream?" "l washungry." As shetalkedI wasovercomeby rageand outrage,but now I felt only a I lookedat her in the rear-view sickness. a stomach-wrenching greatsadness, -irtor; shewaswatchingthe sceneryintently.Everythingwasnew to her, I realized;she wasdiscoveringher world, and her lessonshad includedthe mostbasiclessonsin survival.She had learnedthem well. We were gettingnear Frederick;traffic was picking up, and there were mallsfinally. I shoppedfor her and madeher changeher clothesin the back seat,and then pulled into a gasstationwhereshewent into the restroom and washedup and brushedher hair. When shecamebackI told her to sit to haveher in back,I thought.Other up front;it would look moresuspicious at a stripmall and I boughther stopped We do that. to parentsdidn't seem

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ircelf.Shelookedtoo different a few morethings,and a newworrypresented from the otherkidswe saw;everythingshehadon excepther shoeswasbrand new. Shoes,I thoughtwith disrnay.Shewould needa biggersize. And I neededto call her something,I alsorealized."When we'rearound other people,"I saidin the car, "you shouldcall me Daddy. Will you do that?" "Don't you know your name, either?" "l know it, but little kidsdon't usenamesfor their parents.They call them Mommy and Daddy.And we needa namefor me to call you. What name do you like?" "l don't know." Sheshrugged. "What did you call yourselfif the otherkidswantedto know your name?" "They didn't. Once I saidmy namewasKid and a girl hit me and I ran away." She gaveme a sidelonglook, and asked,"Oprah?Can that be my name?" "No. It's alreadytaken. How about Sarah?Or fennifer?Or Michelle? Rachel?" She pursedher lips and saidpositively,"Today my name is Dolly." The sickfeelingreturned.Shedidn't know any names."Dolly," I said. "But just for today." Ahead, I sawa Good Will outlet, and headedfor it. clothes,usedclothes,worn clothes,kids'clothes.Maybe Good,serviceable evenshoes. We did betterin the GoodWill storethan we haddonebefore,and I even " Shelookedat me hardfor a second, boughta fewthingsfor her "oldersister. startedto speak,then lookedpastme. "Can I havea book?" There wasa used-booksectionthat had a shelfof children'sbooks.She passed overthe simpleones,though,ar-rdbeganto pagethrougha bookthat to me to be for third- or fourth-grade appeared kids.When had shehad time to learnto read?She chosefour booksand we left. Shewasskippingat my side,smiling.I hadn'tseenher smileveryoften;t liked it. Driving again,I askedher who had taughther to read. "l don't know." "SesameStreetmaybe,"I suggested. She brightenedand saidyes.She had seenSesameStreet,and shewent backto the book shewasreading. I bought ice for the cooler, addedmilk and fuice and more fruit, and continuedsouthward.Home free, I thought, not with any greatelation, however.At first I had been completelypreoccupiedwith how, and had givenno thoughtto what next. I had not reallyexpectedit to work, I had to admit.Her instinctshadtold her to hide,and mine hadtold me to help her. Now what?My instinctshad deserted me. I could drivearoundwith her for the next few daysand then what?I couldn'ttakeher home, obviously,and I couldn't stayon the roadforever. I glancedat her; shewassoundingout a new word silently,pursingher lips, a slightfrown wrinklingher forehead.Shehad askedme for help a few timeswith new words-doubtful, reluctant,wholesome,joyous.. . . What

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are you? I wantedto demand.Who are you?A sport,a mutant?Will the accelerated processof maturationcontinue?Is it an ilh-ress? I understoodwhy Kershhad been frightened.He had given me a clue when he saidshewould standout like a dinosauron the beachif shewent out aloneat night. A dinosauron the beach.Not her, but maybethe restof us?Were thereotherslike her?Would shehavechildrenwho would be born weighinga few ounces,and reachmaturityin a coupleof years?Too many questions,no answers.I knew I shouldstopat a phoneand call Kersh,tell him to comeget her, let the scientists havea go at the riddle.And I knew I wouldn't do that. I felt as if my instinctshad forcedme to jump off a cliff, and ther-rhad desertedme; below, the chasmyawned,and I wasairborne. Sheclosedthe bookand sighed. "No good?" "lt's dumb," shesaid. "Next town with a mall we'll stopand go to a realbookstore and I'll pick out a fewthingsfor you." Sheflashedme a smileandopenedanotherbook. Winnie the Pooh,I thought, The Wind in the Willows, Alicein WonderIand. . . . Late in the afternoonI madewhat I plannedto be the laststopof the day beforewe hit a motel. Anothermall, this one with a bookstore.I pickedout the few booksthat I wantedher to have,and shewasbrowsingwhen some teenageboysenteredand begantalkingto a teenagegirl behindthe counter. "Roadblocks, the statecops,Chiefie,and his crew,and a bunch more. Escapedconvicts,that'swhat Clarenceis saying,overat the Arco station." "They stoppedBrotherMcNirney ar-rdmadehim open the trunk of his car," anotherboy said,and they all laughed. "Come on," I saidto the kid. I tookher handandwe walkedto the counter to pay for the books.Her hand wasshaking. In the wide aisle of the mall I beganto think about the car with stuff strewnabouteverywhich way. Paperbagsfrom GoodWill with her clothes, departmentstore bags, my shavingstuff in a bag, things she had outgrown. . . . I veeredtowarda SearswhereI boughta suitcase,and then I sawa line of kidsand parentsat one of thosefour-in-onetheaters.A Disney film wasshowing. "Listen," I saidto her, "l'll takeyou to the movieand you staythereuntil it's over. When you come out, I'll be right herewaiting.Okay?" Her hand tightenedin mine and she lookedat me for what seemedtoo long a time beforeshe nodded. "l'll comeback,"I said."l promise." Many parentsweredoing the samething, I realizeda few minuteslater, as we got our kidssettleddown with popcorn,and duckedout. Most of the othershadn't botheredwith the charadeof buyingtwo tickets. andput it in the trunk along I straightened up the car, packedthe suitcase with the blanketand sleepingbags;I put the six-packof beerand somechips and looked in a paperbagon the backseat,addedthe can of smokedoysters,

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it all over. Satisfiedthat no one would suspectI wastravelingwith a child, I got in the line of traffic headingsouth, stoppingand starting,stopping again.FinallyI wasat the headof a doubleline wherethe rightlanebecame an accessroad to the interstateabout three miles to the west,and the left lane waslocal traffic.I wasin the left lane, and wasnot detainedverylong, but they askedme to openthe trunk and they checkedthe registration foey had left in the glovecompartment. It chilledme morethananythingelsehaddone.We weremorethan three hundred miles from Atlantic City, and they were checkingcars. Maybe randomchecks,maybethey had beentipped,someonehad becomesuspicious, maybetherewereescaped convicts.I knew I had to get off the road, stoplong enoughto getsomesleep,and think. I pulled in at a BestWestern motela few blocksfartherdown and registered for Mr. and Mrs. Marcosand two children;my wife and kidswerewatchingthe movieand I would collect them later, I said.The clerk wasso boredhe hardlyevenlookedup. I returnedto the mall by sidestreets,keepingwell backfrom the highway that bisectedthe town, and arrivedat the theatera few minutesbeforethe movie ended.Ten or fifteenother adultswerealsowaitingfor the children to emerge.I saw the child beforeshe saw me; she was disconsolate and guardedat the sametime. She lookedlike a little girl who had beenabandoned.Then she spottedme and her facelightedup; shelaughedand ran to me. "Hi, honey,"l said,swingingher up in my arms.Shekissedmy cheek. That night I watchedher sleeping.Shecould easilypassfor five yearsold, I knew. No one would questionthe ageif I saidthat. She wassmart,maybe brilliant, but ignorant.There simply hadn't beentime yet for her to learn aboutthingslike donkeysand owls.I had readWinnie thePoohfor a while; shehad stoppedme repeatedly to askquestions.Sheneededa libraryto read her way through,and schoolbooks,textbooks,math books,whateverother kids took for granted,no doubt many things I wasn'teven awareof. Like names. My plan to drivearoundfor a few dayshad to be scuttled.I had to get her somewhereand settlein, stayout of sight,off the roads,but where? I finally lay down on the otherbed and it cameto me: Aunt Bett. Not a real aunt of mine, she had been my mother'sbestfriend as far back as I could remember.They hadgrownup together,had goneto schooltogether, marriedat aboutthe sametime, and visitedbackand forth almostdaily until twentyyearsago when Aunt Bett had movedto Tennessee whereshe still lived.Afterthat theyhadpaidvisitsto eachotherseveraltimesa year.When my fatherdied almostinstantlyfrom a massivecoronary,shehad come and stayedfor severalweeks.A year later, when my mother drove into a tree doingninety,Aunt Betthadwrappedher armsaroundme andsaidI shouldn't blamemyself.At nineteen,I found that embarrassing, and until then it had not evenoccurredto me to attachblame.I had not seenher againuntil four yearsago when I had droppedin to seeher on my way to a lrade show in

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or exchange Christmascards,or phone Cincinnati.We didn't correspond, book.Aunt Bett. About seventy-five, calls.Shewasnot listedin my address nraybea little more, shelived in a houseby herselfin an areathat had been leavingonly half a dozenof the originalresidents. takenoverby developers, Good old Aunt Bett, I saidto myself;then I wasable to go to sleep. The lasttime I sawAunt Bett the househad neededrepairswhich shesaid a hiredman woulddo assoonashe could.The repairshad not beendone, and I understoodnow, with a pangof guilt, that therewasno hired man, probablynot enoughmor-reyto hire anyone,and the housewasgradually falling apart.Aunt Bett wasmore frail than I had expected,closeto eighty. Shekept up the flowerbeds,and had a tiny weed-filledgarden,but the rest of the two acreshad goneto bramblesand scrubpine and oak trees.Across the creekthat made up one side and the back boundarvwas an upscale with a high wire fence. subdivision Aunt Bettwasdelightedto seeus, and startedto bustlein an authoritative way. "Of courseyou'll staya while," shesaid."And, Win, dear,will you seeif the upstairsbedroonlsare airedout? If you'd just let me know Like that, we wereinvitedto stayas long as we wanted. I told her that foe Marcoswasthe father,that his wife had hadan accident for and would be in tractionfor a few weeks,and tl'reyhad beendesperate Marcos. Alice. Alice was today she helpwith the child, who hadtold me that "l thoughtI wouldkeepher for a weekor two," I finished.The child had watchedme silentlyas I gaveher a fatherand motherand backgroundin a New York City apartment. "You'regoingto leaveher alonein that big houseof yourswhile you go off workingeveryday?Winl That's no way to treata little girl. Come on, " Alice, you can help me makesupper. the next morningthe child announcedthat todayher name At breakfast wasMary. I held my breath,but Aur-rtBett nodded."All right, Mary. I like I let out that name,alwaysdid. You wantto help me washup the dishes?" the breath. I rnadea list of thingsthat neededdoingmost-puttying windows,replacing two panesof glass,fixing the front porch rail . . . it wasa long list. I and madeanotherlist, evenlonger.Aunt Bett checkedAunt Bett'sgroceries had no ideahow much food that little girl could stowaway. the child on a new education."She doesn'tknow And Aunt Bett startecl "Shedoesn'tknowa cosmos a biscuitfrom a breadroll," shesaidindignantly. from a zinnia.What werethey thinkingof, bringingher up ignorant?" In the afternoon,I wason the ladderfinishinga window when I heard Aunt Bett namingthe flowersto her: BusyLizzie, SassyFrancie,old man's beard,honeysuckle. . . they movedout of range.Later, from the roof, I sawthe child dartinghere and there,examiningeverything.She had on a red sweaterand her hair wastied backwith a red ribbon;shelookedlike a raretropicalbutterfy in the goldensunlight,swoopingdown, dartingaway, else. alightingsomewhere

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Shewasgoingthroughthe booksin the houseat an alarmingrate.Aunt Bett'schildrenhad left stacksand boxesof booksupstairs,and morewerein The child clearlyintendedto readthemall. Whatever the atticandbasement. read remembered, she whateversheheardsheretained.Her education, she haphazardasit was,advanced like lightning.And shewasgrowing.I worked at fixing up the houseand tried to think of what to do with her. I mowedthe lawn and reglazedsomewindows.I fixedthe porch rail and took down the screendoor and replacedthe screening; I puttiedand caulked and put up weatherstripping,and I wasno closerto a solutionthan I had beenthe daywe arrived.I wasbeginningto feeldesperate; I had to go home, go backto my own life, my office, ffiy company. We had beentherefor six dayswhen a visitordroppedin, the firstone all week."ls Mrs. Markhamhere?"sheasked.Shewasa prim-lookingwoman of aboutfifty whoseclothesand car-a Buick-said money.Shewaseyeing me with unconcealedhostility. "Aunt Bett?She'saroundback,I think." "Oh, I thoughtyou might be one of her sons." I had beenpaintingthe new woodof the porch,and I stopped,waitedfor her to go, but shetooka stepor two towardme instead."l'm HadleyPruitt," she said. "['m a volunteerworkerfor the county seniorservices.Frankly, l\'{1.-"

"Winston,"I said. "Mr. Winston,we areterriblyconcerned aboutyour aunt livingout here alone.I've writtento her sons,both of them, but no one seemsto be ableto persuade her that sheshouldgiveup the house,moveinto somethingmore manageable. Sheshouldnot be alone,Mr. Winston.Not at her age.And shecan't afforda live-in companion." "Whereyou do think sheshouldgo?"I couldimagineAunt Bett'sreaction to any suggestion from this woman.And as for Bob and Tyler, they would both treatHadleyPruittwith suchgraciouscourtesyshewould think shewas beingcourted,but they would then deferto their mother. "There are governmenthousingdevelopments," Hadley Pruitt said eagerly, smiling now, "especiallydesignedfor elderlypeople.She has a tiny pension,but they basethe rent on what the tenantscan afford. She could managequite well." "l'll tell her you saidso, ma'am,"I saidverypolitely. Shestiffened."Sinceshehascompany,I won'tbotherher today.Goodbye, Mr. Winston." I watchedher drive off, and returnedto the paint job, but shehad given me the firstworkableideaI'd had. I took the brushesand paint aroundback to cleanup, and sawAunt Bett on the porch in her old rocker,the sun on her legs,her eyesclosed,and the child on the stepnearby.I motionedto her, put my fingerto my lips so we wouldn't wakeup Aunt Bett. "l'm not asleep,"Aunt Bett said,sittingup straight."l'm trying to figure out a riddle. What haseighteenlegsand bats." The child waswatchingher with suppressed glee. She had found a ioke

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book and wasgoing right throughit with Aunt Bett who wasbeinga good sport. "l giveup," Aunt Bettsaidfinally. "A baseballteam!" She laughedand Aunt Bett laughedalongwith her. "What's your name today?"I askedthe child. "l alreadytold you. Don't you remember?" "Tell me again." "Nope. You haveto guess." Aunt Bett winkedat her and got up and went inside.I waiteduntil the door closedbehind her and then said, "lf Aunt Bett wantsto takecare of you, do you want to stayhere with her for a while?" "Are you going away?"sheasked,instantlysober. "l haveto prettysoon.You know, I havework to do, peoplewho expect me to be there. I can't stayawaymuch longer,and I can't takeyou home with me. They'll be watchingfor you." "lt's Francie,"shesaid,lookingat her new shoes. "SassyFrancie?"I asked,smiling. " Sheshookher head."fust Francie. I put my arm aroundher stifflittle figure,and aftera momentsheburied her faceagainstmy shoulderand held onto me. I strokedher hair. "l wish I could takeyou with me," I saidsoftly. "That's all right," shesaid,her wordsmuffled. I waiteduntil shewasin bed beforeI broughtit up with Aunt Bett, who lookedtroubled."What'swrongwith her, Win? Sheisn'tfoe Marcos'schild, is she?Is sheyours?" "No. I wishshewere.Shehasa growthproblem,hormonesor something. No treatment.All sheneedsis a placewhereshecan feel safeand wanted. You can imaginewhat it would be like for her to try to go to school,outgrow " everyonein her class,be mockedand teased. "Yes, Whosechild is she?Where imagine that. I can Shenoddedgravely. doesshebelong?" "l don't know for sure,"I saidaftera moment.Then in a rush I told her, areafterl-rerto seewhat makesher tick. "She'sa foundling,and researchers That'sall I know abouther." lt wascloseenoughto the whole truth. "l've known you from the day you were born," she said. "Tell me the truth, Win. Haveyou done somethingwrong?" I shookmy head."l've donesomethingI probablyshouldn'thavedonein hiding her, bringingher here.But nothingwrong." The troubledlook did not yet leaveher wrinkledface."You know I'll be eightyin March?Eighty," she saidin a musingway. "l don't expectI'll be aroundverymuch longer,Win. This wouldn'tbe a permanenthome, is what I mean." "l don't think she'llneeda permanenthome," I said slowly. "Well, then, maybeit'll all come out even. Maybe it will. I'll take good careof her, dear." We talkedaboutmoneyfor the child'scare,a touchysubject.If I suggested

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too much Aunt Bettwouldbe insulted,feelthat I wastreatingher asa charity case,but it had to be enoughnot to impoverishher further.The kid outgrew everythingwithin weeks.And sheatelike a horse.Then I hadto makecertain they had to be ableto get me if necessary; I had to aboutcommunications; I decided. know how shewasdoing.Io.y Marcoswould be the go-between, When it wasdone, Aunt Bett stoodup to go to bed. At the doorwayshe glancedbackat me and paused."l know why I'm doing this, Win. I'm so lonely, and alreadyI love the child, you see.Shecould be one of my own But why are you?" grandchildren. "She neededhelp, I happenedto be there." me anothermoment,thenwenton to her room, clearly Aunt Bettregarded unconvinced. Why? I echoed,alonein the living room. The world wasfull of kidswho neededhelp;Atlantawasfull of them. I gaveto goodcauses, worthycharities, did my civic and moral duty throughdonations,and tried to put them all out of mind, and mostof the time wasquitesuccessful at not thinkingof the troubledworld. Why? BecauseI had grownto loveher?Maybe,but not the day I took her awayin a borrowedcar. I certainlyhad not lovedher then, and wasnot sureI did now. I'd had very little experience in loving another person,afterall. I wasyoung enoughto havehalf a dozenor more of my own childrenif this wasa simplepaternalurge.I could be marriedwithin a week,I knew,fathera child within ayear.l didn'tneeda surrogate daughter.

whv? The nextdayI tookher shoppingfor the lasttime. We boughther a couple of thingsand then a lot of things she thought her big sisterwould like. I boughta new televisionfor them, and arrangedfor cable,paid six months in advance.I bought her a computer,severalprograms,and half a dozen computerbooks,and that eveninggaveher a few elementarylessonsin computing;that wentexactlylike all her otherlessons. Shesawno difference in learningthe namesof the fowers, learningthe African tribes'names, learningcomputerese. The following day I startedthe drive to New York. We did not delayover No one cried. But when I lookedbackthroughthe rear-view the goodbyes. mirror and sawthe ancientfrail woman holding the hand of the child for whom agewasmeaningless, I wantedto cry. Oh, I wantedto cry. In New York I returnedfoey'spossessions and we had a long talk, and afterwardWinston Setonreenteredthe world. I few home. SpecialAgent famesHanrahanwasmy welcomingcommitteeof one. He saidMr. Kershwould like a few wordswith me, if I didn't mind. I saidof coursenot and we went to the FederalBuilding FBI officeswhereI waitedfor threehours.The room wasrelativelycomfortable,with trvinsofas, a coffeemachine,magazines, all the comforts,but no telephone. I stretchedout on one of the sofasand went to sleep.At first, it wasan act, to showhow unconcernedI was,but then I waswakingup and Kersh wasstandingover me.

Kate Wilhelm

"You sonof a bitch," he saidin a low voice.He stampedacrossthe room and openeda door. "Come on." This doorhadbeenlockedearlier;it opened to a routine officewith a governmentissuedesk,severalchairs,not much else. He motionedto a chairand seatedhimselfbehindthe desk.He setup the taperecorderon the deskbut did not turn it on. "Off the record,"he said. "How'd you get off the island?Where'sthe kid?Who's got the kid?" "No, Mr. Kersh," I said. "On the record.Let's keepeverythingon the record." He flickeda switch on the tape recorder."l've had a lot of time to writean account thesepastdays,"I said."l thoughtit wouldbe interesting in which I insistedthat the child I sawwasthree of our variousconversations or four, too old to be eitherof the childrenyou claimedto be lookingfor. I believeMr. Milliken might becomeincensedif he learnsthat the wholeFBI is usinghis personaltragedyasa screen,and it might amusemy correspondentsto think of the whole FBI engagedin a manhuntfor an infant hiding out by herselfon the beach.I think the peopleI sentthe copiesto will share my sentiments.I told them all I would be backin town today,and if for any and readthe fairy tale reasonI didn't showup, to openthe sealedenvelopes I had written." "You seetoo many movies.One of the thingsthey He wasnot impressed. you have the advantage of time. Next week,nextmonth, is that we don't tell find the child, you can be certain year, in We'll time the world. next all the drop by to askjust a few will you'll never know when someone of that. But point. like that, Mr. Seton, You won't questions, to clarifuanother more question.Now, with next table another neverknowingif an agentis at the aboutyour statement.. . ." fully. I had As far as my originalstatementwasconcerned,I cooperated told him the truth and therewasno reasonto alteranything.I refusedto say anythingabout where I had gone, how I had left, if I had seenthe child again."Chargeme with somethingand let me call my attorney,"I saidafter Now, if we're four hours."l want my car backand my variouspossessions. I stoodup. done here. I knew he had to be as tired and irritatedas I was,but his smoothface He turnedoff the taperecorderand leanedbackin remainedimperturbable. his chair. "We reallydon'twanther genesin the genepool," he commented. "Bad, very bad mix. You've stashedher awaysomewhere,but not alone. Winter'scomingon. She'swith someone.We'll find out who that is, Seton. As I said,we havethe benefitof time. You're freeto go." Cabsdidn't cruisein Atlanta;I had to walk severalblocksto the Carlton Hotel where I knew I could get one, and on the way I thought about the variouspeoplethey would find and question.All my friendsin Atlanta,my employees,my relatives.My ex, Susan,and SteveFalco in Los Angeles. Eventuallythey would get aroundto foey, ffiY bestfriend in high school. Would they get to Aunt Bett?I didn't seehow. Shehad beenmy mother's friend, not mine, and she was not a relative.Then I realizedthat Kersh would expectme to be worried,maybeto get in touch with someone,give

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a warning.A grimmerthoughtfollowedquickly:Kershwould expectme to figure that out. He wastoying with me, trying to make me nervous.And succeeding. I steppedbackinto my life asif nothinghad changed.Everyoneat the office wantedto know why the FBI had beenaskingquestions,and I saidI wasas saidmaybeI had robbedsome baffledas they were. Gracie,my secretary, it north, and then she dimpled; bugged the bejesusout of me. banksup job, have had her that shedid extremely Graciewassmartor shewouldn't well. But shestill thoughtshecouldgeta biggerpaybackthroughbeingcute. And therewasn'ta thing I could do about it. If I told her to stopbeing so damnedcute,shewould pout, but prettily.The topiclost interestaftera day or two, and routinetook over. I had been home a week,workinghard to catch up, takingwork home with me, stayingat the officeafterhours.If they werewatching,and I knew they were,therewasnothingto report.On the nextSaturdayKershpaid me a visit. I wasworkingin my studioat home, in an old sweater,oldersneakers, jeans.I openedthe door and he wasthere,carryinghis briefcase. "What do you want now, Kersh?I'rn prettybusy." "You look like it. What a life you lead, this kind of house, work in comfortableclotheslike that. I broughtyour car home. She'sa real sweetheart." He held up the keys."Mind if I stepinside?" It wasa cold day, not rainy, but threatening,and a blusterywind started and stopped,startedand stopped.I pulled the door openwider and stepped aside.He handedme the keysas he entered. "lt's reallynice," he said."Theseold housesarethe greatest, aren'tthey?" He waslookingpastme into the living room. "Do you want to searchit?" "No reasonto. We knowyou'realone.fustadmiringit. Mind if I seeyour studio?" I shruggedand led him throughthe wide hall into a narrowerone and on into one of the backroomsthat had oncebeena sun room, or sewingroom, like that.It hadwidewindows,no curtains.Evenon thisovercast something day it was bright. It held my desk,piled high with proofs,manuscripts, glossies,mail. . . . The big draftingtable was almostburied under more heapsof stuff,but the smallerdrawingtablewasrelativelyclear.On a shelf werewatercolors that I hadn'ttouchedin severalyears.I had beenworking at the light tablewhen he rang,spottingphotographs, a job I shouldn'thave to do, I grouchednow and then, but one that no one elsedid to suit me. I stoodin the centerof the room and watchedhim takeit all in. Finally he nodded." A real work room, isn't it? Broughtsomethingto show you, i[ I can spreadit out." He pulled a rolled-uppaperfrom his briefcaseand I clearedoff the drawingtableby pickingup the few thingson it and dumping them on the floor. He grinned,and the changein his facewasas remarkableas I recalled. He could changeageat will by alteringhis expression.

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He unrolled the paperand spreadit out. "You nust know more about "lt's how someof our thesethingsthan I do," he said,almostapologetically. " peoplemakeprojections. What he had unrolledwasa simplex,y graph. "This upright line here is markedoff in apparentageby years," he said, pointing, "and the bottom horizontalline is actualtime in months. See?" He drew backand lookedat me thoughtfully."The really fine-tunedones they'reusingare in days,but this will do. Shewasborn here, zeroday, zero month, zero year.We just addedthe pointswe'refairly sureof, you know, the fosterparentwho had her at one month, the Forbushwoman who had her at six months,your reportwhen shewaseight months.Thoseare the points." "And the lines?"I asked.My handsweresweating.I understood the lines drawn throughthe points. "You know," he chided."There'ssomedisputeaboutsomeof the projections, but they went aheadand preparedthem all anyway.For instance, to be a yearand a half, betweenthis one at six months,when sheappeared to the time you sawher, when shelookedthreeto four, that'sprettysteep. But they went aheadand usedit for one of the projections,althoughsome that the stressresultedin the spurtthat of our peoplethink shewasstressed, isn'ther norm. You know,the planecrash,Max and his girl friends,being alone on the beach.Prettystressful.Anyway,if that'sher growthline, see monthsold. If you here,she'llreachtwelvephysicallywhen she'sseventeen takethis one, the averagerateof growththroughall the points,then she'll be two and a half when shereachesthe physicalageof twelve." Therewereotherlinesandhe explainedthem, but theyweremeaningless. If theseprojectionswereanywherenearright, then betweenone and a half to two and a half yearsafterher birth, shewould becomean adolescent. He rolledup the chartagain."Shehasa secret,a newwayof metabolizing food maybe,something.A hormone,an enzyme,a new combination.Was therea foodsupplyin that placenta,or the long umbilicus,enoughto sustain rapid growthfor a few hours?What if they could find what let her do that What if they could use it to cure cancer?The and inject it into livestock? men in the whitecoatsarefrothingat the mouth for her. Believeme, Seton, theywill not harma hair on thatchild'shead.Hell, shecoulddie of old age by the chronologicalageof six! They want her now. And they don't want her out therebreeding.They'd much preferher alive, of course,and even bearingchildren under supervision,but they'd ratherhave her body than haveher out therebreeding."The glint wasin his eyesagain. Fatigue?WhatZeal?Earnestness? I didn't knowwhat it was.Fanaticism? I awayfrom time. turned most of the well repressed it was on brought ever you know "They and on, coniectures base such to have a thing don't him. are cheap,let them dream." it. Hypotheses "For now. For now, but not very much longer.Think of what it would do to the populationif women had kids that easily,everyfew monthshere comesanotherone. No pain, no sweat.Hell, think what it would do to

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women, and the way womenand men treateachother.And in a coupleof yearseachnew one'sout doing it. You can makeyour own charts.Think aboutit, Seton.I'll be seeingyou." I could makethe charts,I thoughtafterhe had gone, and God help us all, in many wayshe wasright. I remembered what he had saidabouther, like a dinosauron the beach,and with the memoryI found myselfat the drawingtablesketching a dinosaur,then another,and anotheruntil I had a beachcrowdedwith them, with oneof themopen-mouthed, displayingmany daggerteeth, looking down at a rock that a tiny mousecrouchedbehind fearfully.I staredat it a long time until finally, reluctantly,I drew in the balloonand letteredthe wordsin big, bold caps:YOU'RE GOING To DO WHAT? What was Kershwaiting for? He knew by now that I had no intention of I had readthe novels,had seenthe movies;I believedthey had cooperating. waysto get informationout of peopleif they had to. Kershhad warnedme that they would use whatevermeansthey choseif too much time passed. Why? He could be gamblingthat I would panicand get word to her to run again,and that he would be able to interceptthat word. Probablythat was part of it. But the biggerpart, I felt certain,wasthat theywerestill usingme asbait, danglingme in the watersothat eventually shewould cometo me. I had no doubt they wereintercepting my mail and monitoringmy phone calls.EveryoneI talkedto would be scrutinized; everyoneI had lunch with, dined with, went to a showwith. Y.ty quietly I- beganto drop out of the socialcirclesthat made up my Atlanta.I pleadedwork,fatigue,deadlines, whatevercameto mind. It wasn;t fair to involveanyoneelsein this. I beganto drawagain,and evengot out the watercolors and playedwith them, andthe waitinggamecontinued.Ioey camedownto visithis parentsoverthe holidays,ashe usuallydid, andwe-had dinnertogether,aswe usuallydid. I passed him a largeenvelopeaddressed to Aunt Bett and askedhim to remail it from New York. No questions.Inside the big envelopewasa thousanddollarsin mixedbills, for the child, I had written, and anotherenvelope,addressed to her. I wasfrustratedbecauseI didn't know what nameshewould be using,and finally I wroteFrancie.ln this letterI expressed -y fearsthat they would be watchingme forever,that shemust nevertry to reachme directly.I warnedher aboutAIDS, herpes, {rqgs, men . . I told her everythingI knew about her earlymonths,^the differences betweenher and otherchildren.I told her that shehad to move beforefune, and that I mustnot knowwhereshehadgone.They would wait until fune, I prayed.It wasparentalstuff,I mockedmyself,but I wroteit all out, and Joeytook it to mail In FebruaryI celebrated herbirthdayby myselfwith a bottleof champagne. I couldn't properly toast her because I didn't know her namefor'tof,ay. -even In April I was home at ten on Saturdaynight, when the phone rang. "Wir," shesaid,"Aunt Bettdied Monday,and we buriedher Wedn.rda!. I left. I'll be all right.I wantedyou to know.Thankyou, win. Thankyou."

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That wasall. The line buzzedand hummedand I staredat the wall behind the telephonestand. Within the hour Kershwasthere."Who is Aunt Bett?"he demanded.I told him. He regardedme for a time, his faceclosed,the hard glint in his eyes."You turned her into a streetwalker,Seton.She'sin New York. It's the wheelsthat keepthe city rolling. How many little girlslike her that grease have to blow tomorrowto makeerroughbreadto stay you she'll guys suppose alive?" I wantedto kill him. Winter into spring,springinto summer,the pacesetin time immemorial; so it went. I put her out of mind; how big wasshe,how mature,how was sheliving, wasshesurviving,had theyfound her . . . ? There werehoursat a stretchthat I didn't wonderwhat her namewastoday. and windstormsand August,a heavysultry month, with thunderstorms heat curtainsrising from wet pavement,and visible steamat arm-length distance.Kershcameto seeme. He wascarryinga light-weightjacket,his he askedon the front shirt moist, his facemoist. "You're sellingout l-rere?" porch. I motionedhim insidewhere the air conditionerfailed to squeezethe humidity out of the air, merelyreducedit somewhat.It alwaysfelt goodfor a coupleof minutes."So?" "Heardyou had a temptingoffer,"he said,andfollowedme to the living chairand sighed."Can't room, wherehe sankdown into a leather-covered takethe heat," he explained. "What do you want?" "Nothing." He held up his hand. "Honestly,Seton,nothing.fust heard wondered." you might be sellingthe business, " "l might be" Haven'tdecided. "You're not exactlywhat they call a quick decisionmaker,"he commented."She'sstill out there." I shrugged."You want someiced tea?" "Yea[1hat would be good."He followedme to the kitchenand watched of tea."We don't wantyou to getout of touch," while I preparedtwo glasses "You keep up the friendship,that sortof thing. Tired know, he saidittity. of the business?" a lemon Tired to deathof it, I thought,and did not respond.I squeezed him. Tired of juice to over one glass, handed to each and addeda dashof incompetence. with Irritable orders. deadlines,bad photographs,delayed Sick of dealing.Tired. Over the last two yearsI had had three tempting offers,the one he had got wind of, God aloneknewhow, the mosttempting for shit, but theyliked couldn'tstartcompanies of the lot. The conglomerates running. up and to acquirethem afterthey were What I wantedto do wasload up the T-bird and drive, and drive, and drive. Take a picture now and then, sketchsomethingor other now and then, and driveagain.

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Very politely I waited until he had finishedhis tea beforeI asked,"l assumeyou cameto deliverthat message? Stayin touch?Anything else?" He drainedthe glassand setit down. "l figure,one, she'sdead.Six weeks kid like that is a lifetime in the Big Apple. Or, two, for an inexperienced she'shookedon something.They like to hookthem young.They neverstray afterthat. Or, three,she'ssick, infectedalreadywith half a dozenbaddies. The morgue,the hospitals,the jails,they'rekeepingan eyeout. We figure she'llturn up in one of them. But in caseshedoesn't,we still think she might want to renewold acquaintances with you. When she'ssickenough, or brokeenough,or hurtingenough.That'sthe message. fust stayin touch. Be seeingyou, Seton.I think I can find the front door again." I let him find it alone. I hadn't told anyoneaboutthe newestoffer, yet they had found out. What else?What elsewasthereto learn?I askedmyself bitterly. His three possibilities seemedall too real, and they would be the first to know. August, hurricanemonth, a hurricanehangingoff the coast,bringing torrentialrainsinland.Atlantahad two incheswithin six hours,and there wasflooding,as usual,and stalledtransportation, groundedplanes.I stood at the officewindowwatchingthe wakesbeingleft by carsleavingworkbefore the floodsgot worse.Graciehad gonealready,Phil had left, the building wasemptyingfast.And the telephonerang. I neverusedthe officialansweringprocedure;I neverrememberedwhat it was.I merelysaid,"Hello." "Win, darling, is it you?I thoughtI'd neverfind anyoneI knew." "Who is this?"I asked,irritatedat the whisperypromiseof the voice. "Darling,andyou saidyou'dneverforgetlIt's Francie,win, darling.I'm strandedout at the airport." Francie.I closedmy eyeshard and clung to the telephoneas if it were savingme from the abyssbelow. "l thoughtmaybeyou knew a way to get out here," shewent on, husky, "l mean,we'regrounded,and they don't know when they'll fly. suggestive. I got a room at the airporthotel, but I'm lonesome. " It's Francie,shesaid. SassyFrancie?I asked.lust Francie. "lf you can't," shesaid,"l mean,reallycan't,that'sall right, sweetie.I iustthoughthow nice it would be to gettogether,sinceI'm here.You know. Talk overold times." Shelaugheda low dirty laugh."You nevergot backto New Orleans,did you?" "Neverdid. Look, I'll be out thereassoonasI can getthrough.It will be goodto seeyou afterso long." lh. laughedagainand told me the bar shewouldbe in, and hung up. I had brokenout in a sweatand my handswereshakv. I !9oJ< a deepbreathand triedio think. They would havelistened,they would be -rightthere with me evenif I didn't know who they were. They would pick up a glassshetouched,take awaythe tableor chair, lift fingerprints,matchthem. . . . I told her to stayawayfrom me, I thoughtfuriouily.

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This wasexactlywhat they had waitedfor. But they wouldn't connecther with that voice, I arguedwith myself;shesoundedjust like a New Orleans girl. And they whore.They would be lookingfor a little girl, an adolescent knew how long it had beensinceI had beenwith a woman. It would look by phone. if I didn't go;shehad practicallyundressed evenmore suspicious MaybeI could smudgeany printsshemight haveleft, find out what shewas after,sendher packingagain.. . . mostpeoplewereheadingfor town not I got therefasterthan I expected; the airport,sinceall flightshadbeengrounded.The wind wasgustingaround forty to fifty milesan hour, and the rain wascomingdown hard enoughto put anothertwo incheson the ground beforemidnight. Her timing, her excusefor calling,everythingshehad donehad beenperfectlyplanned,and when I sawher, the deceptionseemedtotal. She lookedlike a high-priced New Orleanscall girl. She had on blacklacestockings,glovesto match, a narrowshiny black miniskirt, low-cut frilly blouse,and her hair waslong, as sheslippedoff a bar stool. thick, and black. She flutteredfakeeyelashes walk asshecameto greetme. Everyman in the placewatchedher slithering to I felt as awkwardas if I had entereda cathouse find it full of SundaySchoolteacherswho all knew me. She laughedand took my arm. "Relax, quiet wherewe can honey. Let'shavea little drink and then go someplace " back around;he said . . . talk. One of the men nearbylaughedand turned and I found a Francie somethingto his companion,who alsolaughed,and table. The bartendercameoverandcalledher doll andshecalledhim handsolne and orderedPerrierand then said,"Let's seeif I remember,Win, darling. It usedto be a verydry gibson,vodkagibson.Am I right?" I noddedand she laughedat the bartender,winked,and said, "l never forgetthe importantthings." As soonashe wasgoneI leanedforwardand whispered,"We'vegot to get out of here.I'm beingfollowed." Shekissedthe tip of her fingerand touchedit to my lips, smiling. "You arealwaysin sucha hurry. So impetuous.Let me tell northernbusinessmen you aboutthe flight, Win darling.I wasneversoscaredin my life when that planebeganto rock backand forth, up and down. Why, you couldn't get me backon an airplanewith a stick,not until the storm'sall the way gone, and the sun'sshiningand all. And I believeit couldgo on rainingall night, into tomorrow.You know?" Shewasperfect,I had to admit. Shehad the accentdown, the flirtatious with the bartender, glancesat other men, the way she flirted outrageously I drankthe gibson, Ler chatter. . Shehadeventhoughtaboutfingerprints. She took and shesippedher water,and eventuallywe werereadyto leav_e. my arm and held it hard againsther when we walkedout. Perfect. In her room I hurriedto closethe drapes,andsheturnedon the radioand fiddledwith it until shehad loud rock, and then we sat on the sideof the bed. Slowly she pulled off the black wig, and then peeled off her fake

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Her hair wasbrown and shortwith deepwaves.Her eyeswere eyelashes. goldenbrown. "Why did you come here?"I askedin a low voice."ls anythingwrong?" Sheshookher head."l had to seeyou, let you seeme, know it's finished. I don't know. Aunt Bettdied,Win." "l know. Wheredid you go?How did you live?" "She gaveme most of the moneyyou had beensending,and I had the othermoneyyou sent.It wasa lot. Shesaidto tell you thankyou. Shemade me promiseto saythank you for her." I wantedverymuch to put my arm aroundher, drawher closeandcomfort her, but this wasnot the child I had found in AtlanticCity. I couldn'ttouch this youngwoman and I knew it. We spokein low voices,sometimeshers was hardly audible as she told me how she had managed."There was a schoolfor girls,you know, with uniforms.I boughta uniform like theirsand no one paid any attentionto me aroundthere.And therewasa big building wherea lot of peoplesleptin the halls, under the steps,and I did too." I shuddered,and shesaidquickly, "lt wasn'tbad. I boughtsometoothpaste, the kind without any smell or taste,and I would chew it up a little, mix it with spit,and then makelittle bubblesat the sidesof my mouth, and no one came near me. I learnedto roll my eyesfunny too. Like this." She rolled her eyesand lookeddemented. "Christ," I mutteredand duckedmy head. Sheput her handon my arm, then hurriedlypulledit awayagain."lt was okay,"shesaidsoftly."Honest,it was.When I grewa little more I got other clothesand then I hung out aroundthe university,I evengot a ,otrn n.r, there, and afterthat it wasreallyall right. I went to the library and reada lot. I kept changing,-though;you know, growing.Not taller. fust getting more rnature.And I beganto think aboutyou, and how much I wantedto seeyou again.. . ." FIervoicetrailedoff and stopped. After a moment I pointedto the wig at the foot of the bed. "Where did you learn that act?" She laugheddeepin her throat. "Wasn't I good!I readthings,and saw movies,and I watchedthe womenon the streets, how they - walked,how they talkedto men." And neverforgot_athing, I finishedsilentlywhen she stoppedagain. I stoodup and walkedto the window and pulled the drapeop." a bit. The rain waspeltingdown harderthan ever.No doubtthe aiiporf roadwould go underwaterwithin the hour. I pulledthe drapeshutand iurnedbackto hJr. "Now what?"She obviouslyno longerneededhelp. Maybea little money, but no more than that. She could go anywhere,be anyoneshechose. "l don't know," shesaidin a voiceso low that this iime I couldn't hear her over the loud radio, but readher lips, and rememberedhow she had movedher lips soundingout wordslessthan a year ago. - Alrggtly she stoodup and cameacrossthe room m trk. my hand. She headedfor the bathroomwith me in tow, and theresheclosedihe doo, and

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turnedon the showerfull blast."The radiowasdrivingme batty," shesaid with a faint smile. Almost instantlyshe was somberagain. "l know how differentI am, Win. It is possiblethat my mother useda drug that caused chromosomaldamage,scrambling,breaks,somethingof the sort, and this differencewill be self-limiting.I won't breedtrue. But it is alsopossiblethat I am a true geneticsport,somethingnew, and my childrenwill be also.In eitherevent,thosepeoplewho want to studyme won't restuntil I am dead. I don'tblamethem;I woulddo the They will hunt and hunt. Intellectually, samein their place.But I'm not in their place,and I don't know how it would feel to be like them, like you, like anyoneelse.This, how I am, feels natural.I don't feel like a freakor a monster." "Oh, God, Francie.You'renot a monster.You'rea "God," I whispered. beautifulwoman." "Make love to me, Win. Please.You've taughtme so much. Will you teachme that?" Shetouchedmy cheek. I reachedpasther and turned off the shower,then I pickedher up and carriedher to bed and taughther aboutlove. "What I wouldlike," shewhispered thatnight, "is to live on a mountainsidewith treesall around,and a freshlittle brookwith fish. And no people. But what would you do in sucha place?" "Oh, I'd keepthe housein goodrepair,cut woodfor the fires,and I would " paint and takepictures. "Good," shesaidwith a nod, as if that weresettled."And I would teach the childrenthe wayAunt Betttaughtme. I would teachthem the namesof the flowers,and which plantsyou can eat,and how algebraworks,and how Plainsarelocated.The girlswould to makebiscuits,andwherethe Serengeti go out and meetmen and pick carefullywhich ones,and then come home to havetheir babies."Shelaughedsoftly."Grandparents." When she slept,I studiedher facein the dim light from the bathroom. How very beautifulshehad become,such fine bones,suchsoftskin. This, I undersioodfinally, waswhy I had helpedthat child on the beach,why I had hiddenthe girl from the world;to get to this momentI had to do those things, this moment had been determined.I smiled at how foolish that ,our,-d"d,but I believedit. I touchedher cheekas shesleptand shesmiled and movedcloserwithout wakingup. Tomorrow I would sendher away.I would make her promiseneverto come near me again, never-to call, or write. Shecould makeit now by herself.I wasthe only menacefor her, and eventuallyI would betrayher. I didn't want to sleep.I wantedto-lookat her, to touch her cheeknow and then, to seeher smile, but I dozed,and when I wokeup shewasmovingaroundthe room with a towel' "What are you doing?" Shecameto the bedand knelt by me. "Wiping off my fingerprints.I iust thoughtof it," shewhispered. I iuiled her into the-bedand madelove to her again,tttg I.did not tell h., ihrt no printswould be asmuch a giveawayasfindinga full setof clear prints.When I wokeup againit wasnine in the morningand shewasgone.

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I knew it assoonasI opened-y eyes.Lastnight her presence had filled the space,and now it wasfust a bleakand emptyhotel room. September. October.I decidedto sellthe business the day I staredat spotted photographs and didn't givea damn. I told my lawyerand my accountantto takecareof it, my only realdemandwasthat thosewho wantedto keeptheir jobs would be allowed to. Not a big stumbling-block.For a few days I Kershto come calling, but he didn't; maybehe waswalkingthe expectedstreets of New Orleanslookingfor a black-haired hookerin a shinytightitltt. I wanteddesperately to hear her voice,to know shewaswell, and, more desperately, I wantedher to stay away,not to call, not to write. Ope day I found myselfsortingbooks,stackingsome,boxingothers,and I realizedthat I had madethe decisionto sell the houseas well as the business.I had to move awayso shecould not find me. November.The Thanksgiving homecomingweekendpartywasto be held at the Carlton Hotel;as it waseveryyear.Our team, win or lose,rah rah. I washome when shecalled."H"y, Win," shesaidin a bubblyvoice,"it's Rosalee.You'vebeen_hiding out long enough,bubba.Come to the party Saturday.Duck ?wayfrom the mobsand hit the little partiesin eighttwenty, six fourteen,and ten thirty. Seeya!" Numbly I hungup. Shewasinsane,comingback,calling.Sheknewthey w-eremonitoringmy line. She knew they watchedme day afterday, nighrt afternight. I wouldn'tgo nearthe Carlton,I thought,and iejectedthat. She wasin towtt, and might call again,suggest somethingelse,andat leastat the homecomingpartytherewould be hordesof youngpeople.would shecome asa cheerleader? A footballgroupie?Whateverit wis, shewould blendright in, I knew. I had beenshoppingfor giftsfor everyoneat the office;now I shoppedfor -without iust the right presentfor her. SornethingI could keep at hand arousingsuspicions. SomethingI could passover when I told her I was leavingthe city, leavingthe state.I tried to figureout what shehad meant by the numbersshe had given me, and failed. There were alwaysprivate room parties,alwaysjammed;shewouldn'tbe planningto meet ,r,. i,-,,r,y of them, and I could not recombinethe .t.tmbeisin any wayto makesense. I stalkedth,roughstoressearching for the gift, and workedwiih thc numbers, and lookedat rnorestuff.fust stuff. Not for her. Then I fourrdit. A gossamer sheerkimonoin gleamingwhitesilk,assoft as a cloud, with a singlered roseembroideredot'rthe ba'ck,and a delicate gold-threadedgingon the front. I passedit up, went backand felt it, and logshJ it. The box wastoo big to carryrtou,id a party,but it washers. It lookedas if it had beenmadefor her alone,had beenih"r" waitingfor me. a I !d it gift-wrapped and carriedit home ir-ra shoppingbag. Saturdaynight the Carltonwaslike an asylum*iit att th-eattendants out on strike.The partytook up threelargedownstairs rooms,the dining room, theloungeandbar.I carriedthe shoppingbagin with me andmademy way to the cloakroom.I had decidedto checkit;ith my coat and passher thl

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claim checkwhen we met; it seemedthe bestI could do. Moving through I knewhalf the peoplethere,it seemed,and the lobby wasa slowbusiness; had not seenmany of them for a long time. Everyonewashappyand loud. At the cloakroomI waited in line, then passedover the coat and the shoppingbag, talking to one of my old teachersand his wife. The young woman behind the counterpressedthe claim checkinto my hand, and at and wasalreadytakingthe the touch, I pivoted.You. Shesmiledpleasantly hand; I held the claim check, my in line. I looked at coat of the next man and alsoa room key. Shehad told me the time, I realized:ten thirty. Room partiesweregoing on up and down the tenth floor. Men were reliving momentsof glory, reenactingplays,throwinga pillow here,a realfootballthere. . . . A bunch of them werelined up for the kickoffin the hall. . . . I visitedone partyafter another,stayedfor a minute or two, then movedon. Nine thirty, nine forty, nine forty-five.I hit anotherroom, acceptedanotherdrink that I would not taste,talkedto people,and instantlyforgotwhat we talkedaboutand even who theywere.I didn't knowwho waswatchingme, but then, I neverdid. Ten twenty. I got on the elevatoron the tenth floor and rode dowrrto six with peopleI did know. On six I left the group, enteredthe stairwell,and startedthe climb up to the fourteenthfloor. If I sawanyoneI hadn't known for a long time, I would go to ten, do anotherpartyor two, and then go home, I told myself.I wassurethat no one had noticedwhen I enteredthe stairwell,and you couldn'tfind anyone in the crowdsmilling about if you had to. fust to make certain,I left the stairson elevenand walkedthe lengthof the corridor.It wasquiet up here; the partieswerebeingconfinedto ten, eight,and six, and the main floor. I found other stairsand went up the remainingfloors.No thirteen. me in the hall. We all nodded;they On fourteenan elderlycouplepassed room numberfourteeneighteen. on to I went and elevator the on to went yet. A small table was near tall double there wasn't she I thought first At with a lovelyvistaof Atlantaby balcony tiny to a open were that windows tablewasa champagnebottle the glittered. On there out Everything night. into sighton the balcony."Isn't moved Then she glasses. two ini coolerand from the blackandwhite her clothes had changed She said. it beautiful?"she and matchingsweater. skirt pale blue long a to earlier uniform shehad worn I remembered' She wasmore beautifulthan "l havea presentfor you," shesaid,and pickedup a slim packageon the table. "And I checkeda presentfor you." Her eyesshiftedand widened.Staringpastme, shewhispered,"Promise you'll take them home, Win. Keep the presentsas mementoes.Promise. Don't forgetme." I spunaroundto seeKershand two othermen enteringthe _ro9mwithout a sound.One of them leapedtowardher, knockingme out of the way, but shewason the balcony,the tablebetweenher and the restof us. Shelooked

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at me anothersecond,turned,and swungher legsoverthe railing,and then steppedoff. For a moment no one moved,then I screamed,and lungedtowardthe balcony.Someoneclippedme behindthe ear and I fell to my knees. They took me to a differentroom whereI satin a largechaii while people cameand went.-l couldn'tweepfor her; I had no tears,only the d.rd.nirrg knowledgethat I h,addoneit, I had failedher. I failedmy -other who drou! hercarinto a heedoingninetymilesan hour. Failedmy ex-wifewho thought sheneededplasticbreasts.FailedAunt Bettwho had lived so manyy"r6 i1 povertyand loneliness.Failedthe little girls who oiled the wheeisof New York. Failedthe socialworkerwho weptbecause theywouldn'tgiveher what sheneededto savechildren.Failedthem all. Kershbroughtthe little packagefrom the other room and askedme to openit. It wasa bookwith handpaintedillustrations of commonflowerswith their names.He leafedthroughit and handedit backto me. "Do you want someoneto takeyou home?" I stoodup and startedto walk towardthe door. "seton, hold on a second,"Kershsaidheavily.He regarded me for a moment,then said,"lt's over.we aren'tgoingto Lotheryoi, ,ny-ore. you understand? You couldn'thavepreventedltrir.We'vebeengettingcloserfor weeksnow. we w_eren't goingto wait any longer.Do you f.,d.ritr,1d what fm telling you?cet in that big pretty.rr oflours and drive, seton. Just drivea long time." Someonewent down the elevatorwith me; althoughit wasafter two in the morning,therewasstill a mob in the lobby,but iubdued,huddlingin small groups.No one paid any attentionas tlre agentled me through"the clustersof peopleand retrievedmy coatand shoppt.,gbag. He went to the outer door with me, and I walkedon aloneto my car. keyin the ignition,a long time before It yr! a-longtime beforeI turned_the I shiftedinto gea-rand beganto drive..At home,"l carriedi" ti. fr.krg.r. Promise.Don't fo_rget me. I openedthe book but could not focus on the pictures,the words.A gold bookmarkwasin it. I openedto that fage, and the wordsseeme_d to leap at me. " 'sassyFrancie,'saxifraga.simetimes calledMother of Thousands. " I lookedup at the shoppingbagthen, and I knew.I had noticed without conscious awareness, but I knewit heldmorethan I hadput in it. My hand wasshaking^ when I reachedinsideand broughfout a smallbox, the sizeof a shoeboxfor children'sshoes.It waswrapp"ed in silverfoil and had bee. piercedall over.CarefullyI liftedthe top r.rd m* her, our daughter, curled in sleep,clothedin a tiny garmentattachedto the sidesof the"box, which waspaddedand coveredwith pink silk. Then I wept. Shehad knownit couldneverend aslong asshelived,but our daughter wasfree. I would find the mountainsidewitl] the forestsall around; I would teachher what she neededto know, and her childrenand theirs.It would

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take carefulplanning;no one must suspectuntil they had scatteredeverywhere,like seedson the wind. There would be time to think and plan as I drove. "Your namewill be Rose,"I murmuredto my child, who would fit in the palm of my hand. I had begunnamingthe flowers.

SNODGRASS lan R. Macleod

v Here'sanotherquirky and brilliant storyby Britishwriter lan R. Macleod, whose story"Grownups"appears elsewhere in this anthology.In this one, he tellsthe grit$ yet poignantstoryof l-rowthingsmight havegoneverydifferentlyindeedfor a worlclfamouscelebrity. . . for both betterand worse.

fve got me wholelife workedout. Today,giveup smoking.Tomorrow,quit drinking. The day after,give up smokingigai,r. - I!'t morning. lig.ttt me cig. Pick the huff off me feet. Drag the curtair-r back,and the night'sleft-everythingin the samemessoutside.'Binsacksby the kitchendoor that Cal nevergetsaroundto takingout fro.t. The gardeir iunglelan-dgo.t. brown with autumn. Housesthis way and that, terraces queuingfor somethingthat'll neverhappen. - It's early. Daren't look at the clocl. ttr. stair carpetworks greasegrit betweenme toes. Downstairsin the freezingkitchen, pull th. lupboird wherethe handle'sdroppedoff. "H.y, Mother Hubbard," I shoutup the stairsto Cal. "Why no fucki'rg cornflakes?" The lav flushes.Cal lumbersdown in a grey nightie. "What's all this aboutcornfakes?since whe' do you havebrrea[fast,"yoh'?" "Sincefohn got a iob." "You?A job?" "l wouldn'tpissyer aroundaboutthis, Cal." "You owe me four weeks'rent," shesays."plus I dop't know how much for bog roll and soap.Then there'sthe TV licence." "Don't tell me yer buy a TV licence. " "l dou't, but I'm the householder. It's me who'dget sentto gaol.,, "Ev9ry wednesday,I'll visit yer," I say,rummagiirg i1 the bieadbin. "What's this iob anyway?" "1 - - told yer on Saturdaywhenyou and Kevincamebackfrom the Chi'ese. Must havebee' too pissedto notice." I hold up a stiffgreen,1i.. oi Mighty White. "Think this is edible?" "Eat it and find out. And stopcallingSteve Kevin. He's upstairsasleep right at this moment."

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"Well there'sa surprise.Rip Van and his tiny Winkle." "l wish you wouldn't saythingslike that. You know what Steve'slike if you givehim an excuse." "Yeah, but at leastI don't haveto sleepwith him." BeforeKevin, it was Cal sitsdownto watchme strugglethroughbreakfast. all with gtazed that, before Kevins other million a and Kevin, another protection evenif the needs she says Cal walk. they way the from knuckles bruise. it meansthe odd I pastefreckledmargeoverye MightyWhite. It tastesjustlike the doormat, and I shouldknow. "Why don't yer tell our Kev to stuff it?" I say' She smilesand leansforward. "snuggleup to Dr. Winstonhere,"I wheedle. "You-d be ioo old to look afterme with the clients,|ohn," she says'as thoughI'm beingserious.Which I am. "Fi, what I'd chargeto let them prod yer, Cal, yer wouldn't have any clients.Onassiscouldn'taffordyer." turning "Onassisis dead,unlessyou meanthe woman." Shestands-up, the over window the of away,shakingthe knotsfrom her hair. Shestaresout "lt's past eight, )ohn," *.rr'in the Jink. Cal hatesto talk abouther work. ,h" ,ry, withoutlookingat anyclock.It's a knackshehas."Hadn't you better get readyfor this iob?" Yeah, ye job. The peopleat the fobbie ar_ealwayson the look-out for Miss *-.ihipg freshfor Dr. Winston. They think of him as a challelg_e. handold Nikki wasbehind ye spilsplatteredperspexlastweek.She'san beentherefor at leastthreemonths' "Name'sDr. WinstonO'Boogie,"I drooled,doingme hunchbackwhen I reachedthe front of Yequeue. "We've got somethingft, yo,r, Mr. Lennon," shesays'They alwayscall yer Misterlr Sir here, i"ustlile the fuckingpolice."How would you like to work in a GovernmentDePartment?" "Well, wow," I say,lettingthe hunchbackslip. "You mean like a spy?" That makesher smile. I hate it when they don't smile. Skills,qualifications-none' me ye chit. Name, age,address. Shepasses detailsof somethingclerical. have we it tJ That bii alwayskiilsme. Staplei "The Governmentis comsays. Nikki Lennon," "It'Sa new scheme,Mr. can startMonday'" You unemployed. mitted to helpingthe long-term in the weird morning stop bus the ai O'Boogie So here'si)r."Winston rememberedme even match, that best light. I've got or, -. iacket,"socks in suitsare M-en crawling. are Cars happening. girrr., so I"can seewhat's None of Boyle' Katie to groove they wheel-as lrffi"g fingerson the steering placeto a is this solihull-a.d from iust all them live aroundhere-th.y;r. hasto Celia drag-cos-daughter a Monday's And .o*plri" aboutthe traffic. too Citrodn Mummy's shift and darling a be and backthe Mini off the drive Sierra' the get to can Dad so yer poor hard-working

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The bus into town lumbersup. The driver looksat me like I'm a freak when I don't know ye exactfare. Up on the top deck where there'sNo standing,No spitting,Ne ball games,I get me a window seatand light me a ciggy.l loveit up here,lookingdownon the world,into people's bedroom windows.Alwayshave.Me and me matePeteusedto drivethe busfrom the top front seatall the way from MenloveAvenueto Quarry Bank School.I rememberthe rowsof semis,treesthat usedto brushlike seaon shingleover the roof of the bus. Everythingin SpekewasSnodgrass of course,what with valveradioson the sideboard and the Daily Excess, but Snodgrass wasdifferent in them days.[t waslike watchinga play, waitingfor someoneto forget their lines. Mimi usedto tell me that anyonewho saidthey were middle classprobablywasn't.You knew just by checkingwhetherthey had one of them blocksthat look like KendalMint Cakehookedaroundthe rim of the loo. It wasall tea and biscuitsthen, and Mind, dear,your slip'sshowing. You knew whereyou were,what you werefighting. The bus crawls.We're up in the cloudshere,the fumeson the pavement like dry ice at a big concert.Oh, yeah.I mean, Dr. Winston may be nifty fifty with his whole deathto look forwardto but he knowswhat he'ssaying. Cal sometimesworksat the NEC when she getstoo proud to do the real business. Handsout leafletsand wigglesher ass.Shegot me a ticketlastyear to seeSimply Red and we went togetherand sheput on her bestdressthat lookedjust greatand didn't showtoo much and I wasproudto be with her, evenif I did feel like her dad. Of course,the musicwaswarmed-over shit. It alwaysis. I hatethe way that red-hairedguy sings.Shetried to get me to seeCliff too, but Dr. Winstonhashis pride. Everywhere is emptyroundhere,knockeddownandboardedup, postered over. There'sa group calledSideKickplayingat Digbeth.And waddayouknow, the Beatlesare playingthis very eveningat the NIEC. The Greatest Hits Tour, it sayshereon ye corrugated fence.I mean,Fab GearMan. Give It Floody Foive. Maccaand Stu and Georgeand Ringo, and obviouslythe solo careersare up the kazooagain.Like, wow. The bus dumpsme in the middle of Brum. The officeis just off Cherry Street.I stagger meselfby finding it right away,me letterfrom the fobbiein me hot little hand. I show it to a geezerin uniform, and he sendsme up to the fifth floor. The wholeplaceis new. It smellsof formaldehyde-thatJtuff we usedto pickle the spidersin at school.Me sharethe lift with ye office bimbo. Oh, afteryou. Dr. Winstondoeshis icebergcruisethroughthe openplan.Sothis is what Monday morning reallylookslike. Into an officeat the far end. Smellsof coffee.Snodgrass hasgot a filter machinebubblingaway.A teapotreadyfor the afternoon. "Mr. Lennon." We shakehandsacrossthe desk."Mr. Snodgrass. " Snodgrass cracksa smile. "There must havebeensomemistakedown in GeneralAdmin. My name'sFenn. But everyone callsme Allen." "Oh yeah.And why'sthat?"A voiceinsidethat soundslike Mimi says

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Stopthisbehaviour,lohn. She'sright, of course.Dr. Winstonneedsthe job, the money. Snodgrass tells me to sit down. I fumble for a ciggyand try to loosenup. "No smokingplease,Mr. er, lohn." Oh, great. "You're a lot, um, olderthan mostof the casualworkerswe get." "Well this is what beingon the Giro doesfor yer. I'm nineteenreally." looksdown at his file. "Born 1940."He looksup again."And Snodgrass is that a LiverpoolaccentI detect?" I look aroundme. "Where?" hasgot a crazygrin on his face.I think the bastardlikesme. Snodgrass "So you'refohn Lennon, from Liverpool.I thoughtthe name ranga faint bell." He leansforward."l am right, aren'tI?" Oh fuckingfesus.A faint bell. This happensaboutonceeverysixmonths. for Gerry and Why now?"Oh yeah," I say."l usedto play the squeezebox work.And it wasa big thrill to workwith Shirley the Pacemakers. Justsession Bassey,I can tell yer. She'sthe King as far as I'm concerned.Got bigger ballsthan Elvis." "You werethe guy who left the Beatles." " "That wasPeteBest,Mr. Snodgrass. "You and PeteBest.PeteBestwasthe one who wasdumpedfor Ringo. You walkedout on Paul McCartneyand StuartSutcliffe.I collectrecords, And my eldersisterwasa you see.I've readall the booksaboutMerseybeat. big fan of thoseold bands.The Fourmost,Billy J. Kramer,Cilla, the Beatles. Of course,it wasall beforemy time." "Dinosaursruledthe earth." "You must havesomestoriesto tell." "Oh, yeah." I lean forwardacrossthe desk."Did yer krrow that Paul McCartneywasreallya woman?" "Well, ]ohn, I-" I mean,have/ou everseen "lt figuresif yer think aboutit, Mr. Snodgrass. his dick?" "fust call me Allen, please,will you?Now, I'll showyou your desk." takesme out into the openplan.Introducesme to a pile of Snodgrass pile of letters.Well, Hi. Seemslike Dr. Winston is supposed a envelopis, to put one into the other. "What do I do when I've finished?"I ask. "We'll find you somemore." All the facesin the openplanare staring.A phone'sringing, but no one bothersto answer."Yeah," l Say,"l can seethere'sa big rush on." takesa detourto havea word On his way back to his office, Snodgrass by the filing cabinets.He says over print sitting floral with a fat Doris in a Soon, the whole office Beatle. word the includes somethingto her that knows. "l bet you could write a book," fat Dorissays,standingoverme, smelling

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of pot noodles."Everyone'sinterestedin thosedaysnow. Of course,the Who and the Stoneswerethe onesfor me. Brian fones.Keith Moon, for somereason.All the oneswho died. I wasa real rebel.I went to Heathrow " airportonce, chewedmy handbagto shreds. "Did yer pissyourselftoo, Doris?That'swhat usuallyhappened." Fat Doris twitchesa smile. "Never quite made it to the very top, the Beatles,did they?Still, that Paul McCartneywrotesomelovelysongs.'Yesterday,'yo,,still hearthat one in liftsdon'tyou?And Stu wassogood-looking then. Must be a real tragedyin your life that you didn't stay.How doesit feel, carryingthat aroundwith you, licking envelopes for a living?" "Yer know what your troubleis don't yer, Doris?" Seemsshedon't, so I tell her. Winston'sgot no money for the bus home. His old joints ache-never realisedit wasthis bloodyfar to walk. The kids are playingin our road like it's a holiday,which it alwaysis for mostof them. A tennisball hits me hard on the noddle. I pretendit don't hurt, then I growl at them to fuck off as they follow me down the street.Kevin'svan'sdisappeared from outsidethe house.Musta goneout. Pity, sharne. Cal'swrappedup in a rug on the sofa,smokinga foint andwatchingHome and Away. She jumpsup when sheseesme in the hall like shethoughtI wasdeadalready. "Look, cal," I say."l reallywantedthis fob, but yer wouldn't get Adolf Hitler to do what they asked,God resthis soul. There wereall theselittle puppiesin cagesand I wassupposed to pushknittingneedlesdown into their eyes.fesus,111ry35-" "fust shaddupfor one minute will you, John!" "l'll get the rent somehow,Cal, 1-" "-Paul McCartneywashere!" "Who the hell's Paul McCartney?" "Be seriousfor a minute, fohn. He washere.Therewasa car the sizeof a tank parkedoutsidethe house.You shouldhaveseenthe curtainstwitch." Cal handsme the joint. I takea pull, but I reallyneedsomethingstrorrger. And I still don'tbelievewhatshe'ssaying."And why the fuck shouldMica come here?"

"To seeyou, fohn. He saidhe'd useda privatedetectiveto traceyou here. _ Somehowgot the address throughyourwife Cynthia.I didn't.u.,', i.nu* yo,, weremarried,John.And a kid namedfulian who'snearly - thirtv. He'snrariied too, hs'5-" "-What elsedid that bastardtell yer?" "Look, we just talked.He wasvery charming." Charming.That figures.Now I'm beginningto believe. "l thoughtyou told me you usedto be bestmates." "Too bloodyright. Then he nickedme band.It was fohn Lennona1d the Quarrymerr.I shouldneverhavelet the bastardjoin. Then fohnny and the

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Moondogs.Then Long fohn and the SilverBeatles.It was my name,ffif ideato shortenit to just the Beatles.They all saidit wasdaft, but they went alongwith it becauseit wasmy fuckingband." "Look, nobodydoubtsthat, John. But what'sthe point in being bitter? Paul just wantedto know how you were." "Oh, it'sPaul now is it? Did yer let him shagyer, did yer put out for free, askhim to autographyer fanny?" "Comeon, |ohn. Climb downoffthebloodywall. It didn'thappen,you're not rich and famous.It's like not winning the pools,happensto everyone you meet.Afterall, the Beatleswerejustanotherrockband.It's not like they " werethe Stones. "Oh, no. The Stonesweren'tcrapfor a start.BangbangMaxwell'sSilver bloodyHammer.Give me Cliff any day." "You neverwant to talk aboutit, do you?You justlet it stayinsideyou, boilingup. Look, why will you neverbelievethat peoplecare?I care.Will you acceptthat for a start?Do you think I put up with you here for the soddingrent which incidentallyI neverget anyway?You're old enoughto be my bloodyfather,fohn. So stopactinglike a kid." Her facestartsto go "You couldbe my father,John. Seeingas wet. I hatethesekind of scenes. I didn't haveone, you'd do fine. fust believein yourselffor a change." "At leastyer had a bloodymother,"I growl.But I can'tkeepthe nastyup. Open me armsand she'stremblinglike a rabbit,smellingof saltand grass. All theseyears,all thesebloodyyears.Why is it you can neverleaveanything behind? Cal sniffsand stepsbackand pulls thesebits of paperfrom her pocket. "He gaveme these.Two ticketsfor tonight'sshow, and a passfor the do " afterwards. I look aroundat cheznous.The air smellsof old stewthat I can never remembereating.I mean,who the hell cooksstew?And Maccawashere. Did them feet in ancientwhathaveyou. Cal plonksthe ticketson the tellyandbrewssometea.She'shummingin the kitchen,it's her big day,a famousrockstarhascomeon down. I wonder if I shouldtearye ticketsup now, but decideto leaveit for later. Something to look forwardto for a change.All theseyears,all thesebloodyyears.There wasa journalistcaughtup with Dr. Winstona whileback.Oh Mr. Lennon, I'm doing background.We'll pay yer of course,and perhapswe could have for the firsttime that the lunch?Which we did, and I can revealexclusively the chequecame and the then And rat-arsed. truly well and Doctor got bloodyExcess. in the Sunday serialised white, and in black it Doctorsaw all know it's true. I papers and it's in the it So said. man, bitter A sadand down' "l them plonks and the carpet on mugs for the a space clears Cal "l'm about going not to argue says. she go tonight," to mean you don't know " it now. She sitsdown on the sofaand letsme put an arm aroundher waist.We get warm and cosy.It's nice sometimeswith Cal. You don't haveto argue or explain.

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"You know,fohn," shemurmurs."The secretof happiness is not trying." "And you'rethe world expert?Happiness sureain't living on the Giro in " bloodyBirmingham. "Birminghamisn'tthe end of the world." "No, but yer can seeit from here." Cal smiles.I loveit whenshesmiles.Sheleansoverandlightsmoreblow from somewhere.She putsit to my lips. I breatheit in. The smoke.Tastes like harvestbonfires.We're snugastwo bunnies."Think of when you were hrppy," shewhispers."Theremust havebeena time." Oh, yeah 1966,afterI'd recordedthe five singlesthat madeup the entire creativeoutput of the NowhereMen and somegit at the recordcompany wasgiventhe job of saying,Well, fohn, we don't feel we can giveyer act the attentionit deserves. And let's be honestthe Beatleslink isn't really bankableany more is it? Walking out into the London traffic, it wasjust a huge load off me back.John, yer don't haveto be a rock starafterali. No more backsof vans.No more WatfordGap Sizzlersfor breakfast. No more gltot4 changes.No more launchesand re-launches. No more telling the bloodybassplayerhow to usehis instrument.Of course,therewasCyri and Iittle fulian backin Liverpool,but let'sfaceit I wasalwaysa bastardwhen it cameto family. I kiddedn-reself they werebetteroff without me. But 1966.Therewdssomething then,the light hada sharpedge.Not just acid and grassalthoughthat waspart of it. A girl with ribbbns.r-" up to me alongTottenhamCourt Road.Caveme a dogeared postcardof a *^hite beach,a blue sea.Told me she'dbeentheiethat verymorning, just for_e]sn held it to her eyesin the dark.Shekissedme cheekand shesaidshewanted to passthe blessing 9tt. Well, the Doctorhasneverbeerrmuch of a dreamer, but he could feel the surf of that beachthrough his toesas he dodgedthe traffic.He knewtherewereeasieryaysof gettingtherethan closingyer eyes. So I tookall me moneyand I boughtme a tickeland I tooka planJto Sprir,, la, la. Seemedlike everyonewas headingthat way then, diifting in iome warm currentfrom the sun. Lived on Formenterafor sunbakedyearsI couldn'tcount. It wasa sweet way of life, bummingthis, bum--rngthat, me and the walrus walkinghand in hand, countingthe sand.shelteringundera fig treein the rain, I met this W_elshgirl who called herselfMorwenna.We all had strangenames then. She took me to a housemadeof driftwoodand canvas*rrh""d up on the shore.She had bells behveenher breastsand they tinkled as we made love' When the cloudshad clearedwe boughtfish fresirfrom the netsin the whitewashed harbour.Then we talkedin firelightand the dolphinssangto the lobstersasthe wavesadvanced.Shetold me-underthe starsihat shekiew otherplaces,otherworlds.There'sanotherfohn at your shoulder,shesaid. He's so like you I can't understandwhat'sdifferent. But Formenterawasa long wayfrom anything.It wassotimelesswe knew it couldn't last.The.tourists,the government,the locals,the police-every Snodgrass in the univsl5s-moved in. Turned out Morwenna"s parenhhad moneysoit wasall iustfineanddandyfor the cunt, leaving-" o,'r.morning

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beforethe sun wasup, takinga little boatto the airporton Ibiza,then all the waybackto bloodyCardiff.The cloudsgreyedoverthe Med and the Doctor stayedon too long. Shotthe wrongshit, scoredthe wrongdeals.Somehow, a bloodyword of the I endedup in Paris,sleepingin a box and not speaking else.The whole thing is a haze.Anothertime, I lingo. Then somewhere MenloveAvenueandthe dog wassobbingon Mimi's doorstepin pebbledash and Mendipslookedjust the same.The porch where next door wasbarkir-rg I usedto playme guitar.Wallpaperand cookingsmellsinside.Shegaveme eggand chipsand tea in thick white china, just like the old dayswhen she usedto go on aboutme drainpipes. So I stayedon a while in Liverpool,sleptin me old bed with me feet stickingout the bottom.Mimi had takendown all nle BrigitteBardotposters but nothingelsehad changed.I couldalmostbelievethat me matePaulwas gonnacomearoundon the wagfrom the Inny and we'dspendthe afternoon rewritingBuddyHolly anddreaming with our guitarsandpicklesandwiches, of the daysto come. The songsnevercameout the way we meantand the then, yer know? gigsat the Casbahwerea mess.But thingswere possible, I rousedmeselffrom bed aftera few weeksand Mimi naggedme down the fobbie.Then I had to giveup kiddingmeselfthat time had stoodstill. Did yer know all the dockshavegone?I've neverseenat'rythingso empty. when they'renot getting God knowswhat the peopledo with themselves Eppy'sold recordshop or Cavern, fucking find the even I couldn't pissed. upon us roughlads. he char-rced until crap Sibelius that to sell wherehe used hadgot.Mimi, Mimi how old saw I Mendips suddenly got to I back When justlaughed you. She after looking be I should citizen. yer're a senior I said, fingerat her Wagged ever. as sour and was sweet Minri that off, of course; I'm still around, Mimi's When stove. the tasty on me and put something just a kid, can't help it. And she couldn'tresistsaying,I told you all this guitarstuffwouldgetyou nowhere,John.But at leastshesaidit with a smile and hug. I guessI couldhavestayedthereforever,but that'snot the Doctor's way.Like Mi-i says,he'sgotantsin his pants.fustlikehis poordeadmumSo I startedto worrythat thingsweregettingtoo cosy,that nraybeit wastime to dunp everythingand startagain,agaitr. Whai finaliy happenedwasthat I rnetthis blokeone day on me wayback no less-the one I usedto sneerat from the Jobbie.The originalSnodgrass, during .rlligtrphy in Art School.In them daysI was Jamesl)ean and and me duck'sarsequiff. A one man Elvis combinedwith me drainpipes revolution-Cynthia, the restof the classwere so hip they were trying to couldn't This kid Snodgrass look like KennyBall and his SoddingJazzmen. neck, a his on evenmanagethat, probablydug Frank lfield. He had spots knows it. Cl'rrist greensporti jacketihat lookedlike his rnum had knitted piss the take to used ir,,6athit t.ri name was. Of course,Dr. Wirrston down velvet black pints of whenhe'dsunka few somethingrancid,specially at Ye Cricke. Anyway, twenty yearson and the Doctor was watchingye seagullson ParadiseSireetand waitingfog the lightsto change,when this ,polt, car shapedlike a dildo slidesup and a window purrsdown'

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"Hi, fohn! Bet you don't rememberme." All I can smellis leatherand aftershave. I squintand lean forwardto see. The guy'sgot red-rimmedglasses on. A grin like a slabof marble. "Yeah,"I say,althoughI reallydon'tknowhow I know."You'rethe prat _ from college.The one with the spottyneck." "l got into advertising," he said."My own companynow. You were in that band,weren'tyou, fohn? Left just beforethey madeit. You alwavsdid talk big." "Fuck off, Snodgrass," I tell him, and head acrossthe road. Nearly walk straightinto a bus. Somehow,it's the last straw.I saunterdown to Lime Street,get rne a platformticketand takethe first Intercitythat comesin, la, la. They throw me offat Brum, which I swearto fesusGod is the only reasonwhy I'm here. oh, yeah.I let Mimi know what had happenedaftera few r..kr when me conscience got too heavy.She must havetold Cyn. Maybethey sendeach otherCrimble cards. Damn. Cal'sgone. Cold. The sofa.How can anyone sleepon this thing?Hurts me old bones iust to sit on it. The sun is fadingat the window. Must be late afternoon. No signof Cal. Probablyhasto do the biz with someArab our Kev'sfound for her. Now seemsas gooda time as any to sort out Macca'stickets,but when I look on top ye telly they'vedone a runner. The cunt,sgone and hiddenthem, la, la. Kevin'sback.I can hear him fartingand snoringupstairsin Cal's room. I shift the dead bcgoniaoff ye sideboardand rummagein the cigar box behind.]uicy stuff, near on sixtyquid. cal hidesher money somewhere differentaboutoncea fortnight,and shedon't think the Doctor hasworked out whereshe'sput it this time. Me, I've knownfor ages,wasjust savingfor ye rainyday. Which is now. So yer thoughtyer couldget Dr. winston o'Boogieto go and seeStu and Pauliejust by hiding the ticketsdid yer?The fuckingNgcr Ah-ha. The Doctor'sgot other pulls on ye jacket,his 6est and only shoes. _,d.-rr..-He Checkshimselfin the hall mirror. Putson glasses. Lookslike Age Concern. Takesthem off again. Headsout. Pulls the door quiet in caseKev should stir. The air outsideis grainy,smellsof diesel.ThL skyis pi.k and all the streetlightsthatworkarecomingon. The kidsarestill piayini, busybreaki'g the aerialoff a car. They'retoo absorbedto look up at ye passingDoctoi which is somehowworsethan being taunted.I recognii. th. .rr".k, in ye pavement. This onelookslike a moonbuggy.This on! lookslike me mum,s faceafterthe carhit her outsideMendips.Not thatI saw,but still,yerdream, don't yer?You still dream.And maybethingsweregettinga bit to; cosyhere with Cal anyway,startingto feel sorryfor he, instlad oimeself. Too cosy. And the Doctor'snot sureif he'severcomine back. I walk ye streets.sixty quid, so which pub[ it gonnabe?But it turns out

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the boozersare still all shut anyway.It don't feel early,but it is-children's hour on the telly, just the time of yearfor smokeand darkness. End up on the hill on top of the High Street.Seethe rooftopsfrom here, carscrawling,all them paperwarriorson the wayhome,Tracydoinglipstick on the bus, dreamingof her boyfriend'sbusyhandsand the night to come. Whole of Birmingham'spouringwith light. A few more right turns in the saysI'm home drip sweeteveningand Snodgrass Sierrato wherethe avenues of Solihull for tea.Streets darling.Deepin the seaarmsof loveandbolognese a1d SuttonColdfieldwherethe kidsknow how to work a computerinstead of just nick one, wearye uniform at school,placeswherethe grassis velvet and thereare magicfountainsamid the fairy trees. The busesdrift by on sailsof exhaustand the skyis the colour of Ribena. Soonthe starswill come. I can feel the whole night pouringir-r,humming feelthis way?DoesSnodwordsI can neverquite find. fesus,doeseveryone le-gs,on holv Sunday Tracy's he's watching when around grasscarry this Does fucking Sie-rra? his on badge GL polishing the Match beforethe Big lips like the parting ocean the of combers seaweed tide, he dreamof tlre dark he nevertouched? Kevin,Tracy,fat Doris in her print dress'I'm every Me, I'm Snodgrass, bit part playerin the whole bloodyhorrorshow.EveryoneexceptJohn LenOtt fesusMary fosephandWinston,I dreamedI couldcirclethe world "on. with me ,r-r, takethe crowdwith me guitar,stompthe beaton dirty floors soit would neverend,whisperthe dreamfor everykid underthe starchsheets of radio nights.Show them how to shine. Christ, i.r..d a drink. Find me way easily,growlat dogsand passers-by,but Dave the barman'sa mate. Everything'sdeepred in here and tastesof old boozeand cigsand the dodgyGents, iust like swimmingthrough me own blood.Davei"swipingthe counterwith a filthy ragand it'sGettingpi_ssed tonight are we, fohnf Yel bet; wac. Notice two rastasin the corner-Give .- ih" old comic Livipud accent.Ken Dodd and his Diddymen.Makesem smile.I hateit whentheydon'tsmile.Ansellsanda chaser.Evengotchange to "9 Moon," for the juke-box.Not a deatlessongin sight.No "Yesterday," Bob Marley, Now " H.y, me shoutat ye rastas, no "Mull of Kinbloodytyre. he wasthe biz, reet?At leasthe had the senseto die' Like fimi, Ii-, fanis, saysomething allthe goodoneswho keptthe angerandthe dream.The rastas uninteiligibleback. Rock and roll, lets.The rastasar-rdWinston, we're on Buy em a drink. CIap their backs.They'reexchanging the same"wavelength. don't notice. Man, will you look at this sadold git? I think they gr-, like I'm buying thanksto Cal. By the way-lads,these Yeah Eut he's bryi.g. 1.,o**r.ly you guysmust havesomethinga little shit, like taste Rothmans stronger? eveningstartsto fill out. I can seeeverythinghappeningevenbefore Th-"e it does.MaybJthe Doctorwill havea little pukeround abouteightto make chippy.Oh, yeah,and plenty-oftime for moreboozeand room fora greasy then maybJ bit of ttitt"r later. Rock and roll. The rastashavegot their " you mateswith them now and they'resayingHey man, how much money

Snodgrass 501 got there?I waveit in their faces.Wipe yer arseon this, Sambo.H"y, Dave, yer servingor what?Drinky here,drinkythere.The goodDoctorgivedrinky everywhere. Juke-boxis pounding.Arms in arms, I'm singingwordsI don't know. Dave he tell me, Take it easynow, fohn. And I tell him exactlywhat to stuff,and preciselywhere.Oh, yeah.Needto sit down. There'san arm on me shoulder.I pushit off. The arm comesagain.The Doctor'sreadyto lash out, so maybethe botheris comingearlierthan expected.Well, that'sjust fine and me turn to faceye foe. It's Cal. "fohn, you just can'thold your boozeany longer." She'sleadingme out ye door. I waveme rastasan oceanwave.The bar wavesback. The night air hits me like a truncheon."How the fuck did yer find me?" "Not verydifficult. How many pubsare therearour-rd here?" "Justdump ne here,Cal. Don't give "l've nevercounted."No, seriously. me anotherchanceto pissyer around.Look." I fumble me pockets.Twenty " pee.Turnsout I'm skintagain."l nickedall yermoney.Behindthebegonia. "On the sideboard? That's not mine, it's Kevin's.After lasttime do you think I'm stupidenoughto leavemoneyaroundwhereyou could find it?" "Ah-ha!" I point at her in triumph. "You calledhim Kevin." "|ust get in the bloody car." I get in the bloody car. Some geezerin the front saysOkay guv, and off we zoom. It's a big car. Smellslike a new camera.I do me royalwavepast I tell the driver,Hey me man, juststepon it and followthat car. Kwiksave. "Plentyof time, sir," he tellsme. He lookslike a chauffeur.He'swearing a bloodycap. Time for what? And fesus,we'reheadingto Solihull. I've got me glasses on somehow. Treesand a big dual carriageway, the sortyou neverseefrom a bus. The Doctor doesthe interior a favour. Says,Stopthe car. Do a spastic sprintacrossye lay-byand yawn me gutsout overthe verge.The starsstop spinning.I wipe me face.The Sierrasare swishingby. There'sa road sign the sizeof the LiverpoolEmpire over me head. SaysNEC, two miles. So that's it. Rock and roll. NEC. I've been here and seenSimply Red on Cal's free tickets,all them prettytuneswith their ballsloppedoff at birth. Knew what to expect.The placeis all car park, like a bloodyairportbut lessfun. Cal saysHi to the staffat the big doors,twilight workersin Butlin'sblazers.Got any jobson here, Cal? asksthe prettygirl with the prettyprogrammes.It's Max Bygraves nextweek.Cal justsmiles.The Doctortoyswith a witty riposte abouthow shegetsmoredoughlying with her legsopenbut decidesnot to. But |esus,this is Snodgrass city. I've neverseenso many casualsuits. I nick a programmefrom the pile when no one'slooking.Got so much glosson it, feelslike a sheetof glass.The GreatestHits Tour. Two photos

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of the Fab Foursome,then and now. Georgestill lookslike his mum, and Ringo'sRingo. Stu is wasted,but he alwayswas.And Macca is Cliff on steroids. "Stopmuttering,fohn," Cal says,and takesme arm. We go into this aircrafthangar.Half an hour later,we'vegot to our seat. It's right at the bloodyfront of what I presumemustbe the stage.Looksmore like Apollo Nine. Anothersmall stepbackwards for mankind. oh, yeah. I knowwhata stageshouldlook like. Like the bloodyIndrain Hamburgwhere we took turns betweenthe striptease. A stageis a placewhereyer standand fight againstthe boozeand the boredomand the soddingsilence.A place whereyer makepeoplelisten.Like the Caverntoo beforeall the Tracysgot their lunchtimejolliesby screamingover the music. Magic dayswhereI could feel the powerthroughme Rickenbacker. And that guitar costme a fortuneand wherethe bloodyhell did it get to? Vanishedwith everyother dream. Lightsgo down. A smoothiein a pink suit runs up to a mike and says ladeeezand gennnlemen,Paul McCartney,StuartSutcliffe,GeorgeHarrison,RingoStarr-the Beatles!H.y, rockand roll. Everyonecheersasthey run on stage.Seemslike there'saboutten of them nowadays,not counting the backgroundchicks.They'reall tiny up on that launchpad,but I manage Paulfrom the photies.He saysHello (pause) to recognise Birrrminghamjust like he'sMick Hucknallandshakes his mop top that'sstill kindacut the way Astrid did all them yearsbackin Hamburg.Ringo'sabouthalf a mile back hidden behind the drums but that'sokay cos there'ssomesessionguy up theretoo. Georgeis lookingdown at his guitarlike he'sBertWeedon.And there'sStu almostasfar backasRingo,still havingdifficultyplayingthe bass after all thesebloodyyears.Should havestuckwith the painting, me lad, I don'tbelieveit, PaulshootsStu an weregoodat. And Jesus, somethingyer glanceas they kick into the riff for "Long Tall Sally" and he exasperated comesin two barslate. Jesus,hasanythingchanged. Yeah, John Lennon'snot up there. Would neverhave lastedthis long with the Doctor anyway.I mean,thirty years.That'sasbad as StatusQro, and at leasttheyknow how to rock,evenif they'veonly learntthe one tune. Daysin me life. Number one in a seriesof one. Collect the fuckingset. It's 1962.Eppy'tsentus roughladsa telegramfrom down the Smoke.Great news,boys.A contract.This is just when we'reall startingto wonder,and Stu in particularis pining for Astridbackin Hamburg.But we'reall giving it a go and the Doctor'sevenagreedto that stupidhaircut that neverquite caughton and to sackingPeteBestand gettingRingoin and the bloodysuit with the bloodycollarand the bloodyfuckingtie. So down to London it is. And then ta ran ta rah! A real single,a real recordingstudio!We meetthis producerdudein a suitcalledMartin. He andEppygeton like old buddies, uppercrustand all that and me wondersout loud if he'sa queer|ew too, but Paul saysCan it fohn we can't affordto blow this. So we getsin ye studiowhich is like a rabbit hutch. Do a roll Ringo, Martin saysthrough the mike. So Ringo getsdown on the mat and turns

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over that and all the time there'sMr. Producer over. We all pissourselves Me, I say,Hey, did yer reallyproducethe Goons, lookingschoolmasterish. MeesterMartin. I got the "Ying Tong Song" note perfect.They all think I'm kidding. Let'sget on with it, John, Eppy says,and oils a grin through theglass,givingme thedoeeyes.And don'tyerbelieveit, Johnknowsexactly what he wants.Oh, y'eah.Like, did Colonel Parkerfancy Elvis?Wow. So this is rockand roll. Me and Paul,we got it all workedout. Hit the chartswith "Love Me Do," by Lennon and McCartney,the creditson the recordlabel just the way we agreedyearsbackin the front parlourof his Dad'shouseeventhoughwe've It's Macca'ssong,but we'redemocratic, alwaysdoneour own stuffseparately. right?Arrd what reallymakesit is me harmor-rica riff. So that'swhat we play and we'reall nervousasshit but evenStu manages to get the basspart right just the way Paul'sshownhim. Silence.The ampsare humming. Okay, saysMr. Martin, puttrngon a voice,That wasjust great,lads.An interestingsong.lnteresting? Neverone to beataboutthe proverbial,I say,yer mean it wasshit, right?fust coswe and don't live down Tin Par-r wroteit ourselves bloodyAlley. But he says,I think we'relookingat a B sidefor that one lads.Now, listento this. Oh, yeah.We listen. Martin playsus this tapeof a demo of someditty called"How Do You Do It. " DefiniteTop Ten materialfor somebody,he sayssignificantly.Gerry and the Pacemakers are alreadyinterestedbut I'll giveyou first refusal.And Eppy nodsbesidehim throughthe glass.It's like watchingSootyand bloodySweepin there.So Ringosmashes a cyrnbaland Stu triesto tune his bassand Georgegoesoverto help and I look at Paul and Paul looksat me. "lt's a decenttune, fohn," Paul says. "You're kidding. It's a heapof shit." Eppy tuts throughthe glass.Now lohn. And so it goes.Me, I grab me Rickenbacker and walk out the fucking studio.There'sa boozerround the corner.London pricesare a joke but I sinkonepint andthen another,waitingfor someoneto comeandsay,You're so right,fohn. But Pauldon't come.Eppydon'tcomeeithereventhoughI thoughtit wasme of all the ladsthat he wasafter.After the third pint, I'm fuckingglad.The haircuts,the suits,and now playingtunesthat belongin the bloodyadverts.It's all gonetoo far. And there it was. fohn Quits The Beatlesin somelocal snotragcalled Merseybeat the weekafterbeforeI've had a chanceto changeme mind. And afterthat I've got me pride.When I sawPaul down Victoria Streeta couple a months later yer could tell the singlewasdoing well just by his bloody walk.SaidHi fohn, yerknowit'snot too lateandGod knowshow Merseybeat got hold of the story.He saidit asthoughhe and Eppyhadn'tjumpedat the chanceto dump me and make sure everybodykr-rew.There was Macca puttingon the charmthe wayhe alwaysdid when he wasin a tight situation. I told him to stuff it wherethe fuckingsun don't shine.And that wasthat. I stompedoff down ye street,had a cup of tea in Littlewoods.Walked out

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on Cynthiaand the kid. Formedme own band.Did a fewgigs.Bolloxedup me life goodand proper. And herewe havethe Beatles,still gigging,nearlya full househereat the NEC, almostas big as Phil Collins or the Bee Gees.Paul doeshis old thumbs-uproutinebetweensongs.Awwrright.He'sa realrockand roll dude, him and Georgeplay their own solosjust like Dire Straights.The music driftsfrom the poppyolderstuffto the druggymiddlestuffbackto the poppy laterstuff."ThingsWe SaidToday." "Good Day Sun Shine." "Dizzy Miss Lizzy." "Irt." They evendo "How Do You Do It. " No sign of "Love Me Do," of course.That nevergot recorded, althoughI'll bet theycoulddo me harmonicariff on ye synthesiser aseasyasshit. It all soundssmoothand tight and sweetlynostalgic,just the way it would on the Sonymusic centreback at home afterSnodgrass hasloosenedhis tie from a harddaywatchingTracy wriggleher assoverthe fax machinein Accounts.The prettylightsflash,the dry ice fumes, but the spaceshipnever quite takesoff. Me, I shout for "Maxwell'sSilverHammer,"and in a suddenwaveof silence,it seemslike Paulactuallyhears.He squintsdown at the front row ar-rd grinsfor a moment like he understands the joke. Then the lights dim to purple and Paul sits down at ye piano, givesthe seata little tug just the way he usedto when he was practisingon his Dad'sold upright in the parlour at home. Playsthe openingchordsof "Let It Be." I lookaroundme andseveral thousandflames areheld up. It's a forestof candles,andfesusit's a beautifulsong.There'sa lump in me throat,God help me. For a moment,it feelslike everyonehere is closeto touchingthe dream. The moment lastslonger than it decentlyshould. Right through "No half-finished More LonelyNights"until "H.y fudi" petersout likesonrething bassriff and the band kick into "Lady Madonna,"which hasa tl-rundering eventhough Stu is still pickingup his Fender.And the fuckingstagestarts to revolve.Me, I've had enough. Cal looksat me asI standup. She'sboppingalonglike a Tracy.I mouth the word Bog and point to me crotch. She nods. Either she'sgiven up worryingabout the Doctor doirrga runner or she don't care. Fact is, the boozehaswrung me dry and I've got me a headachecoming.I stumbleme way up the aisles.The musicpushesme along.He reallyis gonnado "C Moon." Makesyer want to pissjust hearingit. The lav is deliciouslyquiet. White tiles and somepoor geezerin grey the porcelain.It takesabout a moppingup the piss.The Doctor straddles minute'sconcentrationto get a decentflow. Maybethis is what gettingold like Maccahavethe sameproblern,but I is all about.I wonderif superstars doubt it. Probablypry some geezerto go for them, and oh, Kevin, can yer managea gooddump for me while yer'rethere? Once it starts,the flow keepsup for a long time. Getsboring.I flushdown ye strayhair, dismantleye cigarettebutt, lookingat the groutingon the tiles, starearound.The guy with the mop is leaningon it, watchingme. "Must be a realgroovein here," I say. "Oh, no," he laughs."Don't get the wrongidea."

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I givepercya shakeand zip up. The lastspurtstill runs dowr-rme bloody leg. Bet that don't happento Paul either. ThewrongideaTThe guy'sgotthe plump faceof a thirty-year-old choirboy. Pity poor Eppyain't still alive,he'd be in his fuckingelement. "l think all queersshouldbe shot,"fat choirboyassures me. "Well, seeingit from your perspective . . ." The Doctor startsto back away.This guy'sout-weirdingme without eventryir-rg. "What'sthe concertlike?" The musiccomesaroundthe cornerasa greyecho,drownedin the smell of pissand disinfectant."lt's mostlyshit, what do yer expect?" "Yeah," he nods.His accentis funny. I think it's somebastardkind of Brummyuntil I suddenly realise he'sAmerican."Theysoldout, didn'tthey?" "The Beatlesneversoldin." "Bloodyhypocrites.All that moneygoingto waste." Someotherguy comesin, staresat us ashe wees.Giveshis leg a shake, walksout again.Choirboyand I standin stupidsilence.It's one of them situationsyer find yerselfin. But anyonewho thinksthat the Beatlesarecrap can'tbe all bad. "You usedto be in the Beatles,didn't you?" I stareat him. No one'srecognised me justfrom me facein years.['ve got me glasses on, me speciallygreyand wrinkleddisguise. "Oh, I've readall aboutthe Beatles,"he assures me, givinghis mop a twirl. I've half a mind to say,If yer'rethat interested give me the fuckingmop and yer can haveme seat,but there'ssomethingabouthim that I wouldntt trust next to Cal. "H"y," he smiles."Listenin there.Soundslike they'redoingthe encore. " which of courseis "Yesterday,"like oh deary me, we left it out by accidentfrom the main showand"ihought we wouldjustpop it in here.Not a dry seatin the bloodyhouse. Choirboy'sstill grir-rning at me. I seehe'sgot a paperback in the pocketof his overall.Catcherin theRye."They'llbe a big rushin a minute,'th. ,ryr. "More messfor me to cleanup. Evenfesuswouldn'tlike this iob." "Then why do yer do it? The pay can't be spectacular. " "well, this is just casualwork. I'll probablyquit aftertonight." "Yeah,pal. I know all aboutcasualwork." "But this is interesting,getsyou into places.I like to be nearto the stars. I needto seehow badtheyare." He cracksthat grin a little wider."Tell me," he says,"what'sPaul reallylike?" "How the fuck shouldI know?I haven'tseenthe guy in nearlythirty years. But, there's . there'ssomedo on afterwards. he'saskedme and me bird to comealong.Yer know, for old timesI guess. " lesus,lohn, who are yer trying to impress? "oh,"-he says,"and where'sthat takingplace?I sometimes look in, you know. The securityround here'sa joke. Last week, I was that close to Madonna." He demonstrates the distancewith his broom.

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Cal'sgotthe invitesir-rher handybag, but I canpicturethem clearenough. I've got a greatmemoryfor crap.They'reall scrolledlike it's a weddingand there'sa signedpasstackedon the backjust to makeit official. Admit two, The Excelsior,Meriden. Boogieon down, and I bet the Lord Mayor's coming. And tomorrowit's Reading.I mean, do theseguyspaarrtyevery night? Choirboygrins."lt's hereat the Metropole,right?" "Oh, yeah,the Metropole."I sawthe neon on tl-reway in. "That'sthe placejust outside?Savesthe bastards havingto walk too far." I scratchme head."Well maybeI'll seeyer there.And fustlet me know if yer haveany troubleat all gettingin, right?" "Right on." He holdsout his hand. I don't botherto shakeit-and it's not simplybecausethis guy cleansbogs.I don't want him near me, and somehowI dor-r'twant him nearPaul or the otherseither.He's a fruitcase, and I feel briefly and absurdlypleasedwith meselfthat I've senthim off to ye wronghotel. I givehim a waveand headon out ye bog. h'rthe aircrafthangar,music's still playing.Let'sall get up and danceto a songde da de da de dum de and Tracy are trying to be enthusiasticso they can tell dum. Snodgrass great it wasin the officetomorrow.I wanderdown the aisles, how everyone if it might be easiernot to meetup u'ith Cal. On reflection,this wondering place good a asany to duck out of her life. Do the cunt a favour. as seems And to be honest,I reallydon't fancyexplainingto it. deserves After all, she his money went. He'sa big lad, is our Kev. Useful,like. Kevin whereall The clapslike they'rereallynot surewhetherthey crowd The musicstops. arm to still them. want any more and Paul raisesan unnecessary yer go," he savswith probablyuninten"H.y, onemoresongthenwe'lllet tional irony. I doubt if they know what the fuck is going on up there in MissionControl. He putsdown his Gibsonand a roadiehandshim somethingsilver.Stu's grinninglike a skull. He evenwanderswithin spittingdistanceof the front of the stage.A matchstickfigure,I can seehe looksthe u'ayKeith Richards wouldhavedoneif he reallyhadn'ttakencareof himself.He nodsto Ceorge. Georgepicksup a twelvestring. "This one'sfor an old friend," Paulsays. musiciansarelookingat eachotherlike What the fuck'sgoing The session moment?Seemsunlikely,but then on?Could this reallybe an unrehearsed Paul muffs the count in on a swiftfour/fourbeat.There'snervouslaughter silencein the auditorium.Then again.One. amongstthe Fab Fearsome, Two. Three.And. Maccaputsthe harmonicato his lips. Playsme riff. "Love Me Do." Oh, yeah.I reallycan'tbelieveit. The audiencearelookinga bit bemused,but probablyreckonit's just somethingfrom the new LP that'sstackedby the yardout in the foyerand no one'sbotheredto buy. The song'soverquickly. Them kind of songsalwayswere.Me, I'ln crying. The End. Finis, like theysayin cartoon.Ye Beatlesgivea waveand duck

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off stage.I get sweptbackin the rush to get to ye doors.I hearsnatchesof, Doesn'the look old,They neverknewhow to rock,Absolutelybrilliant, and I wipe the snotoff on me sleeveand How much did you paythe babysitter? look around.Cal catcheshold of me by the largelyunpatronised T-shirt stall I have a to her before chance see coming. "What did you think?" "A load of shit," I say,hopingshewon't noticeI've beencrying. Shesmiles."ls thatall you canmanage,fohn?That mustmeanyou liked " it. "Truth is, I could needa drink." Touch6, MonsieurPussycat. "Well, let'sgetdown the Excelsior.You can meetyour old matesand get as pissedas you like." She glidesme out towardsthe door. Me feet feel like they'reon rollers. And there'sme chauffeurpal with the boy scoutuniform. Peoplestareat us as he opensthe door like we'reGeorgeMichael. Pity he don't salute,but still, I'd look a right pillock trying to squirm me way awayfrom a pretty woman and the backseatof a lag. The car pullsslowlythroughthe crowds.I do me wavelike I'm the Queen Mum althoughthe old bint'sprobablytoo hip to be seenat a Beatlesconcert. Turns out there'sa specialexit for us VIPs. I mean,rockand roll. It's just a few minutes"drive, re mate up front tells us. Cal settlesback."This is the life." "Call this life?" "Might as well makethe mostof it, fohn." "Oh, yeah.I bet you gettakenin this kind of limo all the time. Blowjobs in the backseat.It'swhatpays,right?"I bite me lip and look out the window. fesus,I'm startingto cry again. "Why do you saythingslike that, fohn?" "Because I'm a bastard.I mean,you of all peoplemustknowaboutbastards havingto put up with Steve." Cal laughed."You calledhim Steve!" I reallymust be goingta bits. "Yeah, well I must havepukedup me wits over that lay-by." -"Anyway,"shetouchesme arm. "Call him whateveryou like. I took your advicethis evening.Told him whereto stuff it." - I look carefullyat her face.Sheobviouslyain't kidding,but I can'tseeany bruises."And what aboutthe moneyI nicked?" "well, that'snot a problemfor me, is it? I simplytold him the truth, that i-t was yog. She smiled."Come on, fohn. I'd almostbelieveyou were frightenedof him. He's just some bloke. He's got anothergirl he's after anyway,the othersideof town and goodluck to her." "So it's just you and me is it, Cal. Cosy,like. Don't expectme to sortout yer customersfor yet." _--"lm gettingtoo old for that, fohn. It costsyou morethan theypay.Maybe I'll do more work at the NEC. Of course,you'll haveto startpayingyour soddingrent."

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I hearmeselfsay,"l think there'sa vacancycomingup in the NEC Gents. How aboutthat for a funky job for Dr. Winston?At leastyou get to sweep " the shit up thereratherthan havingto stuff it into envelopes. "What are you talkingabout,John?" "Forgetit. MaybeI'll explainin the morning.You'vegot influencethere, haven'tyou?" "l'll help you get a iob, if that'swhat you'retrying to say." I lookoutaye window.The housesstreamingpast,yellowwindows,where who weren'tat the concertare chompingpipe and slipptrs ye Snodgrasses while the wife makesspanieleyes.The kidstuckedupstairsin pink and blue roomsthat smellof Persiland Playdough.Me, I'm iustthe guy who usedto band beforethey were anybody' I got me no book be in a halfivay-famous I got me no life so cleanyer couldeatyer bloodydinner club subscription, off it. Of course,I slill got me rebellion,oh yeah,I got me that, and all it amountsto is cadgingcigsoff Cal and lifting packetsof CheesyWotsitsfrom the bargainbin in ftinave when DorisandTracyain't looking.Oh, ye+, rebelliJn.The milkman shoutsat me when I go near his float in casethe Mad Old Git nicksanotherbottle. I can rememberwhenwe usedto standup andfacethe crowd,do all them songsI've forgottenhow to play. When Paul still knewhow to rock. When Stu-washalf an artist,dreamyand scaryat the sametime. When Georgewas just a neatkid behinda hugeguitar,lying abouthis age-When Ringo was i,rlny and the beatwent on foreuer.Down the smoggilylit stairwaysand greaqytunnels,alongburrowsand bywayswherethe cheesyreekof the bogs and the girls would frit y.r like a wall. Then the boozewasfree afterwards Their boyfriends smiled. they yer as arm against press softly gatherround, yer. Knew they of afraid were knew they you but bar ionld mutter at the stage. off the carried that music the fesus,the girls of could sensethe power the forest streets, shining the grey cities, those in wereas sweetat th" rain brickdripping in the laughter was ih.t. where wharves,the darkdoorways and booze the spinning yer head afterwards, paved,'right.And sleeping {om with the mattress stained that on turns taking downers, ih" *rt.".rps and the through. pouring still music the yer and head in .in.*, belo* booming Diving down into carouseldreams. Ohl the beatwenton all right. Usedto think it wouldcarryup into daylight and the real air, touch the ryesand earsof the prettydreamers,evenmake stir a little in his slumbers,taketheshineoffthe Sierra,makehim Snodgrass iook ip at the angelsin the sky once in a while, or even iust down at the shit on the pavement. "Well, here we are,"Cal saYs. Oh, yeah.Somehotel. Out in the prettypl.tty. Treesand lightsacrossa fucking'lake.The boy scoutopensttre door for me and Cal. Unsteadyon -. pin't, I takea breath,thenhave me a gooqretchingcough.The air out bog fresheners h.r. ,..is of rosesor something,like one of them expensive dump' a had that Cal spraysaroundwhen our Kev's

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"H.y." Cal holdsout the crook of her arm. "Aren't you goingto escort me in?" "Let's wait here." like he'sthe Duke There are other carspulling up, someold git dressed of Wellingtonstandingat the doors.Straightaheadto the ClarendonSuite, sir, he smoothsgreylyto the passingsuits.I supposethesemust be record industrytypes.And then there'sthis biggercar than the reststartsto pull up. It just goeson and on, like one of them gagsin Tom and lerry. Everyone stepsback like it's the Pope.Instead,turns out it's just the Beatles.They like madowls,dressed in them ridiculousloose blink aroundin the darkness cottonsuitsthatClaptonalwayslookssucha pratin. Lawyerstremblearound them like little fish. Paul pausesto give a motorcyclepolicemarrhis autograph,flashesthe famousMaccagrin. Someguy in a suit who lookslike the hotel managershakeshandswith Stu. Rock and roll. I mean, this is what the goodDoctorbefore we werealwaysfightingfor. The Beatlesdon't register they headinside,buy maybethat'sbecausehe'stakenthreestepsback into the toilet freshenerdarkness. "What arewe waitingfor?"Cal asksasthe restof the rubbernecks drift in. "This isn't easy,Cal." "Who saidanythingabouteasy?" I give the Duke of Wellingtona saluteas he holdsye door open. "Straightaheadto the ClarendonSuite,sir." "H.y," I tell him, "l usedto be Beatlefohn." "Stopmuckingabout,fohn." Cal doesher KennethWilliamsimpression, then getsall serious."This is important.fust forgetaboutthe pastand let's on the restof your life. All you haveto sayto Paulis Hello. He's concentrate a decentguy. And I'm surethat the restof them haven'tchangedas much " asyou imagine. wheels me in. The hotel lobbylooksIike a hotel lobby.The Tracy at Cal receptiongivesme a cutglass smile. Catcha glimpseof meselfin the mirror and unbelievablyI reallydon't look too bad. Must be slipping. "fesus,Cal. I needa smoke." "Here." Sherumblesin me pocket,produces Kevin'sRothmans."l supposeyou want a bloodylight." All the expensivefish are drifting by. Somebint in an eveningdressso low at the backthat you can seethe crackof her arseputs her arm on this Snodgrass and giveshim a peckon the cheek.That wasdelightful,darrling, shepurrs.She reallydoes. "l meana realsmoke,Cal" Haven'tyou got someblow?"I makea lunge for her handbag. "Bloodyhell, fohn," shewhispers, lookingcloseto losingher cool. She pushessomethinginto rny hand. "Haveit outside,if you must. Shareit with the bloodydoorman." "ThanksCal." I giveher a peckon the cheekand shelooksat me oddlv. "l'll neverforget."

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"Forgetwhat?"she asksas I backtowardsthe door. Then she beginsto understand.But the Duke holdsthe door openfor me and alreadyI'm out in the forestnight air. The door swingsback,then open again.The hotel lightsfan out across the grass.I look back.There'ssomefigure. "Hay, lohnl" It's a guy'svoice, not Cal'safterall. SoundsalmostLiverpool. "Hry, wait a minute!Can't we just talk?" The voiceringsin silence. "fohn! It's me!" towardsme. He'sholding out his hand. Paul'swalkinginto the darkness The big carsare all around.Then I'm kicking I stumbleagainstchrome. gravelunderfootand I can seeblue Turns to white stripesdown the road. sea,a white beachsteamingafterthe warm rain, a placewherea woman is waiting and the bells jingle betweenher breasts.fust closeyour eyesand you'rethere. Me throatme legsme headhurts. But there'sa gatedsideroadherethat leadsoff throughtreesand scuffingthe dirt at the end of a field to somebig housesthat nod and swaywith the sleepynight' I risk a look behind. Everythingis peaceful.There'sno one around. is dreaming.Starsupon the rooftops,and the Sierra'sin the drive. Snodgrass Treei and privet,lawnsneatasvelvet.f ust somesuburbanroadat the back of the hotel. Peopleliving their lives. I catchme breath,and startto run again.

BYTHE MIRROROF MY YOUTH Kathe Koja

One of the most excitingnew writersto hit the sciencefiction scenein sometime, KatheKoja is a frequentcontributorto IsaacAsimoy'sScienceFictionMagazineand The Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction.Shehasalsosoldstoriesto Pulphouse, Universe,The Ultimate Werewolf,A Whisperof Blood, and elsewhere.Her first novel, The Cipher,wasreleased to enthusiastic criticalresponse, and a new novel, Bad Brains,wasgreetedwith similaracclaim.Her third novel, Skin, has just been published.Shehashadstoriesin our Sixth,Seventh,and Ninth Annual Collections. Here, with her usual hard-edged6lan, she givesa whole new meaningto the phrase"technologicalobsolescence"

Raymond'ssweat.fust a beadof it, a proudgreasyglitterin the Slavicvalley of his temple,his left templemind you, the one pointedat her. Of courseit would be. Rachelhad passedno day, had in fact lived no moment of her entireadult life without one of Raymond'sirritationsparadingitselfbefore her. It wasa gift he had. He shifted,there on the bench, the preciouslyfaux-Shakerbench he insistedupon insertingin her morningroomlike a splinterin her living flesh. "Are you readyto go?"he askedher. Sheforboreto answerin words,preferringthe quick nod, the quickerrise from her chair, beathim to the door if shecould. Shecouldn't.His healthy rise,his longerreach,his moreadvantageous proximityto the door, and still he stopped,pausedto hold it for her: "After you," he said. "Why not," shesaid."Once in a lifetimecan'thurt." Halfwaythrolgh the longdrive,he spokeagain,her handstight and graceful on the wheel:"Thosegloveslook shabby,"he said. "They are shabby." "Well, why don't you get somenew ones?" "That'sright." The defroster's heatblowingback,oven-dryinto her face. "That's you, isn't it, Ray?When it wearsout, get a new one. Becausethe old orredoesn'twork anymore.Becausethe old one'swearingout." There werecertainlyno tears,shehad criedthis all out yearsbefore,but the anger wasas bitter and briskas new snow.

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His in the passingarcticshineof the lar-rdscape. His profile,advantageous sorry feeling "Oh, going to stop you ever for God'ssake.Aren't noblebrow. for yourself?" Who elsewill, shewantedto say,but that wasaspettyas it soundedand anywaythey were there, the low shiny lines of the clinic beforethem, as cool and preciousas mercuryin the manicureddriftsof the grounds.The circulardiiue*ay lookedas if it had beenliterallysweptclean. Strepulled the Toyota right up to the entrance,as if it werea nice hotel with a nice doorman*ho *ould seeto it that the car wassafelyparked.Her hand on the heavyglassdoor, warm as honey eventhroughher shabbyglove,her No discornforthere,shethoughtfrozenrki", did theyevenheatthe glass? desk-heated glass royal-bluecarpet,pink marbleglint of the receptionist's and heatedfloors,only the clientleft cold. It madeher smile,aud shekept There wasno point in takingit out on the smile to giveto the receptionist. him. smile,heavylips,brightteeth,wasall for Raymond: But tfuereceptionist's "Good afterlot.t, Mr. Pope," not presumingto offer his hand until Ray offeredhis, then acceptingit in a flurried,flatteredgrasp,oh God if shehad seenit orlceshehad seenit a million times.[f he saidanythingaboutBrain Fevreshewould vomit on the sPot. said' "lt's an honor to haveyou here,"the receptionist "Thank you," Raymondsaid. "Dr. Chiistensen is waitingfor you. Will you corle this way, please?" siierrtin the warm office, thinking not of what silent, followed, Rachel no, her firstvisit here,the papersand papers their, of or evelt wasto come lights,but of a day when Raymondhad the sharp and needles to sign, the the monitor screenbright and hii terminal, before sat,ilumpefl and sorry Btain Fevre,saying,"lt becorne would what of *ith the g.r,ri,ru, craz.ed on the keys,toying with isn't any good. II isn't working."Fingersrestless Delete. "lt's going to." Her hands,not on his shoulders-theyhad alreadygot kneading pastthal-b"ut o.r the greenslopeof his swivelc]rair,unconsciously "Just it out, sweat skin. under flesh ihe leather,the paddingbeneathlike " Ra,v.You can do that. i,1d he, lips skinnedbacklike Beniaminwho lay beneathhis feet,"What the hell *ouid you know aboutit?" and the echoof Benjarnin'smimickir-rg growl. Beniaminhad lovedRay like a, like a dog, lh9ugh of courseRachel f,a,l beenthe one to carefor him, fill his dishesand let him in and out and drivehinr to the vetfor the interminableshotsthat prolongedhis painfullife, drivehim too for the lastshotthat sethim free,that setRayrnondbreaking and cupsin the kitchenwhen shecamehome alone' casseroles ,,why didn't you tell me?" weepingin his rage,and she, still ableto be surprised,protestingthat she hadiold him, had beggedhini to-comewith f,.i to be^withBeiiamin at the end, and he had takenher World's Fair rlug, her sister'smug, and standingpoisedlike T'hor beforethe porcelain sink-

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"Mrs. Pope?" "Oh." Lookingup to seeDr. Christensen, smiling,thissmilefor her now but shewaspastneedingsmiles,at leastfor today."Are you readyto go?" " she said, making it a point to rise Raymond'swords. "Of course, smoothly,showingnothingof the jeeringclackof boneon bone,the pain that in its inceptionhad compelledher here, backwhen such thingsrvere not only prohibitedbut prohibitivelvexpensive, beforethe ambiguitiesof the FrawleyAct, beforeshe had come to loathe Raymondso professionally it wasalmosta job. It wcsher job, afterall, because afterall what elsedid she keeperof the shrinewhen the god himselfwasstill alive haveto do, useless to tend to the incenseand answerthe mail, everyletterhand-signed by the masterin his very own childishscrawl,hisAnd a door, openinginto the jabberof her panic. Scentlike medicine, but not. And her voice,but nof her voice. "Hello." And beyondthe fumble of the others,their self-congratulatory greetings, lookingto seeherself,eightecnand smiling,holdingout her hand. Carlene.Raymondhadnamedher, of course.Shewashis toy, afterall. She movedaroundthe houselike water,her gracesoeerieto Rachelfrom whom it originated,from whom it had so long agodecamped,desertingher at the onsetof the disease.In the dayswhen shecould still cry, not for herselfor the pain, but Raymond.In the dayswhen Raymondstill held her, when "l don't careso they talked,talkingout this, too, this plan, shewhispering, much aboutdying, but I can'tstandfor you to be alone." And he, breath hot againsther forehead,tearsin his voice,"[ can't standit either," and togetherthey wept. For him. Togethertheysignedthe papers,gotthe bankdraft,almosteverythingthey had-this wasin the daysbeforeBrain F'evre,beforethe moneythat made their originalsacrificeludicrous,Ray had spentalmostthat much lastyear on redoingthe fapanese garden.Togethertheyreadthroughthe docurnents, discussed the procedure,experimental,frightening.Shedroveto the clinic alone,lay in cold papergarments, waiting. "Did my husbandcall?" A meaningless smile."Perhapshe rvill later,Mrs. Pope." When the cellstook hold, when the birth began,it wasRaymondthey notified,while shelay anxiousand druggednot half a hall distant.When shefinallvarrivedhome, kneestrembling,stomachsorefrom all the vomiting, shesagged in the doorwayof his studioand slurredout, "lt's a girl." [t was Raymond'sname on the progress reports,Raymond'spreferences in the client file; he was even listedon the donor sheet,and when she protestedthis last obliteratingirony he had obliteratedher further:"Well, let'sbe realists,Rachel,who is all this for?You or me?You won't evenbe here." "Thank God," shehad said,alreadysorry,sorryunto death,but therewas now no chanceof erasingthe fruit of this creation,this costlyexclusivechild of her flesh.Of courseRaymondhad long ago refusedher the chancefor

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children,but then againthiswouldbe no child:thiswasthe secondcoming of Rachel,his wife improved.The fesh-toy, Rachelcalledher, called it, unwilling to admit to personhood this monstrousinsult, all the more monstrousfor her own complicityin its conception. The progress reportscontinued.The flesh-toyprospered,the yearswent like a river,ran throughit all; sometimes on, and her disease, shethought shewasdying, and in the fadinginstantwonderedwith pale regretwhat it would havebeenlike, to seethis woman, this clonedget of hers. And now, of course,sheknew. Carlenedrank tomato fuice. Carlenewore wool. Carlene did crossword puzzles,slightlycrookedteethunconsciously exposed asshefrownedovera Rachelwatchedher like an anthropolwordllke lepidopterist or pantophobia. ogist, thinking, I do none of thesethings, I never did. And yet Carlene liked loud bass-heavy music, and cut applesin slices,never the wedges that Raymondpreferred:"They tastebetterthis way," she saidfirmly, and reluctant,RachelthoughtYes.They do. as consumingas an itch the Shewasrepellentto Rachel,yet irresistible, time spentobserving,seeingspreadbeforeher the sweettable of her own fetched youth, lived aneweachday in the personof a stranger.As Carler-re and carriedfor Raymond,admiredhis gardens,studiedhis art, did all the thingsshehad beencreatedto do, Rachelsatwrappedin the pocketof her pain, and watched. Seethe flesh-toyreenactthe sameold ballet,the sameold pavaneof his lessonsand her student's egoand her cheeryprostration,his heavy-handed gravity,his reversionist cant and her wide-eyedworship-it wasfar worse than Rachelhad imagined,far uglier than she could haveguessedin the dayswhen shenursedher indignitylike a shamefulpleasure.But I thought I would be dead,shearguedwith herself.I thoughtI wouldn't haveto see. and the eyesthat watched Doesthat make it better?with cold self-disdain, Carlenegrew dry with a feelingshe had not bargainedfor, that she had beyondher. imaginedin this time of deathboundselfishness She tried to turn away,tried to tell herselfit wasnone of her business, Raymondhad certainlymade that clear.His toy, his money. His sin. Not but demine, but: Raymond'shand on Carlene'sshouldet,not possessive machine eating last what a simple vouring,who betterthan Rachelto knowat he was,shewho had beenhis feastfor solong. Shewantedto go to Carlene and say,Get out of here. Run for your life. But shehad readthe contract, so many timesit wasmemorized.Therewassimplyno optionfor Carlene. Carlenestayedout of her way thosefirst few months,alwaysgenuinely pleasantwhen they met, in the hall, in the kitchen, but also seemingto engineerthosemeetingsdeliberately,to keepthem brief and few. Carlene had had her own treatment,there at the clinic, her own lessonsto learn. Only Raymondhad had no treatment.Only Raymondwas allowedthat largesse. But finally Racheltired of it, finally corneredCarlenein the bathroomof

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all places,stoppedher assheleft:one hand on the doorjamb,the othercool and useless at her side.The pain wasa briskthing today;it madeher blunt. "l want to talk to you." "All right." No smile but no discomforteither,leadingthe way into the morningroom:had I, Rachelthought,beensocommanding,soveryyoung? And the answerwasno, of course,this waslessher than that first aimless swirl of cells;the physicalduplicationwasflawless,but the mind behindwas Carlene'sown. Now the time to talk, and the wordsembarrassed her with their inherent idiocy, How doesit feel?What do you think about it? Carlene,that grave puckersherecalledfrom mirrors,that frown that meantI'm listening.'iCarlene." Rachel'svoicekept even."what doesthis mean to you?" "What?" Rachelshookher head,impatient,waveda fingerbackand forth. all of this." And with her own impatience,"That'slike askinga babywhat it thinksof sex.It got me here,didn't it?" Rachellaughed,surprised, andCarlenesmiled."l readthe contract,"she r?id. "l-hry" a placeto stay.NobodysaidI had to like anythi.g." Risingup, all in black todaywith Rachel'sown brilliancein that colot, and witholt thinking Rachelput one hand on Carlene'sarm, rememberingthe stretch andeasypull of musclesall unconscious of a time whensuchmotionwould be lessmemorythan foke,and said,"Has Raymondtried to sleepwith you yet?" "Yet," Carlenesaid,and snickered.And gone. Yes.Well. What had sheexpected?-asthe morningroom turnedcold, as the sun turned--away-it was the virtual owning of r hn*an being, Carlene'sbrick-wallacceptance notwithstanding, *ori. than slavery.u.r, if shesmiled,evenif insideshescreamed with laughtereverytime Ray'sprick saluted.You boughther, too, her mind reminded,cold calendar.Not your money,but worse.Your blood.Your pify. For Ray. "shit," shesnarled,and heardfrom the kitchenRaymond'stee-hee-hee. For God'ssake,why couldn'the evenIaughlike a human being?And Carlene'sagreeable chuckle,had I soundedthat way,too?No. No. Because I didn't know, did I, that I wasa servant,lessthan a servant,I thouehtI was a partner,I thoughtit wasa partnership.Till deathdo us part. And the old self-contempt risingup like a cobrafrom a basket,swayingto the musicof memories,why couldn'tshebe one of the oneswhosemind went first, lying dribblingand sereneinsteadof twistinglike a bug on a pin, on a spike,cod, and the pain camethen, like a no-nor,r.r,sejajer, to iake her all the way down. "This isn't necessary-. " Raymondin the_doorway, not so much frowningas issuingdispleasure like a silentcloudof fatulence,metronomicglancemoving backand forth, Carleneand Rachel,Racheland Carlene.,,Shehasa day nurseon call."

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"l don't mind," Carlenesaid.Applejuicepouringinto a clearglass,such a prettycolor. Racheltried to smileasshetook the glass,hrppy spite,drink it down. Ha ha, Ray. I've got your toy. "Shehastheseepisodes, on andoff. She'sgoingto keephavingthem,till, till the.vstop."Staringat them both, faintlybug-eyed,whatdo you see,Ray? what did it do Sideby sidelike somehorribleliving time-lapsephotograph; to Carlene,to seeher? Finally he gaveup and went away.Carlenereachedat oncefor the apple juice,asif sheknewhow much effortit costto drinkit. "l'll stayfor a while," shesaid. "This," Rachel'smuttet, "shouldn'tbe legal. Shouldn't." " Carlene'sshrug."Neithershouldmarriage. The episode,yes,Raymond,sanitizethe pain and the puking, why not, habit of Carlene'sillness-born it doesn'thappento you. The episodepassed. spendingmorningswith Racheldid not. They neverdid much. They nevertalkedmuch. Sometimesthey went outside,took a walk to the main roadand back. Sometimesthey lookedat by Raymond'sloud scorn-Patronizing books,Rachei'sart books,relegated and movement,nothingmattersunlessit'sbackwards saintof the reversionist in her room:Carleneagreed talk aboutlife imitatingart-to the bookshelves with her aboutBosch.Carleneagreedwith her abouta lot of things' Sideby sidein the morningroom, slowlemon light and the thin Ezzof sodawater in her glass,Carlene'sprofile like talkingto herself,her young self,oh God had anyoneeverhad sucha chance?Her life beginninganew on hisgeniusandher incomprehentyrannicalinsistence withoutRayrnond's to same,shecouldnot live it all again,had no desireto, sibleacquiescence wasin the end too fatallytired. But. The new improvedversion.What she couldn'tdo. Hearingabovethem Raymond'spettybluster,eternalpetulanceat being again.*.l,td.d from their morningt€te-)-t€tel"!o* can you stay?"Rachel rik"d her, and Carlene'sexquisiteshrug:"Why did you?" "lt wasin my contract,too." Exquisite,too, the tangof sharedbitterness: "Yours wasa hell of a lot easierto break." Rachel,brittleand slow,backa tormentin the wickerchair, seeingher own blild chainssnakinglike living thingsto encircletheseyoung wrists, chokeout a secondlife; no. Very veryquiet:"We'll see. " Carlene'sfrown. "We won't see.If I violatethe termsof the contract,I can't get a job, I can't rent an apartment,or get credit-l can't evenget a socialsecuritycard. I'm an appliance'remetnber?" "No," and evenCarlenedrewbacknow, from the venomin that word, tl-reshapingof it like poisonin the cageof witheredlips, wasshefrightened that one day she*onld look that way,too?That'swhat we can'tlet happen, little girl. Not again."Once," Rachelsaid,"wasenough'" Time was the object.They had little of it, either of them, but thel' were inclustrious,they could squeezeeverythingfrom a nloment. Carlenewas

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decoy,pleasantlydemurein the presenceof attorneys,her daughterlyafwho watchedher helpingher afflictedmother fectiontouchingthe strangers "lt's not isn'ttherea family resemblance! from officeto office,my goodness Carlene's that we want to breakthe contract,no," Rachel'scool headshake, youthful gravity,"we only want to modify someof the circumstances. You know I think the r.vorldof Carlene,I think of her as my daughter,"and Carlene'ssmileon cue, perfectlyon cue. It was her job, too, to keepRaymondbusily obliviousin the tirnesand momentswhen his attentionwould havebeenworsethan nuisance.SometimesRachelwatchedthem, phoneto her ear, murmuringquestionsand no hint oitickingdesperation asides andslowcoolponderings, in therattempts to cut the path she needed,gazingthrouglr the bedroomwindow: their garden,Raymond's walksin the fapanese tee-hee-hce audibleevenfrom this distance,and shesmiledlike an adder,eventhe treblingpain a spur;I'm running away,Ray, you goddamned son of a bitch, you varnpire.Finally runningaway. "lt's not goir-rg to work," Carlene'smidnightbittemess, facein l-rands, R.achel lying newly pinned and tubed on the bed. "You saidyourselfthat if there wereany new loopholesin the FrawleyAct, theseguyscould find them." N,{orebitterlystill: "But therearen't." Who wouldimaginethatmerebreathing couldhtrrtsomuch, justbreathing?"We can find anotherway." "I can'twait for arrotherway. I can'tstandhinr, Rachel. " "Neithercan I. Carlene,I'n-rdoingmy best.Believeme," lookingat that face,that future, "we'regoingto find a way." But: Episodeafterepisode,drearydailytragedyof a soapopera,what time shehad, left lucid, wasin doubt,whattime at all. Rayrnor-rd refusedto come nearher room, he saidit smelled,in factlre saidtl-rcsrrrellwasall overtl're house.He wantedherput in a nursinghome.He wasnrakingsonlctelephone callsof his own. Carlenesaid. "I keepcallingthem back,"siresaid."l tell them I'rn you." "We're comingso close,"Rachelsaid.Todaythe pain u,asthumbscrew, corkscrew, througheveryjoint and muscle,walkingthroughher brain,new owner. The doctors-Raymond insistedshe know-were quietly shocked shehad lastedthis long, evenwith treatments, evenwith drugsjust this sidc "l think if we had rnoretime, if-" of experimental. "Shhh." Carlene's handon her shoulder."Don't talk,I knowit hurtsyou to talk." Lookingup, to seeCarlene's tears. "[ didn'twant it to be you." Cryingnow andthatI'rurt,too, imnreasurablv but not asmuch asthe knowledge thatwithouther it couldnevcrhavcbccir doue, without the final monstrosityof her consent,of the bits of her bodv given over in the sameheedlessheadlongway shc had given evervthing, everythingto Raymond.We werestupid,ir-rthosedavs,shervantedto sayr, thoughnothingcould finallyexcuseher, nothingcouldexplainand mavbc it was really only she who had been so stupid, who had not or-rlyrnade

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Raymondher life but had madeanotherlife, identicalto hers,to makehis as well. Crime and punishmenttherebeforeher. With tearson her face. I tried to fix it, Rachelthought,you know I did, tried,too, to tell carlene that, but found in her lungsthe brutal acheof airlessness, in her eyesthe delicateswim of motesasdarkas the claimingof that which ate her, now and finally,alive. Her headon Carlene'sbreast,when Raymondfound them. Her eyes,as openasCarlene's, aswide,asif bothwereleftastonished in the ancientwake of the bridegroom,come to takethe elderdaughterto the dance. "lt wasgoing to happenno matterwhat," he said, heavywith the grief at havingto participatein somethingassorryasa memorialservice.Everyone who came, he wassure,camefor his comfort."lt's not genetic,though. I hadthe doctorsmakesure.There'snothingfor you to worryabout." Silence. The slip and tug of her hair throughhis fingers."Her, her half, shewanted it to go to you. And all the prenuptialthings." More silence."lt's cometo a fair amount. She wasgoodwith money. I don't botherwith the lawyers, you know, but they tell me it's legallyyours.Throughme, of course." Carlene'stiny nod, not seenbut felt. "l'd rathernot talk about it," she said. "l underStand." Morearthriticstroking, tanglingherhairsoit hurt. "When I'm, when-someday,you know, I can't leaveit to you, you'renot in a positionto receiveproperty,but I'll takecareof you. I will takecareof you." And the slow time-bombtick of his heart, her facepillowedon the flat riseand fall of his sour old man'schest,"Mmm-hffiffi," the ghostof her silentgrin in the dark."Mmm-hmm." There are all kindsof contracts,when thereis moneyenough-she had morethan you think, Raymond,morethan you knewabout-contractsyou illegal.Rachel don't needto be legalto sign,contractsthat arein themselves knewaboutthosekindsof contracts,but they frightenedher. We'll do it the right way, shesaid,we'll takethe time. Rachelwasso patient. But I couldn'twait for her. And I won't wait for you, either, Ray. I'm not patient. Because I'm not Rachel. Because

OUTNUMBERING THE DEAD Frederik Pohl

V FrederikPohl hasbeenone of the genre'smajor shapingforces-as writer, editor, agent,and anthologist-for more than fifty years.He wasthe founderof the Sfcr series,SF'sfirstcontinuinganthologyseries,and wasthe editorof the Calaxygroup of magazines from 1960to 1969,duringwhich timeCalaxy'ssistermagazine,Worlds of If, won threeconsecutive BestProfessional MagazineHugos.As a writer, he has won severalNebulaand Hugo Awards,aswell asthe AmericanBookAwardand the French Prix Apollo. His many booksinclude severalwritten in collaborationwith the lateC. M. Kornbluth-includin gThe SpaceMerchants,Wolfbane,andGladiator-at-Law.His many solo novelsinclude Gateway,Man Plus,Beyondthe Blue EventHorizon,The Comingof the Quantum Cats, andTheCatewayTrip. Among his collectionsareThe Cold at the Starbow's End, In theProblemPif, and The Best of FrederikPohl. His most recentbooksare a nonfictionbook in collaborationwith the late IsaacAsimov,Our AngryEarth, and a new novel, Mining the oort. The novella,which follows,may well be one of the bestpiecesthat Pohl has producedduringhis long and distinguished career-a wise,funny, madlyinventive, and ultimatelyquite movinglook at what it's like to be the ultimateHave-Notin a high-techfuture composedalmostentirelyof Haves. . .

I . Althoughthe placeis a hospital,or ds much like a hospitalas makesno difference, it doesn'tsmelllike one.It certainlydoesn'tlooklike one.With the floweringvinesclimbing its walls and the soothing,gentle plink-tink of the tiny waterfallat the headof the bed, it looksmorelike the-de luxe suite in someold no-tell motel. Rafiel is now sprucedup, replumbedand readyto go for anotherfive llars beforehe needsto comeback to thisplacefo, moreTf thesame,and sohedoesn'tlookmuchlikea hospitalpatient,either.He looks like a moviestar, whichhe moreor lessis, who is maybeforty yecrrs old and haskepthimselffit-enoughta pass,for twenty-somethi.ng That'part'swrong, though.After all,the snippingand reamingand implinting thLey've dorelo him in the last elevendays,what he is a remarkablyfit *i, of'rinety-two. when Rafiel beganto wakefrom his designerdreamhe was very hungry (that wasdue to the elevendayshe had beenon intravenousf"eiilg) "nd

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quite horny, too (thatwasthe lastof the designer dream)."B'iour, Rafiel," saidthe soft, sweetvoiceof the nurser,intrudingon his therapeuticdream as the last of it meltedaway.Rafielfelt the nurser'sgentletouch removing from his cheekbones, and, knowingvery well just wherehe the electrodes wasand what he had beendoingthere,he openedhis eyes. He sat up in the bed, pushingawaythe nurser'svelvetyhelping hand. theyhad filled his room with flowers.Therewere While he wasunconscious greatblanketsof rosesalongone wall, bright red and yellowpoppieson the wirrdowsillthat lookedout on the deepinteriorcourt. "Momento,please," he said to the nurser,and experimentallystretchedhis nakedbody. They had done a good job. That annoyinglittle pain in the shoulderwasgone and, when he held one hand beforehim, he sawthat so werethe agespots with a perfectly to find thathe hadawakened on his skin.He wasalsopleased immenseerection."Seemsokay," he said,satisfied. "Hai, claro," the nurser said. That was the server'sprogrammedallor irrelevantthingshospitalpatients purposeresponse to the sortsof sense-free saidwhen they firstwokeup. "Your amisarewaitingto come in'" "They can wait." Rafielyawned,pleasantly rememberingthe lastdream. Ther-r,his tumescencesubsiding,he slid his feet over the edgeof the bed and stoodup. He wavedthe nurserawayand scowledin surprise."Shit. " Thev didn't fix this little dizzinessI've beenhavit'tg. "Youlezseeyour chart?"the nurseroffered.But Rafieldidn't at all want stepor two, and to knowwhatthey'ddoneto him. He tookan experimental his it arm andhelped Firmly took denied. no longer be would nurser thenthe and ioined toilet used the he by as It room. stood sanitary the him toward down harmlessly rolling moisture the spray shower, in the him watchfully finger and his caught its hands of him one dried off, it As flanks. its metal was what it knew pressure, who blood moment-heartbeat, for a held on "You you Rafiel." like, whenever leave may saying, measuring?-before it washis natureto be politeeven "You'reverykind," Rafielsaid,because to humans,asfar Especially of course. too, beings, To human to 1-rachines. and no became audiences what were humans as possibleanyway,because it was humans But with audiences. performerwantedto antagonize scnsible where the all feelings, his inner polite, since harclerfor Rafielto be always be opposite-to the him to be urging lay, were so frequently resentments faces yourtg handsome these of in some rude, insulting,evenviolent;to spit out of the angerthat wasalwaysburningout of sightinsidehim. sometimes He had everyright to that smoulderingrage,sincehe wassoterriblycheated in |is life, but-he wasa fair marr-his specialproblemrvasn'treallytheir fault, was it? And besides,the human race in generalhad one trait that forgavethem most others,they adoredRafiel. At leastthe surveysshowed tl'trt 36.9 per cent of them probablydid, a ratingwhich only a handful of could everhopeto beat. utter superstars on a performer. devotionimposedcertainobligations Thatiort of audier-rce what before-dcciding carefully wasone, andso Rafielconsidered Appearance his selection limited the From to wear for his releasefrom the hospital.

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hospitalclosetofferedhe chosered pantaloons, a luminousblue blouseand silkcapto coverhis unmadehair.On hisfeethe woreonly rnoleskin slippers, but that wasall right. He wouldn'tbe performing,and neededno more on the warm, soft, mossyflooringof his hospitalroom. He time-stepped to the window,glancingout at the distantfigureson the galleriesof the hundred-meteratrium of the arcologyhe lived and worked in, and at the brightcostumes of thosestrollingacrossthe airybridges,before he opaquedthe windowto studyl-risreflection.That wassatisfactory, though it would havebeenbetterif he'd had the closetsin his condoto choosefrom. He wasreadyfor the public who would be waitingfor him-and for all the otherthingsthat wouldbe waitingfor him, too. He wonderedif the redecoration of his condohad beencompleted,asit wassupposed to havebeenwhile he wasin the medicalfacility;he wonderedif his agenthad succeeded in rebookingthe personalappearances he had had to miss,and whethertl-renew show-what was it basedon? Yes. OedipusRex. Whateverthat was-had come together. He wassuddenlyimpatientto get on with his life, so he said,"All right, theycancomein nsq"'-and a momentlater,whenthe nurserhadsigniled the receptionists outsidethat it wasall right, in theyall came,his friendsand colleagues from the new show'pale,tiny Docilia flying overto him with a quick kiss,Mosay,his dramaturge,bearingstill more flowers,a corsageto go on Rafiel'sblouse,Victoriumwith his musicbox hung aroundhis neck, a-llgrinningand welcominghim backto life. "And commentyd our Oedipus this morning?"Mosayasked,with pretendsolicitude.Mosaydidn't -.rn the solicitudeto be taken seriously,of course,becausethere was really nothingfor anyoneto be solicitousabout.The nurserswouldn'thaveawakenedRafielif all the work hadn't beensuccessfullv done. "Tutto bene,"Rafielanswered asexpected, lettingMosaypressthe bunch of little pink violetsto hisblouseandsn'relling theirsweetscentappreciatively. "Readyfor work. Oh, and havingfaim, too." "But of courseyou are,afterall thdt," saidDocilia,hugginghim. "and we havea lunch all setup for you. Can you go now?"sheisked hi.r, but lookingat the nurser-which answered only by openingthe door for them. Warmly clutchinghis arm and fondlychattering in his ear,Docilialed him out of the room where,for elevendays,he had lain unconscious while the doctorsand the serverspokedand cut and jabbedand mendedhim. Rafieldidn't evenlook backas he enteredthis next serialinstallmentof his life. Therewasn'tany nostalgia in the placefor him. He had seenit all too often before.

2 The restaurdnt-well, call it that; if is like a restaurant-is lacatedin the midzoneof the arcology.Thereare a hundredor so floorsrising aboveit and a coupleof hundredmorebelow.lt is a placewherefamousviJ starsgo to be

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seen,and so at the entranceto the restaurantthereis a sortof tearoomy, place,inhabitedby ordinarypeoplewhohopeto catch saloony,cocktail-loungy a glimpseof thecelebrities whohavecomethereto beglimpsed.As RafieIand his friends pcss through this warm, dim chamberheadsgratifyingly turn. Mosaywhispers somethinghumorousto Docilia and Docilia, smiling in reto Rafiel,but actuallyall of them affectionate tttrn, thenmurmurssomething are listeningmoreto the peoplearound them than to eachother. "It's the short-timevid star," oneoverheardvoicesays,and RafieIco,n'thelpglowing of course,to have a little at the recognition,thoughhe wouldhavepreferred, beena celebrityonly for hisworkand not for hisproblem."I didn't knowshe rrds so tiny," saysanothervoice-speakingof Docilia, of course;they often sd),s,"He's saythat. And, thoughMosayaffectsnot to hear,whensomeone eyes a bit, who got a grandissimo ils disent," his twinkle knowing up, coming "he" guide to them to their maitre d' is over But the coming is. then that privatetableon dn outsidebalcony.

Rafielwasthe last out the door. He pausedto give a generalsmile and wink to the peopleinside,then steppedout into the warm, diffusedlight of the balcony,quite pleasedwith the way thingsweregoing. His friends had chosenthe right placefor his coming-outmeal. If it wasimportant to be seengoingto their lunch, it wasalsoimportantto havetheir own privatebalconysetasideto eatit on. Theywantedto be seenwhile eating, of course,becauseeveryopportunityto be seenwasimportantto theater people-but from a properdistance.Such ason the balcony,wherethey werein view of all the peoplewho chancedto be crossingthe arcology atrium or lookingout from the windowson the otherside.The valueof that wasthat then thosepeoplewould sayto the next Personsthey met, "Senti,guesswho I sawat lunch todaylRafiel!And Docilia!And, comme " And their nameswouldbe refreshed in the public d?f, the musicperson. mind one more time. lunch, the balconywasthe right So, though this wasto be an agendaed place;it could havebeenmore placeto haveit. It wasn'ta business-looking ippropriatefor lovers,with the soft, warm breezesplaying on them and in the hope of a handout.hummingbirdshoveringby their iuice glasses Really, it would havebeen more comfortablefor a couple;for the four of movingbetweenthem with their buffettrays,it was them, with their servers squeeze. l tight a pretty -Rafiel overthe food, takinggreatheapsof everythingasfastasthe raue.red serverscould bring it. His friendsconspiredto help. "Give him pommes," Mosay ordered,and Docilia whispered,"Try the sushiceveche,it's fine." Mouth full and chewing,Rafiellet his friendsfussoverhim. From time to time he raisedhis eyesfrom his food to smileat jestor light line, but there wasno needfor him to takepart in the talk. He wasjust out of the hospital, after all. (As well as being a star, even among thesestars;but that was a given.)H. knew that they would get down to businessquickly enough.

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Docilia wasalwaysin a hurry to geton with the nextproductionand Mosay, the dramaturge-was,well, a dramaturge.[t washis business to get things moving.I\4eanwhile,it wasRafiel'sright to satisf'one appetiteand to begin to plan aheadfor the pleasingprospectof relievingthe other.When Docilia pu!a morselof pickledfishbetweenhis lips he lickedher fingertipsaffectionatelyand lookedinto her eyes. He wasbeginningto feel at ease. The elevendaysin the medicalfacility had passedlike a singlenight for Rafiel,sincehe hadbeenpeacefully unconscious for almostall o?it. Fiesaw, though, that time had passedfor the others,becausethey had changeda little. Mosaywaswearinga little waxedmoustachenow and Victorium was unexpectedly deeplytanned,right up to his cache-sexe and on the expanse beJly revealed by his short embroidered vest. Docilia had beco*. pale 9f blonde again.For that reasonshe wasdressedall in white, or almostall' white bell-bottomedpantsand a white haltertop that showedher paleskin. The only touch of contrastwasa patchof fuzzy peach-colored embroidery at the crotch of the slacksthat, Rafiel *rr n.rily sure he remembered, accuratelymatchedthe outlinesof her pubic hair. It wasa veryDocilia kind of touch, Rafielthought. Of course,theywereall verysmartlydressed. They alwayswere;likeRafiel they owed it to their public. The differencebetweenRafiel and the others wasthateveryoneof themlookedto beabouttwentyyearsold-well, ageless, really, but certainly,at the most, no more than a beautifullyfit ittiityirtr. They alwayshad lookedthat way. All of them did. All ten tiillion of thedid, all over the world and the other worlds, or anywaynearly all. . . . Except,of course,for the handful of odditieslike himself. When Docilia sawRafiel'sgazelingeringon her-observingit at once, becauseDocilia wasneverunawarewtren,o-.on. waslooking"ather-she reachedover and fondly pattedhis arm. He leanedto her ea'rto pop the question:"Bitte, are you freethis afternoon?" Shg gavehim a tendersmile. "For you," shesaid,almostsoundingas though she meant it, "siem\re."She pickedup his hand and kissedthe"tip of his middle finger to show she was sincere."Mais can we talk a littli businessfirst?victorium's finishedthe score,and it's belle.We'vegof_,, "Can we play it overcasdtu?" Anothermeltingsmile."Hai, we can.Hai, wewill, asmuch asyou like. But, listen, we've got a wonderfulsecond-actduet, you and I. i love it, Rafiel!It'swhenyou'vejustfoundout thatthe womanyou'vebeenshtupping, thafs m-e,is your mother, that'sme, too. Then I'm telling you that what you'vedo'e is a sin . . . and then at the end of the duet l"run off to hang myself.Then you'vegot a solodance.play it for him, Victorium?" Victorium didn't needto be begged; a touch of his fingerson his amulet recorderand the music begal to pour out. Rafielprusejwith his spoonin hisjuicy whitesapotefruit to listen,not havingrnuih choice.It wasa quick, tricky iazz tune coming out of Victorium'sb-o*,but with bluesnotesin it

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to the rhythmthatsounded syncopation too, anda funny little hoppity-skippy Scottishto Rafiel. "Che? Che?" Victorium askedanxiouslyas he sawthe look on Rafiel's face."Don't vou like it?" Rafielsaid,"lt's iust that it sounds-gammy.Passmooth.Sortof like a littlelimp in there." "Hai! Precisamente!" criedMosay."You caught at once!" Rafielblinkedat him. "What did I catch?" "What Victorium'smusicconveyed,of course!You'replayingOedipus to be lame." Rex arrdhe'ssupposed "Oh, claro,"saidRafiel;butit wasn'treallyall thatclearto him. He wiped the juice of the sapoteoff his lips while he tl-roughtit over.Then he asked the dramaturge,"Do you think it's a goodideafor me to be dancingthe part of somebodvwho'slame?"He got the answerwhen he heardDocilia'stiny giggle,and sawVict
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"They'll loveit," Mosaysaid,reassuring him, and not lying, either,Rafiel knew unhappily;for what wasit but his occasionalmisstep,the odd quaver in his voice-to be frank about it, the peculiarlyfascinatingtraits of his advancingage-that madehim a superstar? He finishedhis meal."Come on, Docilia.I'm readyto go," he said,and althoughthe othersclearlywantedto stayand talk they all agreedthat what Rafielsuggested was-agoodidea.They alwaysdid. It wasone of the things that madeRafiel'slife special-one of the goodthings.It camewith being a superstar.He was usedto being indulgedby thesepeople,becausethey neededhim more than he neededthem, although,as they all knew, they weregoing to live for everand he wasnot.

3 Atl the worldsknowthenameof RafieI, but, actually, "Rafiel" isn't aII of his ndme.That ndme,in full, is RafielCutmaker-Fensterborn, iustas Docilia,in full, is Docilia Megareth-Morb,and Mosay is Mosay Koi luoroyur. But "Rafiel" is all he needs.Basically,that is the way you can tell when you,ve finally becomea maior vid star. You no longerneedall thosen(tmesto be identifiedor evento get your mail delivered.Eyenamongctrcrceof ten trillion separate,living, namedhuman beings,when youhave-theirkind of stardom a singlenameis quite enough. Rafiel's-difficulty at presentwasthat he didn't happento be in his own condo, where his mail was. Insteadhe was in Docilias, locatedfiftv-oddstories abovehis own in the arcology.He reallydid want to know wirat messages werewaitingfor him. On the otherhand, this particulardelaywasworthwhile.AlthoughRafiel had_been sleepingfor days,his glandshad not. He waswelicharged -eleven up for the exertionsof Docilia'sbed. He cameto climax in recordtimJthe firsttime-with Docilia helpfullyspeedinghim along.The secondtime was companionablyhers. Then they lay pleasantlyspooned,with Rafiel drowsilyrememberingnow and then to kisi the bacl oi h., neckunder the fair hair. It wasn'tAlegretta's hair, he thought,thoughwithoutany realpain (you couldn't actuallygo on aching all your life Tot , lost love, though sometimeshe thoughthe wascomingclose);but it wasnice hair, and it w"as alwaysnice to makelove to this tiny, activelittle body. But aft'era bit she stretched,yawnedarrdleft him, fondly promisingto be quicklyback,while shewent to return her calls.He rolledbver to {aze at the pleasingsightof her nakedand youthfullysweetdepartingback. It wasa fact,R1fie]knew,thatDociliawasn'tyouthfulin anychronological sense.In termsof hfe spanshewas-certainly a gooddealolderthan hiniself, howevershe looked you couldn't ignorJthe way she looked,either, -Bul becausethe way she looked waswhat the audienceswere going to see.As

Frederik Pohl

the storyof OedipusRexbeganto comebackto him, he beganto wonder: Would any audiencebelievefor one momentthat thisgirlishwomancould be his mother? It was a silly thought.The audiencesweren'tgoing to worry about that sort of thing. If it registeredwith them at all it would be only another the worry, incongruityof the kind that they lovedso well. Rafieldismissed of the aware he last became at at ease, pleasantly there, he lay and then, as system. sound from Docilia's faint whisperof music So it had been an agendaedtrystafter all, he thoughttolerantly.But a sweetone. If shehad not forgottento haveVictorium'sscoreplayingfrom the momentthey enteredher flat, at leastshehad beenquite seriousabout the lovemakinghe had cometherefor. So Rafieldid what shewantedhim to do; he lay there,lettingthe musictell its storyto his ears.It wasn'ta bad scoreat all, he thoughtcritically.He wasbeginningto catchthe rhythmsit-t his throatand feet when Docilia cameback. Shewasglowing."Oh Rafiel,"shecried,"Iookat this!" She was wavinga tomograph,and when she handedit to him he was astonishedto seethat it was an imageof what lookedlike a three-month fetus.He blinkedat her in surprise'"Yours?" "They justsentit from the crdche," sheexplained, Shenoddedecstatically. "lsn't it trdsbelleT" nervouswith pleasure. didn't know you were "Why, that's molto bene," he said warmly. enceinteat all. Who's the Padre?" Sheshruggedprettily."Oh, his name is Charlus.I don't think you know child." him, but heb t.tlly good,isn't he?I mean, Iookat that gorgeous fetuscould be calledanythinglike In Rafiel'sopinion, no first-trimester "gorgeous,"bui he knew what wasexpecFgof him and wasnot willing to dI*!." her delight. "lt's certainlya good-lookingembryo,senzadubito," he told her with sincerity. "His clwcysare!He'sfatheredsomeof the bestchildrenI've everseengood-looking,and with his darkblue eyes,and oh, so tall and strong!"She f,esitatedfoi a moment, prettily almostblushing.Then, "We're going to sharethe bambinofor a year," sheconfidedproudly."As a family, I mean' When the baby'sborn Charlusand I are going to starta home together. Don't you think that'sa wonderfulidea?" There wasonly one possibleanswerto that, "Of courseI do," saidRafiel, of whetherhe did or not. regardless "Sh. gru" him a fond pat. "That'swhat you oughtto do too, Rafiel' Have a child with some nicedamc, bring the babyup together." "And when would I find time?" he asked.But that wasn'ta true answer. The true answerwasthat, yes,he would havelikednothingbetter,provided that right womanwaswilling to donatethe ovum . . . but the right woman that possibility' had, long ago, firmly foreclosed he missed.When he askedfor a repeat, that something had said tio.ili"a won't it?" performance, my "I help it'll and said, shesaid, "HelP how?" puzzled. He was

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She said, impatientwith his lack of understanding. "Becausefocasta'sa Mutter, don't you see?That'sthe wholepoint of the story,isn't it? And now I can get right into the part, becauseI'm bei.g a Mutter. too." "You'll be fine." He meantit, too. He had assumed Rafielsaidsincerely, shewould all along. "Yes,certo,"shesaidabsently,thinkingalreadyof somethingelse."l think I otrghtto give a copy to the dad. He'll be so excited." "1 would be," Rafielagreed.She blinkedand returnedher attentionto him. She lifted the sheetand peeredunder it for a tl-roughtfulmoment. "l think," r!. saidjudiciously,"if you'renot in a greathurrylo leave,if we just give it a few more minutes.. . ." "No hurryat all," he said,pullingher downto him andstrokingher back in a no-hurry-at-all way. "Well," he said. "So what elsehave-youbeen doing?Did they releaseyour lnquisitoryet?" "Threedaysago,"shesaid,rubbingher foot alonghis ankle."God, those clothesweresoheavy,andthen the lastscene- you didn't seeit, of course?" "How could [?" "No, of coursenot. well, try to, si c'estpossible,becauseI'm reallyfine in the auto-da-fd scene." "What scene?"Rafielknewthat Docilia had finishedshootingsomething about the SpanishInquisition,with lots of torture-torture stories,lrryi went well in this world that had so Iittle personalexperience of any kind of suffering,but he hadn'tactuallyr..n rny part of it. "!/h-gre they burn me at the stake. Q,rullnhorreur!See,they spreadthe wood all aroundin a truge circle and light it at the edges,rnd i'- cSained to the stakein the middle.Che cosat.l'mrunnit',gfto--side to side,tryingto get awayfrom the fire asit burnstowardme, andlhen I startburni.,g mys;lf, u capisceT And then I just fall down on the burning coals.,, "lt soundswonderful,"Rafielsaid,faintly enviJus.Maybeit was time for him to startlookingfor dramaticpartsinsteadof all the songand dance? "I was wonderful," she said absently,reachingunder th! coversto see yhr! was happening.Then she turned her fa.e io his. ,,And, guesswhat? You're gettingto be kind of wonderfulyourself,galubka,right "',or. Three times wasas far as Rafiel Anyway, lealll-thoughthe wantedto go. Docilia wasnow in a hurry to send offthe pictuteof her child. ;L.t yourr.li out?"she asked,gettingup. Then, nakedat he, bedroomdoor, shestopped to look backat him. "we'll all be fine in thisoedipus,Rafiel,"sheassured him. ,.you and me in the.lead parts,and Mosayputting it all together,and that merveilleux score."Which was-stillrepeatingitselffrom her iound system,he discovered. He blew her a.kiss,laughing."l'm listening,I'm llstenirg,,,h.-rrrur"d her. And he did in fact listen fo, a f"r" -o-"Iir. Yes, Rafieltold himself,it reallywasa goodscore.Oedipuswould be a successful production,and when they hal rehearsed it anj revisedit and performedit and recordedit, it would be flashedall over the solar system.

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over all Earth and the Moon and the capsulecolonieson Mars and Triton and half a dozenothermoons,and the orbitinghabitatswherevertheymight well on their way to someother starbe, and evento the distantvoyagers to all ten million million human beings,or as many of them as caredto of it would survivefor centuries,to watchit. And it would /cst. Recordings be taken out and enjoyedby peoplenot yet born, becauseanythingthat Rafielappearedin becamean instantclassic. Rafielgotup offDocilia'swarm,shudderybedandstoodbeforeher mirror, examininghimself.Everythingthe mirror displayedlookedquite all right. The belly wasflat, the skinclear,the eyesbright-he lookedasgoodasany haleandwell-keptman of middleyearswouldhavelooked,in the historically from any other age. remotedayswhen middle agecould be distinguished That waswhatthoseperiodicalvisitto the hospitaldid for him. Thoughthey else,theycouldat leastdo that couldn'tmakehim immortal,like everyone general comity. his his and for appearance much He sighedand rescuedthe red pantaloonsfrom the floor. As he beganto pull them on he thought:They cando all that, but theycould not makehim live for ever,like everyoneelse. That wasn'tan immediatethreat.Rafielwasquiteconfidentthat he would live a while yet-well, quite a long while, if you measuredit in daysand seconds,perhapsanotherthirty yearsor so. But then he wouldn't live after that. And Dociliaand Mosayand Victorium-yes, and lostAlegretta,too, and everyoneelsehe had everknown-would perhapstakeout the record of this newOedipusRexnow and then and look at it and sayto eachother, "Oh, do you rememberdear old Rafiel?How sweethe was. And what a pity." But dearold Rafielwould be dead-

4 The arcologyRafiel livesand worksin rises235 storiesabovecentral Indi' ana, and it hasa populationof 165,000people.That'saboutdverage'From outside-apart from its size-the arcologylooksmorelike somethingyou'd think of it as 'resembling find in a kitchenthen a monolithiccommunity.You might of an ordnge out thekind of utensilyouwoulduseto reamtheiuice with its and skinny.), half (well, an orangehalf that had beenstretchedlong dwelling of the Most star-ihapedcrosstuitio, and itsroundingtaperto thetop. units are in the outer ribsof the arcology'sstar. That givesa tenant a nice tiew, if he is the kind of personwho really wants ta look out on central Indian'a.Rafiet isn't. As soonas he could afford it he movedto the more expensiveinsidecondosoverlookingthe lively centralatrium of the arcology, with alt its gloriouslight and its graceful loopsof flowering lianas and its peopleon their own balconies, on the crosswalks, wall-to-wall-people-peopte even tiny, distantpeoplemoving about the floor level nearly two hundred below.To seeall that is to seelife. From the outet opartments,what stories can yousee?OnIy farmlands,and the radiatingtroughsof themaglevtrains,

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p-unctuated by the to-the-horizon stretchof aII the otherarcologies that rose from the plain like the stubbleof a monsterbeard. In spiteof all Rafiel'sassurances, Docilia insistedon gettingdressedand escortinghim backto his own place.Shechatteredall the way. "So this cig you saved,si chiamcThebes,"shewasexplainingto him astheygot into th! elevator,"wasin a hell of a messbeforeyou got there.BeforeCtedipusdid, I.mean-This Sphinxcreaturewasjust makingschrecklichkeit. It wasdoing all kindsof rottenthings-l don't know-like killing people,stealingtheii food, that sort of thing. I guess.Anyway,the whole-.ity *rr i't deiperate for help, and then you camealongto savethem." "And I killedthe Sphinx,sotheymademe roi deThebes out of gratitude?" "Certo!Well, almost.You see,you don't haveto kiII it, e"actly. It has this riddlethat no one can figureout. You just haveto solveits riddle, and then it I guessjustgoeskaput.so then you'retheir hero, oedipus, bui they don't exactlymake _youking. The way you get to be that is you marry the queen.That'sme, Jocasta. I'm just a pauvrepetitewidow lady from the old deadking, but as soonas you marry me that makesyou the capodi tutti capi. I'm still the queen,and I've got a brother,Creon,who'sa kind of a k-trg,too. But you'rethe boss."The elevatorstopped,makingher blink in "oh, siamoqui:' sheannounced,^and slightsurprise. led the iray out of the car. Rafielhaltedher with a hand on her shoulder."l can find my way home from here.You didn't needto come with me at all, verstehen sie?,, "l wantedto, piccinc.I thought-youmight be a little, well, wobbly.', "l ,T wobbly,all right," he said,grinning,"mdis pasfrombeing in the . hospital."He kissedher, and then turned her rro,rnj to facethe ejevator. Beforehe released her he said,"Oh, listen.What'sthis riddleof the Sphinx I'm supposed to solye?" She gave him an apologeticsmile over her shoulder. "lt's kind of dopey. 'What goes on four legs, two legs and three legs, and is strongest on two?'

Can you imagine?"

He lookedat her. "You meanyou don't know the answerto that one?,, "oh, but I do know the answer,Rafiel. Mosay told me what it was. It's"co on, cele," he said bitterly. "Auf wiedersehen. The answerto the riddle is a 'man,' but I can seewhy it would be hard for ro-.boJftil. you to figureit out." Because, of course,he_ thoughtashe enteredthe lobbyof his condo,none of theseeternallyyouthful on., *ould everexperiencethe tottery,'lth.eelegged,"ancient-with-a-cane phaseof life. "welcome back, Rafiel," someonecalled,and Rafiel sawfor the first time that the lobby was full of paparazzi.Th,eywere buzzingat him in mild irritation,a little annoyedbecausethey had missedhim aithe hospital, but nevertheless resignedto waitingon the forgivablewhim of , ,upoit r.

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It wasone of the thingsthat Rafielhad had to resignhimselfto, long ago. nuisance.On the otherhand, to be truthful, it didn't It wasa considerable When the papswerelurkingaroundfor you, it proved takemuch resignation. your fame, and it wasalwaysnice to haverenewedproof of that. He gave_ them a smilefor the cameras,and a quick cut-and-pointcoupleof stepsof a lig-it wasa number from his biggestsuccess,the Here'sHamletl of two at once,"l'm out all their questior-rs y.rit earlier."Yes,"he said,answering the new showthat to trot on I'm hot and in shape, back I'm of the hospital, the door toward He started Rex." me, Oedipus for p,-ttting together Mosay's his way. in put herself womau flat. A of his own "Raysia,"she introducedherself,as thougl'rone nanle were enoughfor her, too. "l'm herefor the interview." He stoppeddead. Then he recognizedthe face. Yes, one name was enough,foi r top pap with her owrr syndicate."Raysia,dear! Cosibellato t.. you here, but-what intervieware we talkingabout?" "Yo,r, dramaturge setthe appointmentup lastweek,"sheexplained.And, of course,tfiat beingso, therewasnothingfor Rafielto do but to go through with it, makinga mentalnote to get backto Mosayat the first opportunity to complainat not havingbeentold. But givingan interviewwasnot a hard thing to do, afterall, not with all the pritice Rafiel had had. He fixed the woman up with a drirrk and a comiortablechair and took his placeat the exercisebarrein his study-he to remindthem he was alwaysliked to be workingwhen he wasinterviewed, a dancer.First, though, he had a question.It might not haveoccurredto him if Docilia hadn'f madehim think of lost Alegretta,but now he had to askit. He tooka carefulfirstpositionat the barreandsweptonearm gracefully aloft as he asked,"Doesyour syndicatego to Mars?" she said proudly, "not iust "Of course.I'm into foutesles biosphdres," Mars. but Mercury and the moons and nearly everyorbiter. As well as, naturally,the wholeplanetEarth." to flatterher and doinghis bestto "Thai's wonderful,;'h. said,ir-rtending sound as though this sort of thing hadn't ever happenedto. him before. Slowly,.rr.f,rily, he did his barre*otk, handsalwaysgraceful,gettingfull as he answered extensionon the'legs, -heher camerafollowingautomatically her questions.Yes, felt fine. Yes,they weregoingto get into production on the new Oedipusright away-yes, he'd heard the score,and yes, he "And the playwright,"he explained,"is the greatest thoughtit waswonderful-. two thousandnearlyseven write"rwho everlived. Wonderfuloid Sophocles, today.". anything fresh as play's as the and hundredyearsold, for an actorwho had done admiration of to,tch a with him Shelookedat it?" read "Have you his homework. "Well, He hadn'tdonethct much homework,thoughhe fully intendedto' not in the original,"he admitted,sincea non-truthwasbetterthan a lie' ,'l have," Jhe said absently,thinking about her next question-disconcertingly,ioo. Rafielturnedaro.rndat ihe barreto work on the right leg for a while. Hiding the sudden,familiar flashof resentment.

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"Vot$ \tes terrrble,"he chuckled,allowing only rueful amusementto show."All of you! You knowso much." For theyall did, and how unfair. Imagine!This child-this ancienttwenty-year-old-reading a Greekplayin the origjnal,and not evenGreek,he thoughtsavagely, but whateveirough dialecthad beenspokennearlythreethousandyearsago. "Mais pourquoinon?we havetime," shesaid,and got to her question. "How do you feelaboutthe end of the play?"sheasked. "Where oedipusblinds himself,you mean?"he tried, doing his bestto sort out what he had beentold of the story."Yes, that'sprettybloody,isn't it? Stabbingout his own eyes,that'sa very powerful-" Shewasshakingher head."No, pasdu tout, l don't meanthe blinding scene.I meanat the veryend, wherethe chorussays"-her voicechangeJ asshequotedSeeproud Oedipus! He provesthat no mortal Can everbe known to be hrppy Until he is allowedto leavethis life. Until he is dead, And cannotsufferany more. Shepaused,fixing him with her eyewhile the camerazeroedin to catch e-very fleetingshadeof expression on hisface."l'm not a verygoodtranslator, " sheapologized,"but do you feel that way, Rafiel?I -ean,"as a mortal?" Actorsgrow reflexesfor situationslike that-for the timeswhen a fellow player forgetsa line, or there'sa disturbancefrom the audience-when somethinggoeswron! and everybody's lookingat you and you haveto deal with it. He dealtwith it. He gaveher a sobersmileand oplned his mouth. "Hai, that'sso true, in a way," he heardhis mouth saying."l{'est-cepas? r mean,not justfor me but, credo.for all of us?It doesn't-rtt.r hor"eue,long we live, there'salwaysthat big final questionat the end that we call deathl and all we haveto confrontit with is courage.And that'sthe lessonof the story,I think: courage!To faceall our painsand fearsand go on anyway!" good,he thought,but it wasenough.Raysiashutlff her camera, . It_wa_s1't thankedhim, askedfor an autographand left; and as soonas the door was closedbehindher Rafielwasgrimly on the phone. But Mosaywasn'tanswering, hadshuthimselfoff. Rafielleft him a scorching message and satdown, with a drink in his hand, to go throughhis mail. He was not -hrppy. He scrolledquickly through the easypart-requests for autographs,requestsfor personalappearances, requestsior interviews.He didn't haveto do anythingabout -;rJ of them; he reroutedthem through Mosay'sofficeand they would be dealtwith there. A notefrom a womannamedHillareecould not be handledin that way. She wasa dramaturgeherself-had he everheardof her? He couldn,tbe sure;therewerethousands of them, thoughfewascelebrated asMosay.still.

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shehad a propositionfor Rafiel.Shewantedto talk to him abouta "wonderful" (shesaid)new script.The storytook placeon one of the orbitingspace habitats,a placecalledHakluyt,and shewas,shesaid,convincedthat Rafiel would be determinedto do it, if only he would readthe script. Rafielthoughtfor a moment.He wasn'tconvincedat all. Still, on consideration,he copiedthe scriptto file without lookingat it. Perhapshe would readthe script,perhapshe wouldn't;but he could imaginethat, in some with Mosay, it might be usefulto be able to mention future conversation this other offer. to this Hillareeto tell her to contacthis agentand He senta curt message interview Raysia's then, fretful, stoppedthe scroll.He wasn'tconcentrating. They had did. they "We havetime" indeed!Of course had botheredhim. just Rafiel it, as fun of endlesstime, time to learna deadlanguage, for the himselfmight wastean afterncontryingto learnhow to bowl or paraglideat somebeach.They all had time-all but Rafiel himself and a handful of other unfortunateslike him-and it wasn'tfair! since It did not occurto Rafielthat he had alreadyhad, in the nine decades human the of his birth, morelifetimethan almostanyonein the long history race beforehim. That was irrelevant.Howevermuch he had, everyone aroundhim had so much more. Still, in his ninetyyearsof life Rafielhadlearneda greatdeal-even actors could learn more than their lines,with enoughtime to do it in. He had learnedto acceptthe fact that he wasgoingto die, while everyonehe knew lived on afterhim. He had evenlearnedwhy this wasso. It wasall a matterof the failingsof the Darwinianevolutionprocess. In one sense,Darwinianeuolutionwasone of the nicestthingsthat had everhappenedto life on Earth. In the selectionof desirabletraitsto passon to descendants-thefamous"survivalof the fittest"-virtue wasrewarded' the creatures on, because Traitsthatworkedwell for the organismwerepassed them. lacking ones than the reproduce to more likely were that had them neat things-out such produced had process years the of billions Overthe creaturesthat beganit all-as eyes,and of the unpromisingsingle-celled wantedto give that other organismsdiseases to the resist*.. and anuses? in development, best the was intelligence. even you, and ultimately Tlttt Smarts race. intelligenthuman the of opinion collective ih. rrther parochial hadturned'outto be an evolutionaryplus;thatwaswhy therewereten trillion human beingsaround,and hardlyany of suchthingsasthe blue whale,the mountaingorillaand the elephant. But therewasone thing seriouslywrongwith the way the processworks. From the point of view oI the individualorganismitself,evolutiondoesn't do a thinj. Its benefitsmay be wonderfulfor the next generation,but it doesn'tao aiaaty-squatfor the organismsit is busily selecting,exceptto .r,.ourrge the weakeronesto die beforethey get around to reproducing themselves. That meansthat someverydesirabletraitsthat everyhunranbeingwould

Outnumbering the Dead

haveliked to have-say, resistance to osteoporosis, or a wrinkle-freefacedidn't get selectedfor in the Darwinianlottery.Longevitywasnot a survival feature.Once a person(or any other kind of animal) had its babies,the processswitcheditselfoff. Anythingthat benefitedthe organismafterit was finishedwith its yearsof reproducingwasa matterof pure chance.However desirablethe new trait might have been, it wasn'tpassedon. once the individualhad passed the ageof bearingyoung,the Darwinianscore-keepers lost interest. That didn't stopsuchdesirable traitsfrom poppingup. Mutationsappeared a million timeswhich, if passed on, would havekeptihe lucky inheritorsof subsequent generations halefor indefiniteperiods-ivoiding, llt ussay,such inconveniences yf apeasgoingdeafat sixty,incontinentat eightyand mindlessat the ageof a hundred.But suchgenescameand went"andwerelost. As they didn't haveanythingto do with reproductive efficiency,they didn't get preserved. There wasn'tany selectivepass-through after the lasi babies wereborn. Solongevitywasa do-it-yourself industry.Therewasno helpfrom Darwin. But... But once molecular -biologygot itselfwell organized,there were things thatcouldbe done.And weredone.For mostof t"hehuman population.But now and then, therewerean unfortunateflawedfew who -isla out on the wondersof modernlife-prolongingsciencebecausesomeundetectable and incurablequirksin their systemsrejectedthe necessary treatment. Like Rafiel.Who scrolledthrough,without actuallyseeing,the scoresof trivial messages-fanletters,requests for him to appearat somecharitable functionin someimpossible place,bankstatementi,'bilk-thathad arrived for him while he wasaway.And then,still fretful,turnedoff his communicationsand blankedhis entertainment screenand evenswitchedoff the music as,out of habitandneed,he practicedhis leapsandentrechats in the solitude of his home, while he wonderedbitterly*hat the point wasin havinga life at all; when you knewthat it would sooneror latir end.

5 Peopledo still die now and then.-lt isn't iustthe unfortunateslike Rafiet whodo it, either,thoughof coursetheyare tie ones whomit ii inevitable. for Even normal peoplesometimes die as weII. Theydie of accident,of suicide, of murder,sometimes iust of somepreviouslyunknownsickness'or'even of a medicalblunderthat crashes the system. The normalpeoplesiiply io notdo t-hatveryoften. Nor-malpeopleexpectto live normally'extendid'lives. How Iong thoselivescan be expectedto lastis hard to say, |urouru eventhe oldest personsaround aren't yet much morethan bicent'enarians (that's the time sincethe procedures first becameavailable),and they showno'signso,yoH ogu y_et. And, of cours.e,.since peopledogo on givingbirt'hto otherpiople,'all that longevityhasaddedup to quitean unpricedeitedpopulatior'u*ploiion.The

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total numberof human beingsliving today is somethingoverten trillionthat's ct one followedby thirteen zeroes-which is far more than the total of thegenusHomo in everygenerationsincethe numberof previousmembers outnumberthe Now theliving overwhelmingly appeared. I'Jeanderthalers first dead. When Rafielwokethe nextmorninghe found his goodnaturehad begunto return.Partlyit wasthe lingeringwispsof his lastdesignerdream-Alegrgttl had starredin it, as ordered,and that lostand cherishedlove of his life had neverbeenmore desirableand more desiring,for that matter,becausethat wasthe kind of dreamhe had specified.So he wokeup in a hazeof tender Anyway,eventhe terminallymortal can't dwell on their apreminiscence. proachingdemiseall the time, and Rafielwasnaturallya cheerfulman' Getting out of bed in the morning wasa cheerfuloccasion,too, for he with the many, many thingshe had to be cheerfulabout' *r, ,urro"unded on what the serversbroughthim he turned on the vid tank As he breakfasted and watchedhalf a dozentapesof himselfin someof the highlightsof his career.He was,he realized,quitegood.In the tankhis miniatureselfsang love balladsand jiving patternumbersand evenarias,and his dancingwell, yes, now r"d ttt." a bit trembly, he concededto himself, but with style-was a delight to watch. Even for the personwho had done it, but *i,o, looking in the tank, could only seethat imagedpersonas a separate and, really,verytalentedentitY. ih..tfrrily Rafielmovedto the barreto beginhis morningwarm-ups.He There wasn'tany breakfast. startedgently,becausehe wasstill digesting-his call wasmore than an hour away,and he was urg.n.i rbout it. Rehearsal .oi-rt.ni"alyawarethat the personhe had beenlookingat on the vid wasa star. In a world wherethe living far outnumberedthe dead,sPacewasprecious' On the otherhand,sowasF.afiel,andstarsweremeantto be coddled.Mosay room the sizeof a tenniscourt for Rafiel'sown private had takena rehearsal It use.The hall washigh up in the arcology,and it wasn'tiust a big room' turn wallsthat would ;;; r verywell-equipiedbne. It had barepowder-blue a switch, a polished of touch al the be to them wanted Rrfi.i into any .olor and, of course,full his taps, to precisely clacked that floor of ,.rl hardwood accommodations, star's his over fussing Mosay, proiection. ,ound and light the barewalls transformed proJectors obedient the a"d io.r.h.d the ieyiad, throneroom. into a glimmering "l'm" afraid thft it's the wrong period, of course,"Mosayapologized, "no roi soleilin Thebes, lookingwithout pleasureat the prh.. of Versailles, We don't is therJ,but I *-t you to getthl feelof the kingshipthing, sapete? yet.-ActuallyI do.'t know if we havethe progra*, fo, the theban backdrops peoplecan tell, the Thebals reallydidn't will, becaur.,, far asmy research anyway'" thronerooms haveany actual "It doesn'tmatter," Rafielsaidabsently,slippinginto his tap shoes'

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"lt doesto me! You know how I am aboutauthenticity."Seeingwhat Rafiel was doing Mosay hastily turned to touch the control keys again. victorium's overturebeganto tinkle from the hiddensoundsystem."c'est ' beau,Ie son?It's just a synthesizer arrangement so far.,, "lt's fine," saidRafiel. "Are you sure?well, bon. Now, bitte, do you want to think abouthow you want to do the firstbig scene?That'sthe one whereyou'reonstagewith all the townspeople. They'll be the chorus.You'rewaitingto find out what newsyour brother-in-law,Creon,hasbroughtbackfrom t[e Delphicoracle; he went to find out what you had to do to get things straightened out in Thebes. "l've read the script, of course,"said Rafiel, who had in fact finished scrollingthroughit at breakfast. "of courseyou have,"saidMosay,rebuked."So I'll let you alonewhile you try workingout the scene,shall I? BecauseI want to startcheckingout shootinglocationstomorrow,and-so_I've got a million thingsto do tojay." "co and do them," Rafielbadehim. when the drama"turge was gone Rafiellifted hi.svoiceand commanded,"Displaytext, scen. on", from the top. With music." The tinkling beganagainat once,and so did the displayof the li1es.The wordsmarchedalongthe upperpartsof the walls,all foir wallsat once so that whereverRafielturnedhe siw them. He didn't want to danceat this point, he thought. Perhapsjust march backand forth-yes, remembering that the characterwas lame-yeS, and a king too, all the ,r-.. He beganto pantomimethe actionand whisp., tf,. wordsof his pait, CHORUS: EccoCreon,crownedwith laurels. "He's going to say," Rafiel half-sangin his turn, "what's wrong'sour morals."

ItrNTERCREONJ CREON: D'accord, but I've still worse to follow. It's not me speaking.It's Apollo.

Rafielstoppedthe crawlthereand thoughtfor a second.Therewere . some doubtsin his mind. How well wasthatsuferstitious mumbo-jumbogoingto work?You couldn'texpecta modernaudience to takeseriously somemumble fronr a priestesson the otherhand,and equallyof cour*, dJb;s had ,.ot pee.na modernfigure.Would hehavetaken it seriously? Yes,Rrfi.l d".ided, he hadto, or elsethe slo,ry madeno sense to begi'rvith. r" prryi"g oedipus, then, the rnosthe could do wasto showa litt[ tolerantexasperation at the oracle'snagging.So he startedthe accompaniment again,and minred a touch of amusedpatienceat creon's line, turning his fread,*ry_

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And caughta glimpseof an intruder watchinghim rehearsefrom the doorway. It wasa small, unkempt-lookingyoung man in a lavender kilt. He was definitelynot anyoneRafielhad seenas a memberof Mosay's troupe and thereforeno one who had a right to be here. Rafiel gave him a cold stare and decidedto ignorehim. own response and He realizedhe'd misseda coupleof Creon's wascomingup. He sang: OEDIPUS: We'll takecareof this hubble-bubbleas Soonas you tell us what the real troubleis. wasgone.He clappedhis handsto stopthe music But his concentration and turnedto scowlat the intruder. to meethim, sayingseriously,"I hopeI'm not interfering. Who advanced But on that line-" Rafielheld up a forbiddinghand. "Who are you?" ,,Oh, Mosay52id-" sorry,I;m Charlus,your choreographer. "I do my own choreograPhy!" "Of courseyou do, R.tfiel,"the man said patiently.,"You're-Rafiel' I when all Mosayaskedrn9 to do wasbe shouldn'thavesaidchoreographer, Do you ,.*.-ber me?Fromwhenyoudid MakeMineMars, yourassistant. twentyyearsago ii must havebeen,and I tried out for the chorusline?" "You sired T'hln Rafiel"dididentifi'him, but not from twentyyearsago' Docilia'slittle one." "She told you, then? Evvero.We're both so Charlus looked proud. ^maestro, on that bubble-as, let me make a suggestion happy-but, look, ." SupPose trouble-isbit. And the -r1 bl.rme Oedipuson the spot,ashe performeda simultaneous gestureand courtlybow, endingon one.knee. obscene -It wasan okaystep'No, he.admitted Rafi.l"purr.dhis lips, considering. justly,it wasmorethan that. It wasr,;tjustan o\3y sJep,it wasan okayRafiel off-balancestaggerasthe right ,t.p, with just a little of Rafiel'swell-kr-rown floor. kneebumpedthe work with he said."l don't usuall.v H. *ad. up his mind. "Khorashaw," " it a.try' gjve to anybodyelse,but I'm willing i'Spasibo,Rafiel," the man saidhumbly' ,,De nada. Haveyou got any ideasaboutthe next line?" "Hai, sure' but est-cepossibleto go backa Charluslooked "-b"r"r"rred'. in?" you come little bit, to where "My first entrance,at the beginningof the scene?" we mighl try something Charlusnoddedeagerly."RigTrtthere,pensez-vous enterlike ' '" you can all-and after real macho?You are"aking, to the hall, but slowly, entrance Oedipus's He turned rna repeatef,' strut and high-stePping ritualistic, a and s-l-o-w-l-y,with his headrocking

Outnumbering the Dead

turn beforehe descended sedately to a kneeagain.It wasthe samefinish as the_otherstep,but a world differentin styleand meaning. t,but Rafiel_pursed his lips. "l like it," he said,meditating, do you think it really looks,well, Theban?I'd say it's peut-otrebasicallyAsian-maybe Thai?" Charluslookedat him with new respect."Closeenough.lt's menoo mino the Javanesepatiak-kulumovement.Am I gettingtoo eclecticfor you?" Rafielacknowledged, "Well, I guess['m prettyeclecticmyself." "l know," saidCharlus,smiling. While Charluswasshowingthe mincing littlegedrufrstephe thoughtwould be good for Jocasta,Mosay lookedin, eyebrowseleuaiedin thE obvious question. unarrus Charluswas tacttul. "I've got to make a trip to the tactful. --l've the benio," he said, and Rafiel answered the unspoken question as ,oon ,, the choreogrrph., 1a,r,

gone. "Mind his helpingout? No, don't mind, Mosay.He,s no performer I himself,but asa-choreographer, hai, he'sgood."Rafielwasjust.'Th. -rn yalnoj only good,he wasburstingwith ideis. Betterstill, it wasevidelt that he had watched -eyeryshow Rafiel had everdone, and knew Rafiel,sstyle betterthan Rafieldid himself. "Bene,bene,"ly'losaysaidwith absent-minded ,,when satisfaction. you hire the bestpeopleyou getthe bestresults.oh, andsenti,Rafiel"-remembering, as he was alreadymoving towardthe door-"those messages you forwardedto me?-Acoupleof them werepersonal,so I routedthem backto your machine.They'll be waitins you. co, tinuez,mesenfanfs.', And a lor pat on the headfor the returningcharlus and the dramaturg.*r, gon., ,nd they startedagain. It washardwork, goodwork, with Rafielhappywith the way it was going, but long work, too; they barelystoppedto .orrpl. of ,rnd*iches for ""i, lunch, andeven*lr.n, thoughnot actuallydancing, Rafielandcharluswere workingwith the formattingscreen,moving.o-pit.r-generated stick figur., about in stepsand groupingsfor the dan"ce.,urnberr"of the show, Rafiel gettingup everynow and then to try a step,charlus showing an arm gesture or a bob of the headto finish off a point. - By late afternoonRafielcould sei that Charluswasgettingtired, but he himselfwasgoingstrong.He hadforgottenhishospitarsta"y rnf1a,6u"ginning to rememberthe satisfactions of collaboration.Hlving a secondpers6r,heli him find insightsinto the characterand actionwasa greatpleasure, particularly when that personwas as unthreateningas the"eagerunJ ruU*issive charlus. "So now," Rafielsaid,towelingrJ-. sweataway,.,we,re up to wherewe'vefound out that Thebeswon't let straightuntil the assassin of the old king is found and punished,right?aia tnisT, *h.r. r ,irg -y vow to the gods-" "Permesso?" charlus saidpolitely.And took up a self-important strut,half

Frederik Pohl

tap,almostcakewalk,swinginghis lavenderkilt ashe sangthe lines:"l swear, without deceitor bias,We'll croakthe rat who croakedKing Laius." judgment. "Yes?"saidRafiel,reserving "And then Creongivesyou the badnews.He tellsyou that, corpodi bacco, things arebad. The oraclesaysthat the murdereris here in Thebes.I think right there is when you registerthe first suspicionthat there'ssomething fn"n.rygoingon. You know?Like . ." miming someonesuddenlystruckby an unwantedthought. "You don't think that'stoo early?" and "lt's what you think that counts,Rafiel,"Charlussaidsubmissively, door. the lookedup toward Mosai and Docilia werelookingin, the dramaturgewith a be-nignsmile, Docilia with a quick kissfor Rafieland anotherfor Charlus.Althoughtheir wasa distraction,the kissturned it into the kind of distraction appearance that startsa new and pleasingline of thought;Docilia was in white again, but a minimum of vvhite:a short white wrap-aroundskirt, a short wraparoundboleroon top, with barefleshbetweenand evidentlvnothing at all asked,and anunderneath."Everyittinggoing all right?" the dramaturge monde-Deat du merveille a be to going "Of couis. it ir; it's sweredhimself: few days;I'm off you a for leaving I'm ones,I just stoppedby to tell you thit " to scoutout somelocationsfor shooting. Rafieltookhis eyesoff Dociliaandblinkedat him. "We'regoingto make Oedipuson location?" I wantthe realthing "l insist,"saidMosayfirmly. "No fcux backgrounds; the Thebarrswould even that for Oedipus!We're goi.rgto have a Thebes admire,if therewereany of them Ieft." Charlusclearedhis throat."ls Dociliagoingwith you?"he asked' That questionhad not occurredto Rafielto ask,but onceit wasaskedhe wantedto know the answer,too. Mosay was looking thoughtfullyat the . .hor.ogrrpher."Well," he said,"l thoughtshemighthavesomeideas.. . Why do you want to know that?" we'vestartedto work out someof ihrrlu, had an answerready."Because the pcs de deux routines,and Docilia ought to havea chanceto try thern out.l' Rafieldid not think it wasa truthful one' but Docilia E'identlyMosaydidn'teither.He pursedhislips,considering, me, "You w'ithout go on for him.'"Of courseI should,"shesaid. answered dear, please, Mosay.Havea nice trip; I'll seeyou whenyou getback'Only " iti; h.,d , placethat iin't too ho,t.lsweatsowhenI'm dancing'you know' When at last WhateverplansCharlushad for Docilia, theywerepostporred. absentlyand Dociliakissedthe choreographer th.y *.r. ihro,-,ghrehearsing, nrn.f ,l"o,,gwith hel out of the room beforeCharluscould speak. ;;,llJ i'1'ai*olto Rafiel,"and I've bookeda faim, Eear,"she said-but only to tablefor us." want In the elevator,Rafiellookedat her thoughtfully."Didn't Charlus to seeyou?"

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Shesmiledup at him, shrugging."But he actedasthoughhe didn't want you to go off with Mosay," Rafiel persisted."or with mi either, for that matter.Is he, well, jealous?" "oh, Rafiel!what a terriblewordthat is, 'jealous.'Areyou thinkingof, what, the Othello thing?" "He's the fatherof your child,' Rafielpointedout uncomfortably. "Mais oui, but why shouldhe be jealousif I'm shtuppingyou or Mosay, Liebling?I shtup him too, wheneverhe likes-when i'aol'i haveanother date,of course.Come and eat a nice dinner, and stopworryingL.,, They walkedtogetherto their table-not on a balctny thi, ii-", but on a kind of elevateddaisat the sideof the room, so they could be well seen.It wasthe kind of placewheretheaterpeoplegatherei,at the bottom of the atrium. Tablesin the opensurroundedthe fiftieth-floorrooftoplake.There wasa net overh..r-d-to catchany carelessly droppedobjec*, and from time to time they could hearthe whine of the -rg.t.tt pullit'rgsomebit of trash away. But nothing ever struckthe diners.The placewa"sfull of children, and Dociliasmiled:t everyone of lhem, practicingher upcoming-otherhood' And swansfloatedin the lake, and starswere woven into the net overhead. when the serverrygt.bringing their monkey-orange juice Rafielremem_ bered'"speakingof Charlus.He hadan ideafor your sceneat the end. you ,, know?fust beforey9u go to hangyourself?As you'regoingout . . . He lookedaroundto seewho waslookingai th"-,1hei decided to give the fansa treat..Hestood-up,and in the liitle clearedspacebetween their tableand the railing,did the stepcharlushadcalled,,gndruk:,,'mincing and Yty]tg his hips.It wasnot unnoticed.SoftchucHeslound.d fro- around the dining room. "gh, maybey€s,"Dociriasaid,nodding,pl.rr.d. ,,ltgets a laugh,doesn'tit?" "Yes,"saidRafiel,"but that'sthe thing.Do we wantcomedyhere? I mean, you'rejust aboutto die . . ." "Exactly,dear,"shesaid,not understanding. "That,swhy it will be twice as funny in the performance. " " Aber a morceduincongruous,don't you think? comedy and death?,, Shewasmore puzzledthanever."Hai, that'swhat,sfunny, ir;t iti I mean, dying.That'ssucha.birarrething,it alwaysmakesthe audil".. f""gf..,,And then, whenshesawhis face,she6it her lip. "pas allthatfunnyfo, ol".ybody, is it?" shesaidremorsefully. "You'reso normal,dearRafii. S;.times I just forget." and{orgaveher."you know moreaboutthat than I do,,, .He sh-rugged he admitted,knowingthat he soundedstilrgrumpy-glad whe' ;i;;;", news comiccameoverto chat.Bei.g the.kind of_pLceii*as, table-hopping was, of course,compulsory.As-pleasedas Rafiel at the i"t..r,rpiioli oo.iti, her tomographs of thi babyto the comic and got thtr.q;ed words 1|owe.d prarse oI . Then it was Rafiel'sturn to blunder. "what sort of surrogate are you using?"he asked,to makeconversation, and shegavehim a ;h;;; look.

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"Did somebodytell you?No? well, it's cow," shesaid,and waitedto see would be. She seemedaggrieved.When all he did was what his response wantedto usesomethingfancier.Do nod non-comittally,shesaid,"Charlus you think I did the rightthing, Rafiel?Insistingo-nan ordinarycow surrogate, i mean?So many peopleare usingwaterbuffalonow' ' ' '" ;l " He laughedat her. wouldn'tknow, would I? I've neverbeena parent' does "Well,"l have,and believeme, Rafiel,it isn't easy.What difference yourchild for you?But Charlus it make,really,whatkind of animalincubates a battleover it!" such had we Rafiel, oh, and, important it's says 'She and foolishnessof men. obstinacy the mourning head, sholk her fault, I suppose.He's his altogether iin't forgive."lt Then she decidedto it's almost because Especially now. fin thesecondtrimesworried.Especially lims-" i1'5 ter and that mean5 She cameto a quick halt, once more biting her lip. Rafielknew why: it wasmore suddenlyrememberedtact. The end of the secondtrimesterwas at when they had to do the procedureto makethe child immortal, because could they ye!. a1d developed wasn't system tftri poi"i th. fetal immune for ever. *rnip,rlrte it in the waysthat would makeit live essentially .,That'sa scarytime, i kno*," saidRafiel,to be comforting,but of course he did know. Everyoneknew he knew, and why he knew. The operation didn't wasseriousfor a little fetus.A lot of them died, when the procedure morsystems immune natural their with work-or managedto survive,but intact. Like Rafiel. tally ,ioh, moncher,"shesaid,"you know I didn'tmeananythingpersonalby that!" but all the same'the happy "Of courseyou didn't," he saidreassuringly; wasgone,and buzzof the dry', good,.herrsingwaslost,the evening's -.dq. any abandoned had he fo"g U.f"re they frad finishedth"eirleisurelysupper, plai of inviting her backto his condofor the night. late to makeany It did spoil the eveningfor him. Too earlyfor sleep,too He triedreading' otherarrangem*tr, nJ*anderedalonethroughhis condo' but his muscles barre, the i"lit r..*Ed like aiot of effort.He glancedtoward on the vid, He switched weresoreenou;h;i;.Jy from the'day'swork-out. but there good,, ,or-ing the ch?nnelsto seeif therewasanythingnew a1d in election an *urr,'t. i football seriescoming to its end in Katmandu, a about a story Uru*rry-who caredabout tu.h things?He pausedover the it was system: habitatno* b.ilgtit.a out with e'gine"sto leavethe solar becauseof that one named Ha'k\unt,"a it held hil interestfor a moment he thought' interesting, ,rtty *o^rr,, Hitt"ree, with her script' It would be for him' not course' to takethat finai ort*.rd leapto a.,tthet star' . . Of He arrive' to hope could who would b. io.tg deadbefotethe expeditlon. list /5-|ut sparse the switchedto the obltuaries-his favoritekind of ns\ entertainment the him. He switchedagaintoheld no namesthat interested comedythat he had heardabout' The situation new a was channels.There

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name wasDachau, andhe remembered that one of the partswasplayedby a womanhe had sleptwith a few times,yearsago.Now shewasplayingaa what?-a concentration-camp guard in Germanyin World War II, it seemed.It wasa comic part;shewasa figureof fun asthe fewsand Gypsies and political enemieswho were inmatesconstantlymockedand outwitted her. It did haveits funny bits. Rafiellaughedasone of the inmates,having escaped to performsomeheroicespionage featfor theAllies,wassneaked back into the campunderthe veryeyesof the commandant.Still, he wonderedif thingshad reallyeverbeen that iolly in the real concentration campsof the time, wherethe real deathovensburnedall day and all night. It all dependedon whetheryou werepersonallyinvolved,he thought. And then he switchedit off, thinkingof Docilia. He shouldn'thavebeen so curt with her. She couldn't help being what she was. If death seemed comicalto the deathless, wasthat her fault?Hadn't most of the world, for centurieson end, found fun in the anticsof the dwarvesand the deformed, evenmakingthem jesters at their courts?Perhaps the hunchbacks themselves hadn't found anythingto laugh at-but that wastheir point of view. As his attitudetowarddying washis own. He thought for a moment of calling Docilia to apologize-perhapsthe eveningmight be salvaged yet. Then he remembered what Mosayhad said aboutpersonalmessages and scrolledthem up. The first one was personal,all right, and a surprise.[t was a talking message, and as soonas the pictureclearedhe recognizedthe face of the man who happenedto havebeenhis biologicalfather. The man hadn'tchangeda bit. (Well, why would he, in a mere ninetysomeyears?) He wasasyouthfuland ashandsomeashe had beenwhen, on a rarevisit, he had somewhatawkwardlytakenyoungRafielon his knee."[ sawyou werein the Krankhaus again,"the man in the screensaid,with the lookof someone who waspayinga dutycall on an ailingfriend-not a close one, though. *lt remindedme we haven'theardfrom eachother in a long time. I'm glad everythin g fait bon, Rafr"1-ron-3nd, really, - you ,.td I ought to havelunch togethersome prossimo giorno." That was it. \qfi.I frozethe picturebeforeit disappeared, to studythe dark,well-formedfaceof the man whosegeneshe hadcarried.But the person behind the faceeludedhim. He sighed,shruggedand turned to the other message. And that one madehim stiffenin his chair, with astonishment too sharp to be joy. It wasn'tan imagedmessage, or evena spokenone; it wasa faxednote, in a crabbed,nearlyillegiblehandwritingthat he knewverywell: DearestRafiel,I wasso gladto hearyou got througha'rother siegewith the damneddoctors.Mazel tov. I'm sendingyou a little gift to celebrateyour recovery-and to remind yo.iof -., becauseI think of you so very often.

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What the gift washe could not guess,becauseit hadn't the note wassigned,mostwonderfullysigned: For always,your Alegretta.

6 and antipathiesappearamong the Naturally, all kindsof connections Charlusis thesireof Docilia'sunborn Oedipustroupeas theycometogether. of thescore, child.Andrey,whois to play theCreon,is the sonof thecomposer Victorium.Ormeld,the Priest,and Andrevhaven'tactedtogetherfor thirtyof a nastylittle firefightoverbilling in what happenedto five years,because be the firstproductionin whicheither gotan acting credit. (Theyhug each hall.) in therehearsal otherwith effusivebut wdry ioywhentheycometogether Sander,the Tiresias,studiedacting under Mosay when Mosay had iust howsatisfyingthe abandonedhisown dramaticcareer(havingiustdiscovered roleof a dramaturgewas).Sanderis sti/l iust a little god-behind-the-scenes arequite separatefrom awedby hisformerteacher.All theseinterconnections sortof thing. Theyhad to be the ordinarywho-had-been-sleeping-with-whom kept that way. lf peopledraggedup that sortof ancienthistorythey'dnever gei:t everythingstraight.Actually,nobodyis dragginganythingup-at least, whereit can be seen.On the contrary.Everybodyis ]ot as far as-thesuuface to the consecrated elseand conspicuously beingovertlyamiableto everybody else, be anything to chance yet much had haven't they True, so shoi, far. rehearsal. day of the only sinceit's full-cast first AlthoughMosaywasstill off scoutingfor locations-somewherein Turkey, so-ebody said, though why anybodywould want to go to Tu-rkeyno one could imagine-he had takentime to talk to them all by grid on the first day. "Lin. up, everybody,"h. ordered,watchingthem throughthe monitor overhis .r-irr. "What I want you to do is iust a quick run-throughof the to saythe words lines.Don't sing.Don't dance,don't evenact-we iustwan_t for a minute and alone Charlus please leave Docilia, oth.r. each see and payattention.Victoriumwill proctorfor me, while l"-2 smallbut conspicut.r righ; Mosayhad not forgottenhis actingskills-"keep trying to find the right locationfor our production." Actually it was Rafielwho waspayingleastattention,becausehis mind wasfull oi lostAlegretta.Now, perhaps,found again?For vou neverforgot your first love. but Rafielneverhad. Nevercould have Well, yes,you did, sometimes, it havebeen eighty?a hundredlor seventy-could ttt. sixty of in spite loveto, in the yearssincethen. made least or at loved, he had women other in his life. very special something had been Alegretta songH. *", twentyyearsold then, a bright young certain-to-be-a-star he wasstill doing didn't knowthat yet, because man.'Audiences and-dance

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the kind of thingyou hadto startout with, cheapsimulations andinteractives, whereyou nevergot to makeyour own drarnaticstatement'Ihe tradewas beginningto knowhim, though,and Rafielwasquitecontentto be working his way up in the positiveknowledgethat the big breakwassureto come. (And it had come,no morethan a yearlater.) But justthen he had, of all things,becomesick.(No onegotsickt)When the rackingcough beganto spoil his lines, he had to do something.He complairredto his doctorsabout it. Somewhatstartled(peopledidn't have coughs),the doctorsput him in a clinic for observation, because they were asdiscomfitedby it as Rafielhimself.And when all the testswereover,the headresidentherselfcameto his hospitalroom to breakthe bad news. Even all thesedecadeslater, Rafiel rememberedexactlywhat she had lookedlike that morning.Striking.Sexy,too;he hadnoticedthat right away, in spiteof the circumstances. A tall wornan,tallerin factthan Rafi.i hi-r.if; with reddish-brown hair, a nosewith a bit of a bend in it that kept it from beingperfectin any orthodoxway, but a smilethat madeup for lt rll. H. had lookedat her, madesuspicious by the smile,a little hostilebecausea little scared.Shesatdownnextto him, no longersmiling."Rafiel,"shesaid directly,"l havesomebad newsfor you." "Che c'e?Can't you fix this damn cold?"he said,irritated. "Oh, yes,we cancurethat. We'll fiave Shelresitated beforesheanswered. it all clearedup by morning.But you see,you shouldn'thavea coughat all now. It means she paused,obviouslyin somepain. "lt meins the proceduredidn't-workfor you," shesaidat last,ar-rdthat washow Alegretta told Rafiel that he wasdoomedto die in no more than anotherhurldred years,at most. When he understood whatshewassaying,he listened quietlyandpatiently to all the explanations thatwentwith it. Queerly,he felt sorrierfor her than for himself-just then he did, anyway;lateron, when it had all sunkin, it wasdifferent.But as she wastelling him that such failureswerevery rare, but still theycameup now andthen, andat leasthe hadsurvivedthe attempt, which manyunborn babiesdid not, he interrupted her. "l don't think ytu shouldbe a doctor,"he told her, searching her lovelyface. "Why not?"sheasked. "You takeit too hard.You can'tstandgivingbad news." Shesaidsoberly,"l haven'thad much practiceat it, haveI?" He lauglredat her. Shelookedat him in surprise,but then, he wasstill in his twertties,and a prorniseof anotherhundredyearsseemedcloseenoughto forever."Practiceon me," he urged."When I'm released, let'sl-ravedinrler." Tfreydid. They hada dozendinners,thosefirstweeks,and breakfasts too, becausethat samenight he moved into her flat abovethe hospitalwing. They stavedtogetherr-rearly two weeks;and therehad neve,b"e,-,another woman like her. "l'll nevertell," she promisedwhen they parted.,,lt,sa medicalco.fidence,yoll know. A secret. " she neverhad told, either. And I'riscareerdid blossom.In tl-rose days,Rafiel didn't needto be an oddityto be a star,he becamea starbecausehe wasso damn good.

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It was only later on that he becamean oddity as well because,though Alegrettahad nevertold, therewerea lot of othercheckups,and ultimately somebodyelsehad. It had not matteredto Rafiel,then, that Alegrettawasnearlya hundred to his twenty.Why shouldit? Suchthingsmadeno differencein a world of eternalyouth.Alegrettadid not Iookoneminute olderthan himself. . . And it was only later, when she had left him, and he was miserablytrying to figureout why, that he realizedthe meaningof the factthat sheneverwould. Firstrun-throughsdidn't mattermuch. All theywerereallyfor wasto getthe of wholecasttogether,to getsomeideaof theirlinesandwhatthe relationship They act, didn't eachcharacterwasto the others,who waswhat to whom. much lesssing;theyreadtheir linesat half-voice,eyeson the prompterscroll on the wall more than eachother. It didn't matterthat Rafiel'sn'rindwas When otherswereonstagehe took out the fax from Alegrettaand elsewhere. readit again.And again.But he wasn't,he thought,any more inattentive than anyof the others.The prettyyoungAntigone-what washer realname? Bruta?Somethinglike that-was a realamateur,and amateurishlyshekept tryingto movetowardstagefront eachtime shespoke.Which wasnot often; and didn't matter, really, becausewhen Mosaycame back he would take way. And Andrev,the chargeof that sort of thing in his gentle,irresistible Creon, had obviouslyneverevenlookedat the script,while Sander,who wasto play the blind prophet,Tiresias,complainedthat therewasn'tany Victorium beingpresent. pointin doingall thiswithouttheactualdramaturge had his handsfull. But he wasdealingwith it. When theyhadfinishedthe quick run-through of the firstscene,where Charlusto starton the choreography he dispatched openingmiseryunder their audience for the reciting were Thebans the all look at the fax for pocket another his in reaching was Rafiel the Sphinx. "l thought l-re "sind asked. Rafiel?" okay, Sie over. came Victorium when " you seemediust a little absent-minded. "Pas du tout," Rafiel said, stuffingthe letter away.Then, admittingit, "Well, just a little, forse.I, ah, had a letterfrom an old friend." "Yes," Victorium said,nodding."Mosaysaidsomethingabout it. Alewasthat her name?" gretta, a Rafiel shrugged,not letting his annoyanceshow. Of courseMosayhad Mosaymadeit a point to know everything knownall aboutAlegrettabecause therewasto know abouteveryone of his artists;but to pry into privatemail, and then to discussit with others,wasgoingtoo far. "Old loverscan still makethe heartbeatfaster,can't they?"he said' but obviouslynot "Yes?"Victoriumsaid,not meaningto soundskeptical, "Has long time?Will a it been himself. emotions troubledwith any such you be seeingher again?" "Oh"-startled by the thought,almostafraidof it-"no, I don't think so' No, probablynot-she's a lot-rg*ay away.She seemsto be in one of the

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orbitersnow. You know she usedto be a doctor?But now she'sgiven up medicine,doingsomekind of sciencenow." "She soundsllke veryinteresting person,"Victoriumsaidneutrally-a 1 little absent-minded himself,too, because in the centerof the room Charlus had startedshowingthe Thebansthe danceparts,and Victorium had not failed to catchthe soundsof his own rnusic.Still lookingat the Thebans, Victoriumsaid,"Mosayaskedme to showyou the roughiimulationfor the opening.T,et'sgo overto the smallscreen-oh, hell," he saidinterrupting himself, "can you pardonnez-moi a minute?verdammt, charlur hrr goT them hoppingwhen the music'sobviouslycon yivace.I'll be right back.; Rafiellistenedto the raisedvoices,givingthem his full willed"attention in order to avoid a repetitionof the rush of feelingthat Victorium'scasual zuggestionhad provoked.charlus seemedto be winning the argument,he thought,thoughthe resultswould not be final until Mosly returied to ratifi, them. It wasa fairly importantscene.Antigone,Is-ene, polyneices,and Eteocles-the four childrenof Oedipurrnd Jocasta-weredoing a sort of pasde quatrein tap, armslinkedlike the cygnetsinSwan Lake,,I,hil"th.y sanga recapitulationof how Oedipuscameand savedthem from the horrid Sphinx.The choruswasbeinga realchorus,in facta chorusline, tapping in- the backgrou.nd- one by one, speakingup-a potter, a weaver,a -an-d, soldier,a household.slave-saying yes,tut thingsaregoinguraty now and somethingmustbe done.Then Rafielwould -rk. his entrlan..,, Oedipus and the storywould roll on . . . but not today. Victorium wasbreathinghard whgn he rejoinedRafiel."You can ignore all that," he said grimly,"becauseI'm sure Mosayisn't going to let that dummkopfdance-teacher screwup the grand ensemble. N"ever"mind.,' He snapped on the promptermonitor to show what he and Mosayhad pro_ grammedfor the under-the-credits opening."Let'sgetdown youi part hlre. This is beforethe actualstorybegins,showingyotJa,rdthe sphinx." Rafielgaveit dutiful attention.Even in preli-inary stick-figuresimulation, he saw that the monsteron the screen*r, priti.ularly"unpleasantlooking,like a wingedreptile."che the hell coscis that?" "lt's the Sphinx, of course.what elsewould it be?" victorium said, stoppingthe computersimulationso Rafielcould studythe creature. "lt doesn'tlook like a sphinxto me. It lookslike a crocodile." "Mosay,"Victorium saidwith satisfaction, "rookedit up. Thebeswasa cityon theNile, you know.The Nile isfamousforcrocodiles. Theysacrificed peopleto them." "But this one haswings." "Perchdno?You'reprobablythinkingof that other Egyptiansphinx.The old one out of the desert? This one'sdifferent.[t's a riibo" rphin*, and it lookslike whateverMosaysaysit lookslike." victorium gru. i,i- the look of someonewho would like to chidean actorfor wastingtime with irrelevalrt details-if the actor hadn't happenedto be the star of the show. ,.The importantthing is that it wasterrorizingthe wholecity of Thebes,after their

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ancienroi, Laius, got murdered,until you camealongar-rdgot rid of it for thenr. Which, of course,is why the Thebarrslet you marry focastaand be their nouyeauroi." He thoughtfor a moment."l'll haveto write somenew says musicfor the Sphinxto singthe riddle,but," he saidwistfully,"Mosay see,tutta qui is iust we don't want too much songand danceherebecause, play.We'll just run it underthe a kind of prologue.It isn't in the Sophocles creditsto misethe scene-oh, merde.What'sthat?" whereRafiel'snamehad He waslookingat the tel windowon the screet'r, begunto flash. "somebody's callingffi€, I guess,"Rafielsaid. shouldyou?" "You shouldn'tbe gettingpersonalcallsduringrehearsal, "Scn ferian.Seewho it is, will you?" he chided.Then he shrugged. no picture appearedon the But when Rafiel tappedout his acceptance screen,justa voice.It wasn'teventhe voiceof a "who." It wasthe serene, voiceof his householdserver,and it said: impersonal t'A liuingorganismhadbeendeliveredto you. It is a gift. I haveno program Pleaseinstructlre." for caringtor living creatures. me a pet?" be ser-rding "Now who in the world," Rafielmarveled,"would It wasl't anyonein the world-not the planet Earth, anyway;as soon as kitten purred Rafielsawthe note pinnedto the cage,wherethe snorv-white from. it was who knew he inside, contentedly This is my favoritecat'sbestkitten,dearRafiel.I hopeyou'll love it as much as I do. Rafielfound himselflaughingout loud. How strangeof Alegretta.How dear,tool Imagineanyonekeepinga pet.lt wasnot the kind of thingimmortalswerelikeli to do. Who winted to get attachedto someliving thing that wassureto die in only a few years-only a rnoment,in the long lifetime of peoplenow alive?(Most of them, anyway.)B"t it wasa sweetthought,and a s*eet little kitten, he found ashe uneasilypickedit up out of the cageand there,still purring setit on his lap. The prettylittle thing seemedcon'rfortable as it lookedup at him out of sleepyblue eyes. Most impoitant, it wasa gift from Alegretta.He wassmiling_as,careful his databasesfor instrucnot to distu;bthe little animal,he begansearching tions on the careand feedingof kittens.

why. RafieI hasdecidednot to makelove to Docilia again. He isn'-t.sure is child her of it hassomethingto do with the fact that the sire He suspects they've that alwaysnearby,which makit him uncomfortable. .It isn't iust collaboratedon creating a fetus that makeshim shyoff, it is more the foct that that means that theyintendto bea fam,ily.It is onlylaterthat herealizes

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h9cqn't bedany of theothermembers of the troupe,either.I'lot theAntigone, the little girl namedBruta, thoughshe hasaskedhim to-not eventiough shehappensto haveinterested him at first, sinceshehasauburn hair and ier noseis not perfectlystraight.(Perhaps if is becauseshe looksa little bit like Alegrettathat he especially doesn'twant to makeloye to her.) l,,lotany of th9ry, in spiteof the fact that, all throughhis performingliie, Rafiel'ha's seldomfailed to makelovein personto everyfemalehe wasrequiredto make loveto in the performance, on the principlethat it added,noiir* to hisart. (He wasn'tparticularlyattractedto mostof thosewomen,either,only prepared to makesacrifices for hisart.) This time, no. The only sensible reaionhe can givehimselffor hisdecisionis that Dociliawouldsurely find out,and it would hurt her feelingsto be passedoverfor the others. None of this inordinatechastitywasbecausehe didn't desiresexualintercourse.On the contrary.He didn't needto programdesignerdreamsof lovemaking.His subconscious did all th_e-progra--ing he nleded.Almostevery morning Jre woke from dreamsof hot and sweity quick encountersand dreamilylong-drawn-out ones.The rootof the protl.- wasthat, although he wantedto do it, he didn't want to do it with anyonehe knew. (oie exceptionalwaysnoted,but alwaysinaccessibie. P_ossible ) So he sleptalone. When, one morning,someslightnoisewokehim with the scentof perflmed womanin his nosehe supposed it wasa lingeringdream.Then he opened his eyes.A woman was there, i. his room-,staiding by a chair ani just steppingout of the lastof her clothing."Who the helfare you?"he shouted as he satup. The womanwasquitenakedand entirelycomposed. Shesaton the edge of his bed and said,"l'm Hillaree.you look"d ro sexythere,I thoughir might as well just climb in. " "How the hell did you get into my condo?', "l'm a dramaturge," shesaidsimply."How much would you respectme if I let your doorwarden keepme out?" Rafielturnedin the bedto look at her better.Shewasa curly-headed little thing, with a wide, seriousmouth, and he wasquite surehe had neverseen her before. But he had heard her name, he realized."Oh, that dramaturge," he said,

faintly rememberinga long-agomessage. "The dramaturgewho hasa wondeifulpartfor /ou," sheconfirmed,"if you haveintelligenceenoughto acceptit. " Shepattedhis headin a friendly way, and stoodup. "lf you want me for a part,you shouldtalk to my agent,,'hecalledafter ,

ner.

"oh, I did that, Rafiel. She threw me out." Hillaree was rummaging throughthe heapof her discarded clothingon the bedsidechair. Sheemerged with a lapcase,which shecarriedbackto th. bed. "l admit this isn,t gJ,.g to be ? big show," she told him, squattingcrosslegged on his bed as she operredthe screenfrom the case."l'm not f4orry. Il"on't do sp,ecticol1. But

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peoplearetravelingout to the stars,Rafiel.The newestone is a habitatcalled Hakluyt. The whole populationhas votedto converttheir habitatinto an interstellarspacevehicle-" "l know atout that!" he snapped,more or lesstruthfullv. "Habitatpeople havedonethat before-last year,wasn'tit? Or a coupleof yearsago?I think one wasgoingto Alpha Centaurior somewhere." "You iee?You don't evenremember.No one elsedoes,either,and yet it's a grand, heroicstory!Thesepeoplearedoingsomethinghardanddangerstory our. illo, Rafiel,"shefinished,waggingher prettyhead,"it's the greatest it. wrll comprehend people so dramatically, be told to it needs and of our time like be it won't it. Oh, play to the one you're it, and to tell one And I'm the a Mosayproduction,I'll giveyou that. But you'll neveragainseeanything as right fot you as the part of the captainof the lcosmoietHakluyt' "l"don't know anythingabout kosmojets,do I? Anyway,I can't. Mosay attackwhen he hearda rumor about it' " alreadyhad one cacafuega "Fichtig Mosay.He and I don't do the samekind of thing. This one will Pcs music, pasdancing,pcs songs.It will be a be intimitn, ^nd personal. " your career. whole new departurefor I am!" is what man "But a song-and-dance Rafiel.You'regoingto getold. "You're a short-timer, Shesniffed"athim. go. I've watchedyou. I'm willing to you need Listento me. This is where to bet my rePutsfieP-" "Your reputationl" She ignoredthe interruptisn."-1[rat you'rejust asgoodan actorasyou what'sinvolved area dri.., andsinger. . . and, iustto makeyou understand you know you'll which receipts, n.r., fou .rn hau.hu. pointson the gross 'iamaisget from MosaY." "Five per cent of not very much is still very little," Rafielsaidat once' grinningat het to showthat he meantno hard feelings. that. She openedher bag and She noddedas though shehad expected t'Mry I?"-she said perfunctorily,not fi.,g.r.d the keypadf; her screer,. beqan19'roll up the screen' A scrollof legalpap-ers *riting for an ".rr*.t. "Thir Ts the deal for the first broadcast-'she said. "That's twenty million the firstdollarsfrom right here on Earth, plus anothertwentymillion for forty another of run remotes.Slndication:that'sa contractwith a guarantee bet I'd Rafiel; million over a ten-yearperiod.And all that'sminimum, rightssub the for ,r,ytt i"g that it'll doubletlat. And therearethe contracts that lheguarantee see you'll and up, all it Add music. the th. -.rlhandising, piettyclosJtoa hundredmillion dollats.What'sfive per centof that, "o*", Rafiel?" f9r a1 answer'Shewas The questionwasrhetorical.Shewasn'twaitingto orderher alreadyscrollingto the next display,rot givi'g Rafiela chance out of his condo."Ld!" shesaid,"Voici!" was not an What they were looking at on the screenwas a habitat' It otject to the .rfual view. As in all picturesfrom space'therewas impressive

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can, no good indicationof size,and the thing might havebeena beverage floatingin orbit. "There'swhere our story is," she said."Whatyou seethere is habitat Hakluyt. It startswith a populationof twentythousandpeople,with room to expandto five times that. It's a whole small town, Rafiel. The kind of you know?A town they usedto havein the old daysbeforethe arcologies, placewith everybodyknowingeverybodyelse,interacting,loving, hating, dreaming-and totallycut offfrom everyone else.It'sa microcosmof humanHakluyt, right there on going ity, andwe're to tell its story." AlthoughRafielwaslookingat the woman'spictures,he didn't think them very interesting.As far as Rafielcould tell, Hakluyt wasa perfectlyordinary habitat,a stubbycylinderwith the ribsfor the pion trackscircling its outer shell.What he couldtell wasn'tactuallyverymuch. He hadn'tspentmuch time on habitats,only one two-weekvisit, once, with-with . . . ? No, he had long sinceforgottenthe nameof the companionof that trip, and indeed everythingabout the trip itself exceptthat habitatswere not particularly luxuriousplacesto spendone'stime. "How much spindoesthisthinghave?"he asked,out of technicalcuriosity. "l'm not usedto dancingin light-G." "When it's en route pas spin at all. The gravityeffectwill be along the line of thrust.But you'reforgetting,Rafiel," shechidedhim."Therewon't be any dancinganyway.That'swhy this is sucha breakthrough for you. This is a dramaticstory,and you'll act it!" "Hum," saidRafiel,not pleased with thiswoman'scontinuingreminders that, in his specialcase,becomingoldermeantthat it would becomeharder and harderfor him to keep in dancer'skind of shape."Why do you say they'recut off from the restof the world?Habitatsare a lot easierto get to than, per esempio,Mars. There'salwaysa streamof shipsgoing back and forth." "Not to this habitat,"Hillareetold him confidently."You'remissingthe point, and that'sthe wholedramaof our story.You seethat clusterof motors on the base?Hakluyt isn't justgoingtostayin orbit. Hakluyt will be going all the way to the starTau Ceti. They'll be cut off, all right. They ,r.t-tt coming backto the Earth, ever." As soonasthe womanwasout of his condo,unbeddedbut alsounrejected, or at leastnot finally rejectedin the way that most matteredto her, Rafiel wascalling his agentto complain. Fruitlessly.It wasa lot too early in the morning for Jefthato be answeringher tel. He tried againwhen he got to the rehearsalhall, with the same"No Incoming" icon appearingon the screen."Bitch," he saidto the screen,thoughwithoutanyrealresentmentfefthawasasgooda talentagentashe had everhad-and joinedthe restof the cast. They had startedwithout him. Charluswasdrilling the chorusall over againand Victorium, with Docilia standingby, wasimpatientlywaitingfor

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Rafielhimself."Now," he said,"lf you'requitereadyto go to work?Here's wherewe come to a tricky kind of placein Oedipus.You'r,eorderedCreon banished,in spiteof the factthathe'syourbrother-in-law. You think he lied to you about the prophecyfrom Apollo'spriest,and you'vejust found out that your wife, focasta,is alsoyour motfisl-" "Victoriumdear,"Dociliabegan,"that'ssomething I wantedto talkabout. I dor-r'thaveenoughlines there,do I? Since it's per certoas big a shockto me too?" "You'd haveto talkto Mosayaboutthatwhenhe getsback,Dociliadear," Victoriumsaid."Can'twe stickto the point?Besides the incestthing, Rafiel, you'rethe one who murderedher husband,who is alsoyour realfather-" "l've readthe script,"Rafieltold him. "Of courseyou have,Rafieldear,"Victorium said,soundingmuch less confidentof it. "Then we follow you into focasta'sroom, and you seethat " shehung herself,out of shame. "Can't I do that on-screen, Vic?" Docilia asked."l rnean,committing suicide'sa reallydramaticmoment." "[ don'tthink so,dear,but that'sanotherthingyou'dhaveto talkto Mosay about. Anyway, it's not the point right now, is it? I'm talking about what Rafieldoeswhen he seesyou'vecommittedsuicide." "l takethe pinsout of her hair and blind myselfwith them," saidRafiel, nodding. "Right.You jab the goldhairpinsinto your eyes.That'swhatI'm thinking about.What'sthe bestway for us to handlethat?" "How do you mean?"Rafielasked,blinkingat him. "Well. we want it to look real, don'twe?" "Sure," Rafielsaid,surprised, the point. That sortof not understanding which would produceany kind thing wasup to the computersynthesizers, of effectanybodywanted. Victorium wasthoughtfullysilent.Dociliaclearedher throat."On second thought," shesaid,"maybeit's betterif I hang myselfoffstageafterall." "We'll look.Then he surrendered. Victoriumstirredandgavehera serious get me off everybody's Charlus h. said."Let talk about all this stufflater," " backand we'll try putting the sceneafterthat together. wir-rk,but whatever give him a serious Docilia to see Rafielwassurprised was calling them all together. had to wait. Victorium shehad on her mind "All right," he said,"let'srun it through.All the badstuffis out in the open now. Rafielknowswhat he'sdone, and all four of you kidsare onstagenow takeit from the top." scene.Ket, you'rethe Polyneices, in the forgiveness began to sing Obedientlythe quartetformedand the boy POLYNEICES: We forgiveyou. If you doubtit, askthat zanyAntigone,or Eteocles,or sweetIsmene. ETEOCLES:

You can'tbe all that bad.

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After all. vousOfesour dad.

"Now you, Rafiel,"Victoriumsaid,nodding,andRafieltookup his lines.

OEDIPUS:

Calm?Comepossibile for me to be calm?I've killed my pop and shtuppedmy dearold mom.

ANTICONE: It's okay,dad, we'reall with you. It'll be a lousy life, but we'll be true. Whereveryou go"No, no," Charluscried,breakingin. "Excuseme, Victorium, but no. Bruta, this is tap, not ballet. Keepyour feetdown on the floor, will you?" "Aspet!"Victoriumsnapped. "l'm runningthisrehearsal, and if you keep interrupting-" "But she'sruiningit, don'tyou see?"the choreographer pleaded."Just give me a mir-rutewith her. Please? Bruta,I wantyou to tap on the turn, ar-rdgive us a little discohip rotationwhenyou sing.And I wantto heareverytap all by itself,loud and clear Therewas,naturally,moreobjectionfrom Victorium. Rafielbackedaway to watch,not directlyinvolved,and turnedwhen he felt Docilia pluckingat his arm. "Be realcareful,"shewhispered."Don't let Mosaypushyou into anything. I think he wantsyou to reallydo it. The blinding,"sheaddedimpatiently when shesawthat he hadn'tunderstood. Rafielstaredat her to seeif shewasjoking.Shewasn't. "Believeme, that's what he wantsfrom you," shesaid,nodding."Nofakingit. He wantsreal blood. Realpain. Piecesof eyeballhangingout on your cheek." "Docilia!"he said,grimacing. "was istdas'Docilia'?Voi sapetehow Mosayis. oh, maybehe wouldn't expectyou to permanenflyblind yourself.After the shootingwasover he'd pay so the doctorscould graftin somenew eyesfor you-but still." "Mosaywouldn't askanybodyto do that," Rafielprotested. "Wouldn't he?Especially considering- Well, whenhe comesback,iust askhim," shesaid,and stoppedthere. Rafiel had graspedher meaning,anyway.Especiallyconsideringcould only be that, in the long run, they werebeginningto be lookingon him as expendable. Whgn he finally did get through to his agentshe was only perfunctorily apologetic."Mi scusi,"feftha said. "l had a hard night." That wasall thl explanationshe offered,but her dark and youthful face supportedit. The skin wasas unlinedasalways,but her eyeswerered. "Acrobrtr,"shesaid, wearilyrunning one hand throughher thick hedgeof hair. "You shouldn't sleepwith your clients," Rafiel said, settingasidethe

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historicalfact that shehad, on occasion,with himself."Now, this woman Hillaree.. . ." When feftha heardaboutthe dramaturge's surprisevisit shewasfurious. "The putal" shesnapped. "Goingbehindyouragent's back?She'llnevercast a clientof mineagain-but how couldyou, Rafiel?If Mosayfindsout you've beendealingwith a tuppennytinhorn like Hillareehe'll go berserkerl" "l wasn'tdealingwith her," Rafielbegan,but shecut him off. "Prayhe doesn'thearaboutit. He'sin a badenoughmoodalready.When he got to look at his locationssomebodytold him that the Thebeshe was trying to match wasthe wrongThebes-two of them with the samename, Rafiel,can you imaginethat?How stupidcan theybe?The Thebesin Egypt didn't count. The Thebessomewherenorth of Athenswasthe one where Oedipushad beenking, and it wasan entirelydifferentkind of territory." "He's back?" "He will be in the mornirg," sheconfirmed."Now, wasthat what you wereso fou to talk to me about?" " Because he couldn't He hesitated, andthensaid,"Forgetit now, anyway. question mostly on his mind, that was quite bring himselfto askher the Docilia's and implications that hints which waswhetherit wasat all possible could possiblybe right.

8 The workof a dramaturgedoesnot end with makingsurea productionis performed.A maior part of the iob is making surethe audiences successfully will want to spendtheir moneyto seeit. In the furtheranceof thisendeavor, sweetare the usesof publicity; for whichreasonMosayhasarrangedto do his place.The placehe haschosen in a yery conspicuous firstcostumedrehearsals is thepublicparkon theroofof thearcology,wherethereareplentyof loungers when theyget and strollers,ond everyoned sureword-of-mouthbroadcaster home.Nor hcs Mosayfailed to alert the paparazzito be presentin force. Rafielthoughtseriouslyof takingthe kittenwith him to showoff at the day's rehearsal-afterall, who elsein the troupeowneda live cat?But the park washalf a kilometersquare,with a lakeand a woodsyareaand sweetlittle gardensall around.There wasevena boxwoodmaze,greatfor childrento play in, but all too gooda placefor a little kitten to get lost in, he decided, and regretfullyleft it in the careof his server. The troublewith the rooftopwasthat it waswindy. They werenearlya kilometerabovethe ground,wherethe air wasalwaysblowingstrong.Clever vanesdeflectedthe worstof the gusts,but not all of them; Rafielfelt chilled and wishedMosay had chosenanotherworkplace.Or that, at least,they hadn'tbeeninstructedto showup in costume:therewasn'tmuch warmthin the shortwoolentunic. The winds werestrongerthan usualthat day, and to the therewerethick blackcloudsrolling towardthem overthe arcologies

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west.Rafiel had he heardthe soundof distantthunder?Or iust the wind? He shiveredand joinedthe otherperformers astheywalkedaroundto get usedto their costumes.Although the rooftopwasthe common propertyof all the hundred-and-sixty-odd-thousand peoplewho lived or workedin that particulararcology,Mosayhad managedto persuade the arcologycouncil to set one grassyswardasidefor rehearsals. The council didn't object.They agreedthat it would be a pleasingsortof entertainmentfor the tenants,and anywayMosaywasa first-ratepersuader-afterall, what other thing did a dramaturgereallyhaveto be? The proof of his persuasive powerswasthat, astonishingly, everyonein the cast was there, and on time: Mosay himself, back from his fruitless questbut looking freshand undaunted,and Victorium, and Charlus, the choreographer-no, assistanf choreographer, Rafielcorrectedhimselfresolutely-and all the elevenprincipalperformersin the showand the dozen membersof the chorus.Rafielhad practicedwith the sandalsand the sword in his condo,while the watchingkittenpurredapprovingly; by now he was easyenoughin the costume.Not Andrev,the Creon, who kept gettinghis swordcaughtbetweenhis knees.There weren'tany costumeprobl.-i fot Sander,the Tiresias,sincehis costumewasonly a long featureless smock, andSander,who wasa tall, unkemptman with seal-colored hairthatstraggled downoverhis shoulders, worethe thingasthoughhe wasignoringit, which waspretty much the way he wore all his clothesanyway.All the women wore simple white gowns,Docilia'sfocastawith flowersin her hair, the daughters unembellished. But when RafielfirstsawBruta, the Antigone,turn towardhim his heart stoppedfor a moment, she was so like Alegretta."Che cosd,Rafiel?"she askedin suddenworryat his expression, but he only shookhis head.He kept watchingher, though.Apart from the chanceresemblance to his life's lost love, Bruta struckhim asa bit of puzzle.Bruta lookedneitheryoungernor older than anyoneelsein the cast, of course-Rafiel himseli alwaysexcepted-but it wasobviousthatshewasa lot lessexperienced. That interested Rafiel.Mosaywasnot the kind who likedto botherwith newcomers.He left the discoveryof freshtalentto lesserdramaturges; he could affordto hire the best, who inevitablywere also the ones who had long since made their reputations. Rafielthoughtof askingDocilia, who would be sureto know everyone's reasons for everythingtheydid, but therewasn'ttime. Mgsaywas alreadywavingeveryoneto clusteraroundhim. "company," saidMosaycommandingly. "r'm gladto be back,but we've got a lot of work to do, so if I may haveyour attention?"He got it and said sunnily,"l do have one announcementbeforewe begin. I ve found our shootinglocation.wunderbar,it hasan existingsetthat we can use-oh, not-exact-ly replicatingold Thebes,in a technicalsense,but closeelorrgh. And we'dbettergeton with it, so ifyou please. Rafielconcealed , g".i., at the way Mosayrvasmaking surehe lookedeverycentimeterthe staging geniusashe playedto the spectators behindthe velvetropes,and, of .or"rr"l

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to tlre pointing camerasof the paparuzzi.When he had everyonc'sattention scene he went on."We aren't going to do the short fighting-the-Sphinx we don't havea sphinx"-well, of coursethey didn't;therenever because would be a sphinxuntil the animationpeopleput one in-"5e we'll start witlr the pasde quatre,whereyou kids"-nodding to the four "children" of abouthow afterOedipussaved Oedipusand focas[2-"5ing your little sor-rg Thebesfrom the Sphinx he married yo:u mctman,tlte widowedfocasta, murderedand thus Oedipusbecarne whosehusbandhad beenrnysteriously koenighimself-" "Oh, hell, Mosay,"saidDociliawarmly,"that'sa wholeplayrightthere. Bisogniamosayall that?" "We nlust.We'll get it in, and anywaythat'snot your problem,Docilia, or the next sceneeither,except is it? In fact, vou'renot evenin this scer-re, around and look pretty, becausethis is where Creon makeshis to star-rd entranceand tellsOedipuswhat the oracleof Apollo said." "l alreadyknow all the Creon lines,"Audrevsaidproudly.He had the reputationof beinga slow study. And now if we'll iusttake "l certainlvhopeso,Andrev.Places,everybody? . ' ." Victorium's openitrg. last bars of from the it It wasn'ta big scenefor Rafiel.He didn't evenget to makea realentrance, just ambledonstageto wait for Creon to show up. The scenebelongedto the musicaccordingly,with a background the Creon.Victorium had writter-r enoughfor an oracle's dissonances-right mystical scorefull of dark and supposed. Rafiel pronouncements, had to be equally What Creonbroughtwasbadnews,soRafiel'sresponses gestures were, his all rnade sure somber.Not just somber,though. Rafiel rnerely not Rafiel was portenfous thanthe Creorl'5-sf1s1all, well, a trifle le:ss 'fheban king, he wasplayinghimselfplayingthe playingan old, doomed king. That waswhat beinga starwasall about. Rafielflipchedat a boomfrom the sky.Thunderwascrashingsomewhere in the distance,and Mosay agitatedlydemandedof a watchingarcology workerthat they erectthe dome.fust in time; rain wasslashingdown on the hadquiteclosed hoodoverthe roofbeforethe petaledsections big transparent again.He foundtl'rathe wasfeelingquitetired. oier them. Rafielshuddered . . thoughof course He wonderedif it wasshowingup in his perforlnance it wasonly a dressrehearsal. All the same,Rafiel didn't like the feelingthat his dancingwas not as of him._Heforced expected clumsy-as hisaudiences lively-as bumptiously Rafielhad all because himielf into the emotionsof the part-easily enough, thoughtor privately he the ambiguityof any actorin his beliefs.Whatever character the of felt, he could throw himselfinto the thoughtsand feelings seriously, tooksillyoracularc
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meditativepas de seul. So wasthe Creon, althoughhe had no dancingto do. But it was Rafiel Mosay was watching,with a peculiarexpressionof concernon his face,and it wasRafielhe waslookingat when he declareda twenty-minutebreak. "Commentqa va?" Docilia asked,takingRafiel'selbow. He blinkedat her."Fine, fine," he assured her, thoughhe didn'tthink he really was. Was it that obvious?He hadn't missedMosay'swatchful eyes, thoughnow the dramaturgehad forgottenhim in the pressof makingquick calls on the communicationsmonitor at the edgeof the meadow.Rafiel madean effortand pressedDocilia'sarm againsthis sideamatively-well, maybetherewashis problemrightthere,he thought.Deprivation.Afterall, why shouldanyhealthypersondeliberately stophavingsex,thusverypossibly endangering not only his performance,but evenhis health? "You don't lookall right," Dociliatold him, steeringhim throughthe park to a formal garden."Exceptwhen you'relookingat that Bruta." "Oh, now really,"Rafiellaughed-actuallylaughing,because the thought reallyamusedhim."She'sjust so young." "So amateurish, you mean." "That too," he acknowledged, slippinghis arm around her waist in a friendlyway. "l'm surprised Mosaytook her on." "You don't know?" "Know what?"Rafielasked,provingthat he did not. "She'shis latestdaughter,"Docilia informedhim with pleasure."So if you'reshtuppingher you'regoingto be part of the family." Rafiel openedhis mouth to deny that he was making love to Bruta, or indeedto anyoneelsesincethe lasttime with Docilia herself,but he closed it again.That, afterall, wasnoneof Docilia'sbusiness, not to mentionthat it did not comportwell with the imageof a lusty, healthy,youthfulidol of everyaudience. But shemight havebeenreadinghis mind. "oh, poor Rafiel,"shesaid, tightening-her grip on his waist."You'rejust not gettingenough,areyou?;' Shelookedaround.Therewashardlyanyonenearthem, th. .r*al spectators mostlystill watchingthe performersin the rehearsalarea.And thev were nearthe maze. "l havean idea,"shemurmured."Can we go in the mazefor a while?" "l'd like nothing better,"he said -4ft.1 all, why not? Rafielsurrendered. gallantly,knowing as well as she did that the best thing one did in the isolationof a mazewas to do a little friendly fooling aiound with one's companion-on whom, in any case,Rafielwasbeginningto feel he might as well be beginningto havesexualdesignsagain,after all. They had no troublefindinga quietdeadend and, withoutdiscussion, Rafielunhesitatingly put his hand on her. "Are you sureyou aren'ttoo tired?"sheasked,but turning towardhim as she spoke;and, of course,that imposedon him the duty to provethat he

Frederik Pohl

wasn'ttired at all. He realizedhe didn't havemuch time to demonstrate it ground in, so they wastednone. They werehorizontalon the warm, grassy in a minute. It wasstrange,he reflected,pumpingaway,that somethingyou wantedto do could alsobe a wearisomechore. He wasglad enoughwhen they had finished.. . . And almostat that very moment, as though taking a quick cue, a voice from an unseenperson,somewhereelse in the maze, was thunderingat them. It wasMosay'svoice.What he wassaying-bawling-was: "Rafiel!Is that you I hear in therewith Docilia?Come out this minute! We needto talk." Rafielwasbreathinghard,but he managedto grin at his partnerand help her to her feet. "Can't it wait, Mosay?"he called,careiullyconservinghis breath. "Expliquezyourself. Who's this "lt can not," the dramaturgeroared. woman who'sclaimingshe'sgot you signed.tp for a new production?" Rafielgroaned.Mosayhad in factfoundout. Dociliaput an alarmedhand on his forearm. "Oh, paura. You'd betterpull yourselftogether,"shewhispered,doing the samefor herself."He's really furiosoaboutsomething." Rafielgavein, tugginghis underpantsbackon. "Well," he calledto the hedge,"we did talk a little bit, sheand I-" featureless "She saysyou agreedl"snappedthe invisibleMosay."She'sgot a story aboutit in all the media,and I won'thaveitl Rafiel,you'remakingme look like a Dummkopf." "l neveractuallYagreed-" "But you didn't sayno, either,did you?That'snot cosi buono. I won't have you makingdny commitmentsafter this one," Mosay roared. "Now vieni qui andtalk to me!" His mutteringdied in the distance.Docilia turnedto look into Rafiel's face."Whatin the world haveyou done?"sheasked' "Nothing," he saidpositively,and then, thinkingit over, "But I guess enough."He could havethrowrrthe womanout of his home without any he bracedhimselffor the discuisionat all, he thought.He hadn't.Resigned, vituperationthat wassureto come. If came, all right, but not as pure vituperation.Mosayhad switchedto I alanothermode."Oh,pauvrepetit Rafrel,"he saidsorrowfully,"haven't my behind you're conspiring waysdone everythingI can for you?And now exploitationshow?" for a cheap-and-dirty backwith somesleazeball "lt isn't reallythat cheap,Mosay,it's a hundredmil-" "Cheap isn't just money,Rafiel. Cheap is cheappeople.Second-raters. and never-wases? Do you want to wind up your careerwith the has-beens No, Rafiel," he said,shakinghis head,"Noncredoyou want that. And, anyway,I've talkedto your agent,and fefthasaysthe deal'salreadykaput." He allowedhimselfa forgivingsmile, then turnedawaybriskly. "Now let'sget somework done here,company,"h. called,clappinghis hands."One more time, from Creon'sstoryaboutthe oracle.. . ."

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But they didn't actuallyget that far, and it wasRafiel'sfault. Rafielstartedout well enough,risingin wrathto singhis attackon Creon's from the oracle.Then somethingfunny happened.Rafielfelt the message groundslidingawayunderneath him. He didn't feelthe impactof his head on the grassylawn. He didn't know he had lostconsciousness. He wasonly awareof beginningto come to, half dazed,as someonewas-someones were-loading him on to a high-wheeled cart and hurrying him to an elevator,and walkingbesidehim were peoplewho were agitatedlytalking abouthim as thoughhe couldn't hear. "You'll haveto tell him, Mosay,"saidDocilia'svoice, fuzzilyregistering in Rafiel'sears. Then therewasa mumble,of which all Rafielcoulddistinguishwaswhen, at the end, someoneraisedhis voiceto say,"Pas me!" "AIIora who?" in Docilia'svoice again,and a longermumble mumble, and then once more Docilia: "l think it'd be betterfrom Ia donna And then he felt the quick chill sprayof an anestheticon the sideof his neck. Rafielfell asleepas the shot did its iob. Deeplyasleep.So deepthat therewasno needto worryaboutanything. . . and no desireto wondir just what it wasthat his friendshad beentalkingabout. "fust fatigue," the doctor said reassuringlywhen Rafiel was conscious again."Youcollapsed. Probabilmente you'vejust beenworkingtoo hard." "Probably?"Rafielasked,challengingthe woman,but sheonly shrugged. "You'rejustasgoodasyou werewhenyou left here,basically,"shesaid. "Your ami'shereto takeyou home." The ami wasMosay,full of concernand sweetness. Rafielwasgladto see him. "I'm sorryaboutbeingso silly, but I'll be readyto get backto work in the morning," Rafielpromised,leaningon the hard, strongform of the nurser. "Sdnsdouteyou will," Mosaysaidworriedly."Here, sit in the chaise, let the nursergive you a ride to the cars." And at the elevator,taking overthe wheelchairhimself:"Still," he added,"ifyou'reat all tired,whf shouldn'tyou takeanotherday or two to rest?I've pickeda locationspot in Texas. That rousedRafiel."Texas?PasTurlrey?" "of coursenot Ju*.y.," Mosaysaidseverely."There'sjustthe right place out in the desert,hardly !ui!t up at all. Now, herewe areat you, pL.e, ,r,d they've_got your nice bed all readyfor you-cesi cristo!" he interrupted "What's that?" himself,staring. Weak as he was,Rafiellaughedout loud. His serverwascoming toward him welcomingly,and paddingregallyafter, tail stiff in the air,'was the kitten. "It's just my cat, Mosay.A presentfrom a friend." "Does it bite?" When reassured, the dramaturgegaveit a hostile look anyway,as though suspecting an attackor, worse,an excretion."lf that's what you like, Rafiel,why shouldI criticize?Anyway,I'll leaveyou now.

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You can join us when you'reready.We'll work aroundyou for a bit. No, don't argue,it's no trouble.fust giveme your word that you won't comeout until you'reabsolutelyready "l promise,"saidRafiel,wonderingwhy it felt so goodto be undertaking to do nothing for a while. It neverhad before.

9 Rafiel, who lovesto travel,seldomhastime to do muchof it. That seems in all the placeswherehuman a bit strange,sincehe is a famouspresence in almostaII of those beingslive, on planet and off, but of coursehispresence placesis only electronic.He is looking forward eagerlyto the ride in the magnetrain,with no onefor companybut the little white kitten. When he finally embarks,after the obligatefew daysof loafing around his condo, it reallyis asgreata pleasure for him as he had hoped-well, wouldhavebeen, tired. Still he enioys continuing to be so unreasonably if he weren't anyway, an ftsu7-47sologies, kilometers hundred by at six the scenery watching flash He enioysbeing nothing. especially he doing enioys rivers-and fields,woods, presence might who otherwise to the unknown on thetrain alone.With his fans make his bedand meals and up to bring his him, with only the seryers besiege tend to the kitten, he thinkshe almostwould not mind if the trip went on for ever.When theyreachtheir destinationat the edgeof the SonoraDeserthe is reluctantto get off. Rafielarrivedat the Sonoraarcologyjust in time to catcha few hours'sleep in a rentedcondo,not nearlyasniceashis own, in an arcologyan orderof magnitudetinier. When he reportedfor work in the morning evenTurkey beganto seemmote desirable.This desertwashot. Mosay was there to greethim solicitously-proudly, too, as he waved isn't it? And such bonne around the set he had discovered."Wunderbar, chanceit wasavailable.Of course,it's not an exactcopy of the actualold don't you?And there'sno sense Thebes,but I think it's quite interessante, castinggreattalents,is there, if you'regoingto askthem to play in front of a backgroundof dried mud huts." at Mosay'sideaof an "interesting" Wilting in the heat,Rafielgazedaround didn't much resemblethe Thebes.He wasprettysurethatThebes-in-Sonora lighting Somuch marble!Somuch artfullyconcealed old Thebes-in-Boeotia. insidethe buildings-did the Greekshaveartificiallighting at all? Would statueof Oedipus(actually,of Rafiel the Greekshaveput that heroic-seized And, if theyhad,would himselfin his Oedipussuit)in the centralcourtyard? Did they h-"y. they havesurroundedit with bankedwhite and yellowroses? Well, did they havecastlesat all?Questionslike moatsaroundtheir castles? that took Rafiel'smind off the mercilesssun, but not enough. "It's you and Docilia now, please,"Mosay said-commanded, really.

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"Placesl"And on cue Docilia began/ocasta's complaintabout childbirth Rafiel reactedas the part calledfor as, shouldersswaying,headaccusingly erect,shesang: Che sapefe,husbandZI did all the borning, Carryingthosedevilsand puking everymorning. Neverpeineso dur, neveragonyso hot, It waslike pushinga pumpkinthrough"No, no, cut," Mosayshouted."Oh, RafiellWhat do you think you're doing there, takinga little nap?Your wife'sgivingyou hell about the kids she'sbornefor you and you'regapingaroundlike somekind of turista. Cet a little movementinto it, will you?" "Sorry," Rafielsaid,asthe castrelaxed.He sawCharluscoming,deferentially but with determination,towardhim, ashe turnedhis faceto the server that cameoverto mop the sweatoff his brow. There wasn'tmuch of it, i1 spiteof the heat;in the dry desertair it evaporated almostasfastasit formed. "Po you mind, Rafiel?"Charlusoffered,almostbegging."l was just thinking, you mightwant to wring your turn out and let the armsgo all the way throughwhen shestartsthe 'pukingeverymorning' line." "l didn't want to upstageher." "No, of coursenot, but Mosay'sgot this ideathat you haveto be interacting,you see,snd-" "Sure," Rafiel said. "Let's get on with it." And he wasable to keephis mind on his work, in spiteof the heat, in spiteof the fatigue,for nearly anotherhour. But by the time Mosaycalleda breakfor lunch he wasfeeling dizzy. - Instantlythe sexyyoungBrutawasat his side."Let me keepyou company," she said,almostpurringas sheguidedhim to a seatin the shade.;'wi,at would you like?I'll bring you a plate." "['m not reallyhungry," he said,with utter truth. He didn't think he would everbe hungryagain. Bruta wasall sympathy."No, of coursenot. trtis dreadfullyhot, isn't it? But maybejust a plateof ice cream-do you like palmfruit?;'He gavein, and watchedher go for it with objectiveadmiratiott.Th. girl wasslim asan eel, with a tiny bum that any man wouldenjoygettinghii handson. But it wasonly obiectivelythat the thoughtwasinteresting;nothing stirredin his groin, no picturesof an interestingfiguredevelopedin the crystalball of his mind. OnlyHis mouth wasfilling with thin, warm saliva. It could not be possiblethat he wasaboutto vomit, he thought,and then realized-itwasqui_te possible,in fact. He got brisklyto his fee[ pr.paredto givea close-lipped smileto anyonewho waslookingat him. No one was. He turned-awayfrom the directionof the buffettable,headingout into the desert.As he got behindoedipus'scastlehe pickedup his pac; pressinghis

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palm of his hand againsthis involuntarilyopeningmouth, but he couldn't hold it. He bent forwardand speweda cupful of thin, colorlessfluid on to the thirstystand. It wasn'tpainful to vomit. It wasalmosta pleasure,it happenedso easily and quickly,andwhen it wasoverhe felt quitea lot better-though puzzled, for he hadn't eatenenoughthat morningto haveenoughin his stomachto be worth vomiting. He turned to seeif any of the troupehad beenlookingin his direction. Apparentlyno human had, but a serverwashurryingtowardhim acrossthe desert."Sir?" Its voice was humble but determined."Sir, do you need assistance here?" "No. Hsieh-hsieh,"Rafreladded,rememberingto be courteousas ever, evento machines. "l must tell you that there is some risk to your safetyhere," the server or removedfourteensmall reptilesand informedhim. "We havedestroyed other animalsthis morning, but othersmay come in. They are attractedby the presenceof warm-bloodedpeople.Pleasebe carefulwhereyou step." Rafiel almostforgot his distress,charmedby the interestingidea. "You 'rattlesnakes.' They can bite a personand I've heardof mean rattlesnakes? kill him." "Oh, hardlykill one, sir, sincewe are equippedfor quick medicalattenso if you don't mind rejoining tion. But it would be a painfulexperience, the others? ." And it pacedhim watchfully,all the way back. there It didn't seemthat anyonehad noticed,though Brutawasstar-rding with a tray in her hand. "Nothing to eatafterall, please,"Rafielbeggedher. "lt's just too hot." But shestayedatten"Whateveryou say,Rafiel," she saidsubmissively. tively by him all throughthe break,watchfulasany servingmachine.And when they startedagain, he saw the girl reportingto her father, and felt Mosay'seyesstudyinghim. He managedto keephis mind on what he wasdoingfor that shot,and for but it wasn't the next. It was,he thought,a creditableenoughperformance, of the lighting to takeadvantage easy.They wereshootingout of sequence, rr th. sun movedandfor groupingthe actorsconveniently.Rafielfoundthat confusing.Worse, he discoveredthat he was feeling strangelydetached. Docilia did not seemto be the Docilia he had so often beddedany more. the motherof his childrenand appallingly Shehad becomeher role;focasta, the scenewherehe confrontedher dead he reached When himself. alsoof need he felt an unconquerable throneroom, in the hung it as twisting body, for ieassurrni..Without thinking, he reachedout and touchedher to make sureshewasstill warm. "Oh, merde,Rafiel," shesighed,openingher eyesto stareat him,"what are you doing?You've wreckedthe whole drecklichshot." "lt's all right, But Mosay*"r therealready,soothing,a little apprehensive.

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Rafiel,"he said."l knowthis is hardon you, the firstday'sshooting,and all " this heat.It's abouttime to quit for the day, anyway. Rafielnodded."lt'll be betterin the morning," he promised. But it wasn't. It wasn't better the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that one. It didn't get betterat all. "lt's the heat,of course,"Dociliatold him, watching Charlus trying to perfectthe chorus in their last appearance. ("Deeperplid, for Cod'ssake-use your legs!")."lmagineMosaymakingus work in the open,for God'ssake." "of course,"Rafielagreed.He had stoppedtrying to look as though he wereall right when he wasoff camera.He just stoodin the shade,with an air coolerblowingon him. And Charlussaidthe samething. "You'll be all right when we finish here," he promised,watchingBruta and the Ismene."lt's only anotherday or two-no, no! Cftcsslback now! Then a pasde chat, but throw your legsbackand come down on the right foot-that's better.Don't you want to lie down, Rafiel?" He did wantthat, of course.He wantedit a lot, but not enoughto be seen doing it on the set.He did all his lying downwhen shootingwasoverfor the day, backin the borrowedcondo,wherehe sleptalmostall the freetime he had, with the kitten curled up at his feet. EvenDociliawasmotheringhim, comingto tuckhim in at nightbut making it clearthat shewasnot intending,or evenwilling, to stay.Shekissedhim on the foreheadand hesitated,lookingat the purring kitten. "You got that from Alegretta,didn't youTPermesso askyou something?" And whenhe nodded,"No offense,Rafiel,but why are you so yerrticktfor this particularone?" "You meanAlegretta? I don't know," he said,afterthought."Forse it's just becauseshe'sso differentfrom us. She doesn'teventalk like us. She's" serious. "Oh, Rafiel!Aren'twe serious? We work hard." "Well, surewe do, but it's just-well-you know,we'rejustsortof making shadowpictureson a screen.Maybeit comesto what she'sseriousabout,;' he offered."You know, shestarteda whole new life for herself-quit medicine, took up science. Docilia sniffed."That'snot so unusual.I could do that if I wantedto. Someday I probablywill." Rafiel smiled up at her, imaginingthis pale, tiny beautybecominga scientist."When?" he asked. "What doesit matterwhen?I've got plentyof time!" And Rafiel fell asleepthinking about what "plenty of time" meant. It meant, among other things, that when you had foreverto get around to importantthings,it gaveyou a goodreasonto postponethem-forever. The shootingwent fasterthan Rafielhad imagined,and suddenlythey were at an end to it. As he waitedin full make-upfor his last scene,his facea

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ruin, himselfunableto seethroughthe wreckthe make-uppeoplehad made of his eyes,Docilia came over. "You've been wonderful,"she told him lovingly."l'm glad it's over,though.I promiseyou I won't be sorryto leave here." Rafielnoddedand said,more wistfullythan not, "Still it's kind of nice to " havea little solitudesometimes. asthoughshe'dnever look."solitude, Shegavehim a perplexed heardthe word before. Then Mosaywascallingfor him on the set . . and then, beforehe had wascast it, his partwasdone.Old Oedipus,blindedand helpless, expected to shoot for the cast left was that all and had reigned, he where the citv out of the when for the audiences, prepared had Mosay little come-on the was the sequel. up to set got together chorus and children Rafielfor that, but he lingeredto watch, swelteringor They didn't r-reed not. A part of him wasgladthe ordealwasover.Anotherpart wassomberly wonderingwhat would happennextin his life. Backto the hospitalfor more most likely, he thought, but there was no pleasurein that. He tir-rkering, decidednot to think about it and watchedthe shootingof the final scene. One after anotherthe minor actorswere telling the audiencethey hoped they'dliked the show, and then, all together: If so, we'll suredo more of these lazzyold soapsby Mr. Sophocles. Apd that wasit. They left the serversto strikethe set.They got on the blessedlycool castbus that took them back to the condo. F-veryonewas chattering,gettingreadyfor the farewells.And Mosaycamestumblingdoyl the aisle[o Rafiel,holdingon to the seats.He leanedover,lookingat Rafiel carefully."Docilia saysyou wantedto stayhere for a bit," he said. That madeRafielblink. What had shetold him that for? "Well, I only saidI kind of liked beingalonehere. The dramaturgewasshakinghis headmasterfully."No, no. It's quite all right, there'snothingleft but the technicalstuff.I insist.You stayhere.Rest. take a few dayshere. I think you'll agreeit's worth it, and-and-anyway, ese,afterall, there'sno real reasonwhy you have to go back with us, is there?" And, on thinking it over, Rafielrealizedthat thereactuallywasn't. The trouble was that there wasn'tany real reasonto stay in the Sonora arcology,either.As far as Rafielcould see,therewasn'tany reasonfor him to be iny*hete at all, because-for the first time in how long?-lle didn't haveanythinghe had to do. Sincehe'd had no practiceat doing nothing, he made up thingsto do. He calledpeopleon the tel screen.Calledold acquaintances-allof them lsrnefs-called provingto be litrd, and solicitous,and quite unprecedently colleagues,evencalleda few paparazzi,thoughonly to thank them for things

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theyhad alreadypublicizedfor him and smilinglysecretive aboutany future plans. Future plansremindedhim to call his agent.Jeftha,at least,seemedto feel no particularneedto be kind. "l had the ideayou wereprettysick," she said,studyinghim with care,and no more than half acceptinghis protestationsthat he wasactuallyentirelywell and readyfor more work quite soon. She shookher headat that. "I've calledoff all your appearances," she said."Letthem get hungry,then when you'rereadyto get back-" "l'm readynow!" The blackand usuallycheerfulfacefroze."No," shesaid. It wasthe first time his agenthad eversaida flat "no" to her bestclient. "Ay fesus,"he said,gettingangry,"whothe hell do you think you'retalking to? I don't needyou." The expression on Jeftha'sfacebecamecontrite."l know you don't, caro mio, but I needyou. I needyou to be well. I-care aboutyou, dearRafiel." That stoppedthe floodingangerin its tracks.He studiedher suspiciously but, almostfor the firsttime, sheseemedto be entirelysincere.It wasnot a quality he had associated with agents. "Anyway,"shewenton, the tonebecomingmorethe one he wasusedto, "l can't let you make dealsby yourself,piccina.You'll get involvedwith peoplelike that stupidHillareeand her dumb storyideas.Who wantsto hear about real thingslike kosmojetsgoing off to other stars?Peopledon't care aboutnow. They want the goodold storieswith lotsof pain and tortureand dying-excuse me, carissimo," she finished,flushing. But shewasright. Rafielthoughtthat he reallyoughtto think aboutthat: wasthat the true function of art, to providesufferingfor peoplewho were incapableof havingany? He probablywould think seriouslyaboutthat, he decided,but not just yet. So he did verylittle. He madehis calls,and betweencallshe dozed, and loafed,and pulleda stringacrossthe carpetedfoor to amusethe kitten, and now and then remembered to eat. He beganto think about an almostforgottenword that kept popping up " in his mind. The word was"retirement. It wasa strangeconcept.He had neverknownanyonewho had "retired." still, he knew that peopleusedto do it in the old days.It might be an interestingnovelty.There wasno practicalobstaclein the way;he had long sinceaccumulated all the moneyhe couldpossibly needto lasthim out . . . for whatevertime he had left to live. (Afterall, it wasn'tasthoughhe were goingto live forever).Immortalshad to worry abouteternities,yes,but the cold fact wasthat no untreatedhuman lastedmuch more than a hundred and twentyyears,and Rafielhad alreadyusedup ninety of them. He couldeven,he mused, be likean immortalin thesedecliningyearsof his life. )ust like an immortal,he could, if he liked, make r -id.ourr" change.He could takeup a new careerand thus changewhat remainedof his life entirely.He could be a writer, maybe;he wasquite confidentthat any decentperformercould do that. Or he could be a politician.Certainly

Frederik Pohl

enoughpeopleknewthe nameof the famousRafielto givehim an edgeover al*oit any bther candidatefor almostany office. In short,therewasabsolutely notiring to preventhim from trying somethingcompletelydifferent with the restof nii life. He might fail at whateverhe tried, of course.But whatdifferencedid that make,whenhe wouldbe deadin a coupleof decades anyway? When the doorwardenranghe wasannoyedat the interruption,sincehis train of thoughthad beengettinginteresting.He lifted his headin angerto the machine."Ho dettopositivelyno calls!" is alwaysan exception,"it inThe doorwardenwasunperturbed."There "in the caseof visitorswith programming, iti basic formedhim, right out of The woman sayssheis from one. is this special.rrg"r"y, and I am informed to seeher." you wish will Hakluyt ana *. statesthat sheis certain she'swrongabout Well, again? woman "Hakluyt?Is it thatfou dramaturge that, I don't want to talk abouther stupid5[ery-" But then the voicefrom the speakerchanged.It wasn'tthe doorwarden's any more. It wasa human voice,and a familiar,femalehuman voiceat that. "Rafiel," she saidfondly, "what is this crap about a show?It's me, Alegretta. I came to visit you all the way from my ship Hakluyt, and I doJt know anythingabout any stupidshows.Won't you pleasetell your doorwardento let me in?"

t0 near Mars, and he Rafiel knowsthat Alegrettahascomefrom somewhere know'spretty weII how far away Mars is from the Earth: mdny millions of kilometers.He knowshow long evena steady-thrustspacecrafttakesto cross planets,and thenhowlongit takesfor a passenger thatimmensevoidbetween get to this remoteoutposton the edgeof the and a spaceport to descend to 'And able to count back the daysand seethat well he is desert. Sonoran to his side-at the veryleast-ten days trip this started haye Alegretta must around the time whenhe collapsed right say is to o, iro weeksbefore,which aII that, and understandsits He knows Indiana. into the hospitalback in to think about any of those want doesn't He unpleasingimplications. iust at that momentimplications When you havelostthe loveof your life and suddenly,withoutwarning,she in it again,what do Youdo? appears ' First, of co,irse,there is kissing,and lt's beenso longs,and How goodit is to seeyousand of courseAlegrettahasto seehow well the kitten shesent is doing, and Rafiel has to admirethe fat white cat Alegrettahas brought with hJi, a servercarryingit for her in a greatscreenedbox (it has turned out to be the kitten's-o[her), and of courseRafiel has to offer food and g . . . but then what?Whatdrink, and Alegrettahasto acceptsomethin

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afterhalf a century do you scy to eachother?What Rafielsaid, watchinghis lovenibbleon biscuitsand monkey-orange and beer,wasonly, "l didn't expectyou here." "well, I had to come," she said,diffident,smiling, strokingthe snowwhite cat that lay like a puddle in her lap,"becauseNicoletti here kept rubbingup againstme to tell me that shereallymissedher babykitten-and because, oh, Rafiel,I'vebeensodamnmuch missingyou."which of course led to more kissingoverthe table,and while the serverwascleaningup the beerthat had got spilledin the process,Rafielsankbackto studyh.r. Sh. hadn't changed.The hair wasa darkerred now, but it wasstill Alegretta's unruly curly-mophair, and the faceand the body that went with the hair werenot one hour olderthan theyhad been-sixty? seventy? howevermany yearsit had been since they last touched like this. Rafiel felt his heart tremblingin his chestand said quickly, "What were you sayingabout HakluytT" "My ship.Yes." "You're going on that ship?" "of courseI am, dear." And it turned out that shewas,though such a thing had neveroccurredto him when he was talking to the dlamaturge woman.Theredefinitelywasa Hakluyt habitat,and it reallywas,evennow, being fitted with lukewarm-fusiondrivesand a whole congeriesof pion generators that werethereto producethe muonsthat would makethe fusion reactorreact. "You know all this nuclearfusionstuff?"Rafielasked,marveling. 'Certain-lv I do. I'm the headengineeron the ship, Rafiel,"sheJrid *ith pride, "and I'm afraidthat meansI can't stayhere long. They'reinstalling the drive engjnesright now, and I must be therebeforethey hnish." He shookhis head."So now you'vebecomea particlephysicist." "wel_I,an engineer,anyway.why not?you get tired oi on. thing, after you'vedoneit for ninetyor a hundredyears.I justdidn't want to be aloctor any more;when thingsgo right it's boring,and when they don'1-" She stopped,biting-her lip, as thoughthereweresomethingshewanted t9 say.Rafielheadedher off. "But what will you find when yJu get to this distantwhat's-its-name star?" "lt's calledTau Ceti." "This Tau Ceti. What do you expect?Will peoplebe ableto live there?" Shethoughtaboutthat. "Well, yes,certainlythly will-in the habitat,if nothingelse.The habitatdoesn'tcarewhat starit oibitr. We do know there are planetsthere,too. we don't know, reaily,if any of them haslife. . . .,, "But you're going anyway?" "What elseis thereto do?" sheasked,and he laughed. "You haven'tchangeda bit," he saidfondlv. "of coursenot. why shouldI?" She sou.,dedalmostangry-perhaps at Rafielbecause,afterall, he had. He shookhis head, ,.r.h".d foi her with lovinghunger,and pulledher to him.

Frederik Pohl

Of coursethey madelove, with the cat and the kittenwatchinginterestedly from the chaiseloungeat the sideof the room. Then they slepta while, or Alegrettadid, becauseshe was still tired from the long trip. Remarkably, Rafiel was not in the leasttired. He watchedover her tenderly,allowing himselfto be hrppy in spiteof the fact that he knew why shewasthere. Shedidn't sleeplong, and wokesmilingup at him. "l'm sorry,Rafiel,"shesaid. "What haveyou got to be sorry for?" " Shesatup, naked. "l'm SorryI stayedawaysolong. I wasafraid,you See. "l didn't know if I could handleseeingyou, well, growold." "lt isn't pretty,I suppose." Rafielfelt embarrassment. "lt's frightening,"shesaidhonestly."l think you'rethe main reasonI gave " up medicine. "lt's all right," he said,soothing."AnywaY,I'm surewhat you'redoing now is more interesting.Going to another starl It takesa lot of courage, that." "lt takesa lot of hard work." Then sheadmitted,"lt takescourage,too. It certainlytook me a long time to makeup my mind to do it. SometimesI still wonder if I havethe nerveto go throughwith it. We'll be thirty-five yearsen route, Rafiel.Nearlyfive thousandpeople,all packedtogetherfor that long." to have He frowned."l thoughtsomebodysaidthe Hakluyt wassupposed " to start. twentythousand "We were.We are.But therearen'tthat manyvolunteersfor the trip, you see.That's why they made me chief engineer;the other expertsdidn't see interestany reasonto leavethe solarsystem,when theyweredoingso_many "Do my you know what " him. kiss to forward leaned She ing thingshere. lukewarm-fusion?" about you know anything Do work is, Rafiel? "Well," he began,and then honestlyfinished:"No." or perhapsit was iust pitying. "But there are She lookedastonished, in everyarcology.Haven'tyou evervisitedone?"Shedidn't wait powerplants io, ,r,'rr.swerbut beganto tell him abouther work, ar-rdhow long shehad had to studyto masterthe engineeringdetails.And in his turn he told her and the fansalways about his life as a star,with the personalappearances and about excitement; love and their with showingup, whereverhe went, of the members the and finished, the pro"du.tionof Oedipusthey had iust the of lives the of glimpse inside trorrpe.Alegrettawas fascinatedby the her and Docilia about her fr*o,rr. Thln, whenhe gotto the pointof telling decisionto try -onogr-y with the fatherof her child, as soonasthe child wasborn, anyway,Alegrettabeganto purseher lips again. She got up to stareout the window. He called,"ls somethingwrong?" "Rafiel,dear," Shewassilentfor a mornent,thenturnedto him seriously. you'" shesaid."There'ssomethingI haveto tell "l know," he saidreluctantlY.

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"No, I don't think you do. I didn't comehereby accident.Mosay-" He was besideher by then, and closedher lips with a kiss."But I do know," he said."Mosaycalledyou to tell you, didn't he?Why elsewould you comeall the waybackto Earth in sucha greathurry?That little episode I had, it wasn'tjust fatigue,wasit? It meantthat they can'tkeepme going much longer,so the badnewsis that I don't havemuch time left, do I? I'm goingto die." "Oh, Rafiel,"shesaid,woebegone. "But I've known that this was going to happenall my life," he said "or at leastsinceyou told me. [t's all right." reasonably, "lt isn't!" He shrugged, almostannoyed."lt hasto be all right,because I'm mortal," he explained. Shewasshakingher head."Yes.But no." Sheseemedalmostneartears as she plungedon. "Don't you see,that'swhy I came here like this. You don't haveto die completely. There'sa kind of immortalitythat evenshorttimershaveopento them if they want it. Like your Docilia." He frownedat her, and shereachedout and touchedhis lips."Will you give me a baby?"shewhispered."A son?A bov who will look just like you when he growsup-around'fau Ceti?"

ll Although the Sonoraarcologyis far tinier and dingier than someof those in the busy,crowdednorth, it naturally doesnot lack any of the standard facilities-includ_inga clinic for implantinga humanfetus intoa nurturing animal womb. On the fourth day after the donationthe new parents(oi, usually,at leastone of them) mdy comeup to the sunny brightly painted nurseryto receivetheirfetus.It is true that the circumstances for Rafiel and Alegrettadred bit unusual.Mostfetuses are implantedat onceinto t:helarge mammal-d cow mostoften, or a large sow-that wiII bring the.mto term and deliverthem.Theirchild hasa morecomplicated inutbationin store.He (it is definitelyto be a boy, and they havespenta lot of time thinking of namesfor him) mystgo with Alegrettato the interstellarshipHaklgyt,*niri, mednsthat thebaby'shostmustgo theretoo.Cowsare notreallyvery'portable. So, iust for now, for the sakeof easein transportation,their fetu.shasbeen temporarilyimplantedin a much smallermammal, which is now spending as much time as it is allowedsittingpurring in Alegretta'slap, a bit ruffleld at recentindignities,but quite content. They didn t iusttalk and makeloveand babies.On the seconddayAlegretta announcedshewastemporarilygoingto be a doctoragain. "Byt you'veprobablyforgottenhow to do it, " Rafiefsaid,half joking. "Tl]. computerJtasn't," shetoldhim, not jokingat all. Shegothis meJical recordsfrom the datafileand studiedthem seriouslyfor a loirg time. Then

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shesentthe serverout for someoddsand ends.When they cameshepressed stickysensorbuttonson his chestand belly-"I hopeI rememberhow to do this without pulling all your hair off," shesaid-and poredoverthe readings overthe tel with someone, on the screen.Then shehad long conversations from which Rafielwasexcludedand which wound up in the serverbringing and syrupsto take."Thesewill makeyou him new little bottlesof spansules feel better,"shetold him. But theyboth knewthat eventhe besteffortsof lovingAlegrettacould not possiblymake him be better. They werealsoboth well awarethat they could not staylong togetherin Sonora.If they hadn't known that, they would havebeentold so, because screen-Mosay and the callbacklistskeptpiling up on the communications from Hakluyt for fefthaand ten or twelveothersfor Rafiel,faxedmessages Alegretta.Once a day they took time to read them, and occasionallyto answerthem. "They're putting the frozenstockson boardnow," Alegretta announcedto her lover, betweencallbacks. "Frozen food for the trip? You must needs ls[-" "No, no. Not food-well, a little bit of frozenfood,yes,but we couldn't carryenoughto lastout the trip. Most of the food we needwe'll growalong the way. What I'm talking about is frozen sperm and ova-cats, dogs, livestock,birds-and frozenseedsand clonesfor planting.We'll needthem when we get there." "And what if there'sno goodplanetthereto plant them on?" he asked. "Bite your tongue,"shesaidabsently,makinghim smileat her asshesat huddledoverthe manifest.He found himselfsmilinga gooddealthesedays. His kitten, which had not let eitherof them out of its sightwhile its mother wasoff in the implantationclinic, waslicking its left forepawwith concenjust talking,sometimes tratedattention.The loverstoucheda lot, sometimes other each looked at They other. each of warmths drowsingin the scentsand parentof a sharedchild. a lot, charmedto seein eachother a prospective "lt fun to conceiveit in the oldbeen have would Rafielsaidmeditatively, fashionedway." Shelookedup. "lt's saferwhentheydo it in the laboratory.Not to mention this waywe can be sureit's a boy." Shecameoverandkissedhim. "Anyway, we can-well, in a day or two we can-do all of that we want to." Rafielrubbedhis earagainsther cheek,quitecontent.It wasa veryminor had to be postponeda bit, Alegretta's that sexualintercourse inconvenience womb tenderfrom the removalof the ovum. sheasked' "Are you gettingrestless?" "Me? No, I'm hrppy to stayright herein the condo.Are you?" She said,"Not really,but thereis somethingI'd like to do outside." "Name it." "lt's so you'll know what my work'slike," she explained."lf you think you'd like io, I'd enjoy showingyou what this arcology'spowerplantlooks like." "Of course,"he said.

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He would havesaidthe sameto almostanythingAlegrettaproposed.Still, it wasn'tthe kind of "of course"he felt totally.onhd.tlt about,b."rur. on. of Mosay'scallshadbeento warnhim that the paparazziknewhe wasstill in the arcology.They somehowevenknewthathe ini Al.grettahadconceiveda child. Someonein the clinic had let the newsout. But Rafiel took what precautionshe could to preservetheir privacy.They chosetheir time-it wasaftermidnight-and the doorwardenreportedno one in the areawhen they stoleout and down into the lowestr.r.h., of the arcology. It turned out that the powerplantwasn'tparticularlyhot. li didn't look dangerous at all; everythingwasenameledwhite or glitteringsteel,no more worrisomein appearance than a kitchen.It wasnoisy,though;theyboth had to -puton earplugswhen the shift engineer,asa professionil.ouit.ry to his colleague, Alegretta,let them in. With all the roaringand whiningaround them they couldn'ttalk verywell, but Alegrettahad eiplainedsomeof it on the way down, and pointedmeaningfullyto this greatburringcylinder and that red-striped blank wall, and Rafielwasneatli surehe uni.irtood what he wasseeing.He knewit wasmuon-catalysed fusion.He evenknewthat it was,in fact, the mostdesperately desireddreamof powerplantdesigners for generations, a soxrceof powerthat took its energyfrom ih. .o--onest of all elements:hydrogen,the sameuniversalfuel Iirat stokedtl-refiresof the starsthemselves, and deliveredit in almostany form anyonecould wishheat,kineticene_rgl or electricity-without fussor bother.Well, not entirely without bother-It had takena long time and a lot of cleverengineering to figure out how to get the pions to make the muons that would make the reactiongo; but there it was. Lukewarmfusion operatedwithout violent explosions, impossible containmentor deadlyradioactive contamination. It workedbest at an optimal temperatureof 700 degreesCelsius(instead of many thousands!), and so it wasintrinsicallybotFr"safe and convenient.It was,really,the fundamentalreasonwhy the living membersof the human racenow outnumberedthe dead.The fetalprocedures could extendlife, but it wasonly the cheapand easyenergythat would neverrun out that could keepall ten trillion human beings,liu.. "Thanks," Alegrettasaidto theihift engineerasshecollected theirdosimetersand earplugson the wayout. Rafielriasn'tlookingat the engineer asshe checkedthe dosimeters and noddedto Alegrettato sh"owth"y rZr. ,ff ,ight. He waslookingat Alegretta,so small and-prettyand well, f.r, ,o youngto be the masterof so much energy. And sodamnedintelligent.Shewasexplainingthe systemto him, pleased and flushed,as they movedtowardthe exit doJr. "rt's not reallyhydrogen we burn; it's muonizeddeuterium;you know,the heavyisotopeoihydrogZr,,' but with a muon replacingits electron." He didn't know, but he said,',yes.yes, I see." Shewasgoingrighton. "So, sincethe muon is heavier,it orbits closerto . the nucleus.This meansthat two atomsof deuteriumcan come closerto eachotherthan electron-hydrogen evercould, and thustheyr,rr. u.rv easily into helium-oh, hell!"shefinished,lookingout the door.,,who arethey?,,

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He sworesoftlyand tookher arm. "Come on, through the swarmof paparazzi.

pushingtheirway

"We musthavebeenseengoingin," he told her, oncetheyweresafelvback " in the condo."Or your friendthe engineercalledsomebody. "lt is alwayslike this, Rafiel?" He wantedto b. honestwith her. "sometimeswe tip the papsoff ourdo it. I don't haveto. Jeftha selves,"he admitted."l mean,I don't personally paparazzithere,Youknow? the we want will, because or Mosayor somebody They'rethe sourceof the publicitythat makesus They'regoodfor business. " into stars. "Did you?" "Did i tip th.- off?No. No, this time they found us out on their own' They'regood -had at that." anymore;the paparazziknewthathis life wasnearing .to secrets Sohe its end and that he had starteda child he would not live to seegrow, all of because than ever,for the samereasons; which madehim more newsworthy black-comic he wasgoingto do that he wasRafiel,the short-timer;because suffered,peoplelike Rafiel filled really anybody hardly Sir-rce {ie. to thing, n ,rJ*rrrry niche in the human design:they did the sufferingfor everyone elseto .r,ioy vicariously-and with the audience'sinestimabieprivilegeof turrringthe sufferingoff when they chose. like this?" "Yes,but is tt alwaY's and cradledit in his arms,upsidedown, blue kitten the up He picked him. at warilY eyeslookingup "It will b" ti long aswe'reheretogether,"he said' Shedid not respoirdto that. she iustwalkedsilentlyoverto the communicationsscreen. It seemedto Rafiel that his belovedwantednot to be beloved,or not him' ,.tiu.Ly beloved,right then. Her backwassignificantlytulred toward not them, poring was and Hakluyt from -over She had taken ,ori. faxes to deal rcom other the into went her a.d from iooki'g at him. He tookhis cue explainedthe He did not think he hadsatisfactorily ;,th ;Z""ple of callbacks. to' had he think didn't he hand, situationtt her. on the other purring when he came back she was sitting with a fax in her hand, looking rnoment, a for there stood Nicolettein her lap, her headdown. He human the sign-of no showed noirt,tt.grettab"i rt the cat.The littleanimal was She child' for their g.n. splic?sthat let her be a temporaryllcqb.ator wonders, such see would child which i.rrt u cat. But insidethe cat *", ih. (perhapsplanets, ior.u., deniedto himself-a new sun in the sky, planets wercpossible that things the ,'ry*ry; whereno human hadeversetfoot-all him' to someonewith an endlesslife aheadof yet, hardly He knewthatthe thilg in the cat'sbellywasnot actuallva chil-d it was already but dust, of grain a even a real fetus;it was"nolargerthan be' ever would father than its richer in porversand prospects Then, as Alegrettamoved,he sawthat shewasweepi.g.

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He stoodstaringat her, more embarrassed than he had everbeen with Alegrettabefore.He couldn'tremembereverseeingan adultcry before.Not even himself. He moveduncomfortablyand must havemade somesmall noise,becauseshelooked,rp and sawhim there. She beckonedhim overand put her hand on his. "My dear,"shesaid, still weeping,"l can't put it off any longer.I haveto be therefor the finai tests,so-I haveto leavetomorrow." "Come to bed," he said. In the morning he wasup beforeher. He wokeher with a kiss.She smiled up at him as she openedher eyes,then let the smile slip away as she remembered,finally sawwhat he washolding in his hand. She lookedat him in puzzlement."What's that thing for?" He held up th9 little cage."I sent the serverout for it first thing this morning," he said,"lt's to put the kitten in for the trip. We don,t want to breakthe family up again,do we?" "We?" He shrugged."The you and me we. I decidedI reallywantedto seevour Hakluyt beforeit takesyou awayfrom me." "But Rafiel!It's sucha long trip to Hakluyt!,, "Kosmojetsgo there,don't they?" "of coursetheydo, bu1"-she hesitated, then plungeden-,,fu1 are you up to that kind of stress,Rafiel?I meanphysicallyZ Justto get into orbitis a strain,you know;you haveto launchto orbit throughthe railgun,and that's a seven-gee acceleration. Can you standseveng."i?" "I can," he said,"standanythingat all, a*aaptlosingyou so soon.,'

t2 _ Rafiel is excitedoverthe trip. Their firstleg is an airplaneflight.If's ftis first time in a planein manyyears,and there'ino choice'aboutit";no maglev trainsgo to the Peruvian Andes.That'swherethe railgun is,on tie westward slopeof a mountain, lhe big turboprop settles -pointing toward the stcrs.,,q,s iry to-ik landing at base of the railgun, Rafiel gets his first gioodlookat -the the thing. lt lookslike a^skiiumpin rurirru, its traffic goesup. Tiu sreruryall around is spectacular,Off to the north of the ,ailgtunlhere'sd hugewatirfatt whichoncewasa hydroelectric dam supplyingpowerto half Peru'andalmost all of Bolivia. Lukewarm-fusionput the hydiopowerplanrtsout of business and now it is iust a decorative cataract.When theyget out Rafielfinds his heart poundingand his breathpaltlng, for eventhi baseof th,erailgun in nearly2500metersabovesealevel,but he doesn'tcare.Heis thrilled. While they weredressingin their cushionyrailgun suits,Rafielpausedto listento the screamof a-capsuleaccelerating.rpih.railsio .r.rpJu.locity. Alegrettastoppedwhatshewasdoing,too, tJ look at him. "Are ylu ,rru you

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can handlethis?" she asked.His offhandwavesaidthat he wasvery' very sure. She checkedhim carefullyas he got into each item of the railgun clothes.What they wore was important-no beltsfor either of them, no brassidrefor Alegretta,slippersrather than shoes'no heavy jewelry-becausethe seven-geestrain would cost them severelyfor any garmentthat pressedinto theii flesh or constrainedtheir freedom.When Alegrettawas iatisfiedabout that, she got to the seriousproblem of fitting basketsto the cats. "Will she be all right?" Rafiel askedanxiously,looking at Nicolettein her belly be all right? meaning,really,will the almost-baby "I'll riake her be all right," Alegrettapromised,checkingthe resilienceof the paddingwith her knuckles."That'll do. Anyway, catsstandhigh-gee betterthan people.You've heardstoriesof them falling out of tenth-story windowstni *tlt ing away?They'retrue-sometimes true, anyway'Now let'sget down to the loadingplatform." Th'atwasbusierthan Rafielhad expected.Four or five other passengers to friendson the platform,but it wasn'tiust people were sayinggood-byes who wereabi"t to be launchedinto space.There werecratesand cartons, all padded,beingfittedcarefullyinto placein the cargosection,and servers were strappingJo*r, huge Dewarsof liquid gas. "Inside," a guard commanded,'r.td"*henthey *.r. in the capsulea stewardleanedoverthem to help with the strapsand braces."fust-relax,"he said,"and don't turn your The kittenwasalreadyasleep, h.adr." Then he bentto checkthe catbaskets. with what washappeningto her. but her motherwasobviouslydiscontented restraint However,therewasn'tmuch shecoulddo aboutit in the sweater-like more garmentthat held her, passive. ' No, Rafielthought,not a sweater; like a straitiacketAnd then they were on their waY. all the breathout of Rafiel,who had not fully rememThe thrustsqueezed do to him. The paddedseatwasmemoryplastic gees could seven beredwhat werepadded;the garments and it had mold.d'itr.lf to his body;the restraints But still it wassevengees. flesh. into cut to seams or wrinkles werewithout kilograms The athleticdancer'sbody that had nevergoneover seventy-five frightwas Breathing ton. a half than more weighed *aa."ty and bruisingly "chest ribcage his expanding to used not were ,ius.les his .-dit'difficult; he was ;g;fi;i *.h foi.e. When he turned his head, ever so minutely, so twisted p-rotested being ear inner the of bones iristantly dizzied as the breathe. to himself forced he vomit; to going was he He thought "i.iorriy It lasiedonly foi a few -i.,,rt.r. Then they werefree. The acceleration were stopped.The iailgun had fung the capsul. oF its tip, and now they acting force only-external weightless..The sky, the into ri-pty thrown fr."e outside o" it. railgunlrun.h capsuleno* *-r, the dwindlingfrictionof the then but first, at straps restraining the against air; that pressediafiel's ilody too, wasgone. it, --',ico.,gratrilations, dearRafiel,"saidAlegretta,smiling."You'rein space."

Outnumbering the Dead **+

Once they had transhippedto a spacecraftit was eight daysto Mars-orbit, whereHakluyt hungwaitingfor them.Therewerea fewlittle sleepingcabins in the ship, in additionto the multi-bunk compartments. The cabinswere expensive, but that wasnot a consideration for Rafiel,who waswell aware that he had far more moneythan he would everlive to spend.So he and Alegrettaand the catshad their own privatespace,just the four of themor five, if you countedthe little clusterof cellsthat wasbusily dividing in the white cat'sbelly, gettingreadyto becomea person. spacecraft, accelerating at a sizeable _ Their transportwasa steady-thrust fractionof a geeall the way to turnaround,and decelerating ho* then on. It waspossibleto move aroundthe ship quite easily.It wasalsopointless, becausethere was nothing much to do. There was no dining room, no cabaret,no swimmingpool on the aft deck, no gym to work out in. The servers broughtmealsto the passengers wheretheywere.Most of the passengersspenttheir time viewingvid programs,old and new, on their personal screens.Or sleeping.In the privatecabin Rafieland Alegrettahad several other options,one of which wastalking;but eventhey slepta lot. More than a lot. When, at their destination,theyweredockingwith the habitatshuttlecraft Rafiel, puzzled,countedbackand realizedthat he had only slepttwice on the trip. They had to havebeengoodlong sleeps-two or threeiull twentyfour-hourdaysat a time; and that waswhen he realizedthat Alegrettahad dopedhim to makehim sleepas long as possible.

l3 On boardfhe Hakluyt, AlegrettadisappearE crsEoonas Rafiel is settledin. Shecan't wait to seewhat damageherdeputymdy havedon'eto herprecious engines.This leavesRafiel free to explorethe habitat. There'sno thrust on Hakluyts enginesyet, iust the slowroll of the habitat to distinguishup from down. That'sa bit o! a problemfor everybody.AII habitatsspin slowlyso that centrifugalforcewill supplysomekind of gravity. But whenHakluyt startsto movethey'llstopthe spin because theywon't nteed it any more.The,down,, the sp.inhg2 Pyovidedthem-radially outward from th'ecentral axisof the cylindrical habitat-will be replacedby a rearward.,,down,,,toward the t-hruster enginesin the stern.Consequently, everylastpieceof furnishingwill haveto be rearranged as walls becomefloorsand floorswalls.'Rafielis h"aving a lot of troublewith hisorientation.Besides thefact that half the fittingshari alreadybeenrelocated,the light-geepull is strangeto him. Becausehe has spentsolittle time in low-geeenvironments he insinctively holdson to things as he walks,thoughreallythefeelingisn'tmuchdffirent'from beingon, say, t-heMoon. (But Rafiel hasn'tbeeneventherefor niarly half a centtiry.)on'ce he gets used to thesethings, though, he'sfascinated.Everythingso busy!

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FrederikPohl

Everyonein such a hurry! The whole ship'scomplementhas turned out to finish loading, eyen smclllchildren-Rafiel is fascinatedto seehow mdny childrenthereare. Young and old, they can't wait to start on their long interstellariourney-and aren't verypatient with people(evenveryfamous people)who happento get in their way. By the time Rafielhad beenthreedayson Hakluyt he wasbeginningto get usedto the fact that he didn't seemuch of Alegretta.Not when she was awake,at least.When shewasawakeall sheseemedto havetime for wasto checkon his vital signsand peerinto her computerscreenwhen she'dstuck Then shewas to his chestand makesurehe wastakinghis spansules. sensors off again,lookingharried. They did sleeptogether,of course,or at leastthey sleptin the samebed. at the sametimes.Once or twice Rafielcamebackto their Not necessarily tiny compartmentand found her curled up there,out cold. When shefelt him crawl in besideher shereachedout to him. He wasneverquite certain she was awakeeven when they made love-awake enoughto respondto him, certainly,and for a few pleasedmumbleswhen theywerethrough,but nothingthat wasactuallyarticulatespeech. It was almostgood enough,anyway,iust to know that she was nearby. Not quite;but still it wasfascinatingto explorethe ship, dodgingthe busy work teams,trying to be helpful when he could, to stayout of the way, at least,when he couldn't.The ship wasfull of marvels,not leastthe people A special who crewedit (busy,serious,plainly dressedand so purposeful). wonderwasthe vastcentralspacethat wasa sortof skyasthe habitatrotated (but what purposewould it servewhen they wereunderway?).The greatest wonderof all wasHakluyf itself. [t wasgoingto go whereno human had ever, ever gonebefore. that Rafieldiscovered Everythingaboutthe shipdelightedand astonished. the couch in their room becamea bed when they wantedit to, and if they entirelyinto a wall. There wasa keypadin didn't want eitherit disappeared the room that controlledair, heat,lights,clock,messages-mightrun all of Hakluyt, Rafielwasamusedto think, if he only knewwhat buttonsto push. Or if all the thingsworked. The factwas,theydidn'tall work.When Rafieltriedto geta newsbroadcast from Earth the screenproduceda children'scartoon,and when he tried to into the snowof static.The watertapscorrectit the wholescreendissolved cold' ran merely potable-all hot, cold, When he woke to find exhaustedAlegrettatrying to creepsilentlyinto their bed, he said,makinga joke,"l hopethe navigationsystemworksbetter than the restof this stuff." She took him seriously."l'm Sorry,"she said,weary,covetouslyeyeing the bed. "lt's the powerplant.It wasn'toriginallydesignedto drive a ship, only to supplypowerfor domesticneeds.Oh, it has plenty of power.But they locatedthe thing midshipsinsteadof at the stern, and we had to braceeverythingagainstthe drive thrust. That meansrelocatingthe water

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reservoirs-don'tdrink the water,by the way, dear;if you'rethirsty,go to "l should oneof the kitchens-and- Well, hell," shefinishedremorsefully. havebeenhere." Which addedfuel to the growingguilt in Rafiel. He took a chance."l want to help," he said. "How?" she askedimmediately-woundingly,just as he had fearedshe would. He flinchedand said,"They'reloadingmore supplies-freshwir-rg-bean seedsthis morning, I hear. At leastI can help shift cargo!" "You cannot," shesaidin suddenalarm. "That'smuch too strenuous!I don't want you dying on me!" Then, relenting,shethoughtfor a moment. "All right. I'll talkto Boretta,he'sloadmaster. He'll find somethingfor youbut now, please,let me come to bed." Borettadid find somethingfor him. Rafielbecamea children'scare-giverin relievingfor activeduty the ten-year-old one of the ship'snurseries, who had previouslybeen chargedwith supervising the zero-to-three-year-olds. It wasnot at all the kind of thing Rafiel had had in mind, but then he hadn'thad much of anythingveryspecifically in his mind, because what did Hakluyt needwith a tap-dancer? But he wasactuallyhelpingin the effort. (The ten-year-oldhe relievedwasquite usefulin bringingsandwiches and drinksto the sweatingcargohandlers. ) Rafielfound that he liked takingcare of babies.Eventhe changingof diaperswasa fairly constructive thing to do. Not exactlyaesthetic,t-to.Extremelyrepetitious,yes,for the diapersnever stayedclean.But while he wasdoing it he thoughtof the taskas prepaying a debt he would owe to whomever,nine monthslater, would be changing the diapersof his own child. The ten-year-oldwasnice enoughto teachRafielthe technicalskillshe neededfor the work. More than that, he wasnice enoughto be acceptably impressed when he found out just who Rafielwas.("But I've seenyou on the screen!And you'vegot a new showcoming out-when? Soon?")The boy even brought his older brother-a superiorand taller versionof the same,all of thirteen-around to meetthis certifiedstar.When Rafielhad a moment to think of it, betweencoaxinga two-year-oldto takeher nap and attemptingto burp a youngerone, it occurredto him that he was-yes, actually-quite htppy. He liked all thesestrange,dedicated,space-faring peoplewho sharedthe habitatwith him. "Strange"was a good word for them, though. Unlike all the friendsand colleagues he'd spenthis life with, theseHakluytiansspokeunornamented English,withoutloanwords,without circumlocutions.They had basicallyunornamentedbodies, too. Their clothesweresimplyfunctional,and eventhe youngestandbest-looking wore no jewels. When Rafielhad ponderedoverthat for a while an explanationsuddenly occurredto him. Thesepeoplesimplydidn'thavetime for frills.Astonishing though the thoughtwas,theseimmortalpeoplewerein such a hurry to do thingsthat, evenwith eternitiesbeforethem, they had no time to waste.

Frederik Pohl +++

The day beforeHakluyt wasto leave,Alegrettasomehowstoleenoughtime from her dutiesto go with Rafielto the birthingclinic, wherethey watched the transferof their almost-childfrom Nicolette'stiny belly to the morethan to be sure, adequateone of a placid roan mare. It wasa surgicalspectacle, but peacefulratherthan gruesome.EvenNicolettedid not seemto mind, as hand wason her head. long as Alegretta's On the way back to their cabin, Alegrettawassilent. Strangerstill, she wasdawdling,when alwaysshe was in a hurry to get to the work that she had to do. by passersRafielwasawareof this, thoughhe wascontinuallydistracted his fame. It had word of seemed that every The spread the by. ten-year-old least looked up nodded or person passed, however at and they busy, third calleda friendly greetingto him. After the twentiethor thirtieth exchange Rafielsaid,"Sorry aboutall this, Alegretta." She looked,tp at him curiously."About what?About the fact that they like you?When's this Oedipusgoingto be released?" "In abouta week,I think." "ln abouta week." It wasn'tnecessary for her to point out that in a week "l Hakluyt would be six daysgone. think a lot of thesepeopleare goingto want to watchit," shesaid,musing."They'll be reallysorryyou aren'there so they can makea fussoveryou when it's on." Rafielonly nodded,thoughfor someinexplicablereasoninternallyhe felt closeto her, puzzled himselfswellingwith pleasureand pride.Then he ber-rt at the low-pitchedthing shehad said."What?" "I said,you could be here," Alegrettarepeated."l mean, if you wanted to. If you didn'tmind not goingbackto the Earth,ever,because-oh,God," you'regoingto be deadin a fewweeks shewailed,"how canyou say'Because anywayso it doesn'treallymatterwhereyou are'in a lovingway?" She stoppedthere,becauseRafielhad put a gentlefingerto her lips. "You justdid," he said."And of courseI'll comealong.I wasonly waiting " to be asked.

t4 Fewer than thirty-six hourshave passedsinceHakluyt's launch, but aII workof pushing that time its sternthrusterswerehard at their decades-Iong some is already By now it space. interstellar the ship across fifteen million that passes, every second with and, orbit near-Martian its kilometersfrom hundred kilometers it several thrusting are lukewarm-fusion Alegretta's iets perfectly. hardly can performing Alegretta StiII, dre The reactors fariheraway. After her sight. out of her so tell that and instruments controls let the bearto pioneers catch to clre beginning thousand preJaunch Hakluyt's the five frenzy, up on their sleep.So is Alegretta.

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Rafieltried to makeno noiseashe pulled on his robeand startedtowardthe sanitary,but he could seeAlegrettabeginningto stir in her sleep.Safely outsidetheir room he was more relaxed-at least,actedrelaxed,-nodding brigtrtlyto the peoplehe passed in the hall. It wasonly when he waslookin[ in the mirror that the actingstoppedand he let the fatigueand discomforl show in his face.There wasmore of it everyday now. th. body that had servedhim for ninety-oddyearsw_as wearingout. But, astherewasabsolutely nothing to be done about that fact, he put it out of his mind, showered quickly,dressed in the pink shortsand floweredtunic that wasthe closesthe had to Hakluyt-stvleclothing and returnedto their room. By then Alegretta wassitting dazedlyon the edgeof the bed, watchingNicolette,at the f-t of the bed, dutifully licking her kitten. "You shouldhaveslepta little longer,"he saidfondly. Sheblinkedup at him. "l can't.Anyway"-she pausedfor a yaum-,,there's a staffmeetingcomingup. I oughtto decide*hai I want to put in for.,' Rafielgent]I pushedthe catsout of the way and satdown companionably next to her. They had talkedabout her future plansbefore.He knew that Alegrettawould haveto be reassigned to somebther taskfor the long trip. Unlesssomethingwentseriouslywrongwith the reactors therewouldU! tittte for her to do there. (And if, most improbably,anythingdid go seriously wrongwith them in the spacebetweenthe stars,the ship *o,rld be in more houblethan its passengers could hopeto survive. ) "Whai kind of job areyou looking for?" "l'm not sure.I've beenthinkingof foodcontrol,maybe,"shesaidfrowning. "Or elsewasterecycling.Which do you think?" He pretendedto takethe questionseriously.He wasawarethat both jobs werefull-time, hands-on_-assignments, like air and watercontrol. If any of thosevital servicesfailed, the ship would be doomedin a differentway. Thereforehuman crewswould be assigned to them all the time the ship was in transit-and for-longerstill if they found no welcomingplanetcircling Tau Ceti. But he knew that therewas nothing in his baclgroundto heli Alegrettamake a choice,so he saidat random-:"Food contiol soundslikl morefun." "Do you think so?"S-hethoughtthat over. "Maybe it is, sort of, but I,d needa lot of retrainin_g for aeroponics and trace-element management. The wastething is easier.It's mostlyplumbing,and I've got a goodf,."d starton that." He kissedher. "Sleepon it," he advised,gettingup. she lookedworriedlyup at him, remembeiingto be a doctor.,,you'rethe one who shouldbe sleepingmore." "l'u9 had plenty,and anywayI can't. Manfredwill be waitingfor me with the babies." "Must you?I mean, shouldyou?The boy can handlethem by himself, and you look so tired. . . . "

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"l'm fine," he said,tryingto reassure the personwho knewbetterthan he. She scolded,"You're not fine! You shouldbe resting'" He shookhis head."No, dearest,I reallyam fine. [t's only my bodythat's sick." He hadn'tlied to her. He wasperfectlycapableof helpingwith the babies, fine in everyway-except for the body.That keptproducingits smallaches and pains,which would steadilybecomelarger.That didn't matter,though, becausethey had not reachedthe point of interferingwith tending the children. The work waseasierthan evernow, with the hectic last-minute had laborsall completed.The ten-year-old,Manfred Okasa-Pennyweight, job, of were two now there which meantthat beenallowedto return to the playing. and them on the shift to sharethe diaperingand feeding Manfreddeferredto Although Rafiel had beendemotedto his assistant, him when.u.r possible.EspeciallybecauseManfred had decidedthat he might like to be a dancerhimself-well, only for a hobby,he told Rafiel, almostapologizing.He wasprettysurehis main work would be in construction, o.t.. they had found a planet to constructthings on. And he was to seeRafielperform."We'll all goingto watchthe burstingwith eagerness Oedipis," he told Rafielseriously,Iookingup from the babyhe wasgiving . a bottle. "Everybodyis. You're prettyfamoushere." "That's nice," Rafiel said, touchedand pleased,and when there was a momentarybreakhe showedthe boy how to do a cramproll, left and right. thoughRafieldid not think it wasone of his The babieiwatched,interested, "lt's your feetdown when you'retappingin keep to hard performances. best panted. he quarter-gee environment," a M.t-tfr"d took alarm. "Don't do any more now, please.You shouldn't pushyourselfsohard," he said.Rafielwasgladenoughto desist.He showed Manfredsomeof the lessstrenuousthings,the foot positionsthat werebasic to all ballet . . . though he wonderedif balletwould be very interestingin of leapswould fail of beingimpressive this sameenvironment.The grandest could iu-P almostas high. nursery in the when the verytoddlers had a little tirne to himself before Manfred When their shift wasover, if Rafielwould like to be shown he asked goingto his schooling.Bashfully chance."l'd like to seewhere the seized inything on the ship, and Rafiel promptly. he said they do the wasterecycling," 'iYou reallywant to go to the stink room?Well, of course,if you mean it." And on t-heway Minfred addedchattily,"lt probablydoesn'tsmell too bad right now, becausemostof the recycledorganicsnow are iust choppedand things-they had to cut them all down beforewe launched, up tre"es becausethey weregrowingthe wrongway' you see?" stench,too; there wasa definite Rafiel saw. He srnelledthe processing thatwasn'tiustthe pineysmellof lumber, chambers odorin the waste-cycling though the noisewasevenworsethan the smell. Hammeringand welding was loing on noisily in the next compartment,where anotherbatch of ,erofoni., trayswerebeingresitedfor the new rearwardorientation-"Plants

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want to grow up.ward, you see,"Manfredexplained."That'swhy we had to chop down all thoseold trees." "But you'll plant new ones,I suppose?" "oh, I don't think so. I mean, not pinesand mapleslike these.They'll beplantingsomesmallones-they helpwith the air recycling-and probrLly somefruit trees,I guess,but not any of thesebig old specieslThey wouldn;t be fully grown until we got to Tau ceti, and then they'djust haveto come down again." Rafielpeeredinto the digestingroom, wherethe wastewasbrokendown. "And everythinggoesinto thesetanks?" .-EY.tythingorganicthatwe don't wantany more," Manfredsaidproudly. "All the waste,and everythingthat dies." "Even people?"Rafielasked,and wasimmediatelysorryhe had. Because of c_ourse they had probablyneverhad a human .oipr. to recycle,so far. "l've seenenough," he said,givingthe boy a professional smile. He did not want to stay-in this placewherehe would soon enoughwind up. He would nevermakeit to Tau Ceti, would neverseehis ,o., 6orn . . . but his body would at somefairly-near time go into thosereprocessing vats,along with the kitchenwasteand the sewageand the bodiesof whateierpetsdiej en route,ultimatelyto be turnedinto foodthat wouldcirculatein that closed ecosystem for ever.One way or another,Rafielwould neverleavethem. While Alegrettawasonce againfussingover her diagnosticreadoutsRafiel scrolledthe latestbatchof his messages from Earth. The firstfew had beenshocked,incredulous,reproachful; but now everyonehe knewseemedat leastresigned to theirstar'swild decision,andMoray's letterswere all but ecstatic.The_papswere going crazywith the story of their dying Oedipusgoingoff on his lastgreaiadventure.Even Docilia was delightedwith the fussthe papsweremaking,thougha little put out that the storieswere all him, and Alegrettawas pleasedrh.n the newssaid that anotherhabitathad been stirredto vote for conversionto a ship; maybe I Rafiel'sexamplewasgoingto get still othersto follow them. But shewaslesspleasedwith the vital signsreadingson her screen."you real! shouldgo into the sickbay,"shesaiJfretfully. "So they could do what for me?" he asked,and of courseshe had no answerfor that. There wasno longermuch that could be done.To change the subjectRafielpickedup the kitten. "Do you know what'sfunny her"7" he asked."Thesecats.And I've seendogsand birds-all kindsof pets.', "Why not?We like pets."Shewasonly half attentive,mostof her concentrationon the screer.'Actually, I may havestartedthe fashionmyself.', "Really?But on you hardly.u., ,.. a pet _Earthpeopledon't havethem. animalin the arcologies.-Aren't you afraidthat they'lldie o'you?,' Sheturnedto look at him, suddenlyangry."Like you, yo., mean?',she snapped,her eyesflashing."Do you seewhat-thescreenis sayingaboutyour tests? There'sbloodin your urine sample,Rafiel!,'

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FrederikPohl

For once, he had known that beforeshe did, becausehe had seenthe color of what had gone into the little fask. He shrugged."Wtrat do you expect?I guess^y ,ogronsare iust wearingou!. But, listen, what did you mean when you saidyou startedthe fashion-" Shecut him off. "Saykidneysrvhenyou meankidneys,"shesaidharshly, shewashelpless.He recognized lookinghelplessandthereforeangrybecause when shefirst gavehim the looked had she way the the look. If wasalmost and it chasedhis vagrant ago, long and long badnewsabouthis mortality,so questionout of his mind. "But I'm still feelingperfectlywell," he saidpersuasively-andmadethe mistakeof trying to piove it to her by walkinga six-tapriff-a slow one, becauseof the light gravity. He stopped,shortof breath,aftera dozensteps' He looGd at her. "That didn't feelsogood,"he panted."MaybeI'd better go in afterall."

15 Hakluyt's sickbayis iust about as big as a hospitalin dn dverageEarthly arcology,and iust aboutasefficient.StiII, thereis a limit to what any hospital ca, d6'for a short-timernearingthe end of his life expectdncy.When, after perfecthealth. His faceis puffy' four 'His days,theywakeRafiel, heis in far from skin'is sallow.But he hasleft strict ordersto wakehim up so he can be on handfor theshowingofOedipus.As nothingtheycan do wiII makemuch differenceanyhow,theydo as he asks.Theyevenfelch the clotheshe requests in a mirror. He is 'wearing fro* t it roomand when he is dressedhe looksat himself fuII dress his fanciestand mosttheatricaloutfit. lt is a sunset-yellow and a red luminous of stitches in outlined tails the hem of the suit, iith at luck With any real. are diamonds The neck. his arou,nd diamondchoker his not at and his clothing people at look wiII face. aII, he thinks, Probablynot every one of Hakluyt's five thousandpeople-werewatching Oedipu; as the picturesbeamedfrom Earth caughtup with the speeding interstellarship. But thosewho were not were in a minority. There were RafielandAlegretta twentyuie*ersieepingthemcompanyin theroom-where and a good many brother his and sat hand in hand, rlong with Manfred or Alegretta knew, Manfred whom peopleRafiel didn't r.rlly know-but did, and so they wereinvitedto share. It wasa nice room. A room that might almosthavebeenRafiel'sown old condo, open to the greatcentraltpr.. within Hakluyt; they c-ouldlook out and seeirundredsoi other lighted rooms like their own, all around the cylinder, somea quarterof a kilometeraway--And most of the people in them werewatching,too. When the four childrenof Jocastaand Oedipus did their comic litti. dn"ce at the openingof the show, the peoplein the roo* laughedwhereMosaywantedth.- to-and two secondslater along

Outnumberingthe Dead

581

came the distant,delayedlaughterfrom acrossthe open space,amplified shapeof the ship to reachtheir ears. enoughby the echo-focusing Rafiel hardly lookedat the screen.He was contentsimply to sit there, presence of the show,comfortablewith Alegretta's pleasedwith the success comfortableif you did not count . . . at least,in a generalsensecomfortable; the sometimesacutediscomfortsof his body. He didn't let the discomforts fingersslippedfrom handto wrist show.He wasfondlyawarethat Alegretta's from time to time, and knew that shewascheckinghis pulse. He wasnot at all in seriouspain. Of course,the pain wasthere.Only the numbingmedicationsthey had beengivinghim werekeepingit down to an ratherthan agony.He acceptedthat, as he acceptedthe fact inconvenience wasnow measuredin days.Neither fact preyedon that his life expectancy his mind. There was an unansweredquestionsomewherein his mind, somethinghe had wantedto askAlegretta,but what it could havebeenhe could not clearlysay.He acceptedthe fact that his mind wasconfused.He evendrowsedas he sat there, awarethat he wasdrifting off for periodsof time, wakingonly whentherewaslaughter,or a sympathetic soundfrom the audience.He did not distinguishclearlybetweenthe half-dreams that filled his mind and the sceneon the screens.When the audiencemurmured as he-as Oedipus- tookhis majesticoathto healthe sickness of the city, the murmur mingledin Rafiel'smind with a blurry visionof the first explorers from Hakluyt steppingout of a landingcraft on to a greenand lovely new planet, to the plauditsof an improbablewelcomingcommittee.It wasn't until almostthe end that he wokefully, because nextto him therewasa soft soundthat had no relationto the performanceon the screen. Alegrettawasweeping. He lookedat her in confusion,then at the screen.He had lostan hour or more of the performance. The play wasnow at the farewellof the chorusto the blindedand despairingOedipusas, aloneand disgraced, he went off to future. And the choruswassinging: a hopeless There goesold Oedipus. Once he wasthe bestof us. Down from the top he is, Proofthat all happiness Can't be known until you'redead. Rafielthoughtthat over for sometime. Then, blinking himselfawake,he reachedto touchAlegretta's cheek."But I do knowthat now," he said,"and, look, I'm not deadyet." "Know what, Rafiel?"sheasked,huskily,not stoppingwhatshewasdoing. Which, curiously,waspressingwarm, sticky,metallicthingsto his temples and throat. "Oh," he said, understanding, "the show'sover now, isn't it?" For they weren'tin the viewingroom any more. He knewthat, becausehe wasin a bed-in their room?No, he decided,morelikely backin the ship'ssickbay.

582

FrederikPohl

Anotherdoctorwasin the room, too, hunchedovera monitor, and in the doorwayManfredwasstanding,lookingmorestartledthan grieving,but too grievingto speak. Rafiel could seethat the boy was upsetand decidedto say something reassuring, but he driftedoff for a momentwhile he tried to think of what to say.When he lookedagainthe boy wasgone. So wasthe other doctor. Only Alegrettasatbesidehim, her eyesclosedwearilyand her handsfolded in her lap;andat thatmomentRafielremembered the questionon his mind. "The cats," he said. Alegrettastarted.Her eyesflewopen,guiltilyturningto the monitorbefore they returnedto him. "What?Oh, the cats.They'refine, Rafiel.Manfred's beentakingcareof them." Then, lookingat the monitoragain,"How do you feel?" That struckRafielasa sensiblequestion.It took him a while to answerit, though, becausewhat he felt wasalmostnothingat all. There wasno pain in the gut, nor anywhereelse,only a sortof generalized numbnessthat made it hard for him to move. He summedit all up in one word. "Fine. I feel fine." Then he pausedto rehearse the questionthathadbeenon his mind. When it wasclearhe spoke. "Alegretta,didn't you sayyou startedthe fashionof havingpets?" "Pets?Yes, I wasone of the first hereon Hakluyt, yearsand yearsago." "Why?" he asked.And then, because he felt a needto hurry, he madehis thickeningtonguecomeout with it: "Did you do it so you could get usedto thingsyou loveddying?Things like me?" "l didn't know you werea psychotherapist, dearRafiel,"shewhispered.It wasan admission,and sheknewhe understoodit . . . though his eyeshad closedand shecould not tell whetherhe had heardthe words.Shedid not needthe confirmationof the screenor of the otherdoctorashe camerunning in to know that Rafielhad joined the minority of the dead.She kissedthe unresponding lips and retiredto the room they had shared,to weep,and to think of what, someday, shewould tell their son abouthis father;that he had beenfamous,and loved,and brave. . . and mostof all that, certainly, yes,Rafielhad afterall beenh"ppy in his life, and known that to be true.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: t997 BrianW. Aldiss,"Her ToesWereBeautifulon the Hilltops,"Universe 2. "Horse Meat," Interzone,Nov. "Ratbird," New Worlds 2. Kevin f. Anderson, "Dogged Persistence,"The Magazine of Fantasy & ScienceFiction, Sept. Poul Anderson, "ln Memoriam," Omni, Dec. PatriciaAnthony, "Blue Woofers," IAsfm, luly. -, "The Shoot," Aboriginal SF, Summer. IsaacAsimov, "Cleon the Emperor," IAsfm, April. -t "T|e Critic on the Hearth," IAsfm, Nov. A. A. Attanasio,"lnk from the New Moon," IAsfin, Nov. -t "Maps for the Spiders," Strange Plasma 5. A. f . Austir-r,"Supply Run," I{sfm, Mid-Dec. Neal Barrett, Ir., "Buckstop," Slightly Off Center. -t "Four Times One," Slightly Off Center. -t "Uteropolis ll," Slightly Off Center. StephenBaxter, "Inherit the Earth," New Worlds 2. -t "Planck Zero," IAsfm, lan. -t "Weep for the Moon," In Dreams. Greg Bear, "A Plagueof Conscience,"Murasaki. Amy Bechtel, "The Midwives of Miracle," Pulphouse,Sept.iOct. Chris Beckett, "The Circle of Stones," Interzone, Feb. M. ShayneBell, "Second Lives," IAsfm, fune. -t "The Sound of the River," IAsfn, Dec. Gregory Benford, "Down the River Road," After the King. -t "Rumbling Earth," Aboriginal SF, Summer. Bruce Bethkeand Phillip C. Jennings,"The Death of tl-reMasterCannoneer," Asimov's SF, Mid-Dec. Michael Bishop, "Herding with the Hadrosaurs,"The Ultimate Dinosaur. Terry Bisson,"Canci6n Autentica de Old Earth," F&SF, Oct./Nov. Terry Boren, "Three Views of the StakedPlain," Interzone, Mar. William Borden, "Fancy Dancing," Blue Light Red Light, #4. Ben Bova, "Bushido," Analog,luly. -t "Sepulcher," Asimov'sSF, Nov. Scott Bradfield, "The Reflection Once Removed," In Dreams. R. V. Branham, "The New Order: I Moral Fictions," Midnight Graffiti. Molly Brown, "The Vengeanceof GrandmotherWu," Interzone,Iuly. |ohn Brunner, "The Dead Man," F&SF, Oct./Nov. Edward Bryant, "Country Mouse," F&SF, Mar. Algis Budrys, "Hard Landing," F&SF, Oct.iNov. Eugene Byrne, "Cyril the Cyberpig," lnterzone, Dec. Pat Cadigan, "A Deal With God," Crails: Quests,Visitations, and Other Occurrences. -, "Fifty Ways to Improve Your Orgasm," IAsfm, April. -t "New Life for Old," Aladdin: Master of the Lamp. -t "No Prisoners,"Alternate Kennedys.

584

Honorable Mentions

Orson Scott Card, "Atlantis," Crails. fonathan Carroll, "Uh-Oh City," F&SF, lune. SteveCarper, "Wrestli'g with the Demor\," Asimov'sSF, Mid-Dec. SusanCasper,"Djinn and Tonic," Aladdin. Michael Cassutt,"The Last Mars Trip," F&SF, fuly. Iack L. clralker, "Now Falls the cold, cold Night,;' Alternate presidents. Suzy McKee Charnas, "Oak and Ash," Pulphouse,Aug. Rob Chilson, "Far-OffThings," F&SF, May. Bti?-nC. Coad, "Everybody'sHamlet," Analog, luly. William E. Cochrane, "The Walking Hills," Analog, luly. Storm Constantine,"Priestof Hands," lnterzone,Aprii. Creg Costikyan,"A Doe, in Charcoal," IAsfm, luly. Tony Daniel, " The Careful Man Goes West," IAsfm, ldy. --, "Death of Reason," lAsfm, Sept. -, "Faces," IAsfm, April. -, "Lost in Transmission,"Universe2. fack Dann, "fumping the Road," IAsfrn, Oct. Avram Davidson, "ln BrassValley," Amazing, Feb. -, "Yellow Rome, or, Vergil and the Vestal Virgin," weirdTales, winter. Diane de Avalle-Arce,"Bats," IAsfm, fune. L. Spraguede Camp, "The Big Splash,"IAsfm, fune. -, "CrocamanderQuest," The Ultimate Dinosaur. -, "The Sataniclllusion," IAsfm, Aug. 'The Synthetic Barbarian," IAsfm, Sept. _-l-, "The Face of the Waters," New Worlds2. Deighton, fack Barbara Delaplace, "Freedom," Alternate Kennedys. Paul Di Filippo, "Anne," ScienceFiction Age, Nov. Thomas M. Disch, "The Abduction of Buirny Steiner, or A ShamelessLie," IAsf^, April. f.R. Dunn, "Broken Highways,"Amazing, Oct. -_, "Crux Gammata," IAsfin, Oct. -, "The Heart's Own Country," Omni BestScienceFiction One. Scott Edelman, "10 Things I've LearnedAbout Writing," Nexus2. George Alec Effinger, "Prince Pat," Alternate Kennedyi. Greg Egan, "Before," Interzone,Mar. -, "Closer," Eidolon, Winter. -, "lnto Darkness,"IAsfm, lan. -, "Reification Highway," lnterzone, Oct. -, "Unstable Orbits in the Spaceof Lies," Interzone, lvly. -r "The Walk," Asimov'ESF, Dec. Monica Eiland, "Anne's Pen," Forbidden Lines, fan./Feb. Harlan Ellison, "The Man Who Rowed ChristopherColumbus Ashore," omni, luly. fennifer Evans, "Gate Crashing," IAsfm, Feb. Donna Farley, "The Passingof the Eclipse," IJniverse2. Sharon N. Farber, "Why I Shot Kennedy," IAsfm, Oct. Nancy Farmer, "Origami Mountain," F&SF, Mar. foe clifford Faust, "Going to Texas(Extraditionversion)," Amazing, May. Sheila Fitch, "lf There Be Cause," Amazing, Feb. Maggie Flinn,"Black Velvet," Omni BestScienceFiction Two. Robert Frazier, "Chasing the Dragon, Tibet," Amazing, Feb. Esther M. Friesner,"All Vows," Asimoy'sSF, Nov. Neil Gaiman, "Chivalry," Grails R. Garcia y Robertson,"BreakfastCereal Killers," IAsfm, fune. -r "Gypsy Trade," Asimoy's SF, Nov.

Honorable

Jrlentions

-t

"The Virgin and the Dinosaur," IAsfm, Feb. fames Alan Gardner, "Kent StateDescendingthe Gravity Well," Amazing, Oct. David Garnett, "Offthe Track," Interzone, Sept. David Gerrold, "The Kennedy Enterprise," Alternate Kenndys. fohn K. Gibbons, "Waterworld," Universe2. Carolyn Gilman, "Burning Bush," Universe2. Molly Gloss, "Verano," lAsfm, lan. ParkeGodwin, "The Night You Could Hear Forever," Pulphouse,Sept./Oct. Lisa Goldstein, "Alfred," Asimov'sSF, Dec. Phyllis Gotlieb, "The Newest Profession,"Arft of lce: Canadian Futurefiction. KatlrleerrAnn Goonan, "Daydots, Inc. ," Interzone,Mar. -t "For a Future You," Amazing, Mar. foe Haldeman, "Job Security," Universe2. fack C. Haldeman II, "Ashesto Ashes," Grails. -t "By the Sea," F&SF, July. Elizabeth Hand, "The Have-Nots,"IAsfm, fune. -t "ln the Month of Athyr," Omni BestScienceFiction Two. M. |olrn Harrison, "Anima," Interzone,April. Paul Hellweg, "The Coke Boy," IAsfm, May. Lee Hoffman, "Water," Crdils. Nina Kiriki Hoffman, "MessagesLeft on a Two-Way Mirror," Amazing, May. Alexar-rder fablokov, "Above Ancient Seas,"Asfmoy'sSF, Nov. -t "The Logic of Location," Amazing, Aug. Phillip C. fennings, "Deep Gladiators,"Amazing, May. Gwyrrethfones, "Blue Clay Blues," Interzone,Aug. fanet Kagan, "Love Our Lockwood," Alternate Presidents. -t "The NutcrackerCoup," Asimoy'sSF, Dec. Patrick Kelly, "Monsters," lAsfm, ltne. |ames Leiglr Kennedy, "The Presevationof Lindy," Omni, May. Eileen Kernaghan,"The Weighmasterof Flood," Ark of lce. John Kessel,"Man," IAsfm, May. Garry Kilworth, "The cave Painting," omni Best ScienceFiction Two. -t "Memories of the Flying Ball Bike Shop," IAsfm, June. Kathe Koja, "Letting Go," Pulphouse,ltne. -t "Persephone," Asimov'sSF, Nov. StephenKraus, "Bright River," IAsfm, Sept. Nancy Kress,"Birthir-rgPool," Murasaki. -t "Eoghan," Alternate Kennedys. Marc Laidlaw, "The Vulture Maiden," F&SF, Aug. GeoffreyA. Landis, "Embracing the Alien," Analog, Nov. David Langford, "BlossomsThat Coil and Decay," Interzone,Mar. RobertaLannes, "Dancing on a Blade of Dreams," Pulphouse,Mar. Tanith Lee, "Exalted Hearts," Grails. -t "The Lily Garden," Weird Tales, Spring. Ursula K. Le Guin, "The Rock That ChangedThings," Amazing, Sept. for-ratharrLethem, "Program's Progress,"LJniverseZ. Richard K. Lyon, "The Secrettdentity Diet," Aboriginal sF, winter. Ian R. Macleod, "Returning," lnterzone,Oct. Paul f. McAuley, "Prison Dreams," F&SF, April. fack McDevitt, "Auld Lang Boom," lAsfm, Oct. Ian McDonald, "Big Chair," Interzone,Dec. "Fat Tuesday." ln Dreams.

585

586 -, -r

Honorable Mentions

"lrtnocents," New Worlds 2. "The Luncheonette of Lost Dreams," Nanow Houses. Maureen McHugh, "The Beast," IAsfm, Mar. _t "The Missionary'schild," IAsfm, oct. "Render unto Caesar." Asimov'sSF. Mid-Dec. Vonda N. Mclntyre, "SteelcollarWorker," Analog, Nov. Dear.rMclaughlin, "Mark on the World," Analog, lvly. Sean McN{ullen, "An Empfv Wheelhouse,"Analog, lan. -; "Pacing the Nighhnare," Interzone,May. Barry N. Malzberg, "ln the Stone House," Alternate Kennedys. -, "Ship Full of |ews," Omni, April. Diarre Mapes, "Love Walked ln," IAsfm, Mar. -t "The Man in the Red Suit," Asimoy'sSF, Dec. -, "She-Devil," Interzone,Sept. Lisa Mason, "Destination," F&SF, Sept. Paula May, "Memories of Muriel," Universe2. Beth Meacham, "The Tale of Ali the Camel Driver," Aladdin. Bill Mcrrick, "Scoring," Aurealis7. farnil Nasir, "The Heaven Tree," IAsfm, Feb. -, "The Shining Place," Universe2. Kinr Newman and Eugene Byrne, "Tom foad," Interzone,Nov. G. David Nordley, "PolesApart," Analog, Mid-Dec. Claudia O'Keefe, "Canleo," Aboriginal SF, Winter. LawrencePerson,"Huddled Masses,"Alternate Presidents. Terry Pratcl'rett,"Troll Bridge," After the King. Paul Preuss,"Rhea'sTime," The Ultimate Dinosaur. Frederik Pohl, "The N'lartians,"IAsfm, Mar. -t "The Treasureof Chujo," Murasaki. Tom Purdom, "Chamber Music," IAsfm, Aug. -, "Sepoy," Asimov'sSF, Dec. David Redd, "The Blackness,"Interzone,Feb. Robert Reed, "Burger Love," Asimov'sSF, Nov. "Outpod," Ark of lce. Garfield Reeves-Stevens, Laura Resnick, "We Are Not Amused," Alternate Presidents. Mike Resnick,"Lady in Waiting," Altemate Kennedys. -t "The Lotus and the Spear," IAsfm, Aug. -, "Song of a Dry River," IAsfm, Mar. foel Richards,"Overlays,"IAsfm, Feb. Kim StanleyRobinson, "Red Mars," lnterzone, Sept. Madeleine E. Robins, "Willie," F&SF, Dec. N{ary Rosenblum,"Second Chance," Asimoy'sSF, Dec. -r "The Stone Garden," Asimov'sSF, Mid-Dec. -t "Synthesis,"IAsfm, Mar. Kristine Kathryn Rusch,"Alien Influences,"F&SF, I,tly. -r "Hitchiking Acrossan Ancient Sea," Grcils. Richard Paul Russo,"fust Drive, She Said," Asimov'sSF, Mid-Dec. fames Sallis, "Ansley'sDemons," F&SF, Sept. Robert Sampson,"The Yellow Clay Bowl," Crails. Pamela Sargent,"Danny Goes to Mars," IAsfm, Oct. -r "The SleepingSerpent,"Amazing,l^n. Karl Schroeder,"Hopscotch," On Spec,Spring. Charles Sheffield,"Deep Safari," IAsfm, Mar. Lucius Shepard,"'Beastof the Heartland," Playboy, Sept. -, "BarnacleBill the Spacer," IAsfm,luly.

Honorable Mentions

587

Lewis Slriner, "Sticks," In Dreams. John Shirley, "'l War-rtTo Get Married!'Saysthe World's SmallestMan," Midnight

Craffiti. "A Father's W.M. Shockley, Gift," IAsftn, April.

Susan Shwartz, "SupposeThey Gave a Peace. . . ," Alternate Presidents. Robert Silverberg,"lt Comes and Goes," Playboy,lan. -, "Looking for the Fountain," IAsfm, May. -, "The Perfect Host," Omni BestScienceFiction One.

"The Way to SpookCity," Playboy,Arg. Dave Smeds,"ReefApes,"IAsfm, Aug.

"Huntingthe Lion," WeirdTales,Spring. S . PSomtow, . "Kingdomsin the Sky,"IAsfm,Feb. "The SteelAmerican,"Crails. Martha Soukup, "The Arbitrary Placementof Walls," IAsfm, -, "Plowshare," Alternate Presidents. Brian Stableford, "Upon the Gallows-Tree," Narrow Houses. -, "Virtuous Reality," lnterzone, lan. Allen Steele,"Sugar'sBlues," IAsfm, Feb. Lorina f. Stephens,"Sister Sun," On Spec,Fall. Bruce Sterling, "Are You for 86?," Clobalhead. fames Stevens-Arce,"The Devil's Sentrybox,"Amazing, Mar. S.A. Stolnack,"Straw for the Fire," IAsfm, Mar. Dirk Strasser,"Waiting for the Rain," Universe2. Tim Sullivan, "Anodyne:' Pulphouse,Nov. -t "Atlas at Eight A.M.," Asimov'sSF, Mid-Dec. Michael Swanwick,"ln Concert," IAsfin, Sept. fudith Tarr, "Death and the Lady," After the King. -, "Persepolis,"Aladdin. Melarrie Tem, "Trail of Crumbs," Asimofs SF, Nov. Mark W. Tiedemann, "ShatteredTemplate," F&SF, fune. -, "Thanatrope," Asimov'sSF, Dec. Larry Tritten, "The Lord of the [,and Beyond (Book one)," Asimoy'sSF, Nov. Harry Turtledove, "ln the Presenceof Mine Enemies," lAsfm, lan. -, "The Last Reunion," Amazing, ltne. Lisa Tuttle, "Honey, I'm Home!" ln Dreams. StevenUtley, "Die Rache," IAsfm, lute. -, "Haiti," IAsfm, May. -, "Look Away," F&SF, Feb. -, "Now that We Have Each Other," IAsfm, luly. feff VanderMeer, "Mahout," Asimoy'sSF, Mid-Dec. John Varley, "Her Girl Friday," IAsfm, Arg. SusanWade, "Living In Memory," Amazing, Oct. Karl Edward Wagner, "One ParisNight," Grails. Howard Waldrop, "The Effectsof Alienation," Omni,lune. Ian Watson, "Swimming with the Salmon," Interzone,Sept. LawrenceWatt-Evans,"Fragments,"lnterzone, luly. -z "Pickman'sModem," IAsfm, Feb. Don Webb, "The Shiny Surface,"ln Dreams. Andrew Weiner, "Seeing," F&SF, Sept. -r "Streak," IAsfm, May. Deborah Wessell,"The Cool Equations," (Jniverse2. Leslie What, "King for aDay," lAsfm, Sept. Wendy Wheeler, "fune 14, 1959," Aboriginal SF, Fall. Rick Wilber, "lce Coversthe Hole," F&SF, Dec.

s88

Honorable Mentions

ClrerryWilder,"Bird on a Time Branch,"Interzone.Mar. fackWilliamson,"The Birds'Turn,"F&SF, Oct./Nov. GeneWolfe,"The Legendof Xi Cygnus,"F&S, Oct. -, "The SailorWho SailedAfterThe Sun," Crails. Davewofverton,"siren so'g at Midnight,"The rLltimateDinosaur. Eunuch," Aladdin. faneYolen,"The Tale of the Seventeenth RogerZelazny,"ComeBackto the Killing Ground,Alice, My Love,"Amazing,Aug.